Master of the Game

by Jane Kindred

  “I want to know you.”

  “Why?” Silk’s eyes narrowed. “I’m a demon. What value could there possibly be in getting to know me other than the thrill of perversion? Am I not your dirty little secret?”

  “I thought I was yours.”

  Silk laughed harshly. “I have no secrets. Everyone knows about me.”

  “Everyone except me, apparently. You just said I didn’t know you. So let me. Let me understand what I don’t—what I can’t, on my own, by nature of being from another world.”

  Silk stared at him silently, perplexed, and then seemed to realize they were still holding hands. He withdrew his, and Phaleg’s felt empty. “Are you forgiving me?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  Silk shifted his feet, brushing his hands up his arms to rest inside his sleeves at his elbows. “Yes.”

  “Then I guess I am.” Phaleg gave him a tentative smile. “Can we start again? That is—if you want to—”

  “Yes,” said Silk decisively. He smiled back, and the vulnerable young demon was gone, replaced once more by the sophisticated demimonde. “Only, not at the Horse.”

  Phaleg bristled. “Why? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

  “Don’t be absurd. You, on the other hand, ought to be more careful about where and with whom you’re seen. People might begin to suspect you of consorting with the wrong sort.”

  In the flush of irrepressible desire and a host of complicated feelings, Phaleg had almost forgotten Silk was at the center of the anti-supernal conspiracy—if the rumors were true. He’d forgotten he was having Silk spied upon.

  “And the Horse is where I do business,” Silk continued. “I don’t want you to be business.”

  The warmth that spread through him at this unexpected statement warred confusingly with the knot in his stomach over Silk’s possible connections with revolutionaries.

  “I’ll send word to you,” said Silk with the sort of amused authority he exuded. “And you’ll come to me here.”

  “Oh, will I.”

  “Yes. You will. And then we’ll talk about what you want done to you, and don’t want done to you. And we’ll come up with a word to make sure there’s no confusion between either of us about what that is. And then I’ll give it to you.”

  Phaleg’s cheeks blazed, and the crotch on his elkskin breeches grew tight and uncomfortable.

  Silk let his gaze travel meaningfully downward over Phaleg before he raised it once more to his face with a sardonic smile. “And I’ll keep these,” he said, tossing the pouch of facets still in his palm. “Not as payment, but as collateral. Each time I have you, you can earn one back.”

  “I take it Phaleg accepted your apology,” Belphagor remarked to Silk when the angel had gone. The flush in Phaleg’s cheeks as they’d come down the steps had revealed far more than his reticent tongue as he bowed and went out in his usual stiff fashion.

  Silk gave him a smirk. “I’m not sure if it was my apology or my metaphorical hand in his pants, but I do believe he has a thing for me.”

  Vasily snorted from the kitchen where he was sneaking a bit of leftover pie. “Would that be a metaphorical thing or the thing in his pants?”

  “Both, my succulent plum,” said Silk with a pleased smile. “Both.”

  “I thought I’d take the boys out to the market for the afternoon,” Belphagor cut in before Silk and Vasily got any more carried away with innuendo. “You two can stay here and discuss metaphor all you like.”

  Vasily glared and growled at him over a bite of pie. “You’re leaving me here?”

  “I thought you’d want to make some facets again this evening. Or play with Silk. I have a title to defend at the tables, and no offense, love, but it’s easier to do without your sulking presence.”

  “My sulking presence.” The fiery glower in the hazel eyes gave a perfect demonstration—and made Belphagor wish he could spend the evening punishing Vasily for rousing his desire instead of trouncing demons at the wingcasting table. Which was just one more sign of how far gone he was. A smile curved his lips when he realized he didn’t care. Or, more to the point, did care, and was actually pleased by the notion.

  “Paint him up again,” he said to Anzhela beside him as he rose and stepped toward Vasily. He stretched out a hand to pull the taller demon close by the back of his neck until they were eye to eye, and lowered his voice to a sensual purr. “It will look so lovely dripping from the corners of your eyes when I make you weep.” He kissed Vasily briefly, holding him tight at the nape to keep him from jerking back the way he clearly wanted to. “You’re delicious when you’re pissed. See you tonight.”

