House of Lust
Page 33
“Amne, you had no way of knowing that demented man would do what he did.”
“Oh, you can try to soften the blow, but even that was down to me seducing that filthy porcine in the first place.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “What you said to me yesterday opened my eyes to what I have been.”
Lalaas went to say something but she was before him again, a finger resting on his lips.
“You shamed me. No, not in a bad way, your purity of heart woke me to what I had been doing. You have held out a hand to me, and this time, I am taking it. You’ve always held it out to me, I know this now, but I was too blinded by lust to notice it. I’m through seducing men. I shall have to cope with Elas’ best efforts,” she pulled a face, “and dream of the day you reduce me to a shaking excited wreck.”
“Amne, don’t lose your lively personality,” Lalaas said, holding her hand. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Oh, worry not, sweet Captain Lalaas, I’ll be just the same, except I’ll not seek to whip the trousers off every handsome male that crosses my vision.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Amne. It did cause a fair amount of trouble, I can tell you.”
“I bet. Another example of my selfish ways. Ah to the pit of fire with it. I won’t be any different towards you. And know this, my handsome Baron, I’ll still be fantasising about you naked whenever I see you,” she purred, running her finger down his chest. “You do know that you could have me begging if you so wished, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t. I would want it to be an honest, two-way loving relationship. No humiliation, no enslavement. I would want you to be you, not what you think I’d like you to be.”
“As always, Lalaas, you say just the right thing. You know, I feel so safe with you. I can’t say that about many men.”
Lalaas made a self-deprecating gesture. “I am what I am. I do not try to be anything else.”
Amne sighed deeply, and wound her arms round his neck and looked up into his face. “Come the day you and I are together, you had better watch out. By the time I’m finished with you, you won’t be able to walk.”
“I look forward to it, Amne.”
Amne laughed, throwing her head back. “I feel so alive with you, so different to when I’m in his company. Thankfully that’s not that often. So, you’re on duty this evening, yes? Well, pop in and say goodnight to the girls will you? I need a bed-time fix of Lalaas to dream of.”
Lalaas bowed. “Of course, it’s the least I can do.”
Amne beamed and untangled herself from him. “So, let’s resume our duties. Formal now, Captain.”
“Ma’am.”
Grinning, the two made their way to the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The year that followed was, as Astiras was often heard to say in that period, the most boring damned time. All seemed to go smoothly. Projects were completed, the funds continued to flow into the treasury and any sign of rebellion and dissent vanished as if they had never been.
The emperor returned to Zofela and his wife. Isbel wasn’t sure whether she was pleased to see him or not. He set about making sure that there were watchtowers in sufficient numbers throughout Bragal and Bathenia, constantly writing to Evas Extonos and exhorting him to greater efforts – or as Demtro said in a private letter to Isbel, to some effort in the first place.
Astiras renewed his idea of a marriage with Isbel, and the empress found he was insatiable. When she made a comment to that effect, Astiras merely said he was making up for lost time. He cared little whether or not it took him all night to do what he used to do all night; he was determined to keep his energies channelled in where he saw were the right places.
Vosgaris took care of the burial and subsequent tomb marking of Alenna. The Duras never turned up to take her, fearing it to be a trap, so she was entombed in the vaults of Zofela temple, a new construction built during the winter. The tomb was in fact completed before the temple, but Vosgaris made sure it was done and he visited her daily, spending time alone in prayer. His guilt preyed on his mind, and it would take some time for it to ease.
Trade flowed to all parts of the empire and the merchants were happy, the townsfolk pleased that there were no wars or shortages, and the nobility satisfied with what the Koros had managed to achieve. They were so pleased in fact that at one Council meeting they voted to award the imperial treasury 2,000 furims which took even Astiras by surprise.
His memories of Pelponia warmed him. There was a loyal province if ever there was one, and he lamented that other provinces showed less enthusiasm, in particular Bragal and Slenna. Both were slow to embrace the imperial line; mainly due to past experiences. Kastanian rule and tax collecting would take some time to be generally accepted.
Argan continued with his learning. He was growing too, and as soon as one outfit was big enough for him to fit into, it was too short or narrow. He wondered in one panic-stricken moment that perhaps he was going to end up like a fantor, never stop growing. He was reassured by Kerrin and Amal, and he soon realised that the two others were growing, too. One morning Argan was speaking to Kerrin when his voice failed. Frowning, he cleared his throat and tried again. A squeak came out.
“What’s going on, ‘Gan?”
“I dunno,” he said. The last syllable came out as a deep throaty sound and the prince clamped his hand to his mouth. Had he really made that sound? He looked in alarm at his friend who was staring wild-eyed at him. At that moment the silver-haired Panat turned up, ready to take the afternoon’s sword practice.
“Father!” Kerrin almost shrieked. “Prince Argan’s voice is all funny!”
Panat paused, then nodded, placing the bundle of sticks and weapons on the ground. “Your majesty, it is nothing to concern yourself about.”
