by Martin Owton
“I know. That’s why it’s the size and shape it is. I’m going to stick it up my arse.”
Lionel’s expression froze in surprise, then a moment’s disgust flashed across his face. “Will you be able to draw it quickly enough?”
“I think so,” said Aron. “I’ve been practising.” The look of disgust passed across Lionel’s face again. “Don’t look at me like that. Where else can I put it? If you have a better idea, I’d like to hear it.”
Lionel looked at the floor; there was a long pause before he spoke. “No. I’ve no better idea. Can you move with it?”
“Yes. It isn’t comfortable, but I can walk. I haven’t tried doing more. I hope that all I have to do is wait until I’m alone with him and then I can kill him.”
“Don’t let him die too quickly.”
“He won’t if things run my way.” Aron smiled grimly. “So what is to be done about Maldwyn and Davo?”
“Will you stop worrying about them and concentrate on Tirellan? I’ve doubled the guard and made sure everyone knows we’re on alert. If Caldon comes we’re ready.”
“They’re my friends and I’m responsible for them. Maldwyn’s never been in a big city before, and I was supposed to look after him. What can I tell his father?”
“Maldwyn was told to stay in the house and disobeyed. You’re hardly responsible for that. He’s old enough to face the consequences of his actions,” Lionel said firmly. “You know what this city is like; someone will have seen them and the information will be for sale. I’ll make sure the right people know that we’ll buy. If Tirellan’s got them we’ll know soon enough. Anyway, Tirellan isn’t going to be a problem for much longer. ”
CHAPTER 30
Their shadows stretched long before them as Aron and Lionel walked through the city to the house of Bazarkis. All about them the streets were filled with people making their way home at the end of the working day. Lionel did not speak, and Aron was glad of the silence; he had too many thoughts in his mind for him to want the distraction of idle chatter. The whereabouts of Maldwyn and Davo, the involvement of Baldwin with Tirellan, Tirellan with Celaine; all these tumbled in his head and underlying everything was a tension that sharpened his every sense. Tirellan, face to face, at last.
Bazarkis’ house stood in a street of fine tall stone-built houses, the residences of prosperous merchants. There was nothing to mark it out; it was totally anonymous. Lionel approached the door and tugged on the bellpull. After a few moments the door opened and a huge doorward silently conducted them inside. The interior corridor was floored with glazed tiles and the air carried the hint of exotic musky perfumes. The doorward led them up a fine wooden staircase to a small drawingroom, and gestured for them to sit on a cushioned bench, then left closing the door behind him.
“How much does this man Bazarkis know?” asked Aron quietly.
“Very little,” replied Lionel. “As much for his safety as for yours. He knows we want to get you close to Tirellan, that’s all.”
Aron looked around at the rich wall hangings, rugs and carved furniture. “There’s a lot of money gone into this house,” he said.
“Bazarkis has grown fat on supplying the specialised needs of his customers.”
“So why is he helping us?”
“We have given him no choice. Until a few years ago, Bazarkis was just a brothel keeper and procurer, one amongst many, unremarkable but ambitious. He discovered that there is a great deal of money to be made out of catering to the perverted tastes of some rich men. Men who want more than a pleasant companion for an evening, far more. Men like Tirellan. That there are such people might not surprise you; but what would surprise you, is how many there are.” Lionel paused and looked suspiciously around the room. “Bazarkis recruits his victims from the poor and unfortunate. He offers them gold, but for some the price is their life. He has used some of our people. The families came to me to help find them. I know what became of their children……they do not. If Bazarkis does not do all I demand, the families will find out. You know our people well enough to imagine what they would do. They might even ask you to kill him.”
“I will gladly when I’m done with Tirellan.”
“No. We must hold our silence. That is part of the price.”
Aron was about to dispute this when the door opened and a well-dressed, dark-haired man of about forty walked in.
“Ah, Commander Lionel. So good to see you again. This must be your young man.”
