House of Lust

by Tony Roberts

  No servants were in the two-room chamber and Elas shut the door sharply after he virtually dragged Amne into the room. There were guards outside, but the door was well insulated and little noise intruded either way.

  “Now, Elas, what’s this all about? You practically pulled my arm off, you know,” Amne said with a nervous laugh.

  Elas said nothing. His face showed nothing. He took hold of her and swung her around, dragging her into the bed chamber. He threw her onto the bed, then picked up a riding stick that usually rested untouched on a side table. “I will show you, Amne, how I treat a cheating wife.”

  “Now, Elas, if you harm me my father will hear of it and he won’t…”

  Elas fell onto her, pinning her to the bed sheets. He knelt on her arms so she could not wriggle free and began unfastening her jacket, and then her bodice. “I never have the patience to discover how to unfasten or fasten a woman’s attire.” He tugged at the clothes and parted them, freeing most of Amne’s bosom.

  Amne struggled to no avail. “You kivok!” she hissed impotently. “Is this what you call love?”

  “No, I feel no love towards you, Amne,” Elas breathed, then suddenly rose from her arms. Amne raised them but he slapped them aside, spun her round and roughly half tore her clothes from her back, and threw them across the room. Her back was now revealed to him. He pulled up her skirt and exposed her legs.

  “Elas,” Amne said in desperation, “please…”

  “Silence, Amne, I am master here,” and he pulled off her under clothing. Her buttocks were now jutting up and he grabbed the stick. “Here begins your lesson in knowing who your husband is,” and he sent it across them.

  Amne screamed in pain.

  Elas held her down on the bed with one hand, kneeling in between her legs, keeping them apart, and began beating her across the buttocks and then back. He didn’t strike her as hard as he felt like, but just enough to inflict pain. He did not want to disfigure her.

  Amne tried to kick but her legs were too far apart to do anything with them, and her arms couldn’t reach round to stop her back or buttocks being struck. Tears ran down her face, in both pain and shame.

  Then, when the beating stopped, he stepped back and looked down at her, his expression unreadable. Finally he sat on the edge of the bed looking at her, looking at the red welts across her back and buttocks. “Now,” he breathed hard, fighting to bring that under control, “every time you try to betray our marriage, this is what you will receive from me.”

  Amne sobbed, curling her legs underneath herself, turning her back on him. She hated him.

  “If you want the precious Captain Lalaas to remain here, then you will behave yourself. I may not now send you away to the Temple, and I must remain married to you, but you will come to learn to obey our marriage vows, and not spit at them as you have done so up to now. No more liaisons. No more affairs.”

  He stood up and placed the stick on the table alongside the bed. “You will remain here tonight. I do not wish you to see anyone else until your duties demand you do on the morrow. In the meantime I shall arrange for a bath to be run for you. You will clean yourself up, for I do not wish you to display the marks of your punishment to all. ”

  He left Amne alone in the bedroom. She bit her lip, fighting the waves of pain from her many marks. The pain from her back and behind competed for dominance. Not only was it the physical pain she was fighting, but the emotional pain, too. Elas had shown that he would no longer tolerate her affairs, but she was trapped in a loveless marriage, and she needed love, she needed someone to love her. Up to now she had been sure he would do nothing, and only a short while back when she had told him why he couldn’t dismiss Lalaas, she had thought she had finally broken any hold he may have over her. It had, though, proven illusory. Elas had turned the whole thing around and now she was the one lying broken on the bed, and she knew that she would – or even could – not leave him, for if that happened it would be the end of everything she had been working towards these last few years. The horrible thought struck her. Elas probably had realised that and now knew he could treat her in such a brutal manner with no fear of consequence.

  If only Lalaas was there with her now; she needed him even more than before.

  ____

  Lalaas was, at that precise moment, making his way down the stone steps in the depths of the palace. Here were rooms that none of the imperial family dared to visit, and only members of the palace guard and security normally would be found here. Screams echoed up through the stonework and Lalaas winced. He was not at ease with the machinations of the interrogators of the palace dungeon, but he was realistic enough to know they had their place and now was one of those occasions.

