"Please help me," begged Emmae. "I've been brought here against my will--"
"Aye, but not for long, dear, my master always brings them round his thumb in the end," Meg chuckled. "Now, let's clean you up. Don't be shy, we're both women. See?" she said, pouring the steaming water into the basin, "nice and warm. And I have a new chemise for you. Come, you'll feel better!"
Emmae reluctantly took the washcloth from the old woman and put the sheet aside. She did feel dirty, to her bones.
Meg sized her up, and began shaking out the bedclothes. "You are a pretty little thing. Prettiest one yet. No wonder the prince took to you. You're lucky. Master Gian tells me they rescued you from a shack in the middle of nowhere."
"I was kidnapped!" snapped Emmae. "But Warin will come and take me back." She scrubbed harder, sloshing the water around in the basin as she rinsed the washcloth.
"Warin?" gasped Meg, turning from the bed. "His Highness's brother?"
"So your lord says. I don't believe it."
"Not that you're a girl a prince wouldn't take a fancy to, sweetheart," said Meg, returning to her work. "But if you're Warin's woman--surely you're not married to him?"
"No," Emmae admitted.
"No, I shouldn't think so. Didn't he ever tell you he's the Heir?"
"He's a woodsman," insisted Emmae.
"Don't be stupid, child. Only royals can use the name 'Warin.' He's the Heir, though he gave it up. His birth prophecy, you know."
"No, I don't know."
Meg huffed in disdain and folded her arms. "Heavens, girl, where did you grow up? You have a barbarous eastern accent, so you can be forgiven your ignorance, I suppose. But who doesn't know? Warin is to kill the King before he can take a throne or a wife." At Emmae's blank look, she sing-songed in exasperation:
"Before this Prince takes wife or throne,
Blood shall be spilled and not his own,
The Lifeblood of the Crownéd King
Must needs be spilled to free his Queen.
"Warin ran away so he wouldn't kill his father, or so he said. You didn't know?"
Emmae's knees quivered, and she put a steadying hand on the washstand. "I can't marry anyone," he'd said. "You'll always have to wear my ring on your right hand, not your left."
Goosebumps rose on her wet skin. "You said you had clothes for me?"
"The chemise there on the bed, dear, Master Gian said you wouldn't be needing anything else for now," Old Meg chuckled. "No," she added as Emmae pulled the chemise over her head, "I think Warin left out of shame--shame!--at the way his brother was treated, and at how much more suited to rule Hildin is, even though he's the younger. Since you seem to know nothing about anything, I'd wager you don't know we were sent away when their mother died birthing Hildin."
"'We?'" said Emmae when her head emerged through the garment's neck.
"Oh, I was Hildin's nurse! Last baby I took to breast, and the best. What a love! I couldn't bear to leave him. King Gethin blamed my poor Hildin for the Queen's death. He loved her! Such a rare thing, a royal love match--love match for anyone's rare. I certainly didn't get one! Sit down, let me brush your hair, dear." She chattered in a steady stream as she worked the tangles out. "The King couldn't bear the sight of my poor lamb. They sent us to the King's cousin at Valleysmouth, and there we stayed until Hildin's voice dropped and the King had to bring us to court. In a just world, my Hildin would have been raised at court and Warin sent away."
Meg sighed and pulled on a particularly stubborn tangle. "It's only right Hildin hates his brother. Warin had his place at court! At least my Hildin had company in Gian. Hildin was always so patient with him, like a little teacher, and Gian just worshipped his cousin, has done since he was tiny. More a brother to him than his own brother." Emmae thought brothers acted nothing like Hildin and Gian, but kept silent, letting the woman go on. "And then Warin turned tail and ran, like a coward."
Emmae jumped up from the bed. She snatched the heavy silver brush from Old Meg's hand, and brandished it like a club. "Warin is not a coward! Now show me the way out of here!" The door in the wall ground open; the brush grew so hot she dropped it with a yelp.
