Tales of the Thasali Harem Box Set

by Danielle Summers

  A reluctant murmur of agreement moved around the group. Chadan was about to chastise them and remind them that they were no more “normal” than their forebears, whatever the evolution of their common language. Before he could do so, Toaz again spoke over them, loud and surprisingly bold for an initiate.

  “Anyhow, where is Azno? When he is here, we all do better. Or at least Master Chadan shouts at us much less.”

  He turned a brilliant smile on Chadan, who felt sweat prickle at the back of his neck. He could only guess what Toaz was implying, but even to hint at something so utterly at odds with harem rules struck him momentarily speechless.

  “Toaz, you idiot. Haven’t you been paying attention?” Another member of the chorus, Dreghip, waved his delicate, braceleted hand. “He had a royal summons. He left for the prince’s private audience room nearly two sandglasses ago.” He flashed a grin in Chadan’s direction. “We are all waiting to see what that was about. Do you think one of the princes has chosen him as a concubine?”

  “Impossible. He hasn’t received his tattoo yet,” Ithu protested.

  “Now who’s being an idiot?” Toaz shot back. “The royals can do anything like they like. That’s the point of being a royal, isn’t it?”

  Chadan waved a hand to cut them off. He knew of the royal summons, as a note had arrived from Prince Baboye himself just after the morning meal requesting Azno’s presence. That had rankled Chadan, and not just because of the missed rehearsal. But he thought it best not to dwell on the matter.

  “Never mind that. I see you are wholly unable to focus on the task at hand. Therefore, we will all take a short break. Gather yourselves and be prepared to demonstrate your mastery of both the poem and its intonations when we reconvene.”

  Half-laughing, half-moaning, the initiates leapt from the dais and scattered around the room, where they continued to talk in small groups. He heard a few more giggles from Ithu.

  Remaining at the podium, Chadan pretended to scan the flat sheets of parchment that contained the text of the poem and his notes concerning the performance. He hid a small grin of his own as he watched the initiates chatter, pinch, and poke one another. Their playfulness was infectious and difficult to resist.

  Maybe he was being too hard on them. They were struggling with the poem, certainly, but improving. Fortunately, they had plenty of time before the actual concert. It was easy to forget that, even though they were of age and in training to become royal consorts, they had been sheltered and coddled in ways he, at just past thirty sun cycles, could hardly imagine. His short and neatly trimmed beard was intended to make him look even older, but he realized it wasn’t entirely successful in that regard. Though they were respectful enough, the initiates still viewed him as a friend rather than as a master with the authority and gravitas of his older colleagues.

  Of course, the rehearsal would have gone far better if his star pupil, Azno, had been present. Rarely had he seen such poetic talent in the harem. Not only did his voice soar above the others, blending the rich notes of the chant, but his obvious skill tended to inspire the others to try harder.

  He was also very soothing to the eyes, which was why Chadan had positioned him in the exact center of the chorus, where the royals and their guests could watch and admire him. Chadan would be watching him, too, from his place at the front of the dais—though his interest would be purely professional, of course. It would have been both unseemly and fruitless to think of Azno as anything but another member of the chorus, albeit the best one he had seen in the entirety of his career. Chadan couldn’t prevent a scowl from creeping over his face, though he struggled to conceal it from the initiates. Where was Azno this afternoon? The royals thought nothing of pulling him from the rehearsal and upending Chadan’s lesson plan. What could they have wanted with an initiate, anyhow? Azno had not completed his sex training yet—surely, they would not send him to warm someone’s bed already? Then again, as Toaz had pointed out, the royals could act as they pleased. Usually, they did.

  As if on cue, the gilt double doors crashed open and Azno raced in, breathing hard. Chadan’s gaze focused on the flowing blue-green robe he wore, the fabric woven with shimmering silvery threads. No initiate would own such a garment unless it had been a royal gift.

  The young man skidded to a halt in front of the podium, pressed his hands together, and lowered his head in the ritual gesture of social supplication. “Apologies, Master Chadan. I was summoned to court. Please excuse my tardiness.”