  Belphagor let him go and turned to the boys who’d gathered eagerly behind him at the mention of an outing. They were grinning up at Vasily, whose face blazed with embarrassment. Belphagor supposed he might have been a tiny bit more discreet.

  “He’s insufferable,” Vasily pouted. “I’m not going to the Horse tonight, and I’m not wearing the paint.”

  “Well, he did say I could play with you,” said Silk. “I could take you to the dungeon and spare you the tedium of your merchant friend. I had Khai lined up for tonight, but I’m sure he’d be up for a bit of fun with you as well.”

  “I thought you’d made up with that angel,” Vasily grumbled. “Don’t you want to take him to the dungeon?”

  Silk stretched his arms over his head as he reclined on the divan across from him, looking like a satisfied cat. “Why, my ruby plum, do I detect a note of jealousy?”

  “Of course not. What do I care what you get up to with that angel?”

  Silk laughed softly. “Ah, there it is again: that angel. You are jealous.”

  “I’m not. He just…bothers me.” Vasily didn’t want to let on what Belphagor had told him about Phaleg giving the orders to have Silk and the rest at the Stone Horse watched. “He’s an angel after all. They’re not exactly friends to us.”

  “Parts of him are friends to me.” Silk winked. “But I told him I didn’t want to see him at the Horse. I don’t really care for the public nature of play with him. Patrons are intimidated when he comes in wearing that uniform, and while it’s a bit of sweet divine to strip it off him and spank him silly, it takes my attention from managing the house.”

  Vasily exchanged a look with Anzhela, who sat reading in the chair Belphagor had furnished for him when he’d stayed here briefly while they were on the outs. “You’re going to play with him privately? Here?”

  “In my room, of course.” Silk looked perturbed. “It’s not as if I plan to string him up naked from the crossbeams right here in the parlor.” He glanced at Anzhela. “Is it going to be a problem?”

  Anzhela shrugged and went back to her book. “It’s nothing to me. String him up wherever you like, so long as you keep him quiet.” Her eyes darted up once more to Vasily’s. “Quieter than him, preferably.”

  Vasily’s cheeks went warm. Anzhela had heard them? Bozhe moi.

  Silk laughed charmingly. “I’ll stuff his elkskins in his mouth, and he can go home with a wet crotch and decide how he wants to explain it.”

  “Silk! That’s hardly appropriate in front of Anzhi.”

  She glanced up again. “Have you forgotten I apprenticed at The Cat?” He’d thought he couldn’t be any more mortified. Anzhela had been present as the apprentice-madam at her grandmother’s brothel the night Vasily had discovered his tastes ran to both varieties of pleasure. “Nothing could shock me.” Anzhela turned a page in her book. “It’s the boys I’m concerned about.”

  Silk shrugged. “Nothing could shock them either.”

  “Well, it should. It’s not their fault they were groomed at that awful Fletchery. They deserve to be innocent awhile longer.”

  Silk looked uncomfortable. He’d been the one in charge of grooming them, though he’d been just as much a victim of the underage brothel as they had. Just because he’d stayed hidden there a few years past the age he’d claimed to be didn’t make him one o
f the perpetrators. It had been self-preservation to keep the Fletchery from selling him to a private buyer as soon as he’d been “fletched”.

  “At any rate,” said Silk, subdued, “I’ll keep him quiet and send him home before morning. The boys will never know he’s here. As for you…” Silk smirked at Vasily. “You come with me to the Horse tonight, and I’ll let you make all the noise you like.”

  Midday at the market in late autumn was magical. Along with the best fruits of the late harvest, the smell of pies and mulling spices and sprigs of Aravothan pine filled the air. Though the supernal family spent much of its time at the Summer Palace north of Elysium until after the Winter Solstice, Heaven’s capital had begun its annual season of merriment in the weeks following the Autumnal Equinox, and as the rivers began to freeze over just after the equivalent of All Hallow’s Eve in the world of Man, a sort of wild, six-week-long pre-party overtook the capital, the excitement infecting even Raqia.

