Brute

by Kim Fielding

  “Yes,” answered Aric, who’d never even fantasized something like this. A beautiful man wanting him, valuing him, wrapping Aric’s body in pleasure instead of pain. It was more than anyone like him deserved, but he wouldn’t say so, not tonight, not when Gray was kissing him again and rubbing his hands on the points of Aric’s hips.

  “Good gods!” Gray exclaimed.

  “I’m sorry?” replied Aric, not sure whether that was the right response and not able to craft anything more clever. Gray’s fingers felt so strange around his shaft, warm and strong and soft, but not as soft as Petrus’s.

  “A d-delightful challenge,” Gray said with a chuckle. Then he did something truly unexpected: he lined his cock up against Aric’s and held them together. “C-can’t quite handle them b-both,” he said with something suspiciously like a giggle.

  If Gray’s hand had felt strange, his cock felt even stranger, although certainly not unpleasant. Aric wanted to touch it, to explore it with his fingers, but he only had one hand, and that hand—occupied with squeezing Gray’s ass—didn’t want to let go of its prize.

  Soon it didn’t matter anyway. Gray stroked and rocked his hips, Aric arched his own hips upward, and they were both gasping out their climaxes as their combined spend flowed hot and sticky across their bellies.

  Gray collapsed bonelessly atop him. “Fuck,” he said succinctly.

  Aric was still too light-headed to do more than nod his agreement.

  Chapter 13

  HE WAS merely being kind, Aric told himself. The weather had turned very cold, and even with the stove lit, his chambers in the Brown Tower were freezing at night. He would have been comfortable enough in his bed, which was close to the stove, but Gray shivered and coughed on the cold stone floor of the cell, even with all Aric’s quilts. So Aric forsook the bed entirely and slept every night in the cell with Gray. They spooned together with some blankets below them and the rest above, and Aric’s big body kept Gray nice and warm. Of course, they made love—Gray’s term for it—almost every night, so their blood moved briskly right before sleep, and neither of them felt the least bit chilled.

  Besides, with Gray already in his arms, Aric could do his job more efficiently. No more stumbling across the room, half asleep. Now, as soon as Gray began to stir, whether he cried or screamed or simply breathed raggedly, Aric was already holding him, immediately humming and stroking and murmuring words of comfort. And when Gray awakened soon afterward, he had only to whisper the particulars of his dream into Aric’s ear, and Aric would rush to tell the guard.

  On an especially miserable night, when the rain outside had turned to sleet that clattered noisily against the cobblestones, Gray awakened Aric by moaning and twitching. “Shh,” Aric crooned as he always did. “It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”

  “So cold.” This time Gray’s voice was deep and mournful, like the wind when it rushed across the plains near Aric’s village.

  Aric held him more tightly. “I’ll keep you warm.”

  “No one. No one to hold my hand and ease my way.”

  “I’m here,” said Aric. Gray had told him that, even though he couldn’t respond to Aric during his nightmares, he could feel him and hear him, and that he was grateful for it. It was as if he were possessed, he said. Possessed by the spirit of someone not yet dead. “I’m here and you’ll wake up soon and I’ll make some tea to warm you up.”

  “Please. Just a thin blanket and a kind word, someone to remember my name.” Then Gray’s voice devolved to incoherent mumbles, and Aric just held him because he could do nothing else.

  Gray shuddered and awoke a few minutes later. He moved backward, pressing himself more firmly against Aric’s body. “Itan. He’s g-going to die from cold and hunger and… and emptiness, I th-think.”

  “Gods.”

  “D-don’t bother t-telling the guard.”

  “Why? Is it too late already?”

  “Itan’s j-just a beggar. Th-they won’t do anything for him.”

  “But he’s going to die!”

  Gray squirmed around until he was facing Aric, getting himself slightly tangled in his chains as he did so. Gods, Aric hated those fucking chains. “P-people die every day, Aric. Wh-when I dream of someone important, or s-someone who’s in the p-p-palace, they’ll try to stop it. But when it’s n-nobody, only a beggar… n-n-not worth the effort, I guess.”

