“No, Master. I mean—”
“Never mind. Let me come straight to the point. We moved ahead to the banqueting lesson because we felt it would most directly benefit you. Master Eru says you have completed most of the other courses, with the exception of advanced lamasket.
Azno felt a hot blush suffuse his face. “That-that is true, Master Oraj.”
This time Eru spoke. “That may be to your advantage, as it happens.”
Azno found himself more confused than ever, not to mention frightened by the mention of lamasket after what he and Master Chadan had done earlier. With his thoughts spinning, he struggled to pay attention to Master Oraj’s next words.
“The time for your formal presentation to Garghas is being moved up,” he said matter-of-factly, as though he were setting a new rehearsal date for the royal concert.
“Moved up?” Azno started to say but caught himself from echoing Master Oraj just in time. Instead, he managed to stammer, “W-why, Master?”
“That is not for us to ask,” Eru said. “It is his majesty Prince Baboye’s wish. That is good enough for us.”
Thankfully, Master Oraj did not notice Azno’s look of panic. Or, at least, he pretended not to notice. “Before the contract is finalized, though, Lord Garghas has made a request that Prince Baboye has been happy to grant. Therefore, you will join his lordship in his private chamber tomorrow night. First, you will serve him a meal in the manner you were just taught. Afterward, you will demonstrate your suitability as his future concubine and express your gratitude at being taken to live at his country estate.” His voice grew colder and more fearsome, if that was possible. “Do you understand?”
Azno fought back the tears stinging his eyes and struggled to ignore the sensation of his throat closing up. “Yes, Master,” he managed to gasp.
“You may go back to your friend now and resume your lesson.” With a curt nod, Oraj turned and left the room. Eru waited while Azno stood blinking after him. Azno thought he detected a look of pity in Eru’s face, but he couldn’t be sure.
“You may tell Toaz the news if you like,” he said gently. “By evening, most of the palace and everyone in the harem will know. The prince plans to make an announcement at the evening meal.”
Nodding, Azno stumbled back to the makeshift banquet area to find Toaz gaping at him. Eru followed, clapping his hands above his head and announcing a short break for the students. Quickly, Toaz drew Azno into a corner of the room where the hanging curtains would hide them from view.
“What was that all about? Was it something to do with Master Chadan?”
“No! Not at all! Well—perhaps in a small way.” Struggling to control his voice, Azno related an abbreviated version of Master Oraj’s news. When he finished, Toaz’s face had become a mask of astonishment. “But I’m not going with him,” Azno concluded. “I’d rather kill myself.”
“What? How can you say such a thing? When did you decide all that?”
“Just now, when I said it,” Azno crossed his arms and tried to assemble his features into a determined expression. Instead, a sob bubbled up from his chest and his eyes streamed. Abruptly Toaz’s eyes narrowed with understanding and he leaned forward to wrap Azno in his arms. Azno threw himself desperately into the embrace, hot tears spurting down his cheeks.
“It happened, didn’t it?” Toaz asked, speaking quietly into his ear. “With Master Chadan?”
Azno knew he didn’t have to answer in words. He gave a half-nod into Toaz’s shoulder and heard him suck in an admiring breath.
“Well, well. I should have known. Now it all begins to make sense. You have to tell me, though…How was it?”
“Wondrous. Magical. Like…like nothing else I’ve ever felt or done. So much better than the trainers told us.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The first time he—we—er—you know, Lord Garghas will find out he is not my first. Master Chadan and I will both be punished. Maybe even killed!”
“Oh, nonsense. Maybe in Diviak’s time they put people to death for krasking. Not now. We live in more enlightened times, thank the deities. It’s practically expected. Besides, you give Garghas too much credit. He’ll be far too excited to worry about a small detail like that—at least if the trainers are right about certain things.”
“Somehow, he will know. He already suspects. I’m sure of that.” Slowly, Azno pulled free and wiped his eyes. “It’s not just that. I can’t go with Lord Garghas because I hate him. Well, not him. The thought of being with him. I only want to be with Master Chadan. But it isn’t possible.”
