House of Lust

by Tony Roberts

  “It should be Kastan City; surely you’ll be named the new heir when Jorqel takes up the throne?”

  Argan smiled, still looking out across the rooftops. “Emperor? Me? I don’t have the ruthless streak necessary.” He had memories of what Metila had said to him, and the spiteful remarks Istan had hurled in the past. “Could I condemn people to death while sitting in a chair? I don’t know. It sounds like a lot of hard work and everyone wants to see you and speak to you. No, I don’t think I’m going to be a good emperor. I want to be a good general, with you as my bodyguard,” now he looked directly at his friend who smiled briefly in response.

  Argan slapped his hands against his thighs. The mornings were still chilly but the day would warm up, and from the look of the sky it would be a sunny day. The recent rains had stopped the day before, and although the ground was still sodden, he was eager to go out riding. “This afternoon we will ride out to the coast. I want to see that old shipwreck again.”

  Kerrin agreed. “But don’t go climbing too far – the tide comes in quickly there.”

  Argan grinned. “Oh, don’t be a spoiler. We can take Kontas with us. He needs to teach us more on riding tactics, doesn’t he? We can learn as we go on our ride.”

  “What of now? Another boring morning with Mr. Sen? Or the governor?”

  “Oh, both. A lesson in Epatamian protocol,” Argan grimaced. “It’s all hand waving, like you’re trying to dry them in the wind,” he waved his hands wildly to demonstrate. “Lots of smiling, even when you don’t feel like it. Funny people, the Epatamians.”

  “Yes – but when will you ever meet them? They’re so far away from us.”

  Argan shrugged. “Who knows? Mr. Sen always says expect the unexpected. Maybe a fantor will fall out of the sky and splat into pieces in the town square there,” he pointed. “SPLAT!”

  Kerrin chuckled, something he hadn’t done much over the past season or so. “You make me laugh.”

  “Good, it’s about time you cheered up. It was horrible what happened to your father, but you and I have a long time to be friends and I want you to be happy.”

  Kerrin sighed and nodded. “I think if it wasn’t for you I’d die of sadness.”

  “Well you’re not going to. What are your duties this morning?”

  “Oh – care of tack and harnesses. Learning what they are all called and where they go on all kinds of equines, not just the war beasts.”

  “Ah. Equine care as well, yes?”

  Kerrin nodded. “As your bodyguard I am to take care of the more menial tasks while you think of more important things.”

  “Like whether fantors will fall out of the sky, yes.” Argan nodded seriously, then glanced slyly at his friend. Both burst out laughing on cue.

  “Oh, wasting time, are we?” came Thetos Olskan’s voice from behind. Both boys turned as one to see the big, greying governor glaring at them. “Idle hands make mischief, you know.”

  “How’s Metila?” Argan asked. “Good morning, Governor, by the way.”

  “Sire,” Thetos said gruffly. “Metila is fine; it’s only a winter chill. She’s recovering.”

  “I know – I heard her sneezing. It’s like a fantor, it’s that loud. I thought you might have gone deaf with all that in the same room.”

  Thetos grunted. “Young prince, you’ve got a fixation with fantors. You’ve never seen one, so why the fascination?”

  “Then they really exist?” Argan became excited. “Really?”

  “Oh yes, they do, but not here. They’ve never been here. Far away, yes. Far to the west, beyond the western mountains, or so people say. So, you’re interested in fabled beasts. What of flame beasts – some call them dragons?”

  “Oh, those too? Do they really exist?”

  Thetos shrugged. “Perhaps – although nobody has actually seen one. Maybe one or two have, but only in the bottom of a bottle.” He laughed at his own joke. “Great sea slitherers, that can drag a great ship down under the waters. Hmm, yes, listen to the tales of drunken sailors in the taverns along the waterfront. There you’ll hear lots of tall stories. Which are true, or have some truth you’ll have to work out yourself.”

  “Wow, we ought to go and see for ourselves!” Argan said.

  Thetos waved a finger under the prince’s nose. “Ah-uh, not until you’ve reached the age of maturity. The emperor would have my innards for breakfast if he found out I let you go to those dens of sin.”