His eyes remained cold as he greeted them, none the less Lionel shook him firmly by the hand.
“Now then, young fellow. Let me have a look at you.”
Bazarkis walked slowly around Aron, examining him as if Aron were a horse he was considering buying. Aron shifted uneasily, uncomfortable under Bazarkis’ gaze. “Hmm, not bad. Not bad at all. Should clean up very nicely.”
Aron was unsure whether he was flattered or not. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Aron.”
“Well Aron, you’re a fine-looking fellow. I’d consider taking you even without the circumstances.”
Aron said nothing and tried to avoid catching Bazarkis’ eye.
“I hope he knows what he’s letting himself in for.” Bazarkis turned to Lionel. “I don’t want Lord Tirellan angry with me. He’s been a good customer, but I know enough of him to know he’d be a very bad enemy.”
“Oh. He knows alright, don’t you Aron?” said Lionel with a tight smile. “I’m sure there will be no complaints about Aron from Lord Tirellan tomorrow.”
“Well, I hope not. My customers trust me; if it gets out that I did this for you I could be ruined.”
“I have given you my word,” replied Lionel. “No-one will find out from us.”
Bazarkis stared at Lionel for a long moment with a far off gaze then he shrugged. “To business then. We must prepare Aron for his evening’s work.”
“Prepare me?” said Aron guardedly. “In what way?”
“You can hardly go dressed like that.” Bazarkis plucked at Aron’s plain and threadbare tunic. “And when was the last time you bathed? Lord Tirellan is a man of taste and refinement. You can’t go to him looking and smelling like a vagabond. We have clothes here that will fit you and be far more to his lordship’s taste. Come.”
Aron passed Lionel his pouch containing the black-handled knife, and followed Bazarkis from the drawingroom, across the landing and into another small room. Several wardrobes with full length mirrors in their doors lined the far wall, and the room was filled with flowery scented warm moist air from the steaming bathtub that stood in the middle of the fine mosaic floor. Two women stood beside the tub.
“These ladies will wash, dress and prepare you,” said Bazarkis. “I’ll come back in a while to see what they’ve made of you.” With that he left, closing the door behind him.
Aron looked at the two women; they were both in their late thirties, he judged, simply dressed in plain blue dresses in the manner of servants. There was amusement in their eyes as they looked at him.
“Come on then, love. Get your clothes off.” said the taller dark-haired woman. Aron hesitated.
“I think he’s shy, Terris,” said the shorter plumper one with a laugh. “What are you hiding?”
Aron felt the blush rising to his cheeks.
“You won’t get far in this business if you can’t take your clothes off in front of strangers,” laughed Terris. “Do you think we have to undress him too then, Shara?” Aron stood frozen to the floor as the two women advanced on him.
“Don’t worry, my dear, we won’t hurt you,” said Terris reaching for his waist. Aron jumped involuntarily as her fingers touched him.
“Oh a little bit ticklish are we, love?” Aron jumped again as Shara’s fingers touched his neck. “Is this your first time? We’ll be gentle.”
Both women giggled as Aron turned scarlet. Working swiftly and deftly the women stripped Aron’s clothes off as he squirmed
, gasping and giggling from their touch.
“So what was it you were hiding my darling?” said Terris as Aron stood naked before her.
“I can wash myself, thank you ladies,” Aron whispered huskily.
“Oh no. Master said we have to scrub you proper,” said Shara. “In the tub with you. We put some lavender and rose petals in it so’s you’ll smell nice.”
Aron stood a moment under the women’s gaze and then reluctantly stepped into the tub. The warm water swirled up around his legs as he slid into its embrace, then Terris and Shara attacked him with their washclothes. As they washed him his body began to respond to their touch.
“Oh careful, Terris,” laughed Shara. “We’ve got a live one here.”
“Tis a shame to waste it, but you’re going to need it later.”
Terris smiled at Aron, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. Aron’s cheeks flamed.
“Enough! I am clean.” Aron surged out of the tub to stand naked and dripping on the floor. “Now what else is to be done?”