On the other side of the curtain, Master Eru was calling for everyone to return to their places and resume the lesson.
“I’m telling you, I’m not going to his chambers and I’m not going to his estate,” Azno repeated, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ll run away first.”
“That’s a more sensible idea than your first one, actually. But don’t think about doing it yet.” Toaz took Azno’s hand and pulled him toward the curtain. “Just leave this to me. I have an idea that just might fix everything.”
*~*~*
Still shaken from the day’s events, Chadan pleaded illness and stayed away from the evening meal, asking instead that one of the palace servants bring some bread and wine to his rooms. When the paltry meal arrived, he found that he had no taste for it after all. Instead, he plodded through some of his students’ translations, fighting off a headache as he struggled to concentrate. He watched the sky darken through his windows, longing for the day to end but knowing he would be unable to sleep. Every dream would be strewn with memories of Azno, and every memory would twist the knife already embedded in his heart. Perhaps he would never sleep again.
He had just finished the last dregs of the wine when someone tapped on his door. The servant, he suspected, back for the empty dishes.
“Just a moment,” he called, placing his empty goblet on the tray and rising. When he swung open the door, he was momentarily stunned by the identity of his guest.
“Your majesty,” he murmured, cursing his wine-numbed tongue for the clumsy way it formed the words. Instinctively he spread his hands over his simple indoor tunic. “Please forgive my appearance. I am wholly unprepared for such an honor.”
Prince Baboye stepped inside, needing no invitation and apparently not inclined to wait for a ceremonial one. He strolled toward Chadan’s desk, blatantly examining the student poems spread across it.
“I suppose you read a lot of poetry about unrequited love,” Baboye said. He brushed his fingers over the top few pages, stirring the sheets of parchment. Chadan wondered, wildly, if he was looking for some sort of love letter from one of the students hidden among the pages “It touches your heart, perhaps.”
“It would,” Chadan said carefully, “if I were a maudlin sort of man. As it happens, I am not. The poetry is an intellectual exercise—rather like mathematics for some.”
“Then your heart suffers no pain when you read it? I did not think that was the purpose of poetry.”
“I admire the poet’s technical skill above anything else. The tone, the wordplay, the music the words form when they come together. That is my idea of love, your Majesty.”
“I see.” Baboye paused and grimaced in thought. “Have you much practical experience to go with your intellectual acumen?”
“Apologies—I fear I do not understand the question,” Chadan lied.
Baboye scoffed, though his manner was not harsh. “I thought you might not. Let me put it another way, then. All men have certain…bodily requirements, would you not agree?”
“That is a scientific fact, your Majesty. Therefore, I must.”
“And you are not exempt from such needs, surely. Have you a method of appeasing them when it becomes necessary?” He held up a hand when Chadan fidgeted. “I am referring to Shebi, of course. I confess I do not care for the man, or even trust him overmuch, but he serves a need in this kingdom
. As do our own harem boys.”
“Of course, your Majesty.”
Baboye wandered across the room and took a seat by the window. Chadan, unsure what the protocol might be in such a situation, remained standing. “They are beautiful, are they not? All that supple young flesh, newly grown into manhood. Those lively voices and even livelier young minds. It is hard to take one’s eyes off them.”
“Indeed. I am sure that is true.” Chadan did not need to elaborate on what was obvious—Prince Baboye could slake his thirst for any one—or more—of them any time he pleased. Chadan could not. That had never been a problem until now.
“What do you think of Lord Garghas?”
Chadan should have expected the question, or at least the sudden shift in topics, but he had not. He fumbled with his reply.
“He seems an admirable man. A consummate soldier, certainly. As to the rest, I do not know him well enough to comment. Clearly your Majesty is impressed with him.”
“I would not put it exactly that way. I must reward Garghas for his service in protecting the monarchy. I am not, however, especially fond of him. At best, I have no reason to distrust him. In today’s world that is something worth holding onto.”