"I beat my servants myself, girl," came Hildin's cold voice. She twisted toward him, holding her scorched hand to her chest; the Prince stood in the hidden doorway, Gian just behind him. "Never threaten Meg again, or it'll be worse than a burned hand." He advanced on her. "I'll burn you to death, an inch at a time. I'll smother you slowly, give you just enough air to beg me for your life, then start again, over and over!"
Emmae labored to breathe; the air around her grew used, damp and sparse; her vision sparkled black at the edges. She fought for breath, until cool air rushed into her lungs at last. She collapsed, near senseless. Hildin seized her by the hair and shook her until she feared he'd pull it out. "Do not touch her, do you understand? She is as a mother to me, and worth a thousand of you, slut! A thousand of you!"
"There, now," his old nurse said hastily, "she wasn't really going to hit me, my lamb! Put the poor thing down, she's scared enough now she'll never raise a hand to me or anyone else again, I'm sure of it."
"Fetch Warin's bitch something to eat, Meg," Hildin said, still looking into Emmae's face. "We can't have her dying of hunger." He loosened his hold on her, and she fell back on the bed; she heard the stone door open, and knew Meg was gone. "Woman, I will tell you this once: you live as long as you interest me. Your struggle against the spell is intoxicating. And you are my brother's woman--taking you away from him pleases me. But when I've killed him, I will grow tired of playing with you at some point." He swept his gaze down her body. "I admit that may take some time. Your enchantment raises so many possibilities."
He smiled, a wide and unbalanced grin, and walked to the door. "I won't kill you right away. Perhaps after Gian is done with you. Then when he's bored, there's the captain of my guard--he's due for a reward. And he might give you to his men and they to the stable boys when they're done. You might live much longer than you think!"
"You can kill me now for all I care!" she croaked at the closing door.
Despite her brave words, she was terrified, more frightened than she'd been waking up naked without a name in the forest; then, Warin had been there. Would he come for her? Even if he did, Hildin had a point: he might not want her. But did Warin cast the spell? How did she feel about him now? It didn't matter. She could not give in to despair, though it would be so simple to do. She would survive, she would stay true to herself, and in the end, she would avenge herself--against Hildin and Gian, and if he proved to be false, against Warin.
She looked out the window over the deep forests, pulling a strand of hair through her fingers over and over. Warin had said she'd come to him courageous. "I'll need all the courage I have," she said to herself. "I have no one now but me."
* * * * *
Temmin pulled away, shaking with rage and terror, eyes wet. "She wants to kill him. I want to kill him."
"No need. He's long dead," replied Teacher.
"Did she kill him?"
"We'll get to that in time," said Teacher.
Temmin could still feel Hildin's hands all over him--all over Emmae--the Pagg-damned book got him so confused, but then, disgust and desire had overwhelmed and confused poor Emmae. It shocked him how much her plight had stirred him, both to pity, and to deep, uncomfortable arousal.
"Why did Emmae believe Warin might have put the spell on her? Only women could do that--well, one woman..."
Teacher casually flicked a flame from the fire onto a fingertip. "Warin told her nothing about magic of any kind. She knew little of the world outside the cottage."
"Why not?" said Temmin, brushing away the last tears to eye the flame warily. "Why couldn't he tell her who he was?"
"Because he did not want to be who he was."
"I don't want to be me, either, but you don't see me hiding in a forest."
"No, only when you wish to shirk your duties."
The arro
w hit the mark, and Temmin bridled. "That's different."
"If you thought you were destined to kill your father, would you feel differently about 'hiding?'"
"Right now I almost wish I were destined to kill my father," he mumbled, then looked up in alarm. "I didn't mean it!"
"It is not an uncommon sentiment among men your age, at least in passing."
"Did you feel that way when you were young?"
Teacher dismissed the little flame. "I do not remember. Why in particular are you so angry?"
"He chooses my friends, chooses my studies, acts as if he can just beat me into doing whatever he wants!"
"He can, about anything other than religious devotion," Teacher answered, face stern. "Cross him too often, and he will have you whipped. He will do it himself."
