by George Hatt
The earthly girl reached Dub and Barryn first. “I present Lady Tethys, Matron of this House and Grand Mistress of the Courtesans Guild; and Lady Sanguina, Mistress of Pain and Pleasure.”
The girl curtseyed and stepped aside for the two ladies.
“Thank you, Jasmine, for the courteous introduction, even if it is unnecessary,” Lady Tethys said with a warm smile. “Dub! What brings you to my house? It is always a pleasure having you under my roof.”
“The pleasure,” Dub bowed to kiss Lady Tethys’ hand—and wink above his prodigious beard—“is all mine. I come to bring you a strapping, young new servant from the Heathen Realms, if you can find room in your prestigious operation for him.”
Lady Tethys glanced down at the bulge in the front of the young man’s breeches and gave a sly half-smile. “He seems to be of sound body.”
Before the furiously blushing young heathen could react, Lady Sanguina stepped forward and grabbed his erection through his breeches, pinning him with a wicked scowl. Barryn gasped at the vise-like grip she had on his cock and the blackish-blue scales dotting Lady Sanguina’s ruddy shoulders and sides of her neck.
“Put that thing away before you gore someone!” she hissed. The dominatrix let Barryn go and watched with a satisfied grin as his breeches fell back into place.
The dominatrix stepped back beside Lady Tethys and nodded. “He follows instructions better than most. What else can he do besides herding goats? And what is he called?”
“My name is Barryn of Clan Riverstar,” he said, finding his voice.
“Your accent is thick. We shall have to work on that,” Lady Tethys said. “Can you read Imperial letters?”
“No, but…”
“‘No, my lady,’” the dominatrix corrected harshly. “You are in the Chapter House of the Courtesans Guild, not the fog-shrouded moors of Bumfuck March. Finish your sentence. What can you do?”
“I can memorize!” Barryn stammered.
“He is literate and literary,” Dub said, rescuing his young charge. “Barryn was training to be a druid before he broke taboo and was exiled from his clan. He can write in the runes of his people and in the esoteric tree alphabet of his former heathen religion. I will let him tell you all about his not inconsiderable array of skills and disciplines he has learned under the tutelage of the druids—if he so chooses.”
“Ah,” Lady Tethys said. “A heathen but not a savage. To be honest with you, my sweet Dub, I was wondering what you had dragged into my house, our friendship notwithstanding.” She turned to Barryn. “Child, I assume you have confessed and taken baptism into the Church of Mahurin?”
“I have, my lady.”
Lady Tethys radiated peaceful warmth and touched Barryn’s shoulder. “Pray to whom you will here, just be discreet. The ability to keep secrets—yours and those of others—is paramount, I’m afraid, in an establishment such as this.”
“Jasmine! Find some quarters for Barryn, then have him washed and clothed like a human being,” Lady Sanguina barked. She turned to Dub with a cruel smile. “By the time the young heathen has washed the stink of the road off, perhaps I will have negotiated his indenture away from you at favorable terms.”
Jasmine led Barryn back across the great hall past the jeweled, nearly naked courtesans and through a door opening to a hallway. She explained the layout of the villa in what Barryn thought was a sophisticated Imperial accent. Up the stairs and surrounding the great hall were the “hospitality chambers” where the courtesans plied their trade. The women’s living quarters were also upstairs, but the entrance to their hall was sealed off from their work area by thick double doors and burly guards.
Downstairs were the kitchens, servants’ quarters and dining areas, and communal baths that were segregated by gender.
“When you are in the bath house, you are there to get clean, not dirty,” she said without a hint of a smile. “That is how it works here. Lady Tethys allows us plenty of leisure time, and she doesn’t care what we do with it or with whom. But when we are on duty, she expects us to work hard and be diligent in our tasks. Here is your room. I will leave you now to avail yourself of a bath.”
Barryn went to the bathhouse, stripped his old clothes off, and lowered himself into the heated water. He was too tired and mentally overwhelmed to wonder how the water was so warm. He could not think—his body reverberated with the hedonic bliss of his first hot bath in weeks.