“Indeed. I have heard of the distant rebellions. Let us hope they do not come near the palace.”
Baboye nodded. “We are of one mind on that score. There is one other matter that I hope we will agree about—that Azno must leave the harem as soon as possible.”
Chadan knew his pause was just long enough for Baboye to verify his suspicions. So, there it was, his secret as far out in the open as it would ever be.
“But the Royal Concert,” he offered. It was as much a protest as he dared to make.
“We will manage without him. You need to know that Lord Garghas plans to claim Azno tomorrow night and remove him from the harem the following day. It is for the best, Haerek. You know that as well as I.”
“He cannot possibly go yet, your Majesty.” Desperately Chadan waved a hand at his desk. “His training is not finished.”
“Garghas can finish training him in a more private setting. Since Azno will never be part of the harem now, it is of little consequence.”
“And my recital,” Chadan went on, his despair increasing by the moment. “He is by far the strongest performer. I had hoped…”
“You will find and train a replacement.” Baboye’s eyes glittered. There was no room to disagree. Chadan bowed his head, mortified at himself.
“Yes, your Majesty. Of course. Your will is my own, as ever.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Baboye slapped his palms on his knees and rose. Chadan hurried to open the door for him. The prince stopped at the threshold and turned to face him. “I always knew you were a wise man, Master Chadan. I am pleased to see it confirmed. Do not think I am unfamiliar with love and what it can do to a man. Not all of its effects are harmful. However, when it is impossible, or even dangerous, it is better to cut it away as one might sever a diseased limb. The loss is painful and unsightly, perhaps, but in the end a life—or even more than one life—can be saved. This is what we must always remember.”
Chadan swallowed. His eyes burned. “I cannot disagree, your Majesty.”
He did not lift his head as Baboye continued into the hall. The door closed between them, leaving Chadan alone with his scrolls and his poems and his students’ pitiful translations. He did not care to read many more of them. His classes meant nothing to him now. Nor did the upcoming performance. Indeed, his life itself scarcely meant more at the moment.
But he would persevere, even with a hollowed heart. He always did.
Chapter Eight
Unseen harem servants had taken great care to prepare the room reserved for his private audience with Lord Garghas. A long table sat loaded with enough food and wine for several people, though no one else was expected to join them. A ring of glowing Marqash stones encircled a divan wide enough for two. The rocks had been carved into sculptures that seemed to pulse with life. Palace artists had formed abstract shapes that nonetheless seemed faintly erotic. Hazy gold light shimmered through their hand-smoothed surfaces, lending the perfect aura for seduction.
Azno stood in the center of the room, freshly scrubbed and dressed in the fine robe Lord Garghas had given him. The spicy scent of his own perfumed skin tickled his nose. Warily he eyed the high walls, skillfully painted over with murals depicting the glorious history of the royal family and the building of Oranto. The artwork provided many convenient spots to place a tiny spyhole, or even a row of them. If anyone were hiding behind them in order to observe the proceedings, he realized, things might go awry very quickly. But then, Toaz had already warned him not to worry.
“No one will be watching,” he had assured Azno when he’d left the common area to be prepared for the evening’s events. “It would be an outrageous insult to Garghas. They have no problem observing our training sessions, but this is different. It’s far more serious. Besides, as of tonight you’re no longer part of the harem. Remember that.”
As he replayed the words in his mind, his eyes automatically drifted to his wrist, now free of the band that had marked him as a novitiate until that very afternoon. The space would eventually be covered again, but with a tattoo or bracelet that would mark him as the concubine—or property, depending how one looked at it—of Lord Garghas himself.
Restless, he wandered to the corner table and examined a jar filled with strong-smelling wine. A deep swallow of that would do much to quell his nervousness—but, at that same time, fogging his mind was the last thing he ought to do considering the task that lay ahead. Still, it could do no harm to pour a gobletful for Lord Garghas so it would be ready when he arrived. His hands shook a little as he raised the jar and tilted it forward.