  “Your apology is accepted, Azno.” Chadan returned the gesture to indicate forgiveness. He felt his pulse quicken a little as he gazed at Azno, still bowing before him. The young man really was a study in beauty. He could have been the model for a sculpture. For a moment Chadan regretted that his talents lay only in massaging the written word and not clay.

  Toaz ran over, squealing and stroking the hem of Azno’s new garment. “Oh! It’s so soft it might have been woven from feathers! Will you let me borrow it sometime?”

  “Certainly not,” Azno said, blushing, though Chadan knew him well enough to know he would eventually relent. “It was a gift and I must keep it entirely clean for as long as I can. I don’t trust you not to spill wine on it or drag the hem through the dirt in the garden.”

  “A gift from whom? The prince himself?” A long-haired youth called Mokir pressed his way into the circle forming around Azno.

  “Has to be,” Toaz agreed. Chadan noticed more than a hint of envy in his voice. “Krask, Azno, are you to be the consort of a royal? You’d better pay close attention in sex lessons, if so.”

  “No, no.” Azno’s blush deepened. He waved both hands in protest. “This did not come from a prince. It was given to me by the royal guest, Baron Garghas.”

  The initiates gasped in admiration, but Chadan felt his chest tighten. Garghas, a powerful warlord, had served the princes well during the recent provincial rebellion. It made sense they would gift him with a concubine of his own. He was, admittedly, rather handsome in his own way—a coarse, arrogant way suited to a wealthy nobleman with a military bent. But Chadan felt Azno was the wrong choice for him entirely.

  “Enough,” he said, clapping his hands to end the break. He didn’t want to hear any more. “Let’s resume. Azno, please take your place.”

  Azno seemed grateful to step onto the dais among his friends, and the chant began again. Chadan wasn’t surprised when the chant began to flow far more smoothly. Azno’s natural feel for words and poetic rhythm elevated the performance at once. Even the boys realized it and applauded themselves at the end.

  “Well done, Azno,” Chadan said. He glanced at the sandglass on a nearby table. “And now we shall stop so that all of us may go and prepare for the evening meal. I will see all of you at the banquet hall in a few hours.”

  Chattering happily, the group jumped from the dais and ran for the door, eager to enjoy their free time before dinner. Chadan figured they would spend much of the time gossiping about Azno’s audience with the royals and admiring his new robes. However, when he looked up he noticed that Azno had stayed behind to talk to him.

  “I wanted to apologize again for disrupting your rehearsal. And for wearing this instead of the approved costume for the performance. I did not want to waste time changing clothes, or I would have been even later.”

  Chadan shook his head. “Think nothing of it. The robe was a gift from Lord Garghas. You had a right to enjoy it and show it off.” He tried not to sound bitter, but Azno picked up on his discomfort.

  “The truth is, I could have returned sooner, but I stopped to pick this up.” He reached into the folds of his new robe and hesitantly pulled out a small scroll.

  “I…I have been working on a translation of one of Diviak’s early poems. I had hoped you might offer your opinion on my work. It’s only in draft form, of course.”

  His eyebrows lifting, Chadan took the scroll and scanned the neat handwriting that adorned the parchment. He did not have to read far to see that the w
ords flowed like sweet jijux syrup. Truly, this young man had the soul of a poet.

  “I confess I am impressed,” Chadan said. To say the least, he almost added. Not just with the words on the scroll. With all of you.

  “I am fascinated by Diviak’s story,” Azno went on, a bit breathlessly. “To think that, with a mere twist of fate, his work might have been lost forever.”

  Chadan nodded. Diviak, the most revered poet working in the Old Tongue, had been a rough-hewn farmboy who had been discovered by a traveling nobleman. Brought back to the city and presented at court, he had become one of the original harem members when the tradition had first begun, hundreds of years ago during the First Reign. He had served no less than three of the greatest kings in their royal beds and, upon reaching a suitable age, refused the offer of a council seat and instead retired to a country estate gifted to him by the royals. There he wrote a series of passionate poems inspired by his many love affairs with high-ranking nobles and his fellow harem youths alike and hid the scrolls in a pantry jar normally used for grain. They were discovered inside it many years after his death. Only by chance had they been preserved at all.

