by Tony Roberts
HOUSE OF LUST
Copyright Tony Roberts 2015
ISBN 978-1-51310-105-2
Website http://tonyrobertsauthor.com
Cover artwork by Lisa Ravenscroft
Table of Contents
HOUSE OF LUST
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Principle Character List
Coming in 2016, the fourth tale in the Chronicles of Kastania, Path of Pride
CHAPTER ONE
The courtyard echoed to the ringing of steel on steel as the two youths swung their swords and hacked at one another. One was a lean, dark-haired boy with a pair of piercing blue eyes, the other slightly shorter, his hair not as dark as the first, and had paler blue eyes.
They moved back and forth, neither showing any sign of tiring. Their blades were identical – short, slim blades with leather-bound hilts. Neither were wearing any armour, being attired instead in padded jackets and loose-fitting hose. The shorter of the two had a crest on his jacket, that of a shield divided into blue and white quarters and flanked by black wings. The other had none.
Watching with interest were a number of people; blacksmiths, soldiers, townsfolk. One or two other youths looked on, too. In the background a looming stone castle towered above them, four floors of narrow windows or arrow slits looking out on them, some occupied by onlookers.
Both youths were gritting their teeth, neither prepared to back down. They were well-matched, and if both hadn’t been so adept at defence, it was likely one or the other may well have collected a wound or worse.
Finally an older man with a scar down his face and possessing only one eye interceded. “That’s enough, sire, Kerrin. You’re both getting exhausted and a mistake may well be made.”
The two stepped back and bowed to one another. Most of the onlookers burst into applause and the two turned and bowed to them, too. Two servants came forward, cloths in hand, and the two perspiring boys gratefully took one each. The older man collected the swords and sheathed them. “That’s enough for today. You’ve both done well. I’m pleased with your progress.”
“Thank you, Panat,” the shorter of the two replied. “I am pleased with how our sword play is progressing.” He looked at his sparring partner. “Your blows are getting harder, ‘Rin.”
Kerrin Afos grinned. “As are yours, ‘Gan. What’s the rest of the day to hold for you?”
Prince Argan of the House of Koros wiped his wet face and neck and looked thoughtfully at the stone edifice of the keep of Zofela, capital of the Kastanian province of Bragal. “Tonight’s the big celebration – you’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes,” Kerrin nodded. His voice, like that of Argan’s, was of that peculiar tone adolescents had when their voice started to break. Both were twelve and growing up fast. Sometimes they squeaked and at other times boomed. They would have to get used to their new voices fast. “I mean before then.”
“Nothing – at least I think so, unless Mr. Sen has something up his large sleeves.” He grinned at his humorous observation. Kerrin duly chuckled briefly. “I could do with a clean-up after our spar. You got a servant to do you?”
“Oh, yes. She’s a bit clumsy but nothing to worry about. I suppose Sasia will bathe you?”
Argan glanced at Kerrin. He wondered at the edge in his voice, but he was used to Kerrin being a bit touchy about Amal, Argan’s personal servant, called Sasia by Kastanians. Perhaps he was jealous of having one so devoted to him as the Bragalese girl was. There again, Kerrin hadn’t been saved from a life-threatening situation by the witchcraft of another Bragalese woman, Metila, which had somehow given the young Argan a complete knowledge of the Bragalese language. Amal had submitted to Argan at their first encounter, pledging her life to him, recognising him as some kind of special person, Lakhani. “She always takes good care of me, ‘Rin. You shouldn’t worry too much about her – I’m as safe with her as I am with you.” He slapped his childhood companion on the shoulder and began to lope off the practice field, Kerrin following a little morosely.
As they reached the border of the field, marked with a low wooden fence, they passed close to Argan’s younger brother by three years, Istan. Istan was quite thickset and stocky; mostly, so Argan maintained, because of his eating. Istan did have a healthy appetite, and a dark personality. He had been a bad-tempered child and now at the age of nine was becoming snide and underhand. He had his usual two companions close to him, two Bragalese boys from Zofela whose fathers had died in the taking of the town by Astiras Koros, Emperor of Kastania and the father of both Argan and Istan.
“You fight like a woman,” Istan observed, eating on a sweetfruit, speaking through his food. He knew it irritated people so he did it deliberately, sometimes spitting his food out onto the listener. As a prince he was only answerable to his father, and then only reluctantly.
“You sound like one,” Argan countered, wiping his face again. “I’m surprised you’re here and not in the kitchen feeding your fat face.”
Istan’s mouth turned down. “Once I’m emperor I’ll have you thrown into prison, you girl.”
Argan laughed and looked at the scowling duo behind his brother. “You’ll never be emperor, Istan – you’re far too nasty to people. Nobody will want you in charge, not even Jorqel. He’ll make sure anyone other than you is named his successor.” Jorqel was the heir to the throne and the older half-brother of the two boys.
“We’ll see. He’ll not want a weakling like you as emperor – you’ll be too busy crying to rule the empire!”
