Elvenborn hc-3

by Andre Nolton

  Meanwhile she busied herself with the accounts. With the fall in her fortunes, her little estate had to be self-supporting, for there were no more gifts—well, call them what they were, bribes—forthcoming from those who wished to attach themselves to a rising star. She supposed she could have improved her fortunes by marrying, but that was hardly a solution that was to her taste. There wasn't anyone free among the Old Lords who wasn't a close match for her wits and who wouldn't hedge her around with so many constraints that it would take all of her energy just to continue to enjoy herself as she had. And as for the Young Lords still loyal to their sires—

  —well, she was not minded to wet-nurse a callow youth, who had no inclination to work, no interests but his own amusement, and no ambitions except to indulge in sex and games. She'd be better off adopting such a young fool than wedding him; at least then she could treat the fellow like the child he was.

  So, following her fall from grace, she had applied herself to the business of raising and training very special slaves, exquisite creatures much in demand for their beauty and skills. There was always a waiting-list for her pretty boys and decorative men—she was an expert, after all, in the things that made males both ornamental and useful. There were plenty of Elvenlords— Aelmarkin for one—who bred and trained lovely female slaves for the luxury trade, but Triana was the only supplier of males for the same purpose. Some were bought by Elvenlords, but not nearly as many as were bought by the ladies—not that the lords these ladies answered to were ever made aware of the existence of these special slaves. Ladies might well be hedged about by rule and custom and kept close in the harem—but nothing prevented the visits of another Lady.

  Triana, say, with a small entourage of her special slaves.

  Now, once Triana and her slaves were within the walls of an estate, it was child's play for the lady she visited to purchase one or more; unless she was totally hedged about, she had simply to order that the requisite price be sent to Triana's steward by her own household steward, who would not gainsay her. The slaves then vanished into the household, assigned to the lady's personal service, never to be seen—oh, most certainly never!— by the master of the house. It was easy enough to do, for even on estates that bred their own slaves there were always more being purchased—a special skill might be needed, or the slaves themselves disobliged by presenting one with too many of one sex and not enough of the other. The purchase of a great many of these male slaves that Triana so carefully trained was concealed under the bland heading "household expenses."

  One of Triana's own slaves, sleek in her livery of dark silver and midnight, came to the door of the chamber, and Triana looked up and nodded acknowledgment of his silent signal. A moment later, a second arrived, Aelmarkin in tow.

  "V'kel Aelmarkin el-Lord Tornal, my Lady," he intoned, as Aelmarkin sauntered past him into the office. Both slaves vanished as soon as Triana nodded to them.

  "Aelmarkin, it is a pleasure to see you," she said, exuding subdued warmth. "Forgive me for not rising to greet you properly, but as you see, you have caught me in the midst of my little chores."

  Now, Aelmarkin knew very well that she had gotten ample enough warning of his imminent arrival to have set her "little chores" aside, and she knew that he knew and he knew that she knew that he knew, so they were most comfortable in their mutual knowledge. He looked the visitors' couch over before sitting in it, and was probably not surprised to discover what a disadvantage it put him at.

  "My cursed cousin has covered himself with glory," he grumbled, as a slave appeared at the door, offered him wine, and disappeared again. "1 hope you've been making better progress than I. It will be worth it to me to lose this bet if you can bring him down."

  She smiled enigmatically. "You are aware that the key to all this is to either get rid of his mother or encourage him to put her in her—appropriate—place?"

  Aelmarkin wasn't stupid; she had to grant him that. He sat up—or did so as much as the couch would allow him. "So it's Lady Lydiell who rules that roost, does she? I'd suspected as much. That's hardly surprising, given how long she has been the sole authority on that estate." He looked sour, and would probably have added his disapproval of a lady assuming such authority, but that was hardly politic in Triana's presence.

