"Am I the only one here?" he asked Simon. "I haven't seen anyone else."
"No, boy, and you won't, not until you're clean as a plucked goose, and fat as one. New boys are always the butt of jokes and hazing. That's life. It's always been that way. But there's no point letting a new boy in for the kind of labeling that will make training him or selling him more difficult. Too many good Hunks have been ruined by being called Fatty or Slobby or Stinky. So, you don't meet anyone until you meet them on equal footing, so far as cleanliness and elementary courtesy goes. We'll have no nasty nicknames here. Propriety, boy. That's what Madame wants. Our clients want Consorts they can take anywhere: to the theater, to the festivals, to the forecourt of the Temple, even. Our graduates must have no lingering taint of the pigpen or the tanners."
"Decorum," said Madame. "You'll behave in gentlemanly fashion, and you'll do it not only when you're being observed by one of us"—by which she meant the staff of Genevois House—"but also when you're alone with your colleagues. It must become second nature to you, a habit unbreakable as a vow."
So it was Mouche wasn't totally surprised when, clad in a white linen tunic, soft stockings and sandals, he was introduced to a similarly clad group of young men so polite it near took his breath away.
"You are welcome, Mouche," said one. "We are happy to have you among us," said another, and such like other syrupy phrases that made him more than merely worried. His concern was justified, for when the lights were out and the monitors had left the dormitory, Mouche came in for rather different treatment. The habit unbreakable as a vow was, like most vows, quite breakable when no one was watching. Still, it was no worse a bruising than he'd had from the cow when she'd resented milking, or from the buck of the plow when it had hit a root. Next day he was able to say with a straight face that he'd fallen on the stairs, and Simon was able with a straight face to accept that explanation.
Genevois House was all gray stone and iron grilles on the outside. On the inside it was white plaster and carved wood and marble and velvet. The bare gymnasia were cavernous and echoing; but even there mirrors towered between gold-leaf piers and the floors were set in wood mosaic. The stuffy parlors were small and hushed and elegant. In the former, Mouche learned to fight hand to hand, to dance, and to fence with a sword. In the other, he learned from the conversation mistress to fence with words. Learning to fence in the bedroom would come later, though he was soon started on erotic exercises. Simon said boys his age all did erotic exercises anyhow, so better put it to some use.
As before, he spent hours in the library, reading all manner of books which were commonly read among the better classes of women, some of them written centuries before on Old Earth or the old colonial worlds, and all of them imported from worlds that had had time to develop the arts past the purely provincial. There were other hours in the kitchen, being lectured by the chef and the wine master. Not that Newholme had many vintages to brag of, but those they did should be properly appreciated. There were hours at the table, learning how to discriminate among foods, how to eat them elegantly, and how to manage veils of various weights while one carried on charming and amusing conversation. It became second nature: the left hand up to catch the veil at the right side; the upward sweep of the fingers to lift the veil from the mouth; the release, letting the veil drop as one chewed and swallowed. Not that the gauzy stuff Hunks usually wore was much of an impediment. Only respectable men wore real veils, and respectable men did not eat with their wives in public. They stayed in their offices at home or at their businesses among other men, where they belonged. "Or should be at," so the saying went. "Men of Business should be at business." Or else.
Several times each tenday—forty tendays the year, divided into four seasons—the new boys, who were not yet sexually mature and therefore not yet veiled, walked with their teachers to the park to watch the show put on by the advanced students. The older boys rode gracefully on horseback, glittering like gems. They picked quarrels with one another, and debated eloquently, declaiming dramatically, with many references to honor. Sometimes they fought with swords, brilliantly but inconsequentially, until one of the uniformed Housemasters stopped the battle and made them shake hands. The new boys were not the only ones watching. From closed carriages along the bridle paths, eyes watched and hands took notes, and it was for these watchers that the charades were played. The merchandise, so Simon said, had to go on display, for House Genevois often received bids for certain Consorts years before they were fully trained.