  “His story is remarkable indeed,” Chadan confirmed with a nod.

  “It is my hope that my own poems might someday be praised and treasured as a jewel from the past,” Azno said shyly.

  “I think they very well might. You must continue your efforts at any cost. Talent like yours is worth nurturing.”

  Azno bowed. “Thank you, Master Chadan.”

  They headed separately for dinner. After washing his face and changing his robes, Chadan arrived a bit late. He slipped into his usual seat at the Masters’ table just in time to hear Mekko ranting about his music students.

  “Horrid singers, all of them. Their so-called singing sounds like a demented xoxobeast rutting.” He slid Chadan a sideways glance. “But Master Chadan already knows that. Well, the horrid part, at least. Perhaps not the rutting.”

  Mekko laughed as Chadan winced.

  “It is unlike you to be even a moment late, Chadan. You were occupied with the rehearsal?” The Dancing Master, Vaghos, asked when Mekko left the table to fetch more wine.

  “In a matter of speaking. Azno showed me his poetry,” Chadan said. There was no point in denying it; that would have looked worse, since he had no doubt the other masters already knew he had lingered in the rehearsal room with Azno. That was the way gossip flowed in the palace. Like a swollen stream after a monsoon. “He is attempting to translate Diviak into the modern tongue.”

  “Ah, the stories of old. I recall one of Diviak’s odes that always captured my attention when I was just starting out here. Perhaps you recall it. It concerned an illicit tryst between a sex trainer and a harem youth. Some speculate the youth may have been Diviak himself.” Vaghos paused, and his voice took on a dark tone. “The teacher in question was killed under suspicious circumstances.”

  “How shocking.” Mekko had returned and was listening with mock rapture.

  “Thankfully nothing like that has happened in the palace for many years,” Vaghos continued. “Today’s trainers—and tutors—know better than to behave so foolishly. One would hope so, at least.”

  Mekko gulped his wine, emptying half the goblet in one swallow. “Marketplace entertainers suit my needs better than concubines, anyhow. And the street lads are cheaper in the long run. All those gifts and tokens of affection can add up after a while. Not to mention all the histrionics that come with love affairs. Who has time?”

  Chadan gritted his teeth and poked at the food on his plate. “Indeed,” he grumbled.

  The moment the meal ended, Chadan excused himself and left Vaghos and Mekko to continue their conversation over more wine and pagvee pudding. In the solitude of his quarters, he stewed over their attempts to humiliate or even threaten him.

  Yet he knew they were right to detect a problem. Something was stirring between himself and Azno. He felt warmly protective of the young man, though surely his feeling was inspired more by his potential as a poet than the lad himself. The emotion itself was nothing to be concerned about, as he knew he could control himself, but then again perception was everything. He did not want to ruin things for Azno. He would have to be cautious about what he said or did when the man was in his presence. He would not want Azno to misinterpret things. The young men were still impressionable at this early stage in their adulthood. Soon they would learn to separate sexual longing from other sorts of emotions. Their sex trainers would take care of that.

  Even after he slid into bed that night, he found it difficult to sleep. He found himself thinking about one of Diviak’s most famous poems, which described his frustrated love for another harem boy, who was sold into slavery when the affair was discovered. Diviak never saw his lover again. The Old Tongue had words to express his despair that could scarcely be translated.

  Chadan shook his head. Well, those were the old days. People were more enlightened now, even if some of the old laws were not.

  He, for one, knew better than to lose himself in feelings or actions that would only bring shame and perhaps even tragedy on himself and Azno. The sort of love that had tortured Diviak was just an illusion. After all, Diviak himself had gotten over it eventually and moved on. He had gone on to grace the perfumed beds of kings.

  Surely Azno could—and would—fare just as well.

  Chapter Two

  Toaz and Azno sat together at the morning meal. Azno pretended to pay careful attention to his gilla grain porridge, sweetening it with tiny spoonfuls of omple syrup and then tasting it after each dose. The whole time, he was aware of Toaz watching him and fidgeting with the need to gossip. Finally, Toaz lost control of himself.

