Master of the Game

by Jane Kindred

  Belphagor had never been one for demonstration or protest, not even during the Bolshevik Revolution in the world of Man. Political idealism and faith in any sort of government over whatever system might currently be in place was something he had no time for. But sowing chaos he excelled at.

  Before he could get started, however, he had to deal with Kezef. He’d been avoiding the gaming room since the raid, but he needed to stir things up among its patrons, so he’d have to face it. The demon was playing at the master table—expected of the challenger when the reigning champion was absent—and he cast a brief glance in Belphagor’s direction in mid-play, calling, “Damselfly” without missing a beat as his opponent cast the die.

  “If it isn’t the elusive Belphagor,” he added while his disappointed opponent surrendered a card. “I hope you haven’t been hiding from me.”

  “Oh, I have.” Belphagor held a lighter from the world of Man to the cigar he’d just put in his mouth, puffing until it was lit. “I find your company a bore.”

  Kezef laughed good-naturedly. “Refreshingly honest. Though I suspect that’s merely a partial truth. I think you’re afraid of losing your boy.”

  “Impossible. I could never lose my boy.” Belphagor raised his palm as Kezef’s opponent started to rise to give over his spot, having lost while they were trading barbs. “No need to get up, dear fellow. I’m not here to play this evening.”

  Kezef frowned, gathering the cards. “You’re obligated to play me. We agreed to a final match. Winner take all. If you’re refusing to play, I am that winner.”

  “I’m not refusing to play you.” Belphagor puffed on his cigar. “It’s just that there’s going to be another raid.” Several players tensed and turned in their seats, and the tables in the immediate vicinity went quiet. “I thought it was only fair to warn you.”

  Kezef began to shuffle the deck of wingcasting cards. “And just how would you know that?”

  Belphagor let him wait a moment for the answer while he took another puff on the cigar. The quiet in the den spread like ice across the Neba. He smiled. “I beat it out of a young soldier earlier this evening at the Stone Horse. It’s remarkable what these angels will tell you for an orgasm.”

  One of the gamers near him spat on the floor. “You’re disgusting.”

  Belphagor rolled his eyes, his cigar clenched in his teeth. “Demon spits on the floor an’ calls me disgusting. I was merely bringing this information to you as a courtesy, but if the lot of you want to sit here while the Supernal Army tramples all over demon rights, that’s your prerogative.”

  A few chairs scooted back as some of the wiser patrons prepared to leave.

  “Running and hiding like cowards is an option, I suppose.”

  One of the demons who’d risen turned around. “Who are you calling a coward?”

  “I have no idea,” said Belphagor. “I can’t be expected to remember all your names.”

  The demon he’d insulted advanced on him, while a few others looked ready to do the same. He dodged the first punch with a bit of an airspirit cheat, and the demon swore. With the next demon’s punch, he wasn’t so lucky, but he managed to hang on to his cigar. He could have wiped the floor with either demon, but it was a really good cigar.

  “Am I the one you’re angry with?” He dodged another, who stumbled into the table behind him. “Or is it the principality? Are we all just going to squabble here amongst ourselves and wait for the gendarmes to arrive, or are we going to take this fight to where it rightly belongs—at the principality’s doorstep?”

  “Fuck the principality!” someone yelled, and a chorus of agreement with the sentiment followed in even more colorful language.

  “We’ll march on Elysium, surround the Winter Palace and demand an end to the presence of the Supernal Army in Raqia and to Ophanim Guard brutality! Who’s with me?” Belphagor raised his fist toward the door, and shouts of agreement filled the Brimstone, with demons charging up the stairs to flood the streets of Elysium, not noticing Belphagor wasn’t with them.

  They were bound to pick up supporters while they marched, and Belphagor had enlisted the aid of the girls at The Cat to rally their demonic patrons, as well as the Lost Boys to stir up trouble in the Demon Market. The boys were also going to be strategically placed within the protest to turn it into a riot, throwing the first rocks and bottles toward the lower palace windows as the sun went down. The Winter Palace had been erected as the cultural and geographical center of Elysium, with no walls protecting it, nor private grounds surrounding it, to symbolize the lack of a barrier between the principality and his people. This made the palace the ultimate target for an angry mob.