  The boys had been cooped up too long, and an afternoon among the intrepid angelic shoppers seeking unusual gifts and treats in the market was the perfect training ground for future thieves. While turning tricks might be a perfectly respectable occupation for a demon who’d come of age, thieving, to Belphagor’s mind, seemed a less pernicious vice for a group of adolescents, and one any demon ought to be able to fall back on for a living, regardless of his other options.

  He sent them out in pairs and made a game of it, a sort of scavenger hunt, with each pair assigned to return at the end of the afternoon with a particular prize. There was far too much activity in the market for getting caught to be a worry, which made this time of year ideal. Should one of the boys be detected stealing a trinket or picking a pocket, he’d instructed them to toss the bounty back and scatter into a crowd of shoppers. And he kept tabs on them as he circled the market himself, in case any of them managed to run into trouble after all.

  To Ruslan, who’d be going to the duchy of Iriy in the morning with Anzhela and the tutor, he set the task of finding a rare trinket to present to the little grand duke as a gift to win him over as his new companion. Soluzen would claim parentage of the boy, his bastard by a house servant, which Phaleg was certain would make him acceptable in Lebes’s eyes. Angels liked to flaunt the bastard sons born in their households, even though they went officially unacknowledged since mixing angelic and demonic blood was a crime. But Ruslan had to appear savvy. He had the smarts for it in spades; the pretty novelty Belphagor had sent him after would seal the deal.

  The first pairs back were the oldest boys. Knowing they were already champing at the bit to join the crew at the Stone Horse, bored with their studies with the tutor, he’d given them the opportunity to prove they could excel at something other than the seduction they’d been groomed for in hopes of keeping them from straying toward their inevitable calling a bit longer. They met him at the appointed spot south of the gaming pavilions with smug expressions, each presenting him discreetly with their catches: a set of hunting knives taken straight off the belt of an angelic servant, and a set of steward’s keys to an angelic house.

  “Well done.” Belphagor nodded without giving too much praise, knowing their pride in their accomplishment would be worth more than indulgent pats on the back. They were old enough that being treated like children didn’t sit well with them.

  The next few pairs trickled in over a quarter hour, each with their prizes, until all but two had returned—one of which was Ruslan and his partner. Belphagor had paired him with Olivier, another older boy, to be safe, but as the second-to-last pair arrived at a run from opposite directions in the market, a prickle of unease set in.

  “Anyone after you?” He glanced about them, pushing the other boys back toward the crowds watching the sidewalk games outside the pavilions.

  “Don’t think so. We scattered like you said and tossed back the loot.” Danila looked over his shoulder with a grin. “And the loot kind of scattered.” Their assignment had been to acquire a string of Vilonese pearls—Belphagor had been hoping to give them to Anzhela for her part in the upcoming endeavor.

  Belphagor scanned the aisles and alleyways of the market. Charmed lights and hanging lanterns were winking into the fast-settling darkness. “Have you seen Ruslan and Olivier?” The boys shook their heads. “Stay here and watch the games. I’ll be back.”

  He slipped over the cobblestones through the crowd of shoppers quickly becoming the sort the market specialized in at night—significantly more inebriated than the day crowd—making another sweep of the area he’d patrolled just before the first of the Lost Boys had arrived back. Ruslan was likely to find what he’d been tasked with in the narrow row of kiosks dedicated to baubles and potions. Magical objects wouldn’t go over well at the palace, but the hand-carved jade box Belphagor had sent him after was a talisman that might bring the little grand duke harmless treats—whatever he imagined that might fit within the box—without his guardians knowing. Its handsomeness and quaintness would appeal to the elder grand duke, while the secret purpose ought to win the younger over.

  The boys had been all through the market with Belphagor first, so Ruslan and his partner had likely known precisely where to go. This section, at least, was less crowded and less populated with night business—which also meant the boys, by now, would be more exposed. As he threaded his way toward the end of the row, Olivier appeared, looking ashen. Belphagor grabbed him and pulled him aside.

  “Where’s Ruslan?”