  “I’m nobody,” Aric said.

  “You’re n-not.” Gray’s breaths puffed against Aric’s shoulder, and then he planted a quick kiss on Aric’s cheek. “G-g-go tell the guard if it will ease your conscience.”

  Aric pulled on his clothes and his cloak, and he told the guard, but his conscience wasn’t eased one bit.

  MASTER SIGHARD’S mood was as gray as this morning’s sky. The weather bothered his arthritis, making him hobble more painfully than usual and causing him to wield his stick against wayward students even more freely. Quoen didn’t get hit, but her distraction earned a tongue-lashing that made her cry, and then it was Aric’s turn to glare at the schoolmaster instead of the other way around.

  Everyone was relieved when the day’s lessons adjourned early.

  Over in the kitchens, even Alys was missing her usual sunny mood. She’d been beaming ever since her man, Cearl, returned from the sea. He’d brought back enough money to start his own carting business, and Alys had made sure he was awarded a contract to deliver to the palace. They were planning a spring wedding, and lately her conversation had been full of talk about the house Cearl had bought not far from the palace itself, and how they were going to fix it up, and how if you stood on the balcony and angled your head just right, you could view the sea. But today she was dour as she handed Aric his lunch. “It’s never going to be spring,” she said. “It’s going to be winter forever and ever, and my feet will always be cold.”

  He bent down and kissed the top of her head. “Spring will come. The sun will return and the flowers will bloom and you’ll have a lovely wedding.”

  She tried to frown and smile at the same time before she pushed him away. “Go. You wouldn’t want to miss slogging through the mud with the guards.” She’d decided several weeks earlier that he must have cast his eye on one of the guards, which in her mind explained why he liked working himself half to death with them no matter the weather. She’d been pestering him to name the man and was getting very frustrated by his refusals.

  In any case, he didn’t join the guards today. Instead, he trudged through the drizzle to the West Tower. The guards on duty at the entrance knew him well by now, and although they raised their eyebrows slightly at his intention to enter this particular building, they didn’t stop him.

  Without anyone to guide him, he got lost twice and had to ask directions. Eventually, however, he was standing outside Lord Maudit’s rooms, trying to convince the round man who was there that he should be permitted inside.

  “His Excellency has not summoned you, and you do not have an appointment,” the man said, not bothering to look up from his ledger.

  “But I need to see him.”

  “You may make an appointment.”

  “Great! When?”

  A chubby finger ran down the page. “Three weeks from tomorrow. Seven o’clock in the morning.”

  Aric didn’t know how much advance notice Gray’s dreams provided, but three weeks was almost certainly too long. “I can’t wait. I have to see him today.”

  “That is not possible.”

  A few deep breaths helped Aric maintain his calm. Barely. “But it’s about Gr—about the prisoner’s dream.”

  That was finally enough to make the man’s head snap up, so quickly that his double chin quivered. “Have you informed the guard on duty?”

  “Yes. But I need to talk to Lord Maudit too. Please.”

  The man looked down at his ledger, as if it might have the answer, and wrinkled his nose. “Very well. Wait here.” He disappeared through a door so tiny that he had to duck. Aric had a momentary
vision of the pudgy man getting stuck halfway through, and he had to swallow a slightly hysterical giggle.

  When the man returned a few moments later, he didn’t look happy. “His Excellency will see you. Make it quick.”

  Aric was afraid he was going to be forced to squeeze through the tiny door too, and was relieved when the functionary instead opened the large door a few feet away.

  Lord Maudit stood behind his desk, which was piled high with papers, crumb-scattered plates, and half-empty cups of tea. He had ink smudges on his fingers. “What?” he demanded without glancing up from his papers.

  “The prisoner had a dream last night, sir.”

  “I know. The guards informed me.”

  “Can you tell me… is Itan all right?”

  “Who?”

  “Itan. The man in the dream.”

  Lord Maudit managed to look furious and resigned at the same time, although Aric had a sense the anger wasn’t directed at him. “Why is it your concern, Brute?”