  "But it's high time that Lord Kyrtian assumed his proper role as head of the estate, I should think," Triana replied, carefully examining her flawlessly polished nails. "And I expect, after all of his victories in the field, he's not going to be content to sit back and let someone else manage his property anymore."

  Aelmarkin relaxed back in his seat and produced a thin smile. "And the right woman could—would!—certainly encourage him in that direction, wouldn't she? The only question in my mind is, to what effect?" The smile hardened. "It is not going to please me particularly to find that the mother has been supplanted by the equally—competent—wife."

  She left off examining her nails and gave him a chill look. How very like a male to assume that she intended to take the mother's place! "I do assure you, Aelmarkin, that wedding that child is no part of my plans. There is nothing about his estates or his person that could tempt me to the folly of putting my estates and my person into his legal control."

  "See that you remain of that mind," Aelmarkin responded shortly. There was no mistake; he fully expected her to be that foolish! Did he think that every female in existence lived only to wed?

  "The thought would never have crossed my mind, and is no part of my plans." She allowed a tinge of contempt to color her gaze. "Did you come all this way to fence with me, or have you another purpose you haven't yet revealed?"

  He had come to discover what, if anything, she knew or had done, of course—but she suspected that- he had also come to keep an eye on her. Of course he had begun to think her plans might include wedding Kyrtian as well as seducing him—he .was a male, after all, and he was blinded by the automatic assumption that every female wanted ultimately to be someone's lady—as if the only possible identity a female had was through her male relatives.

  Idiot.

  But she could use him. This little exercise that had begun as a bet had taken on a life and a purpose for her far beyond its original. No, she did not want Kyrtian or his estates—but she did want that seat on the Council that had been denied her for so long. She wanted to be counted as the equal of any Great Lord. She knew—how not?—that Lord Kyndreth only intended to support Kyrtian for as long as it took to destroy the Young Lords' Revolt and possibly the Wizards. Once that was over, Kyrtian had the potential to become a dangerous rival for Lord Kyndreth's ascendancy in the Council. He would be altogether pleased to find someone willing to help and placed to eliminate Kyrtian when the time came. Not by assassination, no—that was too crude, and besides, there was the small problem of getting away with murder once it had been committed. That altogether-too-efficient bodyguard of Kyrtian's was another problem.

  But elimination by other means—that was another covey of quail altogether. Once Triana was close to Kyrtian, trusted by him, there were any number of options open to her. She could arrange for him to do something that would disgrace him entirely—something to do with slaves, perhaps. He treated that bodyguard with suspicious softness, and Lydiell's family was known for its ridiculous cosseting of humans. Perhaps something could be concocted linking him to the Wizards as a sympathizer. Or if none of that seemed possible, a female, allowed closer than any male, could do things that were not open to men. She could administer drugs that would enfeeble mind or body, but gradually—and most important of all, irreversibly. She could leak important financial or other details of the estate that would allow someone like Kyndreth to work the magic that would ruin it—its main source of income lay in foodstuffs, after all, and properly manipulated weather or insect-plagues for several years in a row could bring the family to its knees. She could and would encourage infatuation on Kyrtian's part, along with the giving of very expensive gifts and reckless behavior to impress her.
It was possible that she could arrange him to bankrupt himself, in games of chance and the like—or to break his own neck in sport and the hunt.

  Or, even, to emulate his father and vanish into the wilderness, never to be seen again. That, in particular, appealed to her.

  Encouraging him in that direction had great potential, and shouldn't be all that difficult. The wilderness had killed the father, so why not the son?

  There were so many options open to her, once she got close to Kyrtian, that she had no intention of limiting herself to any one plan for the moment.

  Meanwhile, it was actually possible for Aelmarkin to prove useful.

  "If you would care to stay for a visit, I think we can accommodate you," she said, smiling, and surprising him. "Have you come prepared to remain?"

  She knew he had, of course; although she might not know the contents of his baggage, she certainly knew the weight and volume. He'd brought a cart-full and only two personal slaves, so he'd been intending to inflict himself on her for a good fortnight at least.