And this is how thralls—servants, I mean—live in the Empire, he thought suddenly. Barryn ducked his head under the water. He scratched his scalp and squeezed the filthy water out of his shoulder-length hair. Once he felt clean, Barryn dried off and put on his loose-fitting linen shirt and wool breeches. He tucked the shirt into the breeches like Dub had taught him when the trader let him borrow them, insisting he not dress like a heathen while traveling through the Empire.
Barryn went to his room and found a clean set of clothes on the bed, along with the gear he had brought with him when he fled Clan Riverstar. He stripped again, eager to divest his clean body of the travel stained shirt and breeches. When he was naked again, his cock began to disobey Lady Sanguina’s order and throbbed heatedly. Barryn lay on the bed, his mind’s eye placing his rod in turns between Lady Sanguina’s breasts and in Jasmine’s delicate hand. In minutes, his body racked with orgasm and he panted for a moment. Then tears began to rush from his open eyes and blurred his vision. He remembered vividly, without the overwhelming distractions of wilderness survival and bare, perfumed breasts on his mind, that his own kinfolk had tried to burn him alive and he would likely never see his homeland again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Barryn
Barryn caught himself gawking at both the people and architecture of Brynn when he ran his first errand for Lady Tethys. The finely carved and cut stone of the provincial capital had a splendor rivaling the mountain passes of his homeland. He still scarcely believed that the substance was in fact stone, so intricate and precise were the lines, curves and florid details carved into simple pillars holding up the portico of some administrative building or guild house.
This was a land where stone had conquered both trees and river, this construction the Castle Dwellers called Brynn. The street was paved with worn flagstones, and stone multistoried buildings lofted above him on either side. The street made a bend downhill that put storefronts behind him, and the great eastern castle of the Merchant’s Bridge towered ahead. Only the sky above remained unhewn—indeed, untouched—by the architects of this wondrous, chaotic city.
He reflected on his first week cooped up in the House of Portia doing odd jobs, like unloading supplies from arriving wagons and carrying water to the guards along the walls of the villa, and memorizing ever growing lists that Jasmine read aloud to him every morning.
“How do you do that?” she had asked him one evening after he recited an especially long list from that morning. Barryn noticed that her air of aloofness evaporated, if only for a moment.
“It’s a skill we must learn to become druids,” he said. “But I swore never to reveal any of the secrets I learned.”
Barryn relived the conversation in his mind over and over. Each time, he imagined he said something, anything, other than that. The truth, a lie, something. But honest fool that he was, he told Jasmine the truth, and moment was over. She was all business again, and had remained so ever since.
He walked through the eastern castle of the ostentatious bridge and rushed across the ancient span over the Mother River—the small chill of terror in his stomach chased the thought of Jasmine away like a wolf chases a rabbit. He was fearful of a structure that so shamelessly defied the force of water and the spirits of the river, sturdy and ancient though it was.
Halfway across the bridge, Barryn hazarded a peek over the stone parapet and immediately recoiled. Barges, rafts and even small sailing craft passed beneath. Sailors and cargo, coiled ropes, stowed nets on decks, were all surrounded by the greenish-brown water of the river and froz
en in time in his mind. The image stayed with him, every detail crisp and in focus.
He hurried on and left the bridge through the west castle, but was careful to slow his pace as he passed the guards. He had learned from Jasmine to make no sudden movements around the city watch. Doing so could earn one a good thrashing, if not worse, and a trip…away. Barryn meant to ask her where the miscreants who crossed the city guards went once they were beaten and trussed.
Once he was safely across the bridge, Barryn’s mind drifted back to the imaginary conversation with Jasmine about his memory tricks, for tricks they were and nothing else. It’s a memory grove, he told her in his mind. In the center is a mighty oak, towering above the other trees, and a standing stone with the “oak” glyph carved on it. It means “one,” and you imagine the first thing on your list under the tree. Then you go down an imaginary path to another opening in the woods with a birch tree and two standing stones. You put the second thing on your list under the birch tree. And so on. I think it’s such a closely held secret because it’s so easy. I can teach you.
