‘Are you awake? Can you understand me?’ Sulitea demanded.
‘Yes,’ Aisla managed.
A water skin was pressed to her lips and she drank greedily. Sulitea glanced back over her shoulder, a guilty look at a wall and door of wood planks.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
‘My name is Aisla,’ Aisla answered weakly.
‘A peasant, some soldier’s daughter? Talithea of Ateron sent you?’
‘Yes, but where are we? Is this a Mundic ship, or Aeg…’
‘Neither, now listen closely,’ Sulitea interrupted, ‘and do not speak. Matters have changed somewhat.’
Aisla nodded.
‘We are on a ship, a ship of the Glass Coast, the Arrow,’ Sulitea told her. ‘I am your mistress and was carried away by the current while bathing. You swam after and rescued me, showing true devotion and no little strength. You have been feverish for a week and we now stand off the port of Utan, in Apraya. I was never in a celibentuary, be clear on that, never. On this vessel is one Count Alanthor, a nobleman of the Glass Coast. I am now his betrothed and will be his wife when the revolution succeeds and Prince Ythor reigns in Zihai. Am I clear?’
‘No,’ Aisla admitted.
Sulitea gave a frustrated sigh, opened her mouth to restart her explanation and then abruptly closed it as the door behind her creaked open. Aisla pulled her head up to see a heavily built man enter the room.
‘She is awake?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, Lord,’ Sulitea responded.
The man walked forward, looking down at Aisla, his expression flickering from condescension to respect and back. She gave him a weak smile, unsure whether she was captive or guest. He nodded and turned back to Sulitea.
‘It is about time,’ he said. ‘Explain her duties to her and have her on her feet as soon as you may.’
‘Yes, Lord,’ Sulitea responded and gave a curtsey both flirtatious and deferential.
The man smiled and tweaked Sulitea’s cheek, at which she blushed and simpered, then left as abruptly as he had entered.
‘Is he not magnificent?’ Sulitea declared as the door shut.
‘Who is he?’ Aisla managed.
‘Count Alanthor, silly girl,’ Sulitea answered. ‘Lord Tayar Alanthor, Count of Jihai, three detached from the royal line, my Lord. Now listen, you are my lady’s maid… you can maid can’t you?’
‘I am a maid, Lady’s maid to Elethrine, the Demoiselle Elethrine Korismund…’
‘You are? What then… No, never mind. Listen, as I said, you are my maid, and expected to behave as such. There are no other women on the boat either, so you will also have to wait on table and that sort of thing. Just be meek, obedient and proper. Is all clear?’
‘In a way,’ Aisla answered.
‘Good,’ Sulitea finished, ‘now rest, and in future, speak only when you are spoken to and address me as Ladyship. One other matter, you need not think I have forgotten that spanking!’
Sulitea walked from the cabin, leaving Aisla confused and uncertain. A number of emotions and thoughts vied for priority, but above all others it was impossible not to think of how Aurora’s elixir had affected her. At the time it had gone unnoticed in the whirl of escape from the celibentuary, but as her mind cleared she remembered how she had felt, utterly confident in herself, powerful, clear, cold and decisive, at least until Sulitea had bitten her tuppenny. After that there had been a spate of uncontrollable anger, enough to make her punish Sulitea when escape should have been her only concern. Her strength had been augmented as well, with Sulitea, who was not small, like a doll in her hands.
Now it was gone, leaving her insecure on the strange ship, with only the tantalising memory of how it had felt. Several days were missing from her life, making the insecurity worse, while events had moved entirely beyond her control. Certainly Sulitea was different, poised, noble, much as Aisla had expected her to be, and entirely changed from the cringing slut of Kavas-Arion. She also seemed to be betrothed to some Glass Coast nobleman, who evidently knew nothing about the celibentuary.