  “She caught him. The old crone caught him at it. I ran to get you—I wasn’t abandoning him, I swear—”

  “It’s all right. You did the right thing. Which kiosk?” His gaze followed where Olivier pointed. “You head back to the meeting spot. The rest of the boys are there. If I’m not back in five minutes, the rest of you hightail it for the flat, understand?” The boy nodded, looking miserable, and ran for the pavilions.

  Belphagor stepped through the tented opening of the kiosk at a casual stroll, as if browsing the items in the front. He’d expected to find Ruslan trapped and possibly taking a switching from the old demoness, but a quick glance about the kiosk revealed Ruslan sitting on a stool weeping while a woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties by the aging of the world of Man—to fifteen-year-old Olivier, she was a crone—plied him with sweets.

  “So there you are!” Belphagor barked, startling them both. “What has he done now?” He marched toward them, noting his act seemed to have Ruslan genuinely alarmed. “You can’t get good help anymore,” he growled, lifting Ruslan from the stool by the arm and shaking him. “Paid dear for this one, and he repays me in sloth and trickery. Was he stealing again?”

  “Stealing?” The woman looked surprised. “Why, no, he wanted to buy a trinket for his mother. She’s ailing, poor thing—overworked in some brothel—but when I told him how much it cost, he broke down crying because he didn’t have enough. I gave it to him anyway, just couldn’t say no to those sad little eyes, and he was so touched he just started bawling. I was trying to calm him down.” The demoness paused and looked disapprovingly at Belphagor’s grip on Ruslan’s arm. “Bought him, did you, and now you think you can treat him like a work animal. He’s a boy, and he deserves some kindness.” She folded the waxed-paper-wrapped candies into Ruslan’s other hand and patted it. “You give your mum the bracelet. I know it’ll make her smile.”

  Ruslan nodded, sniffling, the candies clutched in his hand, as Belphagor turned him about. “Can’t be soft on ’em,” he groused over his shoulder. “They’ll steal you blind.”

  Once they were outside the kiosk, Belphagor looked down at Ruslan, amused. “Crying and candy and a sick whore mum, eh?”

  Ruslan grinned. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

  “I sent you for a jade box. All you left with is candy and a cheap glass bracelet.”

  The young demon reached into his coat and presented another item with a flourish. Perched in the palm of his hand was the jade box.

  “Influence?” he asked,
impressed, and Ruslan nodded, beaming. Another airspirit thief-in-the-making in Raqia. Belphagor might have to watch out for him in a few years’ time.

  Back at the Brimstone after dropping off the boys at the flat, Belphagor deliberately threw most of his games over too much drink and excessive conversation, two things a savvy wingcasting player never brought to the table. They were a sure way to lose a fortune in facets but gain a wealth of information. He managed to lay the groundwork for the protest Phaleg wanted, encouraging those who were workers in Elysium—already primed with discontent—not to accept the unfair conditions they had to work in. Priming it a bit more with a liberal application of spirits didn’t hurt either.

  By the time he’d cut his losses and headed back to his room, it was the wee hours of the morning, and he was more than a little inebriated. The best influence happened when one gave over to being a bit under the influence himself.

  Vasily entered as Belphagor hopped on one foot trying to untangle his pant leg from his boot. He watched from the door with tight-lipped disdain. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve been drinking too, my dear boy, straight out of the tap.” He yanked the leg free and fell back onto the cot. On a whim, he stretched out his feet. “Unlace my boots.”

  Vasily blinked dangerously heated eyes at him. “Do what?”

  “Must I repeat myself?”

  The heat flared, and Vasily managed to crouch with an air of menace as he undid the laces and took off Belphagor’s boots, barely restraining himself from tossing them across the room.

  Belphagor rose and pulled the chair out from the vanity. “Take off your pants. I haven’t had you over my knee in ages, and I fancy a nice bare-bottomed spanking.” His cock bloomed at the furious resistance in the firespirit’s stance. Would he actually refuse? This could get interesting. He lowered his voice into a steely warning. “If you intend to be my boy again, surely you’ll want to move more quickly when I give you direction.”