"What does he want?" Temmin burst out, jumping up from the library chair. "He's brought me here to learn to be king, fine, it has to be done whether I want it or not. But I don't want it, and I don't like it, and you can't make me want it or like it!" He hurled himself onto the green velvet couch, Emmae's anger still jangling inside him. "Why did Sedra have to be a girl? What's the point of all her studying just to marry someone and have children and wave from the dais at Spectacles? Mama shouldn't have allowed it."
"Sedra's fate is her own. Do not be too sure you know what it will be."
Temmin looked up, his fair brows hiding in his unruly forelock. "Does the magic show you what will be?"
"I am not so burdened," said Teacher, following him to the couch. "Do you have an opinion on women ruling?"
"Opinion?" blinked Temmin. "What's there to have an opinion about?"
Teacher sighed. "We will consider the question in future. Meantime, I think your grievances against your father go deeper."
"Are we done for the morning?" growled Temmin.
"We are done for the week," replied Teacher. "I have business to attend to, and you have your Temple visit."
Left alone after lunch, Temmin stretched out on the couch, thinking of Fen; there was bound to be trouble for him. It might be that he'd have to take the footman into his personal service. Maybe he'd send Fen and Arta to Whithorse. It would take some convincing for the rest of the staff to trust them, but if he wrote ahead to Alvo, Alvo'd smooth the way.
Alvo. He'd tumbled it over and over, that admission of love. They'd been like brothers up until that moment, and he still missed Alvo more than anyone. Emmae's observation on Hildin and Gian came to mind: brothers acted nothing like that. Though he always could make Alvy do anything he wanted him to, just like Hildin could with Gian, he pondered, drowsy from one glass too many of the '88 Bordigalle. His thoughts shifted a final time: "I drank this Bordigalle with Allis up in the foothills. Ah, Allis." He closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
On the southeastern coast of Tremont lay Bordigalle's home, the Duchy of Belleth, a land favored with a mild, beneficent climate much inclined to the growing of superb wine grapes, excellent cheeses from the sheep and cattle grazing its lush grasslands, and a tendency towards voluptuousness in its people.
When Tremont drove the Sairish from the continent, Belleth had been the colonizers' last stronghold. It had done nothing to advance its own independence from either Sairland or Tremont, and had never in memory had a king of its own; the Tremontines always said the Bellesians were too lazy to rule themselves. Litta, Corland, Alzeh and Kellen--even Barle, Valmouth and Whithorse, so long a part of Tremont--had strong tribal leaders and kings before their subjugation. But not Belleth. Its people cared too much about great art, great food, and fine living to be bothered with who ruled. Its graceful capital, the port city of Ouve, presided over the great bay at the continent's southernmost tip.
In this ducal capital, the House of Polls once stood to one side of the better districts. Oakwood Street was fashionable at the time the first Mistress Polls founded the House. By the time the building burned down sixty years later, the area had taken a sad turn; fashion had moved elsewhere.
Maleen, the third Mistress Polls, lost everything she owned in the fire, and, temporarily, her eyebrows. But in the end, it was a blessing. A sympathetic patron gave her enough gold to re-establish herself in the best situation a superior whorehouse could hope for: a new building with all modern conveniences, but built on the elegant lines of traditional Bellesian architecture. It stood in the Old Theater district, one never in or out of style, the only building on its discreet lane.
The superstitious Mistress Polls renamed her establishment. Her grandmother founded the House of Polls; in her turn, Maleen founded the House at Greenflower Street. Most mornings she spent in her cozy private parlor, drinking coffee, tallying up the previous night's receipts, and marking down the debts her girls and boys owed against their accounts.
One chemise, she noted in her book, ripped in half by a client: one silver against Shally's account, but 50 coppers compensation for her injury cut the charge in half. Could she charge Shally for the bandage? No, not in good conscience. She only hoped the wound wouldn't leave a scar. A scar would drop Shally's asking price, and then Maleen would be forced to let her go.