  “I’m there every time he dreams, sir. I hear what he says when… when he’s dying. It’s awful. I’d like to know if he’s been saved.”

  “We save some of them. More than half. That boy who was to die the other day by tumbling off the wall—one of Lord Sohier’s ill-behaved brats—he was caught in time.”

  Aric was relieved to learn that, but still he persevered. “And what about Itan?”

  Lord Maudit picked up a cup, sipped at it, made a face, and put it back down. “Itan will almost certainly die.”

  “Because nobody’s going to help him.”

  “That beggar could be anywhere in the city, Brute.”

  “And there are dozens of guardsmen. Send them out to the poorer parts of Tellomer and they’ll find him.”

  “And do what with him?”

  “Feed him!” With an effort, Aric lowered his voice. “Get him warm. Take him to a healer.”

  “And then? Chances are he’s unable or unwilling to work. So we house him somewhere until he wastes away from old age. And what of all the other beggars here in the city? Or the people starving in their villages? All the people throughout the kingdom who die because they haven’t the money for food or shelter or healers? Shall we house them too?”

  “But you have so much.” Aric was aware that his voice had shrunk. “Everyone here at the palace has so much. Even me.”

  Lord Maudit looked longingly at the enormous chest that housed his liquor, but he didn’t leave his desk. “Everyone here is well provided for. And each person is free to give away whatever he or she wishes. But if we take it away from them to give to the poor, they will resist. Revolutions have been fought over less. I’ll not risk rebellion for the sake of one beggar.” He picked up a sheaf of papers. “Now go. I’ve work to do.”

  Aric’s heart was heavy as he left Lord Maudit’s chambers. The round man looked smug. Aric brushed past him and stalked down the corridor, but once he was out of sight, he ducked into a small alcove and leaned against the wall to think. He could speak with Captain Jaun, but Aric knew that the captain would never deploy his guards throughout the city without orders to do so. That left Aric with only one potential ally.

  He didn’t know where in the West Tower the royal chambers were, and when he asked a girl who was rushing by, she looked at him aghast and kept on moving. So he resorted to skulking around, avoiding other people whenever possible. The tower had a lot of nooks and crannies, and endless hallways with endless doors, and funny little stairways that seemed to lead to nowhere at all. He was starting to despair when he noticed that the hanging tapestries were becoming more sumptuous, the statuary and other décor more covered in gilt. He was finally stopped by a pair of guards who wore the royal scarlet and cream, but their uniforms were considerably fancier than any he’d seen before. He didn’t recognize these men.

  “Idiot!” the older one hissed at him. “You don’t belong here. Go away.”

  “But… I need to speak with Prince Aldfrid.”

  The guards laughed. “You want to have a little chat with His Highness, do you? Just fancy dropping on in and sitting down over tea?”

  “It’s about Gray Leynham. The prisoner,” he added, probably unnecessarily.

  The guards’ eyes narrowed. “His Highness has nothing to do with the traitor. Now go before you end up in irons as well.”

  Aric went. And although he spent more time stalking the hallways, he couldn’t think of any other plans. Shortly before dinnertime, he gave up. He tried to hide his anxiety from Gray that night, but it was hard. The sky was spitting sleet again; even the sound of it made Aric shiver. He read aloud—from a book about brewing ale that he’d grabbed rather randomly from the library the day before—until his eyes felt gritty and his throat hurt. Then they lay down together, huddled for warmth, and swiftly fell asleep.

  THE weather hadn’t improved by morning. Aric wore his warmest trousers, a sweater Alys had given him, and his thick wool cloak, but he was still thoroughly chilled by the time he fetched their breakfast and brought it back. “Are you warm enough?” he asked Gray. “I’ve added more coal to the stove, but it’s so far away from you.”

  Gray was huddled under a big pile of quilts. “I’m f-fine. I’ve endured worse w-with only my old b-blanket.”

  “How?” Aric demanded. “How have you survived so much with so little?”

  “What else c-c-can I do? I endure or I die. You f-forget, Aric. I earned this.”