Just as he lowered it again, the door scraped open and a servant entered. Azno frowned, puzzled, until a shadow crossed the threshold and Lord Garghas stepped inside.
“I see you have done me the courtesy of arriving punctually. Your handlers would have seen to that, of course. Still, I am gratified to find you here.”
“I am thankful that I may be of service, my lord,” he said, reciting the words and bowing exactly as he had been instructed.
Garghas paused a moment, no doubt letting his eyes adjust to the light, or perhaps questioning what he thought he saw.
“What is all over your face?” he demanded.
Azno resisted the urge to touch his own cheeks. “Paint, my lord. I thought you would like it.”
“Why would you suppose such a thing?”
“Well…it is traditional in these situations. The colors help disguise any imperfections in one’s features…but they also add a touch of theatrical excitement to the proceedings. It is easier to be bold behind a mask, you see. And many men in your position prefer a bit of boldness once certain activities commence.”
Azno held his breath until he saw a tiny smile curve Garghas’s coarse lips. “Do they? Well…I cannot deny that the prospect intrigues me. Your trainers are obviously wise men.”
“They are.” Azno hoped that the muted light hid the blush on his cheeks. The face paint had been Toaz’s idea, but “wisdom” was not a quality often attributed to him. Hopefully that portended success in other matters, too. “You do me great honor, my lord.”
Garghas snorted. “You’re right. I do. I hope you will remember that. Don’t bother to argue about it. I’ve heard the rumors, just like everyone else in the palace. However, I will not concern myself with that. After tonight, there will be no more whispers when I pass a group of tutors or courtiers in the halls. And even if there are, we shall not be here to worry about them. My country villa awaits.”
“Yes, my lord.” Azno waited for him to add the same thing everyone else did—that they would be comfortable there, or that Azno would have all the material comforts he could ever dream of desiring. Yet Garghas did not bother. Perhaps he thought the benefits of country living too obvious to need mentioni
ng. Or perhaps he did not care whether Azno enjoyed his new home or not.
Two quick strides carried Garghas across the room to the divan near the banquet table. He swept an indifferent gaze over the refreshments waiting there and then tossed off his outer garment with a single flick of his sinewy wrist. It landed, crumpled, in the corner. Beneath it, Garghas wore only a flimsy tunic, sheer enough to expose every ridge of muscle honed by years of rigorous military service. Stiff black hairs matching the ones on his arms bristled at the base of his throat and disappeared beneath the fabric’s edge. Azno mentally followed that dusky trail to the juncture of Garghas’s solid thighs. He had no doubt something else was stirring there, hard and thick, but he couldn’t force himself to look. Instead, he reached toward the table while Garghas stretched out on the couch and ran his fingers down the front of his own garment.
“I will have you remove this later,” he decided, smacking his lips. “The truth is, I can krask anytime I want and with anyone I choose. The prince assures me that you young men are trained in all the ways that can provide the greatest pleasure. I am looking forward to this evening immensely.”
Azno bowed, seizing the goblet he had already filled. “Indeed, my lord. We have been thoroughly trained in these matters. I am here to serve you.”
“Come to me, then.” That large, long-fingered hand swung out, clutching at him. Under the pretext of raising the goblet from the table, Azno avoided his grasp.
“Some wine first? I am assured it is one Prince Baboye’s most prized vintages.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Garghas drank deeply—first one gobletful, then another. He licked a few stray droplets from his lips. “Wine, yes. An excellent suggestion. I am most refreshed. Now you must come to me.”
“Soon, my lord. Some sweetmeats? Pagvee berries steeped in brandy? A great delicacy his Majesty was most insistent you try.”
Garghas looked as though he was about to refuse, but the prospect of sampling a great delicacy proved irresistible. He opened his mouth so that Azno could touch the swollen black concoctions to his lips. He squeezed out the juice and rubbed the skins over Garghas’s tongue, just as he had been shown.
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