  “What – really? Ugh! Would he really eat you?”

  “No, just an expression – but I’d be in deep trouble. Stay away from those places until you’re old enough and wise enough to know what trouble they bring.”

  Argan was doubly fascinated. “What trouble, Governor?”

  “Ah,” Thetos knew he’d done it again – saying too much to the curious Argan. “Well, drink, women, thievery. That sort of thing.”

  “Oh. Drink – yes people fall down when they do that too much. Women? Are women trouble?”

  “Oh, yes, more than you could imagine,” Thetos grinned dreamily. He snapped suddenly out of it and assumed a serious expression. “Uh, these types are prostitutes.”

  “Prostitutes?” Argan said, a little too loudly for Thetos’ comfort. “What are they?”

  “Women who sell their bodies to whoever will pay. Loose women of bad morality,” Thetos said firmly, nodding with emphasis.

  “Oh,” Argan frowned, trying to work that one out. He had the feeling the subject should not be spoken about. “And thievery? People steal from others there? Why don’t you stop it then? You’re Governor, so your word should be good enough! Arrest those who ignore you.”

  Thetos chuckled. “Then I would have to arrest half the waterfront population. Look, Young Prince, those sort of people are not worth the effort, and they stay in their own district. They are a known hazard to anyone who goes there, and frankly it’s a rough area, the same with all dock areas the world over. I leave them alone as it helps them to blow off a lot of frustrations. As long as it doesn’t affect the rest of the city or trade, then it’s best not to go down there and stir up a nest of stingers.”

  Argan didn’t look satisfied, but left it alone for the moment. “There’s a lot of things that seem to happen that shouldn’t, and people don’t do anything to stop it.”

  “That’s the way of the world, Prince Argan. When you become governor, you’ll find that there are some districts you won’t be able to police properly, and it’ll be a waste of time trying to stop whatever it is. They have their own sub-culture, and they’ll leave the rest of us alone if we do the same to them.”

  “Alright, I’ll take that as good advice.” Argan accepted Thetos’ bow and the Governor strode past, his two aides following close behind. Kerrin bowed, too. He excused himself and wandered off to the stables for his morning lesson. Argan, all alone, thought for a moment, then decided to hurry to the governor’s room before he went to Mr. Sen. He had a few moments to spare.

  As he hoped, Metila was there, tidying up the remnants of breakfast. “Ah, Lakhani,” she addressed him as he entered. She spoke in Bragalese to him.

  Argan did the same to her. “Metila – can you tell me something please?”

  “Of course, if I can. It’s not often a member of the ruling House asks a humble slave girl something.”

  “Metila, you’re no humble slave girl; we both know that.”

  “I was trying to make a joke.”

  “Oh.” Argan grinned. “Sorry, I had something on my mind.” He dragged a chair out from under a desk and sat on it. Metila sat on the edge of the desk, Argan idly noting that this made her show most of her legs, and he wondered why she deliberately did that. No matter, he had to ask her as she seemed quite wise in certain things.

  Metila smiled to herself. The prince was ignoring her legs which she suspected he would. She listened attentively to him.

  “Metila; what happens when a woman sells her body to a man?”

  “Oh – a whore? A prostitute
? Well, she has sex to sell, and men – and sometimes some women but that is rare – will pay for that. Places like brothels and taverns have those sort of women.”

  “Yes,” Argan nodded, “but what exactly happens? I mean, lots of people talk about sex but they don’t explain what it is.”

  “It isn’t spoken about in Kastanian society, Kastanians are too – polite,” Metila chose the word, making it sound like an insult.

  “But you are Bragalese,” Argan countered, “and we are speaking in your language.”

  Metila inclined her head. The boy had a fair point. “Very well.” She pointed at his loins. “Your moklar,” she used the slang, “swells much bigger when you want sex, and a woman becomes wet down there. He slips his moklar into her…..”

  “Where?”

  Metila told him bluntly, and smiled at the prince’s reaction. “We also have these,” she slipped her top down to show her breasts to him. “Men love these too.”