  A few guards were passed and then he came to a barred gate that was locked. Beyond this point there were none of the palace guard, only the permanent members of the dungeon, either the jailers or those jailed.

  The looks on the faces of the jailers was different to those of the guards in the palace. Here Lalaas could see depravity and sadism. People like that always got jobs like this. These people would have either got employed as jailers or ended up inside one as an unwilling guest, such was the way of things.

  His skin crawled as the gate opened to admit him. The first jailer bowed and scraped, a wide grin across his filthy face. Most of his teeth were either missing or blackened. “Has he talked yet?” Lalaas asked the grotesque figure, which was dressed in some sort of leather tunic, with bare arms and a pair of hose that might have once been clean but hadn’t been so for probably a decade.

  “Yes, master,” the jailer bobbed his head eagerly, wishing to please the tall, handsome man. He looked with interest at him and wondered if he could tie him down to one of the interrogation tables and have his free way with him, but decided it was an impossible wish, for he would end up being cut into pieces and fed to the palace canines. Such a thing had been done before, after all. “He is in the first room. Come with me.”

  Lalaas reluctantly followed, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He toyed with the thought of striking the repulsive creature down, but knew he/it was only doing his/its job. The first room’s stout wooden door was ajar and brightly lit with torches. The two entered and Lalaas took a deep breath to control his guts.

  There was a table in the centre of the square chamber, a strong dark wooden one, with leather straps to hold the wrists and ankles. Dried blood lay across the surface and the smell of blood and sweat washed over him. To one side was a chair and sat in this was a shivering, sobbing figure. The servant who had been Dragan Purfin’s contact. Arrested the night before, he had been in the tender hands of the interrogators for nearly a full day. He wore nothing above the waist, and his chest and arms had multiple marks on them, evidence of whips, brands and edged devices. It was a mass of red and black.

  Two big men stood over him, one was holding him by the shoulders, pressing him down into the chair, while the other, a muscular bald-headed man, stood next to the chair waiting for Lalaas to speak.

  “So what has the prisoner revealed?”

  The muscular man stirred. His voice was deep and gravelly, emanating from his stout black leather boots. “Sir, he was the traitor Purfin’s manservant and sent here to pass on messages to their contact in the palace.”

  Lalaas knew the interrogators would have been told who that had been, but the man was trying to be diplomatic. “Who turned out to be a double agent,” Lalaas added, just to make it clear Amne was no traitor. “Anything of interest apart from what we already knew?”

  “He had been told that once the coup worked he would be major domo here and that all who worked for the Koros regime would be arrested and killed. Only those who the traitor authorised would be permitted to work here.”

  “No names, no addresses?” Lalaas felt disappointed.

  “Clearly the traitor did not trust this piece of filth,” the interrogator said, sneering down at the gibbering prisoner.

  “I do not blame him,”
Lalaas said softly. “Very well. It seems the hunt for Dragan Purfin will have to go on as before. Thank you for your efforts. Place him in a cell. Prince Elas has yet to decide what to do with him.”

  “Very good, sir. What of the other prisoners? The ones captured last night in the courtyard?”

  “The same. Get any information out of them, and let me know if anything of interest becomes known. Keep them in the cells otherwise.”

  “Thank you sir,” the interrogator beamed. Those words were music to his ears. More torture, more inflicting pain on helpless people. Perfect.

  Lalaas nodded and gestured to the jailer to allow him out. Once back up the stone steps into the servants’ area he sucked in deep lungfuls of air. The dungeon was a place not for the likes of him. He needed to get outside and enjoy the purity of the air, rather than the foul atmosphere of the place he’d just come from.

  Night had fallen and he wandered the passageways. He was tired; he’d not got much sleep the previous night, what with the counter-coup and Amne insisting he spend time with her. At the thought of Amne, he frowned. She was not herself at the moment; it seemed she was getting desperate for affection. It was a dangerous thing, especially with the moody Elas becoming even more severe and cold.