  As the place cleared out, Kezef still sat at the master table, eyeing Belphagor with amusement. “There’s no raid, is there?”

  Belphagor feigned shock. “Are you doubting my word?”

  He headed toward his room, and Kezef called after him. “Now would be an excellent time to fulfill your obligation and finish the game.”

  Belphagor turned back at the entrance to the tavern, gesturing toward the gaming room with his cigar while blowing smoke in Kezef’s direction. “Without observers to verify the outcome?” He tipped an imaginary hat and went out through the tavern toward the corridor to the residential rooms, passing the deserted bar, where Oza, the proprietor, was wiping it down.

  Oza glared at him. “You just cost me a day’s business.”

  Belphagor winked. “Put it on my tab.”

  He spent a lovely afternoon lounging with Vasily while the firespirit read Crime and Punishment—and occasionally distracting him with a random assortment of his own crimes and punishments. It was blissfully quiet without the usual noise from the gaming room and tavern. So much so that they could actually hear the snow when it began to fall, melting with soft patters against the window. Belphagor hoped it wouldn’t dampen the enthusiasm of the protestors. He was fairly confident, at least, that the demons he’d been priming for the past several weeks were motivated enough that a little moisture wouldn’t deter them. And he knew he could count on the Lost Boys to stick it out long enough to incite the civil disobedience, though he’d told them in no uncertain terms to start it and disappear. He didn’t need them getting arrested.

  After opening the tattered curtains so they could see the snow, he took Vasily’s book away and prompted him up on his knees in front of the window. With the Brimstone situated below street level, the window looked out onto the cobblestone being dusted with white, and Vasily was the perfect height to rest his arms on the sill and stare out. Conveniently, Vasily was already naked—it was how he liked to read and how Belphagor liked to keep him—and Belphagor had only to grab the replenished almond oil and unlace to see the firespirit’s magnificent erection sprouting in anticipation.

  He stroked Vasily while he persuaded him to open, Belphagor’s groan echoing Vasily’s at the tight, warm grasp of firespirit ass around his cock as he drove himself in, pulling the muscular hips back just a bit to keep the demon at a comfortable height with his arms still on the windowsill.

  “If anyone glances down,” he said between nipping at Vasily’s shoulders, they won’t see me, just your face as you’re being fucked.” Belphagor rocked his hips against the firm buttocks, eliciting a breathy moan. “They’ll see you come, and they won’t know why that delicious angelic look is on your face.”

  “Bozhe moi,” Vasily groaned.

  Belphagor fucked him harder and worked Vasily’s cock faster, enjoying the staccato groans and the steam of Vasily’s breath against the window. Vasily pushed the head of his cock between Belphagor’s fist and pulled back in concert with his motions, the hardness and heat in his hand riling Belphagor further until the gentle sound of falling snow was just a memory, lost in the melody of his favorite sounds: the rhythmic beat of hip to cheek, the sticky slap of a cock covered in oil slipping rapidly through his fist, and the sweet rumbling moans of his boy.

  “I love you, Beli,” Vasily growled aga
inst the glass, making Belphagor come before he’d planned to.

  He groaned into Vasily’s shoulder as he bit it, and then held on for the ride while he beat the firespirit cock until it burst in his hand, holding it against Vasily’s abs so the hot fluid shot up to his chest, where Belphagor rubbed it into the warm skin.

  They collapsed together onto the cot, and Belphagor wrapped his arms around the firespirit, not wanting to be separated from him just yet. He kissed Vasily’s throat until the other demon turned his head and offered up his mouth, making a sound almost like a lion’s purr as Belphagor took it with his.

  “How did I get so lucky?” Belphagor murmured, squeezing him around his sticky middle.

  “Hell, I have no idea,” came the unexpected reply.