When the short nights of summertime came, the advanced students went off in all directions: the tongue-tied to summer conversation classes; the lazy to remedial fencing school; the merely awkward to dancing school. There were no remedial courses in amatory arts.
One either did well in those or one was given one's pension money and dismissed. Very few were dismissed, said Simon. Madame had an instinct for boys who would do well in amatory arts.
Almost all the newest boys were sent to the equestrian school owned by House Genevois, where Mouche rode horseback, at first a few hours each day, then all day every day, until he could stay on anything with legs, whether bareback or asaddle. By this time he had friends among the students—as Madame called them—and had himself taken part in the harassment of several new boys. He had also grown taller by a handspan and added weight to match, had found the first pale hairs sprouting near his groin, and had heard his voice crack on at least three occasions.
"So, Mouche," said Madame, the day after he returned to Sendoph, "today you are one year with us. As of today, you are no longer a new boy."
Mouche swept her a bow in which no hint of servility was allowed. He would learn about groveling, Simon said, but not until later. Groveling was sometimes necessary for Hunks, but the dangers inherent in the practice had to be weighed in the light of experience, which Mouche had none of at this stage.
"Yes, Madame," he said.
Madame acknowledged him with a gracious nod. "You graduate to your own suite today. Simon will take you to it."
Simon did so, through the main hall, past the low-ceilinged dining room with its open hearth and smell of sausages, up the broad marble stairs onto the wide landing with its tall windows overlooking the street between great swags of wine-colored fabric and its equally tall doors leading to the apartments of the staff, and up a flight more, through the deeply carved doors that led into Consort Country.
"No galloping on these stairs," warned Simon. "Madame's orders. You gallop on these stairs, Madame may rethink letting you go up."
"I didn't think I'd go this year," said Mouche in wonderment. "I thought you had to be veiled first."
"Ordinarily, yes. But the way you're growing, you will be veiled by the end of the year. Fact is, Mouche, we need to increase dormitory space for the younger students, but we've several empty suites in Consort Country."
Something funny in Simon's voice when he mentioned increasing dormitory space, Mouche thought. Something a bit tentative and uncertain. He didn't have long to think about it, for Simon pushed upon the door, revealing a table set with tapers and a long, narrow, very dark hallway. At Simon's direction, Mouche lit them each a candle before the door swung closed.
The front part of House Genevois, so Simon said, had been rebuilt and added to during the last century in accordance with modern rules of architecture, and that was the part people saw when they visited. Once through the door into Consort Country, however, one went back into a sprawling maze made up of many separate buildings, some of them dating back to the first settlement, that had been acquired, remodeled, and joined together in stages and in accordance with no overall plan or direction. The suites of the Consorts presumptive were scattered throughout this labyrinth, like lumps of fat in a black pudding, for though windows and skylights had once lit the corridors, most of them had been built over, leaving the passageways in darkness.
Mouche followed Simon, bearing his own dim sphere of light, through which he could catch only a glimpse of
the dark, velvety runners on the corridor floors, the carved wagon-panel along the walls, the shadowed ceilings high above with the gilded cornices, the gold of the ornate frames surrounding huge, dark pictures that lined every wall. The subject matter was at first indiscernible, but then, when the light caught one such painting at the right angle, all too obvious.
Mouche grunted, not sure whether to laugh or gag.
"Pay no attention to them, boy," said Simon. "Some persons wish to be immortalized in this fashion, though the Hagions know why. Perhaps they use these images to titillate themselves. Perhaps the paintings stir them to unaccustomed lust."
"I wouldn't lust over that," said Mouche, indignantly. "And their faces are bare!"
"Faces are usually bare in the bedroom, boy. I wouldn't lust over such activities either, but there are some who will, and that's a matter for us all to keep in mind, Mouche. There are always some who will." His voice resonated with that same tentative unease Mouche had noticed earlier. "Madame collects these paintings, from estate sales, mostly. If there is material of this kind, the auctioneers call her in before the public viewing. She regards such stuff as cautionary, not erotic."