Shara put down her washcloth and stood back with her arms folded under her substantial bosom to look at Aron.
“I like ‘em with a bit of spirit. Reckon you’ll need another bath after your night’s work,” she said with a broad grin. “I’ll look forward to that.”
“Just get on with it, will you,” said Aron, resisting the strong temptation to put his hands over his groin. “Give me a towel.”
“Yes, master,” giggled Terris as she fetched a towel.
“What should he wear then, Terris?” said Shara. “I think the dark blue would suit his colouring.”
“Yes, that would work. Maybe white or cream leggings to show off those dancer’s legs.”
Shara opened one of the cupboards and sorted through the contents coming up with a long dark blue tunic.
“Try that,” she said as she continued to pick through the contents of the cupboard.
Aron took the tunic from her and slipped it on. The material felt soft on his skin, softer than anything he had ever worn.
“Suits him very well,” said Terris. “Though it will cover his pert little bottom.”
Aron reddened again.
“What do you think of these?” Shara held up a pair of creamy white leggings. “Try these on him.”
She tossed them to Terris who caught them deftly.
“I can put them on perfectly well by myself,” protested Aron.
“But it’s more fun this way.”
Terris winked at him and ran her hand up his thigh. Aron turned even redder.
“Stop embarrassing the poor lad and get him dressed,” said Shara. “There’s still lots to do.”
“I’m clean and I’m dressed,” said Aron as he pulled up the leggings. “What else is there?”
“Your hair to start with,” said Terris.
“What’s wrong with it?” asked Aron as he scrubbed it energetically with a towel.
“Don’t do that, you’ll make it all frizzy,” said Terris snatching the towel. “It needs properly setting.”
“What?”
“Making it curl. Shara’ll do it. She’s a dab hand with the tongs.”
“I don’t want my hair curled.”
“It’s not what you want that matters. Your customer prefers curled hair, so curled hair you will have.” Terris smiled knowingly at Aron. “You’ve got nice hair, but I do love a man with curls in his hair.”
“Come and sit here and I’ll do your hair,” said Shara. “And sit still.”
Aron did as he was told as Shara fiddled with the tongs, which she heated over a candle flame for what seemed to him an extraordinarily long time before applying to his hair.
“Now are we done?” he asked when Shara finally finished.
“There’s just your face to do,” said Shara standing back to examine her handiwork.
“No!” said Aron in dismay.
“Have to do the job properly. Your customer will expect it,” said Terris bringing out a small leather pouch. “This is your first time with a gentleman of quality, isn’t it? Well they’re different, let me tell you. There’s nothing too good for them, the money they’re paying. So you have you hair curled and your face made up and you says ‘yes my Lord, no my Lord, anything you please my Lord’ and make sure you says it respectful, or the master here will have the hide off your back. But you do it right, and there’s good returns if they like you. Shara there, she was a most favoured friend of a duke, weren’t you dear?” Shara sighed and smiled. “’Til she wore him out and the old fellow snuffed it. Now hold still, ‘cos if you move and smudge it I’ll have to start all over again.”
Aron did as he was told and held still as Terris worked with her set of brushes and sponges. She seemed to take an eternity, and the longer she worked the more the brushes tickled and the more his nose itched. He longed to scratch, but that could smudge the artwork and prolong his embarrassment. Finally she stepped back.
“There now, I’m done. And don’t you look lovely. Let him have a mirror, Shara, and see how pretty he is.”
Shara brought a large gilded handmirror and held it up for Aron to look into.
Aron stared at the image in disbelief. What he saw was the face he had shaved that morning, but changed in a most unsettling way. It was as if he had a twin sister and now beheld her: dark-rimmed eyes, moist red lips and peach tinted cheeks framed by a fall of dark curls. A girl stared back at him. A pretty girl too, a girl that he would take a second look at in the street.
“Wouldn’t you just want to eat him, Shara?” said Terris.