  Belphagor smacked the firespirit abs, making Vasily laugh despite the sharpness of the slap. “You’re just asking for a good thrashing,” he warned.

  “Always,” said Vasily with a grin in his voice.

  The Brimstone was rumbling with talk of the action the previous evening when Belphagor and Vasily finally emerged. Even after it turned toward rioting, the Ophanim Guard had been disinclined to break up the assembly due to the heavy snowfall. Like their choral cousins the Seraphim, they weren’t fond of water. Belphagor suspected it had something to do with their electrical qualities. Along the enfilade of the palace on the riverbank side and before the gates on the side facing the square, they’d stood in formation beneath the eaves, keeping the supernal family and the wealth of Heaven safe, but had come no farther.

  Their reticence encouraged more throwing of projectiles and resulted in more broken windows, until the Supernal Army was called in to disperse the protestors. They’d eventually used a hose attached to a water pump to spray the assembly. Unlike fire hoses in the world of Man, these lacked the sort of pressure required to cause physical injury or beat back the crowd, but in the freezing weather, it was incentive enough.

  Anxious to be sure the boys hadn’t gotten into any trouble, Belphagor and Vasily made their way to Silk’s place after lunch. The snow that had begun last night hadn’t let up, and gusts of wind picked up the falling snow in bursts across their path as though Snezhnaya Koroleva—the Snow Queen, herself—were trying to manifest. Belphagor had always liked the idea of “snow bees” in the Hans Christian Andersen tale, and these sudden squalls seemed to be precisely what the Danish author had in mind. He and Vasily plowed arm in arm through buzzing swarms of white. Certainly no one was around to look twice at them about it, even if Belphagor had cared, but it was nice to be able to indulge in the comfort of touch.

  They arrived at the apartment in high spirits, flushed from the cold, Vasily laughing in his deep rumble at Belphagor’s teasing about snow bees being after him as they threw open the door. It took them a moment to transition to the dramatic difference in mood of the scene that met them. Seated at the kitchen table with Silk and the boys huddled around her, Anzhela was weeping desolately and covered in blood.

  Belphagor shook himself from the momentary paralysis and shut the door. “What’s happened?” He hurried to her side and crouched by her chair. “Anzhela, sweetheart, who hurt you?” She shook her head violently, crying too hard to answer.

  “It’s the grand duchess,” said Tilli. “It’s her blood.”

  A chill ran up Belphagor’s spine. “The grand duchess?”

  “She went into premature labor,” said Silk, who stood holding Anzhela’s bloody hand. “Anzhi was the only one there.” His voice dropped to a hushed tone. “The grand duchess is dead, and the baby with her.”

  As Anzhela’s sobbing intensified, Belphagor rose and persuaded her gently from her seat. “Hush, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned up. Silk, put on the kettle, would you?” He turned and led her to her boudoir.

  Vasily, standing helpless by the door, took a step forward. “Can I do anything?”

  “I’ve got her,” said Belphagor as Anzhela leaned against him weeping. “Help Silk with tea.”

  Anzhela’s tears stilled, replaced by uncontrollable trembling while Belphagor helped her out of her clothes and dipped a flannel into the basin to wipe the blood from her skin.

  “It’s all right, Anyushka,” he said gently, the fond Russian nickname coming more naturally to him. “My inclinations are firmly one-directional. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  Unexpectedly, Anzhela giggled, and then covered her mouth with her hand, to renewed weeping. But these were calmer tears, and after he’d wrung out the cloth a second time, she took it from him. “I’ve got it. I’m okay.”

  He nodded and fetched a generous Aravothan bath towel for her—Silk was one for luxuries—draping it over her shoulders and wrapping it around her when she’d finished. She sat on the vanity stool, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, and stared at the floor.

  “You’ve got a little on your cheek,” he said and scrubbed at it for her. “Do you want to talk about it yet or maybe just get some rest?”