  “Hurry up with that, will you? Everyone else’s breakfast is getting cold.”

  “Apologies.” Azno smiled and passed the urn to him. Toaz carelessly drenched his porridge and handed the syrup off to Ithu, seated next to him and struggling to eavesdrop over the noise in the room.

  “So, you really aren’t going to tell me unless I drag it out of you, are you?” Toaz pressed.

  “Tell you what? You make no sense, my friend.”

  “You stayed after rehearsal yesterday. I saw you go back to speak to Master Chadan.”

  “I will not deny that. What of it?”

  Toaz’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You like Master Chadan very much, don’t you?”

  “Why would I not? He is kind and talented.” This time Azno struggled not to fidget. Curse Toaz for being so perceptive. “Are you not fond of him yourself?”

  Groaning, Toaz took a roll from the basket in the center of the table and threw it at Azno, who barely caught it in time. He looked up to see Oraj, the perpetually unsmiling harem master, flash the two of them a warning look.

  “You will earn us both a thrashing,” Azno whispered.

  Toaz glanced over his shoulder, gave Oraj a grin the master did not return, and turned back to Azno. “You know what I mean,” he urged under his breath. “About Chadan.”

  “I do not,” Azno insisted. But he did. He felt his cheeks flame despite his best efforts at nonchalance.

  “Too bad he is only the poetry master, and not a sex trainer,” Toaz went on. “Then he could be your first. Think how wonderful that would be!”

  “You are mad.”

  “Not that Garghas is a bad bargain.” Toaz sighed and assumed a wistful expression. “He has a wonderful country estate with an orchard and a riding paddock larger than the palace courtyard. He has an army of cooks to feed him and another small regiment to clear the dishes away after each meal. At night he has jugglers and tumblers to amuse him, not to mention swordsmen who duel for his favor. At night, he sleeps in sheets as fine as the Matriarch’s best ceremonial gown.”

  Azno scoffed. “You sound as though you have been there.

  “As good as,” Toaz retorted. “I have heard about it from his servants. If only he had taken a fancy to me.” He sighed.

 
“So do I—if you wish it, I mean.”

  “Do you mean that?” Toaz brightened. “Well, then. Perhaps your future with Lord Garghas is not so set in stone as some may think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see.” Toaz winked.

  Azno saw that Master Oraj was still watching them. He busied himself with his porridge again until it was time to leave the plates for the servants and head off to their morning lessons.

  “Today we will go directly to the royal baths,” Eru, one of the younger sex instructors, told them as he lined them up in the corridor. “When we arrive there, remove your clothes and pair off. The trainers will show you how to wash each other as you will one day wash your lord. And remember—cleanliness is not the only goal in this bath.”

  By the time Oraj stepped forward to motion them into the pool, all of them were naked and giggling—some self-consciously, some with genuine delight at the prospect of paddling around in the royal baths for a few hours. No one but the initiates and their trainers were present this morning. Apparently, the royals had closed off the baths for their convenience. Azno would not have been surprised if someone were waiting just out of sight, watching them and perhaps even making notes for a later report to Prince Baboye, who took an intense interest in the progress of the newest crop of recruits. He might even share the reports with Garghas.

  Azno could not forget the way the prince’s friend had stared at him, his dark eyes alight with blatant lust as he presented the robe in the throne room. Toaz, and probably a good many other harem lads, would have been flattered and pleased by such attentions. Azno had felt only unsettled. Thankfully, no one had asked his opinion and had allowed him to simply bow and excuse himself after a formal expression of gratitude for the gift.

  Now, as the bathing lesson began, Azno found himself paired with Toaz. The warm water embraced them as they slid into it together. They followed the trainer’s instructions, which mostly involved pouring water over one another and applying various types of massage, without much difficulty. Azno had to admit that the caress of the water and the rub of Toaz’s graceful hands felt delightful. He felt himself getting hard, which made Toaz laugh and squeeze his balls.