Argan snorted and walked off, Istan’s mocking crying sound in his ears. The two Bragalese boys laughed. Kerrin glared at the two and then caught up with his friend. “Why do you let him speak to you like that, ‘Gan? You could beat all three on your own! Let me teach them a lesson!”
Argan shook his head sadly. “Those two horrible Bragalese boys, yes, but you can’t touch Fantor-Face.” The nickname was Argan’s special name for Istan, named after a mythical beast that grew to enormous size. “If you did, you’d be in trouble.”
“But not you – you’re his brother and also a prince. I’d love to see you teach him a lesson!”
“Father and mother don’t like the idea of us fighting. They always split us up and you’ve seen yourself how they protect him because he’s younger and smaller than me.”
“But he always starts it!”
Argan reached the entrance to Zofela’s newly completed castle, a stout looking stone construction. It had been finished only the previous year and in a hurry because of the war with nei
ghbouring Venn. They stood for a moment at the edge of the ditch and looked at the four floors of windows and slits. “I know, ‘Rin, but often people who start trouble are looked after by people who are too protective, and it only makes the trouble maker worse.” He sighed. His vocabulary was pretty good for one of his age, but that was down to his intense education. In four years he would have to take up a governorship of a region and a generalship of a unit of soldiers. The odd thing was that once he learned a new word in his native Kastanian language, he automatically knew its equivalent in Bragalese. He couldn’t explain it; neither could anyone else, least of all his tutor, Mr. Sen. “I’m going to rest until this evening. Father will want me at my best for his celebration.”
Kerrin grunted in agreement. “Eight years as emperor. He will be happy.”
“I hope so. Mother and he have been arguing today. Again.” He eyed one of the windows high up with a sad look. He disliked it when his parents squabbled, and today’s blow-up was one of the worst he could recall. The shouting had echoed down the passageway. He had no idea what it was all about, but no doubt one of the servants would tell him. Argan had a nice little network of friends in the castle who told him many things, and that included gossip about his younger brother, none of which was good.
He grinned at Kerrin and entered the castle, passing under the portcullis and acknowledging the salutes of the two palace guards stationed there. There was a great entrance chamber beyond and staircases ran up on both sides, as well as arched doorways standing in three of the four walls. Kerrin went off to his chamber to clean up, followed by a servant, while Argan began to climb the left-hand staircase, a wide wooden one with a smooth thick handrail.
Coming down the stairs was an armoured figure, a sword hanging from his belt. A good-humoured man of almost thirty years of age, dark haired and sporting the latest fashionable facial hairstyle of a half-beard; he had a moustache and chin hair, but shaven on the sides of the face. “Good day, young Prince,” he greeted Argan. “A good workout?”
“Yes, Captain Vos’gis,” Argan said, bobbing his head. “Apart from Fantor-Face being there.”
Captain Vosgaris, commander of the palace guard, glanced towards the entrance lest Istan was there, but relaxed when he saw it empty. “Careful, Prince Argan. One of these days he’ll hear you.”
“I don’t care about that, Vos’gis. What can he do anyway? Eat more?” Argan laughed easily. “Then he will be a fantor!”
Vosgaris smiled and shook his head in wonder. “It’s best you two don’t start quarrelling tonight – your father has enough to cope with at the moment what with your mother and he at each other’s throats.”
“Have you any idea what that is all about?”
Vosgaris shook his head. “Best not to ask, either.” He saluted and carried on with his inspection, making sure all the guards were where they were supposed to be. Security was only as good it was as at the present moment, and one could never be sure if someone was intent on causing harm to the emperor and his family.
Argan wasn’t convinced by the captain’s glib reply and sudden need to be gone. He carried on along the stone passageway towards his quarters. The new stone keep was a welcome change to the wooden castle that had come before. They had gone through some discomfort and inconvenience during the construction but had finally moved into their new abode in mid-winter.
It had seemed cold and dark at first but slowly they had got used to it and the fires they had in their rooms helped a lot on both counts. With a wooden castle a fire had to be small and carefully managed, not so now. The dismantled walls and old castle wood had been used to make staircases and floor planking in the new keep. A second staircase stood beyond a narrow archway off to one side of the passageway and Argan took this, acknowledging another guard’s salute. This was a winding staircase in a turret and gave access to the upper floors where the imperial family resided. The lower two were for guards, guests and everyday use.
Up on the third floor the rooms and passages were bigger. The passageways were half as much wider again, and he could pass by guards without getting too close to them. Tapestries hung from the walls here and other furnishings decorated the walls. As he passed one open door, his mother looked up and spotted him. “Ah, there you are, Argan. Hold on a moment, I need to speak to you.”
Argan groaned to himself and stopped. His mother was always fussing or fretting and he so wished she didn’t. He stood stoically and waited for her to emerge, moving and working at a much faster pace than the rest of Kastania, as usual. “Yes, mother?”