The paintings did serve as landmarks. He had only to go past the flagellation, averting his eyes from certain terrible details, turn at the corner where the undines were busy at their putrid liquefactions, go on past several debasements too awful to contemplate, and up the stairs nearest the serial sodomites, turning the corner at a depiction of a particularly nasty machine doing indescribable things to a struggling young man at the direction of a gloating woman.
This last picture stopped Mouche in his tracks, possibly because he could see it clearly. It was newer than the others; the varnish had not yet yellowed, to obscure the details. "This is fantasy, right?" he asked. "This did not really happen." He leaned forward to see the label, which read, Mantelby, at her pleasures.
Simon twitched uncomfortably. "We believe it was fantasy, yes. However, the painter disappeared under mysterious circumstances. It has been alleged that he attempted blackmail of his patroness."
"It doesn't look old, like the others."
"No. Madame bought it from the artist's heirs. The person who had commissioned it hadn't claimed it."
"And that would be Mantelby, right?"
"Shh," said Simon. "No names, Mouche. We didn't label it. The label is just as it was when the painting was bought. I said the paintings were cautionary. Be cautioned."
The door, Mouche's door, with his name already neatly lettered on the plate, opened into a suite of three rooms: a small sleeping chamber furnished with bed, armoire and fireplace; a comfortable study with tall bookcases and windows that looked out onto the courtyard; and a privy closet with washbasin, the privy water provided from a tank on the roof to which water was pumped by a water mill built into the river wall. Electric power was limited on Newholme, though there were plans for much hydroelectric development within the next generation.
Clean wash water would be provided daily, said Simon, not specifying by whom, and the Consort baths were on the next level down. Simon also suggested that Mouche should practice getting out of the suite by the quickest route in case the Lady on the Scarp Blew Her Top, then departed to let Mouche get settled.
Mouche decided that in case the volcano did explode, causing earthquake or fire or both, he would escape through the windows down into the courtyard, this decision suggested by the presence of a rope ladder already in place. The previous occupant had had similar intentions. That decision disposed of, Mouche fetched his books, his clothing, and his athletic equipment from the dormitory and distributed the items in his new quarters. He then went down to the laundry to check out linens and was behind the door, hunting for pillow cases, when he heard Madame and Simon come into the outer room, already in conversation.
"I just don't want to take them," said Madame, sounding resentful and angry. "They're terrible prospects. They'll be years too old, for one thing."
Mouche could hear her footsteps, the fretful to and froing she did when upset, tappy tap one way, tappy tap the other, the heels of her shoes coming down like little hammers. Madame wore shiny black shoes and shiny black skirts and blindingly white shirts under tight, buttoned jackets that shut her in like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Madame had black hair and white skin and pale gray eyes that could see through six inches of oak, so said Simon.
Madame went on: "I don't like the looks of those Dutter boys. There's something dreadful about them, Simon, something more than merely boorishness. It's a kind of deadliness. Evil. Like ... like someone else I know of. That's why I turned them down when Dutter tried to sell them to House Genevois last year."
"But now the Dutter boys come with a guaranteed buyer who will pay you at once, in advance, no matter how they turn out," said Simon in an expressionless voice. "He offers an astonishing fee. And that same buyer has talked to your investors. Behind your back, if one may say so, Madame. And your investors, being good Men of Business, want you to take the offer."
"Which makes me like it even less," said Madame. "Who makes a deal like that? It's not out of love, Simon. It's not out of good sense. Take out love and good sense and what's left? Anger. Hate. Revenge. I don't like it. I don't like them. And why is the deal anonymous?"
"You're not asked to take them immediately."
"Four years from now they'll be worse! And they'll be too old for me to do anything with!"
"The eventual buyer says he will guarantee their deportment while they are with us. That same buyer will make a large down payment now, he tells us all he wants is a gloss, not real training, and your investors say the funds are needed, Madame. They wish to buy the property next north in order to expand the House, in order to take younger boys ... "
Which evidently gave her pause, for she said nothing more as she tapped away, Simon prowling after her as silently as a cat.