Aron looked away and shook his head, but the image would not fade. He looked again, turning his head to catch the profile view. The brow of his reflection furrowed as he turned it over in his mind. He looked attractive, pretty, beautiful even. A cold shiver ran down his back and he turned from the mirror feeling as if he had just looked over a vast cliff.
“Come along then,” said Terris. “Stop mooning around like a lovestruck girl. Master’ll be waiting.”
The two women led Aron back to the small drawingroom where Bazarkis and Lionel sat, two glasses and a half-full decanter of red wine showed how they had passed the time. Lionel looked up as Aron and the two women entered the room, but his gaze slid past Aron without recognition.
“A very good job ladies,” said Bazarkis as he handed Terris and Shara a silver coin each. “He looks absolutely delicious.”
Terris and Shara left the room in a torrent of giggles. Aron’s cheeks flamed under the layer of powder. Lionel looked again at Aron and his mouth dropped open.
“God’s blood is that you, Aron?” he asked in a whisper.
“It’s me,” replied Aron quietly.
“I’d have passed you in the street and never known you,” said Lionel struggling for words. “It’s your hair.”
“Surprising what curling irons, a little rouge and powder can do,” said Aron with a wry grin.
“My carriage will be ready shortly, then you must go. Your customer particularly disapproves of tardiness,” said Bazarkis. “Would you like a glass of wine before you go?”
“No, thank you,” said Aron. “I wouldn’t want to spoil my lip paint.”
Bazarkis chuckled. Lionel stared and shook his head in disbelief. At that moment a servant came in and spoke softly to Bazarkis.
“Very good,” said Bazarkis. “The coach is ready. Please follow my man and he’ll take you to it. I wish you a,” he paused for a moment, “profitable evening.” Then he left the room.
“How much did he pay you?” asked Aron quietly, one eye on Bazarkis’ servant.
“Twenty, in gold,” replied Lionel.
“I wonder how much he charged Tirellan.”
“Seventy.”
“That is a man who richly deserves to die slowly and painfully.”
“Yes, but not tonight. Are you ready?”
Aron nodded silently.
Lionel handed him the pouch contained the sheathed knife, reached out and took Aron’s hand and gripped it firmly. “The gods be with you, Aron,” he said hoarsely.
Aron wondered what Iduna would think; would she be with him under the circumstances?
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Aron. “Leave word with the doorwards that I’ll be back late.”
“Ah, I will. But wash that stuff of your face before they see you, or they won’t let you in.”
Aron smiled and then turned to Bazarkis’ servant who stood quietly by the door. “Time to go,” he said and walked to the door.
***
Aron sat alone in the coach as it clattered through the streets towards Lord Tirellan’s mansion, his stomach taut with tension as he tried to focus on the task before him. For a moment, he felt like leaping out and running in the opposite direction, but then he thought of all the effort that had gone into getting him here and the moment passed. He remembered all who had died by Tirellan’s hand or order, and a cold flame kindled in his heart melting away the nerves. Tirellan would pay the price tonight. While it was tempting to made it lingering and painful, Aron doubted that he would be afforded the opportunity. So Tirellan would die quickly then; a cleaner better death than so many he had killed, but dead none the less.
Aron pulled aside the window blind and looked out to see where they were. He recognised the street - they were close to Tirellan’s mansion. He drew out the slim black-handled knife from his pouch and then eased down his leggings.
***
The coach slowed as it passed through the open and unguarded gates of Lord Tirellan’s mansion.
“We’re here, master,” called the coachman, as the coach pulled up before the portico. Aron stepped down from the coach and, as the doorward’s seat was empty, tugged on the bellpull beside the door.
The door was opened by a tall slender man with blond hair and beard wearing white leggings and flowing shirt of blue silk. Aron recognised him as fitting the description of Cristoff, Tirellan’s steward and partner in depravity. Cristoff looked Aron up and down and smiled approvingly; then he took some coins out of his pouch and paid off the coachman.