She took up the next charge: a chair hopelessly soiled in a scene between Kanae, her current star among the boys, and his best patron. Two gold--a valuable thing, expensive to re-upholster. Besides, a nice, round debt load kept Kanae here at Greenflower Street; he'd nearly balanced his account, after all, and she couldn't have that.
Maleen kept herself well and expensively upholstered, though not to excess. She wore clothes just rich enough without pretension to higher station, their cut befitting the older woman she had accepted herself to be. Before the fire, she had clung to her vanishing youth: gray hairs plucked; asses' milk to bathe her face; softer and softer lighting until she could barely see in her room, though it didn't matter much as she also refused to wear her spectacles.
After the fire, Maleen spent hours before the mirror. She was still a handsome woman. At first, she fretted over her missing eyebrows, but then she reassessed her situation. At 52, a double chin--a slight one--could be considered quite appropriate and attractive, while in a 22-year-old it would be repellent. The same with gray hair, the still-faint lines around her eyes, and her more generous figure. Time to capitalize on what she had: experience. Her House catered to all tastes, and a surprising number of clients preferred their women fully ripened...and rather strict.
And so, Maleen cut her soft brown hair to the chin in the traditional Bellesian fashion for older women, stopped plucking out the gray, dressed more conservatively, and wore her spectacles outside the parlor. Flooded with requests for her time, she doubled her rates, and doubled them again; she didn't have time to entertain just anyone, but the few she did appreciated the changes in her body, even though she rarely removed a single item of apparel.
One feature never changed, never aged. Her lovely eyes remained the same expressive, velvety brown, limpid and warm among the patrons in the front rooms, hard, mahogany business in the wood-paneled back room where she counted out the House's fortune. A knock at the door, and she looked up. "Come in! Yes?"
"Gentleman to see you, Mistress," bowed an old man in plain livery.
"A regular, Deck?" said Maleen, rising to her feet.
"No, ma'am, but quality, certainly very high quality. I put him in the best sitting room and gave him tea."
When Maleen entered, she found the gentleman of very high quality on the couch, sipping his tea; he stood at her entrance, and Maleen's quick eye marked him by the cut of his suit and the correctness of his stance and manners not as a lord but a gentleman, and still likely to have plenty of gold in his pockets. "Welcome, sir!" she smiled, taking his hands. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure. I am Maleen Polls. What can my House do for you?"
The gentleman extricated his hands. "Not the House, Mistress Polls, but you yourself." He resumed the couch.
She arranged herself artfully on the chair opposite. "Me?" she said, lips parted in a smile. "Why, sir, I confess
I am not often called for at my time of life! Nevertheless, I do have experience to recommend me, especially for particular tastes, particular enough that arrangements are more exacting than the norm--"
"You misunderstand me, Mistress Polls. I am here to discuss something more lucrative than whoring."
Maleen abandoned her delicately alluring manner and folded her plump hands in her lap. "Whatever could that be, Mister...?"
The man pursed his lips. "Call me Mr Brown. I am hoping you can provide me with, shall we call them, character references, for two past denizens of your House, when it stood in Oakwood Street."
Maleen allowed herself the tiniest wrinkle of the forehead, and gave him the gaze that made her clientele swoon in anticipation of a tongue lashing. "When you say 'denizen,' Mr Brown, you should know we never speak of our patrons. Ever."
"Oh, no, not patrons. Rather, employees. A nicer term than 'whore,' don't you think? My master is most interested in two former employees, and will pay a great deal to know more about them."
"How much of a great deal?"
"Say, ten thousand gold each--more if the information is useful to him."
Maleen held in her excitement. "My books were destroyed in the fire that took the Oakwood Street House not quite nine years ago."
"A strange fire it was, too, taking only your building," murmured Mr Brown. "Oakwood Street is packed so tightly, one would think the whole district would have gone up. No, your recollections are enough, yours and any other members of your staff who may remember the two we're interested in."
"And those two would be?"
"Allis and Issak Obby."
Lovers and Beloveds Page 22