Barryn stopped short. He would have to phrase that differently when he offered to teach Jasmine the Art of Memory, and not make it sound like he thought she was a simpleton. And a simpleton she definitely was not.
Jasmine met Barryn in the courtyard of the House of Portia when he returned from his errand. An array of feminine delights met him, just like the first time he rode through the gates, but now he hardly noticed. A mere week at the House had inured Barryn to beautiful nude women. He now recognized individuals and knew they were off duty enjoying the sun and the fountains. Gone were the ridiculous pasties and body paint. The women had nobody to impress, especially not each other. Working at the House of Portia was an honor beyond belief for women in the sex business in the Empire. It was also a secret aspiration, Jasmine had told him, even of ladies within the nobility and the upper merchant classes.
“Did you find everything Lady Tethys asked for?” Jasmine asked.
Barryn patted his satchel. “Yeah. It’s all here.”
“‘Yes. It is all here,’” she corrected. “You sound like a barbarian.”
“Aren’t I?” he asked defensively.
“No. Otherwise you would be trying to rape me or the horses. Or whatever other atrocities barbarians are infamous for. I think your accent sounds charming, but you need to sound like a Mergovan if you want to get anywhere in life.”
Charming! Barryn thought.
Jasmine turned abruptly and began to walk. “Lady Tethys wants to see you.”
Barryn followed her into the great hall and up the carpeted stairs to the mezzanine. Guards let them through double doors and down a majestic, columned hallway that ended in another ornate door. The splendor of the richly colored tapestries and carved pillars along the hallway were lost on Barryn. She said my accent is charming!
Another pair of guards opened the door and let them enter the expansive office. “Come in, Barryn!” Lady Tethys said from behind a stately desk. “Thank you, Jasmine.”
At that, Jasmine left Barryn to his mistress. “Did you find everything I asked for? These spices are for my favorite cake recipe, which calls for many very particular ingredients. It is well worth the effort to find just the right ones, though.”
Barryn opened his leather pouch and fished out twelve small bags. These Tethys inspected closely one by one, placing them on her desk and nodding with approval. “I’ve sent people with a detailed, written list to buy these spices and they have still managed to come back short. And you got it right the first time from memory.”
Tethys looked at Barryn and set last of the spices down.
“I can hire any drudge to fetch my groceries,” Tethys said. “But you are not a drudge, and you are proving Dub’s boasts about your memorization skills. I want you to deliver messages for me. Can you do that?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Good. They will appear to be gibberish and nonsense, though I will trace them in runes to help you memorize them. Once you have memorized them, you must burn the parchments before me and recite the messages exactly to the people to whom I send you.”
Barryn’s eyes widened. “You know the runes?”
Lady Tethys laughed and ran her fingers through her golden locks. “Haven’t you wondered why almost everyone in the Empire is swarthy and dark-haired, yet I’m as fair as you are? You don’t think I was born among the Castle Dwellers, do you?”
Barryn nodded slowly. “What is your clan?”
“I was born to Clan Red Bear,” she said. “I will say no more, for my secrets are between me and the gods.”
“You look like a Caeldrynn shield maiden,” Barryn said, “but you sound like you were born in the Empire.”
“It took me years to master this effete, civilized accent,” Tethys said. “But now I dream in it—and so will you. Barryn, your service to me will, until further notice, be spent with a private tutor until you can write and speak like a Mergovan. You will also escort Jasmine in her errands around the city. I want you to learn it street by street, alley by alley. Know the cobblestone patterns of each ward, their smells. Know when the streets are crowded and when the city sleeps. This is my charge to you.”
“Lady Tethys, I am honored that you place so much trust in me—but why me?”