Over the next few days Aisla came to full understand her position. The Arrow was on route from the Dwarven port of Utan to Jihai, carrying arms in support of a rebellion. Count Alanthor had pulled Sulitea and herself from the sea out of simple humanity, and was entirely unaware of the truth, even to thinking that Kavas-Arion celibentuary was a fortress, which it certainly resembled. Sulitea had lied about her shamed status but not her rank, and Alanthor had more or less taken possession of her, delighting in having a beautiful Mundic noblewoman. Unable to return to her homeland, and impressed by Alanthor, Sulitea had succumbed willingly.
Sulitea’s story had been accepted and Aisla could see no benefit in contradicting it. To her the Glass Coast was a distant, romantic place, a kingdom on the north coast of the continent of Cypraea. Of their customs she knew very little, except that whipping a girl was considered an act of foreplay more than a punishment. Despite this quirk it seemed unlikely that a nobleman would accept a girl who had given herself to a dung-gatherer as his betrothed.
So she held her peace, and served at table and cleaned and scrubbed while Sulitea indulged Alanthor’s lust, sipped rare wines and took her ease in the best appointed cabin. Again and again Aisla asked herself what Elethrine would have done in the circumstances, but no useful answer came. They were headed for the Glass Coast and the dangers of a rebellion of which she knew nothing and had no desire to be involved in, but she had no choice in the matter.
Nor did victory seem as certain as Count Alanthor liked to paint it. Prince Ythor, eldest son of King Mogath, had been disinherited for refusing to accept some religious stance favoured by his father. The King was unpopular outside the capital, the younger son, Agrath, more so. Ythor had taken himself to Jihai in the west of the kingdom, raised an army and intended to march on the capital, Zihai. All this Aisla had overheard while waiting at table, but a glance at the map on one wall showed that the Prince controlled no more than a third of the Glass Coast and a lower proportion of the population.
She also knew that the Count’s concept of warfare would have made her father laugh, being more romantic than practical. Not that she dared comment, having learnt the consequences of speaking out of turn on only her second day after getting up. While serving dinner, she had inadvertently offered a dish of steamed blood-eel to Count Alanthor from the left hand side. He had corrected her on her error with no real rancour, but when she had replied that she knew nothing of Glass Coast etiquette he had made a single, mildly irritated, signal to the boatswain. Before Aisla realised what was happening she had been grabbed and her arm twisted hard into the small of her back. The boatswain had pushed her down over a chest, flipped up the simple skirt she had made herself and tugged down the pair of boy’s drawers she had on underneath. It was so sudden that one instant after her blunder had been committed she found herself with her naked bottom stuck high in the air, the next squealing in shock and pain as a rope’s end was applied firmly across her buttocks. Her position was blatant, with both tuppenny and bottom ring on full show to a room of a dozen people, and she kicked and yelped her way through the beating in a way that in that she would have expected to leave each one grinning and laughing at her discomfort. Instead, the Count, the Captain and officers had ignored her completely, leaving only Sulitea to watch among those at the table. The crew had responded very differently, watching her beating with leering grins until it was over, at which point the boatswain and made a whispered request to the Count. Alanthor had responded with a disinterested nod and the boatswain had once more taken Aisla by the arm, pulling her from the state cabin with her drawers still halfway down her thighs. In the poky cabin he occupied in the bows of the Arrow, she had been obliged to suck his penis and swallow a good mouthful of thick, salty sperm. By then the combination of the bottom warming and his cock had brou
ght her on heat and she had masturbated with his sperm dribbling down her chin and her skirt up to make a show of her sex, at which he had shown no surprise at all. Since the beating she had taken trouble to learn correct etiquette, trading the use of her mouth and breasts for information. Most of this came from the boatswain, Grathor, who came to regard her as his own, and if he applied the rope’s end to her bottom occasionally, he also held her when she had been beaten, entirely understood the way such treatment aroused her and fucked her regularly.
At last they reached Jihai. Aisla found a place at the bow where she was out of the way of the seamen and watched as the Arrow came in with both fascination and an ever increasing sense of insecurity. Jihai was a city of squat houses and low domes rising from a wide harbour onto one of a range of low hills. At the top of this stood a bulky fortress. Aisla knew the name, and that it was famous for glassware and velvet, nothing more, and was surprised by both its beauty and the sense of tranquillity. Low, crennellated forts guarded either side of the harbour and a boom had been slung between the two breakwaters of piled boulders, but otherwise there were no signs of the military activity she had been expecting.
