by P. J. Fox
The innkeeper himself met them and showed them to a private dining room on the second floor. The stairwell, like the entrance hall, was slightly cramped and paneled in some dark wood that resembled walnut. The ceilings were coffered and painted in what had once been jewel tones, and the air was redolent with the smells of polish, dust, and baking bread. Although the General Gaza was still elegant and kept in scrupulously good repair, it was showing its age. Like an old courtesan, Kisten thought: faded, fragile, but still lovely.
“I hope the room is to your liking,” said the innkeeper.
Kisten agreed that it was and thanked him. Bowing, he withdrew. Then he and Aleah were alone.
The space was small and intimate, with more of that dark wood paneling up to the chair rail and a fresco above depicting some kind of pastoral scene. A large bay window overlooked the street, into which had been placed a comfortable looking couch upholstered in gray-blue velvet. The chairs, too, were upholstered in velvet of a similarly subdued hue and sat at an old, scarred table that looked like it had been in steady use for hundreds of years. Nothing matched, but each different element went together to create an atmosphere of peace. He wished he’d come here with someone else.
An attractive girl brought the wine list for him to peruse. Kisten ordered something for both of them. The menu had been fixed in advance, a tempting array of little tidbits that Aleah would no doubt find impressive. Kisten’s taster liked the food here and would no doubt enjoy a splendid repast—and in far better company, sitting in the kitchens.
Kisten turned from the window to watch as Aleah draped herself provocatively in one of the chairs, leaning one elbow against a rolled arm and pulling her legs up as she sank back into the cushions. This wasn’t Aria’s adorable, mouse-like pose but a blatant invitation.
Did she really think that all he cared about was sex? Her gown was, while nice to look at, not something he’d allow any of the women in his life to wear anywhere except straight into the bedroom. Her low slung skirt revealed the top of her pubic bone, a low rise that was faintly visible under the swath of jewel-encrusted netting she wore as a sattika. The effect was alluring, drawing attention to the delicate swell of her hip. And as for the rest of her…her so-called blouse more resembled an undergarment and her straight, unbound hair curled around her shoulders. She toyed with a lock, wrapping it around her fingers as she smiled.
If this was what women thought of him, he decided, then he needed to get his act together.
Further discussion was postponed by the arrival of the first course, a local favorite made with wild mushrooms. He’d grown to actually quite like some of the local cuisine, as Aria served a great deal of it. He took his seat in the other large armchair, sipped his wine and watched Aleah pick daintily at her food.
The courses passed in idle banter, him letting her think that she was seducing him. She giggled at some joke he’d told, and his lips curved into a small smile.
“Toilets?” she queried, pretending disbelief. “Really?”
He’d told her about the demon-infested toilets plaguing the capital, as well as the various—largely unsuccessful—efforts at educating the populace to their use. She put down her fork, and poured herself another glass of wine. This was their second bottle.
“Tell me,” she began, “does the food in this province consist of nothing but mushrooms?”
“Mushrooms grow well in this climate.” They were about the only thing that did, a situation he still hoped to change.
“How do you stand it?”
“What,” he asked, “eating mushrooms?”
“The lack of variety.”
“It can be…challenging at times,” he conceded.
“Mushrooms are so dull, so…safe.” She ran the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass, pretending to study the contents as she watched him from the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction. They were no longer talking about mushrooms.
“Mushrooms are nutritious,” he pointed out blandly. If she wanted to believe that he’d tired of Aria, fine.
“Passion fruit mousse isn’t, but I still want it.”
“Then I pity the passion fruit.”
“What a naughty man you are.”
“You have no idea.”
She simpered. “I think I do.”
He made a dismissive gesture, as if to suggest that the matter was of no consequence.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” she said, changing the subject. “Your house, your car, your stables…shipping the horses out here can’t have been cheap.”
“I prefer to enjoy my exile,” said Kisten. “The car is one of several.” He told her then about building the stables, his acquisition of new stock the previous month and his breeding plans, as well as his thoughts about possibly purchasing more land. He already had concerns in a number of gold, diamond and beryllium mines. He’d so far avoided mentioning Talin, waiting to see how—and when—she’d broach the subject.
If she ever did.
“Lucky stallion,” she said, referring to the stud he’d purchased, a thoroughbred racer with an impressive pedigree. Or perhaps to him.
“Very,” he agreed, thinking mostly of the horse.
“Still, you must miss home,” she said. Taking pity on him, or so she claimed, she shared various juicy pieces of gossip about life at court: who was screwing who, literally and metaphorically, who was in, who was out, and a host of other revelations in which he feigned polite interest. He knew it all already, of course; but, then again, Aleah had never really understood his relationship with his twin. Keshav, the cause of most of the gossip, delighted in keeping him informed.
“Tell me,” he said casually, “where was Talin during these visits to court?”
Aleah made a dismissive gesture. “What do little boys know or care of court life? You certainly disliked the game enough, at that age.”