  Aric didn’t think anything should have earned Gray’s bleak existence.

  Before he walked back into the biting cold, Aric made his lover—his lover! Wasn’t that an odd thought?—a cup of scalding tea. He intended to go to his lessons, which, due to the weather, were being held in a small storeroom near the kitchens, kept cozy by the heat of the cooking fires. It was a location of last resort, used only in the most dire of circumstances—when Master Sighard was almost crippled from his arthritis—because the tiny space was crowded and noisy from the activities of the kitchen staff.

  But Aric didn’t turn toward the kitchens. Instead he crossed the palace grounds via the most direct route possible and exited through the front gates. His head was down against the rain, and he wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings. He knew that what he sought wouldn’t be found so near the palace, where the houses were large and sumptuous and the shops sold expensive goods that the inhabitants of those houses were apt to purchase. He was several minutes outside the gates when someone tugged on his cloak. He spun, fist curled defensively. But it was only Warin, with wet hair, a dripping red nose, and a cheery grin.

  “You walk fast!” Warin said. He was slightly out of breath.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Coming with you.”

  “No you’re not. Go home.”

  Warin crossed his arms stubbornly. “Can’t make me. C’mon, Brute. I been stuck inside the palace forever, and Alys is being really cranky. Please?” He batted his eyelashes as well as any coquette.

  “I’m not out for candy today, Warin, and you should be inside where it’s warm and dry.”

  Ignoring the second part of Aric’s statement, Warin asked, “What are you out for?”

  Aric sighed. “I’m looking for a beggar named Itan.”

  “I’ll help!”

  Aric stood with rain dripping down his neck and considered his options. He could drag the boy back to the castle, but unless Warin were somehow physically restrained, he’d just end up following at Aric’s heels again. And Aric didn’t have time to waste on games like that. He dampened a momentary image of Warin in chains and Gray free to move about. Not that he wanted Warin imprisoned, of course, but Aric’s life would certainly be simpler at the moment if he were. “Your sister will have my hide over this,” he said and resumed walking.

  Warin trotted at his side like an eager puppy. “Alys is too busy being mad at Cearl. She caught him talking to some of his sailor friends the other day, and then they had a great big fight, with all t
his screaming and crying. Cearl says he’s thinking of going back to sea so’s they can have a fancier house and more carts and stuff, and Alys says she doesn’t care about all that and she just wants him. Then she threw a dish at the wall.”

  “I’m sorry they’re having problems.”

  “Yeah.” Warin hopped into a puddle, splashing cold water all over Aric’s trousers. Eventually the wetness would soak through, chilling him even more. “I figure that’s what they get for being in love. I’m never gonna do that. People in love are stupid.”

  Another image of Gray came to Aric’s mind. This time Gray was fast asleep in Aric’s arms on the floor of the cell, his soft hair tickling Aric’s nose. “Oh gods, no!”

  “What’s the matter, Brute?”

  “I… nothing.” Just realized he’d fallen in love, that was all. He hurried his pace.

  It seemed to Aric that the more modest a neighborhood, the narrower and more haphazardly platted were its streets. Near the palace, the streets were wide and straight and orderly and, in the warmer months, lined with pots of colorful flowers. Here, though, buildings seemed to loom crookedly overhead, while streets ran off at odd angles, sometimes looping back, sometimes abruptly stopping altogether. The only thing that lined the streets here was refuse. There were very few people outside, but he could feel eyes following him from behind shutters or from the shadowed depths of the ancient buildings’ doorways. He spied a narrow close with an arched stone roof, and he dragged Warin into it. The close smelled strongly of piss, and several blanket-draped figures were hunched along its walls. “Stay here,” he hissed at Warin, who shrugged and then kicked idly at a small pile of sodden fabric.

  “Is Itan here?” Aric said loudly. He was met with silence, so he said, “Is one of you Itan? Do you know where I can find him?”

  A woman’s voice, cracked and ragged, replied. “I’ll be Itan for two coppers, my dear.” The other people in the close hacked with laughter.