“Because I sense a weakness in you for strong women,” she said. “I’ve found it’s a common flaw among great men of the Caeldrynn, but especially for druids. I am confident that you will do your best for me. And Dub told me your story. Your best, he says, is quite impressive.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mithrandrates
“To those uninitiated to the workings of Imperial governance,” said Mithrandrates, “it would appear that the several provinces of the Mergovan Empire will enjoy a year of peace.”
The Emperor leaned on the stone parapet of the Citadel’s highest balcony and stared down at the sprawling capital below. Garon stood by him at a respectful distance; farther away, two armored Imperial guards kept the open doorway into the Emperor’s chambers.
Earlier that day, Mithrandrates had presided over the annual Private Council locked securely within the heart of the Citadel. It was the real reason for the festivities, the games, the days of revelry. The Imperial budget was set behind those ironbound doors (and summarily ignored as needed), guilds and new towns had their charters ratified and, most tellingly for all involved, the dukes and duchesses mimed the annual ritual of ratifying the Ancient Accord of Peace. The wording remained unchanged year to year. The provinces resolved to swear brotherhood and to uphold the common defense amongst themselves. Those provinces who voted in favor of the resolution signaled their intent to sit out any squabbles that might erupt in the coming year; those who voted against often had troops on the march before the ballot was even cast. This year, to the Emperor’s mild surprise, the vote upholding the resolution was unanimous. Brynn and Relfast need more time to prepare for their little war than I thought. Or they are needlessly timid this year, the Mithrandrates thought.
“Perhaps it will indeed be a peaceful year, Emperor,” the Black Rod said and stepped closer. “Or perhaps the governors will be emboldened by the Emperor’s—unorthodox—decision and utterly disregard the Accord.”
The Emperor shifted his hands on the stone railing and leaned forward to squint at the setting sun. Shadows lengthened in the alleys and warrens below, and the venerable battlements of the capital city glowed a ruddy hue where the last of the day’s light struck them. The Council had surprised the Emperor with their vote, but he returned the favor with compounded interest. “Resolution 23, Regarding the Deployment of the Imperial Army Within the Boundaries of a Province and the Several Provinces,” it was innocuously titled. The document, in one fell stroke, ceded veto power over the Emperor’s authority to deploy more than one legion at a time into the provinces. It was as shocking as it was unexpected—the dukes and duchesses of the Council were dumbfounded even as they voted for it.
And Mithrandrates had kept the resolution secret even from Garon.
“You do not approve of Resolution 23?” he asked.
“It is not my place to second guess the Emperor,” Garon said. “His judgements, and those of the Council, are wise and are the guiding light of our Empire.”
“Only a simpering, deceitful worm would say such words and mean them.”
“And you would not have such a man as your Black Rod,” Garon said.
“No, I would not.”
“Emperor, your father sent the legions to quell the Crimson Rebellion. You led them yourself to their most decisive victories in nearly a century. Emperor Harmandis sent the legions forth, as did Trajan, as did Ghaeris, as did Darylgathe. Emperor Mandarak was crushing rebels even in the smoldering ruins of the last Chaos Moon. Look at the buffoons who rule your provinces! The legions will need to march again in our lifetime,” Garon said.
Mithrandrates turned and favored him with a gentle smile, but his eyes were cold. “Will a meaningless vote stop the legions marching if I order them afield?”
Garon breathed deeply. “A few years ago? No. Today? I cannot say. We teach the young officers in our military academies to obey the Emperor but uphold the ideals of Empire. And many of them take the will of the Council seriously. I fear the academies are teaching them too well.”
“Agreed. And if the governors are taking the will of the Council as seriously as our young officers do, there is no reason to send the legions into their little provinces in the first place,” Mithrandrates said. “And I can relax and enjoy the immeasurable wealth and carnal delights that are supposedly owed the Emperor. But the governors squabble amongst themselves and needlessly slaughter productive citizens of the Mergovan Empire for foolish vanity. When the need arises, and it will, the legions will march when I call.”