  “She’d been in labor for more than a day, and somehow she kept it from me.” Anzhela apparently wanted to talk about it. “We were watching the protest from the window. You can see all the way to the Gulf of the Firmament from the Duke’s Hall. Her water broke. It was pink. She said it was just the bloody show, but it’s not like that. I’ve seen it enough times to know. I wanted to go for the queen’s physician immediately, but she was terrified and begged me not to leave her. I told you she’d dismissed all but a few of the servants.” Anzhela looked up at him, guilt apparent on her face. “Should I have gone anyway? I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Sweetheart.” He took her hands, resting his hips against the vanity. “This wasn’t your fault. I’m sure you did everything you could. Some lives just aren’t meant to be.”

  Anzhela sighed. “No, I know. The babe was dead inside her. I think she’d known for days but kept it to herself because saying it aloud would make it real. Maybe it was the cause of all her odd behavior, trying to deny to herself what was happening and wanting to blame some outside force at the same time. I sent Ruslan for help and stayed by her as long as I could, but he didn’t come back.” The demoness closed her eyes. “She was bleeding something awful by then. She kept calling for the grand duke, and I kept telling her he was away, and then she finally said, ‘Bring me my boy. I want my Kae.’

  “I wouldn’t have done it. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it. But I knew she was in a bad way and the thought he might not see his mother again… I cleaned her up as best as I could and let him come in and hold her hand. I didn’t even realize what a fright I looked. That’s when I went for the physician myself. I told the little grand duke to count between her pains to give him something to do, something else to dwell on, and told him if they got close to a minute between to get the chambermaid to help his mum whether she wanted her or not. And I left.” Anzhela pulled away from Belphagor and put her head in her hands. “But it was chaos in the city, and I couldn’t…” Her voice hitched, and Belphagor stroked her back to calm her. “I couldn’t get to the palace. It was impossible. It took me ages to get back through the crowds. The little boy was alone with her. I think she died as soon as I left.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” He moved his hand in gentle circles on her back. “I’m so sorry.” A note of alarm sounded in his head as something else she’d said sank in. “Ruslan—we need to find him.”

  Anzhela sat up, drying her eyes. “He’s all right. He found his way back just after I did. He brought the physician.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how he managed to find him. I’d tried to take little Kae out of the room—he didn’t want to leave his mother. But Ruslan arrived, and Kae took his hand and went with him without a word. They’re both at the palace now. Kae refused to be separated from him. Soluzen’s gone with them. Kae’s to stay there until the grand duke’s return.”

  The terrible news reached Phaleg before he’d reported to the principality in the morning. It seemed all of Elysium was repeating it in hushed tones, but with
a sickening air of eagerness, as though the tragedy of the supernal family were a kind of entertainment. Almost in the same breath, angels began to whisper of a conspiracy by the principality to send Lebes away and poison the grand duke’s wife because of the queen’s jealousy.

  “They can’t really think that, can they?” Helison slumped over the large walnut desk in his study, elbows on the polished surface and hands clasped in front of him, his kind face within the frame of his fatherly beard and whiskers troubled, and the bright celestine of his eyes looking tired and dull, like Elysium’s wintry sky.

  Phaleg stood with his hands locked behind his back. “I think people love a scandal, sire, and will repeat anything that smacks of one. But I don’t think we can afford to ignore the rumors. It’s the sort of thing Grand Duke Lebes’s supporters will pounce upon in their efforts to oust you.”

  The principality looked up with a sharp frown of disapproval. “I’ve told you, Major. My brother has no designs on the throne. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  “I’m afraid you must hear about it, sire. I don’t mean to be impertinent, but the threat is very real, and it isn’t your brother the threat is coming from, but those who would use him to further their own aims. Just yesterday, I learned of the involvement of two members of the Supernal Army leadership, as well as a Dominion and a Virtue, in a conspiracy to do harm to the queen to prevent the birth of an heir. And they’re quite serious.”

  Helison’s expression darkened. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

  “I had to be certain of my source before I came to you with it, and I have no names of those involved, only their ranks. I would have brought this news to you last night, but…”