  He was concerned about her and decided to have a word in the morning after a well-earned sleep.

  He yawned and cocked one eye up at the sky, flexed his aching shoulders, and returned to the palace.

  ____

  Cut head, severe bruising, a broken nose, possibly a rib or two, too. Other cuts and bruises to the arms and torso. Kerrin had been lucky. The head wound had clearly been the first blow, as he had no memory of anything after entering the darkness of the stables.

  Argan had refused to attend the second session of the Council, being more concerned with the state of his friend. Kerrin’s face was swollen, one eye was shut and it would be black for days. Someone had done a really good job on him.

  Panat, his father, was there kneeling by the bedside, his face distraught. Argan stood on the other side of the bed, his arms folded, an angry look to his face. Two others were in the room, the castle apothecary – a man whom Argan had little faith in for personal reasons – and the acting head of the guard, Lieutenant Bevil. Bevil was a tall man, with a straight nose, clear blue eyes and a set of even teeth that had others envious. He had a deep suntanned skin and clearly had northern ancestry rather than southern. He was a competent man if given to being a little hidebound.

  Argan had taken over. He dismissed the apothecary after the treatment had finished. The man bowed and shuffled out, sent on his way by a look of impatience from the prince. Bevil snapped his heels together and stood straight before the prince. “Sire. A bad business.”

  “Very bad. He’s lucky to be awake, you heard the apothecary. Knocked out, and then kicked and beaten as he lay there helplessly.” Argan’s hands clenched. How could such a thing happen in Zofela to his personal friend?

  Kerrin’s one open eye moved and he regarded Argan. “’Gan,” he said, extending his right arm, hissing as it set off waves of pain. Argan knelt by his side and took his hand. “You went there because you were sent a note?”

  “Eth,” Kerrin confirmed. “No thignature, put under my door. It thaid you wanted me there.”

  “And this note, young sir, is gone?” Bevil asked softly.

  “Eth.”

  Panat smoothed his son’s head, rumbling in a low voice that he shouldn’t exert himself and that he should rest. He would be with him at all times.

  Argan stood up. “Lieutenant, I want you to find out who could have done such a terrible thing. Eliminate everyone who was here at that time who was not in the courtyard area. It was during the time the Council was being held and I was there with all the delegates and my mother and father.”

  “Your mother and father are not suspects, sire!” Bevil said, shocked.

  “Of course not, Lieutenant, as they were clearly elsewhere. You will look for someone with cuts or bruising on their fists or hands, or blood on their clothing. It took place not a watch ago. My first order to you is to go to the laundry chamber. Clothing might have already been sent for washing.”

  “Sire,” Bevil saluted and left.

  Argan stood over Kerrin once more. “I’ll go now, ‘Rin. Rest; your father is right. We’ll find who did this and punish them.”

  “Prince Argan, do you know who did this beastly act?” Panat asked, his face tortured.

  “No proof, Panat. With no proof I cannot say. I’m no Duras.” He held Kerrin’s hand for one more moment, then left. He had his suspicions and made his way through the passages, acknowledging the guards’ salutes. Outside Istan’s room there was one guard only, and he looked as if he would prefer to be elsewhere. Argan found out where his brother was and made his way to the kitchens. Fantor-Face was feeding again.

  There were the three of them, taking a selection of pastries that had just been cooked. “That’s not allowed,” he announced his arrival.

  The cooks looked relieved. Istan turned round, sneered, and ignored him. The two Bragalese boys copied him.

  “You two, outside now. I want a word with you.”

  Istan turned round again, his face wary. Argan hadn’t spoken like that ever, and there was something in the voice that made him wary. “These are my friends and I want them here.”

  “I outrank you, Istan,” Argan said. “You stay here and get fat on pastries – it’s just about the only thing you’re any good at. These two I’m taking outside for reasons of my own.”

  The two Bragalese boys looked at Istan. The youngest of the Koros wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “I’m coming along, too. You’re not going to say anything to my friends without me being there.”