“Now I want you to be in your best outfit for this evening. I’ve already told Sasia to make sure your best clothes are properly prepared. And make sure you’ve washed and cleaned up as you’re all sweaty and smell like you’ve been working in a leather shop.”
“Mother, don’t fuss. She knows already; I’ve told her this morning.” Argan was just about the only one who called Sasia by her true name. Bragalese children, orphaned from the war, had been adopted to serve the imperial family or other Kastanians and given new names, severing their identity with their past. At least, that was the theory. Argan knew the Bragalese would never forget their heritage, and he made sure Amal felt reassured by him whenever they were alone in his room. He always addressed her in private as Amal and spoke to her in her language. Amal’s respect for him had grown as a result.
“Hmmm, well I’ve told her just to make sure.” Isbel looked at Argan severely. “Is it proper for her to clean you, Argan? I ought to provide a male servant for that.”
“Mother! We’ve had this discussion before. She’s fine and I do not want another servant. One is sufficient. To have two is indulgent.” Argan used the word as he’d heard it often enough at the dining table. His mother was always using it to justify her reluctance to spend more than was absolutely necessary. “And I don’t know what you mean by is it proper? What do you mean, mother?”
Isbel pursed her lips. “A young girl like that touching you. You’re growing up fast and are now more of a young man than a boy. She might make – inappropriate moves. I would not countenance that sort of thing!”
Argan frowned. “What sort of thing?” He knew full well what his mother was implying, but he was at an age where grown-ups were not sure how much a twelve year old knew or was supposed to know. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Isbel waved her hands in dismissal. “Go and get yourself ready.” She watched as he shrugged and went on his way towards his room, three doors down. She returned to her room and slammed it shut. Alone she could give vent to her frustrations. She’d just finished composing a letter when she’d seen Argan passing, and now she looked at it once more, making sure it was phrased properly and contained just what she wished. Satisfied she folded it and sealed it with her wax, then leaned back and sank into her chair, shutting her eyes.
She cursed her husband. Emperor he may be but that didn’t excuse his philandering. Their full-blown row that morning had been because she’d just found out about his affair with the Bragalese slave girl Metila in Turslenka. Astiras hadn’t even been sorry. He’d stood there and justified his actions as thanking her in the Bragalese way for saving Argan’s life. Isbel had not been in the slightest convinced, and she had threatened to leave, and he had boldly told her if that was what she wanted, then so be it. He would still be emperor and she would not be empress.
Stunned by his callous attitude, she had retreated to her room and not gone out again. Now having thought on her situation, she knew she had little choice. But she would not forgive him. Ever.
Argan, meanwhile, had reached his room and gone in, passing the guard on duty outside. In the two-room apartment he lived in, Sasia – or Amal – was patiently waiting. “Hello, Amal,” he greeted her in Bragalese.
“Lakhani,” she curtseyed, lowering her head. “You wish to be washed?”
“Yes please. I’m all hot and sweaty. Mother has been fussing over me like a fowl. No doubt she’ll want to inspect me befor
e I’m passed acceptable for the celebratory banquet tonight.”
Amal smiled and nodded. She took his wet cloth and threw it down, then unbuttoned his jacket. It fell to the floor, followed by his under vestment of white, now sweat-stained. His youthful torso was smooth and unmarked, and the beginnings of adulthood was showing, with the widening shoulders and developing chest muscles. Amal had no feelings of desire to him, for she knew her time of Growing Through had not yet happened. Bragalese girls reached a certain age, then at that time they would undergo a sexual awakening called Growing Through. It would be an uncontrollable outburst of passion which always resulted in them coupling with a male, and usually Bragalese families provided the man from one of their social circle. It helped bond families. From that time on the woman, for now that was what she would be properly called, would have the normal Bragalese sexual desires, that was to say, very strong. They would however be in control of them, unlike at the Growing Through moment. They would be in a passionate rage and nothing would be able to stop them. Males had been known to get very badly scratched, bitten and injured at these times.
Argan and Amal had spoken of this recently, and Amal had expressed her ignorance of when it would come. Any time from about thirteen to sixteen. Nobody knew, but the signs would be clear for about a day or so. Argan was fascinated. He himself had no passionate feelings towards anyone, but he had been betrothed to a noble girl of about his age, slightly younger, called Velka. She was due to visit any time to go through the betrothal ceremony, when the two were formally bonded. They would not marry until both passed sixteen, but it was as good as an engagement.
“I have prepared your bath,” she said and led him through the room to the far side where a second door stood, slightly ajar. This was the inner chamber, a bed chamber. Here Argan was usually bathed by Amal. A metal tub stood on the floor to one side, filled with warm water and Argan divested himself of his remaining clothes and stepped into the water. Amal waited till he had sat down in it before commencing to wash him. She, too, was now divested of her clothes save for a small loin piece. Bathing someone often meant getting wet herself, so she had learned to only wear the one piece of clothing. Argan shut his eyes and leaned back, enjoying the slow wiping of the cloth.