  "I confess I was hoping that you would tender the invitation," he replied cautiously. Clearly he had hoped to trick or bully her into the invitation, and had not thought for a moment that it would be offered freely.

  "Then why don't you settle in," she said airily, waving a hand at the door, where at her invisible signal, the slave who had brought him here arrived, having responded to that summons. "I'll deal with my little household affairs, and we can discuss plans over luncheon."

  She kept invisible her amusement at his struggles to extricate himself from the couch, and responded to his none-too-gracious bow with a nod of her head. As he accompanied the slave to the guest quarters she went back to her accounts. While not of spellbinding interest, they were important after all, and needed to be attended to. These days she didn't trust that anything had been done properly unless she herself had run a critical eye over it.

  Now—luncheon was certainly going to be interesting. She was quite looking forward to it, after all.

  She counted on the fact that she had welcomed Aelmarkin, and that there wasn't a great deal for him to amuse himself with on her estate, to ensure that as soon as he had convinced himself that she wasn't playing a deeper game than he thought, he would leave.

  And, in fact, that was precisely what happened. Although he had clearly come prepared to remain for a week or more, within three days he was gone.

  She had speeded his departure by being ridiculously virtuous for the duration of his visit. She held no parties, entertained no other guests, and although he did have access to some attractive female slaves she made it politely clear that if he damaged them, he could consider them purchases. His finances were not so secure that he could contemplate the purchase of one of her slaves at the uxorious valuation she would make, that pretty much put paid to that possible amusement.

  That left hunting (which he detested), landscape-viewing (which bored him), and gaming (which he was ill-equipped for, either mentally or physically—nor would he have enjoyed ei-~ ther losing to a human slave or winning over one who was allowing him to win. No indeed.

  So, off he went, liberating her from his unwelcome company and allowing her the freedom to find out just what Kyrtian was up to.

  That meant a select dinner-party. Not one of the libertine affairs that she threw for those of the Young Lords who were still loyal to their fathers, but a sedate, yet very luxurious dinner for those few of the Great Lords who found her amusing and could afford to be seen with her.

  Which included, of course, Lord Kyndreth.

  First, she spent a profitable hour in the kitchens, informing the staff of her plans and terrifying them with casually dropped tales of what had happened to slaves whose food and service displeased the Great Lords who would be her guests. Of course, one thing that separated her establishment from that of other Elvenlords was that her meals relied on the skills of her kitchen-slaves and not on illusion—now her servants would exert themselves to the utmost to please.

  She did not trouble herself about the menu; her chief cook would determine that. He knew what was best, freshest, at its peak of ripeness; he knew what fowl, fish, and meats were at perfection. She could leave all that to him, and set about delivering the invitations via teleson to her select Great Lords—six of them altogether, including Lord Kyndreth and his son Gildor. Gildor was a bore, but she would see that his simple needs were taken care of.

  All male, of course; there would be one female, but only a human slave, Gildor's favorite concubine. He was absurdly faithful to the creature, but when Lord Kyndreth issued a delicate hint that Gildor would probably want to bring her, she laughed lightly.

  "Children must have their toys, mustn't they?" she said, with just a hint of mockery. "No matter, my lord. I shall supply the rest of you with comely companions, so she will not be conspicuous. I may not specialize in such slaves, but I promise that you will be contented with what I supply."

  "That will suit me very well," Lord Kyndreth replied, from the depths of the teleson embedded in the wall across from her desk, which was normally hidden behind the draperies there. He seemed just as amused by his offspring's dogged infatuation as Triana was. "Your hospitality will be gracious, as always."

  "Then I can expect you tomorrow night." She smiled at him, exerting all her charm. "Good. You still have my teleson-key I assume?"

  "I never let it out of my keeping," he assured her, as all of the others had. "Till tomorrow night, then?"