“What – “ Argan squeaked, then swallowed and tried again, “what do you mean….” His voice went from high-pitched to a deep boom and back again.
Panat smiled sadly. “Your highness, your voice is breaking.”
“Breaking? You mean it’s broken and I can’t speak again?”
“No, no, sire. It’s a brief period in your growing up; your voice is changing from that of a boy to a man. In a few days it should settle down. It’ll be a bit up and down until then.” He turned to face his son. “Yours will do the same, Kerrin, in time. I wondered whose voice would go first.”
Argan furrowed his brow and concentrated. This wasn’t dignified! “I won’t be able to speak in public, Panat,” he protested, his voice cracking again. “I sound like a pack animal!”
Kerrin put his hand to his mouth in amusement.
That was about as exciting as things went that winter in Argan’s life. Amal commiserated with him and after a period of around twenty days Argan’s voice settled down to his new adult one. She liked it and said so. Argan shrugged. So be it; it was just another step on his path to being a grown up.
He noticed his Bragalese servant changing too. Her legs were longer and her chest began to swell. She nodded when Argan pointed that out. “I will become a woman soon, and then my Growing Through will come.” She looked a little afraid and Argan sat down with her. They had made a brief mention of it in the past but had never really tackled it before.
“So – you will change in one night?”
“So Metila tells me, yes. I will want to be with a man that evening and not be able to help myself. I’m scared about that.”
Argan held her hand. “It will be alright – I’ll make sure I’m with you.”
“But – Argan!” she said in a whisper, “that won’t be allowed – you’re a prince and I’m your servant girl! Do you know what happens in a Growing Through night?”
Argan shook his head. As far as he was concerned Amal was his responsibility and he was her friend, and that he would not desert her in a time of crisis. “It will be alright, don’t worry.”
Amal shivered. The thought of any man doing – things – to her made her feel uncomfortable. M
etila had assured her when it came she would not care and be like a wild beast, demanding sexual intercourse. The nearest male would be fair game. She didn’t think talking to Argan would make any difference to his determination to be there for her, so she dropped the subject. That was for the future; for now she was still a girl.
Metila helped her learn all there was to being a servant in the governor’s residence. Apart from seeing to Argan’s wardrobe and room, there were other duties for her. Being Argan’s personal servant wasn’t enough to fill the day, especially as he was often not there during the daylight watches what with learning from Mr. Sen, Panat or even the governor himself. Therefore she learned to tidy the governor’s room which was fairly chaotic. Metila showed her what there was to clean and tidy up, and what not to touch. She spoke in Bragalese to the girl which helped ease any distances there were between the two, although Metila continued to be harsh and severe to the girl. Bragalese people were not renowned for being gentle and kind.
The witch also had other matters to think of. Her son, growing up in the wilds of Bragal, would be speaking and learning to be a warrior. That she understood, but sometimes she wished to be with him and watch him grow. Best though he was kept away from her and therefore safe from the emperor. She knew he wanted to get hold of the child and either turn him into yet another Kastanian, which she did not want, or to get rid of him permanently. To have another of his blood on the loose was dangerous to the dynastic ambitions of the emperor, so it had to be controlled or got rid of.
No, the child would grow up in secret and when the time was right, she would see to it he was inserted in the right place. Who knows, perhaps he would sit on the throne and she would then be the emperor’s mother! Not bad for a despised and feared witch.
In the west Jorqel and his growing family spent time split between Romos and Slenna. Romos was now undergoing a radical building programme and the mess and noise was not to the children’s liking, so they took half the year off to go to Slenna. Jorqel was not happy to receive Louk’s head one day, left on the roadside outside the town, and he knew that his plans had been thwarted.
Only a few days later a merchant ship moored up to the jetty in Efsia and the captain brought a bedraggled looking boy to him under guard. Jorqel was intrigued and summoned the new arrival to his reception room. Sat on his small throne, he listened as the captain relayed how he had been at the Tybar port of Latiyya when the boy had approached him and stated he had come from Imakum where he had seen the demise of Louk. He had also stated he had papers from the spy for the eyes of the prince only.
“So, boy, what’s your name?” Jorqel asked, leaning back in his chair.
“Beshin, your majesty,” the boy said calmly. No sign of any fear or awe there. He was a marked contrast to the smartness of the room, the décor, the soldiers, the attendants. Jorqel only had a handful of those, but they took their duties seriously and looked with distaste down on the lone figure that looked like it had just been spat out by a particularly filthy wild swallower, one of a number of large animals that lived in remote places and which had large mouths.
“So, Beshin, tell me your story.”
The boy retold of how Louk had rescued him from a nasty situation, how they had wandered the borderlands to the west and how the spy had finally met his end.
Jorqel rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “A pity that he didn’t manage to get into Imakum, but luck runs out eventually. Did he give you any information before he met his unfortunate end?”
“Sire,” Beshin nodded. “I was given a number of papers and told to pass them to you.”