He still did. He noticed, too, that she hadn’t answered his question. Nodding, he pretended not to be disgusted. But as she carried on, he thought again about how women like this got pregnant at the drop of a hat while women like Renta—who’d have happily taken in an unwanted child—were denied the chance. And as for Aria…while he knew that it was possible for Bronte and Solarians to procreate, a successful outcome was by no means certain.
“Is dessert coming soon?” she asked.
“I believe in delayed gratification,” he replied.
Pouring himself a glass of port from the decanter on the sideboard, he ensconced himself on the couch. A few minutes later, Aleah joined him. He watched her over the rim of his glass. The port had that subtle nuttiness that spoke of excellent quality. He should know: his family owned the vineyard that produced it. She arranged herself at the other end of the couch, feigning modesty.
“The trip out here was quite long; you’re a bit off the beaten path, you know.”
“We exiles tend to live in seclusion.”
She laughed again, as though he’d said something amusing. “It would be such a shame to turn around and leave again.”
“You propose to remain, then?”
“If you wish it,” she said demurely.
“There’s Talin to consider,” he said, finishing his port and placing the glass on the floor.
“Oh, we won’t have to see too much of him. He’s never underfoot and he should really be in school by now, anyway—don’t you think?”
“And what of Ishmael?”
“He’ll survive the loss, I’m quite sure.” She walked her fingers across the back of the couch. “He and I were never so serious, you know.”
“I was under a rather different impression,” Kisten said thoughtfully, “considering you sold your son for him.”
Aleah tensed, hearing his shift in tone and sensing the change in atmosphere. “I brought him to see his father,” she said stiffly, and—he hoped—a little fearfully.
“After he’d been used for this man’s pleasure.”
Aleah stared at him, completely ca
ught off guard.
“What happened, darling, did Ishmael tire of him?” He maintained the same bored tone, disguising his anger with indifference. When Aleah didn’t respond, he continued. “Moreover, I regret to inform you that the position of mistress has been filled. Quite satisfactorily.”
“Yes,” she said with forced gaiety, trying to make a joke out of it, “I’d heard that you’d taken up with that dumpy little Singh girl again. Life on the frontier must be dull indeed. Or perhaps you’ve been too long from the capital, and forgotten the taste of true pleasures.”
“Watch your tongue,” said Kisten.
Aleah actually reared back a little. “You wound me,” she protested.
“Really?” he asked with interest. “And all this time, I hadn’t thought such a thing possible.”
“I know how upset you must be,” she said, turning solicitous, “but please….”
She crawled over to him and brought her lips close to his. Her perfume was one he’d adored, in his youth, and still remembered well. Women’s toiletries had always fascinated him, they were so complicated. And smelling a woman’s perfume meant being close enough to touch her, a very appealing prospect indeed. Leaning forward slightly, she kissed him. Her lips were soft, hesitant. He neither pulled back nor responded, letting her trail her hand down the side of his face and then lower….
He waited until she’d slipped her hand inside his trousers and grasped his cock to speak again. “I hope you’ve planned for your retirement,” he said conversationally.
“What?” she said.
“You’re too old for me,” he clarified. “And too used.”
She stared, open-mouthed, her hand still on his cock. She looked ridiculous.
“Please,” he said, “attempt to comport yourself with some dignity.”
She pulled back her hand as if she’d been burned. Unruffled, Kisten rearranged his costume. His trousers fit a bit ill, now, as toying with Aleah has made him hard as a rock. Setting his trap and watching her crawl inside, all unwitting, had been a powerfully erotic experience for one who enjoyed pain. Whips and chains were nice, in their place, but the true art of the sadist was humiliation.
Retrieving his glass from the floor, he stood up and returned to the sideboard for another glass of port.
“Your precious Aria won’t be a child forever,” Aleah said acidly.
“Nor so pliant as she is now,” Kisten agreed, his back to her. “But the difference, darling, is that I love her and will continue to love her regardless of how old she grows. Indeed I hope she grows to be exceptionally old and terribly wrinkly, as I cannot support the notion of life without her and thus she must outlive me.” He turned. “But you, on the other hand, hold no charm for me other than your body.”
“How dare you!” she hissed.
“You’ve never loved anyone,” he continued, “least of all your own son.”
“That’s not true!” she protested. And then, in a quieter tone, “I love you.”
“No,” he said patiently, “you love my wallet.”
He paced the room, admiring it, as he casually eviscerated her. “I must admit, you had me fooled—for some time, which is a rare feat as I’m not known for being gullible. But you’ve succeeded in making it quite clear to me that your only motive in giving birth to our son was financial. You claim to love me, but I doubt that you’d have made the same declaration if you’d come here and found me living in reduced circumstances. You love”—he waved airily—”this. Cars and polo ponies and dinners out.”
Aleah said nothing.
He continued.
“You never got an education, darling, never found a man to marry you, because the necessities curtailing the lives of other girls didn’t apply to you. You planned to trade on your looks. And you did,” he added, “quite successfully, for some time. But now you have no character, no wit, no meaningful life experience and, indeed, nothing to offer the world except a face made smooth by cosmetics and a cunt as stretched from overuse as an old elastic band.”
“You—you’re nothing but a cold, heartless monster!”