  Argan’s eyes went wide. “Ah yes, I wondered about that. I do find them interesting.”

  Metila nodded and slipped her top back up. “These grow hard and swell too. So, you slip inside the woman and that’s sex. It’s very enjoyable.”

  “I suppose so – I wouldn’t know.” He pulled a thoughtful face. “I’m supposed to do something like that after I get married.”

  “Yes – but men do that before they marry. Don’t listen to those who protest they do not; most of them are lying.”

  “Metila, do you make men have sex with you? Like my father?”

  “I did with your father because I had to get a favour from him to allow Thetos to remain governor. I would not do it with men who are unimportant or who I do not like. Bragalese women will do it to seal an agreement, which is why Kastanian people look down on us – but the men love us.”

  “Ah, right. Hmmm. So – what will happen to Amal when she goes through the Growing Through?”

  “Oh, yes. I have been speaking to her about that. She will demand sex, it will be uncontrollable. A man will have to be with her to satisfy her needs, or it could be harmful to her.”

  “I – I have promised to be with her when that happens,” he explained, his hands spread. “I’m her friend,” he rushed out.

  “Yes, I see. Well, you must be strong, ready and prepared to be scratched and bitten. It will be violent. Are you sure you want to be there? What will your parents say? It is not expected for a nobleman to be there at that time.”

  Argan swallowed and nodded. “I need to know what to do so Amal has the best Growing Through.”

  “Ah, so this is what all these questions are for.” Metila smiled and slid off the desk. She took his hands and pulled him up to his feet. She looked up into his eyes; he was now slightly taller than she. “A noble act. Very well, I shall tell you how to please a women, but know this, Lakhani, all you need to do on her Growing Through is to remain prepared physically, and I can assist you in that! Now, listen and remember.”

  She began telling him how a man could pleasure a woman, and Argan’s eyes grew wider and wider.

  He was late in arriving at the study where Mr. Sen was impatiently waiting for him. “Well, Young Prince,” he sighed mightily, peering at his student over his face spectacles, “tardiness is not something you would like to be known for.”

  “Tardiness, Mr. Sen?”

  “Being late,” the teacher said with ill-concealed irritation. “I trust you have a reasonable excuse?”

  Argan bowed in acknowledgement of his lateness – tardiness, he corrected himself. Another word to remember. Why were there so many words for the same thing? It made everything so complicated! “I’m sorry, Mr. Sen, I won’t be late again.”

  “Is there going to be an explanation?”

  “Ah,” Argan sat down slowly. “I had to see a woman about a personal matter.”

  “Oh. Well – ahem – see that it doesn’t interfere again with your studies. Whatever it was, I’m sure it isn’t as important as what I have to teach you?”

  “Of course, Mr. Sen,” Argan smiled. “Epatamian cultural greetings, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm, yes. At least you know what the subject is going to be today. So, the Epatamians. Our great rivals and many times enemies over the centuries. A desert people, in appearance similar to the Tybar, at least superficially, but taller and much more noble in conduct. They also like the half beard style.”

  “Half beard, Mr. Sen?”

  “Yes, half-beard. Where you have a beard but not from the ears down to the level of the mouth. That is the style known as half-beard. Some people sport it in Kastania, they believe it makes them suave and sophisticated looking,” the tutor said dismissively. “The Epatamians carry it off very well; it suits their demeanour. They are very passionate, quick to anger, terrible in battle, and very superstitious.”

  “What is their normal style of battle?”

  “Ah, well they use archers, cavalry and spearmen mostly, mass missile attacks, cavalry hitting the flanks, and then spearmen smashing into the centre and overwhelming an opponent. Missile cavalry as skirmishers, javelins, slingers, that sort of thing. They wear light armour because of the desert, but that makes them fast and very dangerous.”

  Argan pondered on that for a moment. “What about away from the deserts?”

  “They do not stray too far from those, which is why we have managed to keep them at bay for so long. They have raided in times past into Amria and Izaras but no longer. They seem to have an uneasy treaty with the Tybar. So, to greet an Epatamian.” Mr. Sen heaved himself up with difficulty. He was becoming rounder and rounder with every successive year. “Stand before me.”