This was not the first time Mouche had heard discussions about taking younger boys at House Genevois. All the Consort Houses were licensed by the Panhagion. The financial end of things, however, was supervised by Men of Business, and financially, as Madame had mentioned on more than one occasion, taking younger boys made sense. Younger boys were cheaper to buy, for one thing; a good-looking nine-year-old could be had for eight or ten vobati and the initial annuity costs were lower. Then too, the early years were better for forming graceful habits, the eradication of lower caste accents, and the inculcation of both the superficial learning that would pass for sophistication and the rigorous physical training that allowed the student to emulate spontaneity. There was also less correction to do in the breaking of bad behavior, which saved staff time. This saving alone more than offset the cost of feeding and housing for a few extra years. There would be little risk, for as the population grew, though slowly, the market for Hunks grew with it. Even women who did not make much use of them wanted them as status symbols.
All of which explained why more dormitory space was needed, and also why Simon was so equivocal about it. Simon didn't like the idea of taking younger boys. He said it was too difficult to pick good candidates much before age twelve because cherubs could turn into gargoyles, though whatever Madame did or did not do, she was not answerable to him.
Nonetheless, the conversation disturbed him. Something about it stirred a memory in Mouche, one he couldn't shake. It had something to do with Duster dog, but he couldn't quite remember what, though it had something to do with their wanderings. He mused a good deal on that.
Back on the farm, when chores were done, Mouche and Duster had often wandered away to visit some of the mysterious places in the lands round about. They had found their first cave when Mouche was seven and Duster was only a pup, and by the time he was nine, they'd found a dozen of them, some of them very deep and dark and too frightening to go into very far. Mouche's favorite cave was the one he'd found when he was nine, where water leaked through the roof to fall musically into a quiet pool lit by rays that thrust through the od
d rift or cleft in the rocks, where small pale plants grew in abundance, and where a fairly biggish sort of furry creature lived who did not mind sharing Mouche's lunch or his knee in order to be petted and scratched about the ears and on the stomach. The furry thing was violet, the color of late sunset, and it had large hands and short though strong little legs and a long, fluffy tail. After the first tense meeting, Duster and the furry thing settled into a kind of companionship as well. The creature spoke, though only a few words, which delighted Mouche.
"Mouchidi," it said, putting his lips to Mouche's face, nipping him with his sharp little teeth—only a love bite, Mouche said to himself—and giving him a long, measuring look. "Twa, Mouchidi."
Mouche was well aware of his family's poverty, so he never suggested, even to himself, that he take the creature home and adopt it as a pet. Duster was given house room only because he guarded against roving supernumes and caught most of his own meals from among the small food the early settlers had released into the wild: rabbits, ground squirrels, wild hens. Besides, the furry thing seemed well established where it was, and the cave was close enough for to visit from time to time, over a space of some three or four years.
On a particular day, however, Mouche had to convince Duster to come along, for the dog had been busy digging a large hole in the bottom pasture in pursuit of something only Duster could identify. Mouche took a chunk of bread, with a lump of butter already inserted in it, a couple of winter apples, and his share of the piece of cheese set aside for that day's consumption. Darbos usually kept his share to add to the evening grain, and Eline ate hers at bedtime, but Mouche ate his cheese at noon because he could sneak bites of it to Duster, as he could not do if Eline was watching.
Usually Mouche's approach to the cave was quiet, if not silent, but today when he came within hearing distance, he heard the small furry thing screaming. He had heard it scream before, when it was surprised, or hurt, so he gave up any pretense at secrecy and ran for the cave at full tilt, drawing up at the entrance to see two boys, arms outstretched, attempting to catch the furry thing, whom they had already wounded with a thrown rock. Mouche saw the rock, the wound in the furry thing's side, the boys intent and lustful faces, and without even thinking about it, he launched himself at the larger boy while Duster, following suit, took on the smaller.
Tepper,Sheri - Six Moon Dance Page 5