Jorqel sat up straight. “Then where are these papers?”
Beshin glanced left and right before replying. “I have hidden them. I will retrieve them for a reward.”
The room was filled with mutterings and sounds of disapproval. Jorqel sighed and glanced at Gavan who made a face and clenched one fist, smacking it into the palm of his other hand. The prince stood up. “Your reward should be to serve me; that ought to be enough.”
Beshin smiled. “I have nothing; no home, sire. I have to take the only chance I have to better my life. If you give me nothing other than your thanks, then I will have nothing. Where will I go? What life can I have?”
Jorqel raised a hand to silence the angry murmurings in the room. “What is it you require?”
“A home, a nice slave girl. A couple of herd beasts.”
Jorqel smiled. “The first and last I can give you – the middle one I cannot. Slavery is forbidden, at least in domestic residences in the empire.” He was well aware it did exist, but his official line was to deny it so he couldn’t be accused of promoting it.
Beshin shook his head. “Then the papers shall remain where they are.”
“Insolent whelp,” Jorqel snapped. “What if I get my associates here to force the location from you?”
“Then, sire, you will be a torturer of children.”
“You’re no child,” Jorqel stated, staring down at him. “Very well, I can arrange for – a servant – to be sent to a small farm holding along the road to the north. Is that sufficient in order to have you release the location of the papers?”
Beshin smiled. “Of course, sire.”
Jorqel waved him away and turned to his attendants. “Arrange it. Gavan, you make sure he’s happy with his reward and tell him no papers and it all gets taken away from him.”
“What about the slave – uh, servant?”
“Get one. There’s a booming trade over the border in the Tybar lands. Raid. Take one of their young women; they do, after all, raid us from time to time.”
Gavan chuckled. “It shall be done. About time you let me across that border.”
“Just watch for those bandits.”
Gavan saluted and left. Twenty days later Jorqel was given the location; just north of the port of Latiyya in the Tybar lands. It was located under a large rock that overlooked the road on a bend. The captain of the merchant ship was given new orders and it was in the deepest part of the winter that Jorqel finally had his intelligence on what was going on over the border.
Gavan and the castellan were also present. “Well,” Jorqel said, leaning on his table, the dirty, curled and partially torn notes scattered on the surface, “Nikos Duras has collected a really nasty collection of cut-throats and murderers along the frontier. They are based in fortified villages and have driven off any locals who had lived there. They have taken women as theirs and now live as communities within our own borders. They owe no allegiance to anyone, yet oddly none are over in Tybar tribelands.”
“Clearly a collaboration,” Gavan said.
“Of course, but we’ll just get denials. The two main roads through the area are still open but they could be cut at any time. We don’t have the manpower to clear them out at present; it’d take a military offensive and we still only have enough to police our own roads and estates here.”
“Nothing on the Tybar military then, sire?” the castellan asked.
“Unfortunately no. Louk did say there was something further west taking their attention but not what it was. We’ll have to wait and see what that is in time, I suppose. So, the end result is that they have no immediate military capacity to invade us which is good. I intend using this time to build up our strength. Romos will soon be able to stand without a big military presence, and once that is so, I shall permanently base myself back here.”
Jorqel now put his efforts into giving Romos a stone castle, enlarging Efsia, improving or rebuilding the garrison quarters in both Romos and Slenna, and making both provinces militarily secure.
In Bragal, Istan was becoming more of a problem to control. His arrogant behaviour was bringing complaints to the ear of Astiras. He and his two associates were the bane of almost everyone in the castle. The main complaint was from their tutors, concerning the severity of their sword training. Two people had already been injured by the prince who clearly believed there was no holding back when he trained.
Astiras slowly raised his eyes and gave the young prince a baleful glare. “You do not speak until I have given you permission. You address me with respect. If you cannot then I shall strip from you your title of Prince of the East, as clearly you are unfit for such an important position.” He then went back to studying the report.
Istan fumed. Nobody had the right to speak to him like that – not even his father! Who did he think he was? Only the threat of removing the title from him kept him from retorting. His face coloured red and his hands clenched and unclenched. Finally Astiras dropped the report on his desk and leaned back, eyeing the furious Istan before him.
“Self-discipline. A clear head. Restraint. You don’t seem to possess any of those attributes. Training with a sword is not play-time; you are to learn the skills and moves necessary. I do not want you trying to wound your tutors. I am also concerned that you appear to regard everyone here as your servants, and they are most certainly not. Your two associates are being removed even as I speak, and sent to work camps to help with the road improvements in the province. They are most unpleasant and I have received too many complaints about them to allow them to stay.”
Istan couldn’t hold himself back. “That’s unfair! You can’t do that!”
“Oh?” Astiras raised an eyebrow and interlocked his fingers. “And how, Istan, are you going to stop me? You have no authority here, or anywhere. I am going to let everyone know in Zofela that you have no jurisdiction over anyone. Do you understand?”