As they approached the harbour signals were exchanged and the men on the breakwaters began to work the boom, opening a passage for the Arrow. Count Alanthor came to stand on the sterncastle, along with his officers. Sulitea also appeared, dressed in the longest of the Dwarven smocks she had purchased in Utan. Her face was set in a petulant expression, which grew stronger as the Arrow approached the quay and it became possible to examine the dress of the locals. Aisla realised Sulitea’s concern at the sight of the Jihai women, all of whom, even the fishwives selling their wares along the quay, wore long, neck high dresses of rich colours. Her own sailcloth skirt and straining leather jerkin suddenly seemed tawdry, while the long slice of cleavage that she had showing both for comfort and to tease the sailors seemed an act of blatant exposure.
They docked and Aisla waited until the gangplank was down, feeling excited and nervous as she stepped out onto the foreign quay. It was crowded, and while most of the people nearby were busy, a fair number had turned to stare. Aisla returned nervous smiles until Grathor jumped down beside her, casually squeezed her bottom and then smacked it. Despite being used to his treatment, Aisla squeaked and found herself blushing as several people laughed.
‘Your mistress considers a Dwarven smock unsuitable for the streets of Jihai,’ Grathor announced, ‘and nor does she wish to have you trailing behind her dressed like a ragamuffin. The Lord has given me a purse and I’m to take you to a seamstress, and perhaps to show you one or two of Jihai’s other attractions while we’re at it, eh?’
He finished with a knowing wink. Aisla smiled back, unsure of how his blatantly lewd manner could relate to being shown around Jihai.
‘The Lord patronises several couturiers,’ Grathor said, casually taking her around the waist and steering her across the quay. ‘Yasma’s is perhaps the best, although she will doubtless complain at so little notice. Come.’
He took her hand and led her across the quay and into the city. Aisla became more confident as they made their way through the streets, but continued to feel embarrassed. For one thing none of the women and few of the men reached her height, and plenty of attention was directed to her cleavage. Grathor seemed indifferent to the attention and walked casually, occasionally nodding to an acquaintance or exchanging a word but not troubling to introduce Aisla. Once more she was struck by the lack of military activity, with an atmosphere much in keeping with her limited experience of cities.
The couturier’s premises proved to be a large building on one of the major streets, and showed every evidence of wealth and prestige. Grathor seemed indifferent and pushed the door wide, calling for attention. The interior was cool and bright, with samples of cloth draped from the walls and dresses on wooden mannequins. Aisla looked around, impressed by the show of materials as fine as anything Elethrine possessed and of far better quality than her own clothes. Deeper into the building, through a wide hatch, she could see a long room lit by tall windows, with women seated working at tables while others stood among them. At Grathor’s call one of the standing women looked up, then came towards the foyer at a stately walk. She was a dumpy woman whose head barely reached the level of Aisla’s chest, yet who looked at her with an expression of haughty dislike.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘We need a suitable wardrobe for the Lord Alanthor’s new lady,’ Grathor answered, ‘also for Aisla here, who is her maid.’
‘New Lady, what is this?’ the woman demanded.
‘The Lady Sulitea, a Mundic demoiselle, tall, well formed and as beautiful as a summer’s day,’ Grathor replied. ‘By good fortune we pulled her, and Aisla here, from the tide among the Grey Dean rocks. Lord Alanthor is greatly struck with her.’
Aisla thought to detect a sense of taunting in Grathor’s words, which seemed odd, but the seamstress merely set her lips yet more firmly.
‘She was naked at the time,’ Grathor went on, ‘and a fine sight, one worthy of a Count. Still, we can not have her paraded nude through the streets, however much one might wish it, still less in a dwarven smock or sailcloth.’
‘The Lady, if I must,’ the woman answered grudgingly. ‘I do not work for menials.’
‘Then assign a journeywoman or apprentice,’ Grathor answered. ‘This is by direct order of the Count.’