  "Till tomorrow night." She allowed him to break the connection, and sat back in her chair, well-content for just a moment.

  But only for a moment, for she had a decision to make. Should she display her expertise in magic, by creating a fantastical setting for her party, or distinguish herself by hosting the dinner with no magic whatsoever?

  With magic, she decided after long consideration. But it must be subtle. These men were experts in powerful magic, and it would be far more impressive to caress them with surroundings that had a calm depth than to bombard them with—say—an enchanted exhibition of song and dance.

  Subtlety would take time to produce; she had better start on it now.

  She let the chair glide back on its rails, and took herself to her dining room, walking around it to study every angle.

  Should she attempt an illusion of space, or create an atmosphere of intimate enclosure?

  The aura of intimacy would be better for her purposes.

  She called in her servants, and set them to removing the dining table and chairs from her last party and replacing them with two-person dining couches with attendant tables. By the time they returned with the moss-green, velvety drapes she wanted for the couches, she had decided on the theme.

  Overhead, stars. As a backdrop, moss-covered stones, as if this place was a deep and narrow, secret valley. Slowly, arid with great care, Triana built up the illusion as she sat on one of the couches, spinning it out of air and energy. She placed, and re-placed each stone, each graceful tree, each tiny violet, until she was satisfied with the balance and harmony. Tendrils of energy formed into branches and dissolved again until she was happy with the effect.

  A waterfall? No. Everyone had waterfalls lately; they'd been done to death. Instead, she simulated the calls of frogs and crickets, and a single nightingale.

  She called for refreshments and real trees in tubs that would be masked with draped vines, supervising the slaves as they moved the real trees into position around the six couches. It was already past sundown, but her guests would arrive well before dinner tomorrow, and she must have the dining room ready long before then.

  She overlaid an illusion of moss on the carpet, visual only, as the carpet itself was soft enough to the tread to please. That left only scent—easily taken care of with no illusion at all. She left orders for garlands of flowers and leaves to be draped between the tubbed trees and wreathed around the couches.

  She sat down on one of the couches and surveyed her work with a crit
ical eye, making minute changes here and there so that the grotto appeared random, entirely natural. Even the sky overhead was a clever variation; she had keyed the stars to follow the movements of the real sky. By the time she declared herself finished, she was exhausted with the unaccustomed labor. But it would all be worth it, tomorrow.

  Triana surveyed her guests and smiled openly. Gildor and his favorite concubine were installed on the most private of the couches, at the rear of the grotto. Gildor clearly considered this to be a favor, not an insult—and so, evidently, did his father.

  Each of the other five guests shared his couch with an attractive female slave, too, but these men were all powerful and probably had concubines that made these girls look like field-slaves. For them these slaves were nothing more than sentient furniture that served them silently without needing direction— pleasant accoutrements, which demonstrated the thoroughness and thoughtfulness of their hostess, but nothing more. They ate and talked as if the girls weren't even there. And the girls had been well-schooled, if not given the kind of intensive training that Triana lavished on her male slaves; they acted on the needs of their temporary masters before those masters even knew they had a need. Cups were refilled after a single sip, plates replaced with ones filled with new dainties the moment the hot foods began to cool or the cool ones to warm.

  Triana herself had no companion, and ate very little. Her guests had loosened up enough to begin to speak of Council business, and she waited for the subject of Lord Kyrtian to come up, as Gildor dallied with his concubine, completely oblivious to his elders.

  It was Lord Kyndreth who broached the subject, launching into a description of the aftermath of the climactic battle that routed the Young Lords.

  "So where are the wretches?" asked Lord Wendrelith, his brow wrinkled with suppressed anger. "All that's been captured are slaves."

  "Scattered like flushed quail—but unlike quail, they aren't regathering," Lord Kyndreth replied. "I suspect that they've each concocted bolt-holes during the time they were holding us off, and now they've gone to ground. How much time and effort are you willing to spend in tracking them to their lairs?"