  “As you please.” Argan led them out into the passageway and then across to a door set in the opposite wall to that of the kitchen entrance. Pushing it open they entered a small garden at the rear of the castle. There were trees, shrubs and a water feature here, tended to by a gardener. The gardener was not there at that time, which Argan knew. He turned and faced the three younger boys. “A short while back my friend Kerrin Afos was attacked and beaten up. I’m looking for whoever did it.”

  “We didn’t,” Istan said. “Well, you’ve asked, we’ll go now.”

  “No you won’t.” Argan grabbed the nearest boy’s arm and pulled it towards him, staring at the hand. “Where did you get those bruises?”

  The boy eyed him truculently.

  Argan cuffed him about the head, hard. “Speak, demon child,” he spat in Bragalese, “or I’ll hand you over to the gaoler.”

  “I fell over,” he said lamely, holding his head.

  “Really? That’s not what it looks like.”

  “Well it is!” Istan snapped. “I’ve heard enough from you, you girl. Crying over your friend. If he was stupid enough to fall over and bang his head in the stables then he should watch himself better.” He beckoned to his two associates to follow him back into the castle. “Goodbye, girl. Go cry about Kerrin some more, ha ha ha!”

  The two Bragalese boys smiled and followed Istan, leaving Argan alone to think over something Istan had said. He had more or less given away the truth and it made Argan feel sick. Why Istan and his two sidekicks had decided to beat up Kerrin was beyond his understanding – Kerrin had never done anything to any of them, nor had he given them any cause to be angry against him. He felt alone, with Vosgaris gone and Kerrin in bed ill. That really only left Amal. He suddenly needed to see her.

  A quick search of the servants’ quarters yielded her location. She was finishing her evening meal. Argan stood in the doorway of the servant’s dining room and caught her eye. She nodded and finished, then rose from her bench and came up to him. “Is there anything wrong, Lakhani?” she asked.

  “Yes. Come with me, I’ll tell you.” He spoke to her quietly, in Bragalese, as they made their way up to his quarters. She listened, shocked at the brutality of the attack a
nd the state of poor Kerrin. Although not that close to the injured boy, he was one of their circle, so to speak, and it made her a little fearful.

  Argan led the way into his room and she shut the door, remaining standing uncertainly next to it. “What would you wish of me, Lakhani? A rub of your muscles? You seem tense.”

  “No, I don’t want that,” Argan said. He held out his hands to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she came across the room to him. He took her to his bed and guided her to lie down next to him. “I need the comfort of you here. Please lie with me tonight.”

  He slipped his arms round the Bragalese girl who nestled close to his chest and looked up at him, smiling. This was a great honour to her, one of the imperial family showing her such affection, and she rested her head against one of his arms.

  Together, relaxed, they spent the night sleeping innocently in each other’s arms.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Turslenka was a smaller version of Kastan City with a harbour and shoreline along one wall. The River Storma ran along another wall, plunging into the Aester Sea next to the city, and the main road to Kastan City crossed the river via a bridge composed of many stone arches; a spectacular sight.

  The road from Bragal wasn’t so blessed. It had run down the Storma Valley, a pleasant journey for the three men, but Vosgaris’ mind wasn’t really on the flora and fauna of the land and river. He led the two others past farmsteads and country houses towards the Bragal Gate. The road joined the eastward running route towards Epros and Pelponia, a very old military road built in the Somorran period, and Vosgaris remembered reading about it when he had been a student at his father’s estate. The Vaimagina Road, it had been called. An old Somorran word, meaning something like Swift Route. It had served the empire well in acting as a conduit between Drazino and Kastan City, allowing armies to march swiftly in either direction, bringing help to any endangered area in a short time.

  Then had come the years of neglect and retreat, and the road, like many things, had crumbled and rotted, and now in many places the old stones had gone, to be replaced by a wider area with cart wheel ruts that marked it as a road. Closer to the city it was in better condition but it couldn’t be described as a comfortable surface for anyone travelling in a wagon.