The woman sniffed but returned to the main room.
‘That is Madame Yasma herself,’ Grathor said quietly.
‘She seems remarkable lofty for a seamstress,’ Aisla whispered in return.
Grathor chuckled and began to speak, only to stop as Yasma and another woman came back into the foyer.
‘Take this girl to the stock room and measure her,’ Madame Yasma instructed. ‘Then have her choose suitable materials for the dresses.’
The woman gave a deferential nod and signalled to Aisla who followed up a flight of stairs and into a large room stacked with bolts of cloth; velvet and silk, along with other, less expensive materials.
‘What will you need?’ the woman asked, her manner only marginally less frosty than that of Madame Yasma.
Aisla paused, considering the choices. Every single bolt of velvet or silk was richer than the material she was used to, and many were in unfamiliar colours, including a vibrant orange and pure black. For Sulitea the choice was wide, with plenty of rich colours that would suit her blonde hair and set off her slender figure. For herself it was harder, with many of the more exotic choices clashing with her copper coloured hair while she was reluctant to choose a cheap material with so much luxury to hand. At length she selected two blues, silk and velvet, a wonderful rich green velvet and a scarlet silk for Sulitea, each to be made into a dress with underclothes to match. It was an order that she knew even Talithea would have considered extravagant, yet the woman showed no surprise whatever, making Aisla bolder when it came to her own selection.
She admired the choice as the seamstress cut swatches, finally selecting a deep blue silk and the pure black velvet, which she was unable to resist. The seamstress made a clucking noise as Aisla pointed out her choices but said nothing, cutting the swatches and noting each choice on a piece of charta. Aisla waited, feeling happier than she had for some time at the prospect of the beautiful new dresses she would have, also bolder.
With the samples cut the seamstress went back down to the foyer, signalling to Aisla to follow with a single curt gesture. The samples were given to Madame Yasma, who took them with an expression which suggested the entire process to be beneath her.
‘What of the maid?’ she demanded when she had inspected all six samples.
‘These are mine, the deepest blue and the black,’ Aisla what.
‘Vendjomois silk? Imperial black velvet? For a maid!’ Yasma exclaimed. ‘Nonsense! Unthinkab
le! What impudence!’
A hand shot out, aimed for Aisla’s cheek, but she had already stepped back. Madame Yasma lurched forward and sprawled on the floor, dropping the samples and drawing laughter from both Grathor and Aisla. Yasme was helped to her feet by assistants, four of them, buzzing around their mistress and throwing Aisla black looks.
‘That is arranged then?’ Grathor asked with mock innocence.
‘No it is not arranged!’ Madame Yasma spat. ‘These are among the most costly fabrics of all, entirely unsuitable for a maid! She will have two dresses, knee length, plain, in grey calico!’
‘As you see fit,’ Grathor answered, ‘just as long as the Count is satisfied. For now, have a couple of display dresses altered. We will be at Voelath’s.’
Madame Yasma gave an angry nod and they left, turning not towards the impressive fortress as Aisla had expected, but down a side street, along which Grathor led her until they reached a large building of wood and yellow brick, which he entered. A broad desk stood immediately inside the door, with a small man in rich blue livery behind it. As Grathor and Aisla entered he gave a low bow.
‘Good afternoon, sir, my lady,’ he greeted them. ‘I welcome you to Voelath's. What service will you be requiring?’
‘Nothing too exotic,’ Grathor answered. ‘She is a Mundic.’
‘But beautiful indeed,’ the clerk answered, looking up at Aisla with an oily grin, ‘your hair, exotic to say the least; your face, pert, strong, yet sensitive; your breasts, magnificent, few Hai ladies can boast such mammary development over so trim a waist. As to your most choice features, I am sure they will not disappoint, fate could not allow so beautiful a girl an ugly cunt, still less her bottom!’
Aisla found herself blushing at his remarks and more confused than ever, also alarmed at the implication that he might shortly be able to inspect her bare bottom. The clerk appeared indifferent to her reaction and had turned to look at a board on which a list of names were marked, some with a red panel beside them, others without.
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