  Argan obediently did so, and as he did, an irreverent thought suddenly popped into his head. What would it be like if Metila tried to have sex with Mr. Sen? His mind whirled with the implausibility of it, the small and petite dusky-skinned woman and the rotund Mr. Sen. Gods – he’d squash her! He tried to stifle a snigger and half succeeded.

  “Young Prince, this is not a laughing matter,” the tutor scolded him. “Now, I am going to show you how to greet an Epatamian. Watch.” Argan concentrated as Mr. Sen bowed, and made a strange gesture with his right hand, touching his head and then holding his hand out to Argan.

  “What do I do?” Argan asked.

  “The same, but do not touch. Touching is considered hugely disrespectful.”

  Argan clumsily followed. He waited, watching Mr. Sen under lowered lids.

  “Then, after a brief pause, you straighten. Thus.” Mr. Sen now placed both palms together and then swept them apart and completed a circle with a flourish. “You are now finished, having greeted an Epatamian correctly.”

  “And smiling?”

  “Yes, very good. Smile. But not too widely, for that is a show of displeasure to an Epatamian. Small smiles are good, big smiles are bad. Very bad.”

  “How strange!”

  “We must make every effort to understand foreign cultures, Prince Argan; we are far more culturally sophisticated than they are so we should not expect them to understand ours. So many wars could be avoided if more people made efforts to understand their neighbours.”

  Argan thought on that. “What if our neighbours do not wish to understand us?”

  “We must try nonetheless; if we fail at least it won’t be through a lack of trying. Now, eating at an Epatamian meal.” Mr. Sen sat down and breathed in deeply. His knowledge of such things had all come from years of studying in the libraries and he felt he knew more than most tutors about the world, and took pride in that as a result. The only fault in his teaching was that he had little or no actual experience of these things, but theory usually held up in the application of it, or so he believed.

  Argan was glad the morning finally ended and he made his way to the dining room. It was regularly used now since his arrival. Previously it had only been used on special occasions. Thetos and Metila still ate breakfast in his quarters but now lunched and ate dinner there. More people gravita
ted to the room as a result, and sometimes it was full and at other times attended by a handful.

  Amal was there, waiting for the diners to arrive. She smiled at Argan who grinned back. He sat at one end, a place he had decided he liked the best, and Amal was at his side at once. “Hungry, Lakhani?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said in Bragalese. There were no others there at that moment, and even though he’d been asked not to speak the language when non-speakers were in earshot, he always slipped back into it when talking to either Amal or Metila. Kerrin understood enough to get by, but he still preferred to speak Kastanian. Nobody else knew the language. Thetos was quite grumpy about it, saying there was no place for it in Makenia or any place outside Bragal. He insisted Metila spoke Kastanian whenever he was in her company.

  “We have piscines today, freshly caught last night,” she said. “Raw with the juice of the sharpfruit.”

  “Oh, I like that,” Argan said brightly. “Have you had your lunch?”

  “No, Lakhani, we always eat after you, don’t you remember?” she said. She’d told him many times but it just didn’t seem to sink in. It was as if he couldn’t understand she and the other servants ate later. She guessed it was because Metila ate with the diners and not with the servants. She was a special case, though, and was regarded more as the consort of Thetos than a servant.

  “Oh, yes, I remember. I’ll save some for you.”

  “You don’t need to, Lakhani, but thank you anyway,” she smiled at him. “I’ll get your lunch,” and she glided off towards the door that led to the kitchen. Argan could smell the food and the smoke from the kitchen fires, and hear a faint clattering. There was a sudden crash and he cocked his head. No, no shouts of ‘clumsy fantor!’ from beyond which disappointed him.

  The meal was nice enough but light. He was going riding and it would not do to have a heavy stomach, because the motion of riding might get his stomach upset. Kerrin came in, reeking of leather, equine and muck. “Phew! So much to take care of. Everything’s ready for us after lunch, ‘Gan.”