“Yes,” he agreed again, quite equably. “I told you that you had no idea, didn’t I? But at least,” he added, “I don’t deny blameless children the chance to be loved, or set them up to be raped out of some twisted sense of revenge for the wrongs I’ve perceived have been committed against me.”
An edge crept into his voice as he spoke, and Aleah shrank back from him.
He was surprised, therefore, when she still managed to spit venom. She’d never been easy to cow, not because she was brave but because she was stupid. “Ah, I see now. You’re going to spend the rest of your life ruling over your little rock, with Ms. Perfect in tow. And she can polish your shoes and suck your cock and do whatever else it is that child brides do, and meanwhile you’ll turn your back on me because you can’t tolerate the idea of a woman standing up to you! Is your ego really that fragile?”
He considered the question. “No, I don’t believe so,” he said seriously.
“I’m the only woman who’s ever stood up to you,” she cried, distraught equally by his calm and by her failure, “the only woman who can handle you, and you know it!”
“As a sales pitch, darling, this is lacking.” He rested against the sideboard, facing her across the small room. Moreover, Aleah hadn’t stood up to him; she’d ignored him. The only woman who’d ever stood up to him, he’d married. A situation that, looking at his former lover and seeing the desperate, groveling, sex-mad hag she’d become, left him inordinately pleased.
“She’s not right for you!”
“And you are?” He smiled unpleasantly. “I suppose you were thinking how right I am while you were letting that pedophile put it up your ass. Or did he prefer Talin, and that’s why he’s here?”
“I’ll take Talin and leave!” She stood up.
“No,” he told her, “you won’t.”
“You can’t—”
He’d crossed the room before she had time to finish her sentence. She squeaked in surprise as he threw her against the wall, pinning her there like a bug. He, for his part, enjoyed the elastic sensation as he sank his fingers into the thin skin of her throat. She struggled, to no avail. She’d never been as strong—in any respect—as she’d thought. If he’d wanted to kill her, though, she’d already be dead.
Instead, there were some points of confusion that he wanted to clear up.
“You’re living on borrowed time,” he said, his voice low and deadly calm. For all the emotion he displayed, he might have been discussing the weather. His eyes searched hers; he wanted her to know that he was serious, and he saw from the fear in her eyes that she did. “One thing stands between you and death, which is Aria’s belief that losing his mother might upset Talin even more. As she has feelings and I don’t, I’m forced to take her at her word.
“But if you ever do anything to bring discredit on Talin, or attempt to contact him in any way or for any reason, you will die.” He stepped back, releasing her. She held her throat, gasping as she stared at him in open horror. “Now run along and play with your little pedophile.”
“I did the best I could,” she said, her voice pleading.
“Immaterial,” he replied. “I have no interest in how you editorialize your actions, only in their consequences. Because of you, we have a severely damaged child.”
“Why did you…?”
The answer was simple. He’d brought her here, and led her into believing certain things, in the hopes of gleaning certain information. Which he had. And because he’d wanted to hurt her. For a woman like Aleah, no blow was more crushing than rejection. He’d wanted her to see herself as others did, and to know that she was utterly and totally undesirable.
There was a time when he would have fucked her, regardless of how much he’d hated her.
But the afternoon’s and evening’s events had awakened in him an instinct that he hadn’t known he had—and wouldn’t have believed hims
elf capable of having. She was upset enough now, her ego having been bruised, but she’d leave and go home to her punter and eventually convince herself that she’d been the victim. But he had to go home and deal with a consort he’d hurt and a scared and a lonely little boy who hated him—and with good reason. These were lifelong commitments. He glared contemptuously at Aleah. She was older, if still beautiful, but she’d never grown up. Her world, even now, was one of dinners and vacations and polo ponies and cars, disposable things that in the end meant nothing.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “my mother was just about your age the year I left Mirzapur.” He paused. “Oh, no, let me retract that statement. She was younger.”
“I suppose you think Aria can step in and be his mother.”
“No, of course not. But I should point out that in the span of one afternoon, she’s been more of a mother to the boy than you ever were.” He turned to go, stopping at the door. She was right where he’d left her, leaning against the wall, the shock of surviving her first truly adult experience writ clear across her face. “Goodnight, Aleah,” he said, not without pity.
“Wait—you’re leaving me here? How am I supposed to get home?”
“If by home you mean my home, you’re not. The guards have instructions.”
“You mean….” She paled as she absorbed the meaning of his statement. Yes, he mused to himself, embarrassment was a bitch. “Everyone knows?” she finished, her tone one of disbelief.
“Yes.”
“But—I haven’t booked return passage yet, and—what am I going to do?”
Kisten felt tired. Of her, of her complaining, of this whole thrice-damned mess. He wanted to go home and be with Aria, and get a good night’s sleep and figure out what to do next.
“Even if that’s true,” he said, “your little bêtes noire aren’t my concern—or any man’s. That’s what being emancipated means, darling. You can stay here until the innkeeper kicks you out or you can sell your body for cab fare, I couldn’t care less. One or two more cocks can’t make much of a difference to you at this point.”
