A Dictionary of Fools (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 2)

by P. J. Fox

  Some enterprising young architect had decided that blue tile was soothing; Kisten thought the rather lightless, chilly place looked like a morgue. Most of its denizens were ready for the morgue. They sat about, poking canes at each other’s stomachs and rubbing their knees and learning what they could about Tarsonis. Some, years after their arrival, claimed to still be recovering from the journey—and loudly. Jaundiced old hands, many of whom had come to Tarsonis to seek their fortunes, drank to anyone who’d spot them and competed with each other to smother Kisten with the riches of their knowledge on all things local. This was where Setji would end up, if he wasn’t careful.

  They’d come to Tarsonis to seek their fortunes, and hadn’t moved since. Kisten was reading a letter from one such man now, a tired old specimen who’d been posted to Haldon on promotion as a captain some many years ago. Here his career had stagnated, as he’d grown increasingly more bitter. He’d wanted to meet with Kisten personally but Kisten didn’t have sufficient free time to entertain punters. He’d asked the man to write a letter, on the off chance that he had something of value to impart other than the natives are horrible. If he did, then he’d be welcome to come in. For ten minutes, at least.

  The governor’s job was an unpleasant one at best. Days’ worth of briefings and meetings and reports on topics ranging from toilets to birth rates were followed inevitably by dinners and other meaningless social engagements given in honor of either Kisten or one of the visiting dignitaries. Or, in some cases, a local worthy.

  Kisten’s own cook was excellent, but the culinary skill of most households’ cooks left something to be desired. They had, he’d written to his brother, begun one meal with an appetizer of stewed cow heel. A favorite dish of the locals or, rather, the transplants who ape the locals, is tripe and macaroni. Yes, the pasta. And, rather than serve a small selection of tapas or even a balanced selection of moderate plates, they increase the size of each plate per course so that, by the time one imagines that dessert would normally be served the table is literally groaning under the weight of a joint so large that I feel ill from its mere contemplation. Aria tells me that, being the governor, I’m obliged to eat as I’m served—a rich joke coming from her, the woman who refuses to eat aught but refined sugar.

  One family in particular had received them with every appearance of gladness and hospitality; but the most resolute grin in the bunch was born, not by the householder but by the calf’s head that appeared on his dining room table. It was as large as a camel’s and had been boiled entire with ears and all. What gallant horns, Aria had managed with a weak smile.

  Our chef is really talented, the householder had replied. Just look at the teeth! I say, by Jove, those are more perfect than any dentist ever made. Here now, look, she’s bringing in the bird’s nest soup. A more aromatic tureen of revulsion Kisten had never encountered.

  On the way home, he’d vowed never to return regardless of the urgency of the invitation. Talin had immediately voiced his desire to return as soon possible and Aria, the very spirit of good humor, had quipped that she for one wouldn’t have missed the sight of her worthy friend with the gallant horns for fifty darics. Moreover, the stately and well-stuffed guest of honor—and here she was referring to a merchant from the north, not the calf—had been a most fascinating specimen of manhood who’d done a cartwheel on the lawn and tried to bribe Kisten with a gold-tipped cane.

  Kisten had replied, as diplomatically as possible, that he was not yet quite infirm enough for a cane but that he was certain the financial commissioner would be honored. A bout with some exotic and hitherto undescribed venereal disease, he’d confided quietly to the merchant, had left Commissioner Tata with permanent pain in the groin. A result of the pustulent boils, no doubt. All complete rubbish, of course—not that Kisten was acquainted with his former roommate’s equipment, he was certain everything worked fine—but he’d enjoy the look on Setji’s face when, with all the sympathy in the world, he was presented with a cane and advice on how to apply a particularly popular local ointment.

  Kisten glanced at his clock. He’d be going home in a few hours, if he was lucky.

  Right now, Aria was probably just sitting down to tea. She was quite the popular hostess. And her popularity, unlike his, was entirely genuine; everyone who knew her loved her, a condition he could well understand. She was thoughtful and kind, treating everyone with the same good manners. Consorts, mistresses, one’s social status didn’t matter a bit. She claimed that this egalitarianism came from growing up in a culture where social strata, if not nonexistent, were largely ignored. Everyone put great stock in pretending to be the same, to the point where they almost believed their own propaganda.

  The door opened, and Khalimah slipped in.

  Kisten was, if not precisely surprised to see her, then surprised to see her now. He and the courtesan-turned-handmaid had seen very little of each other since he’d brought her home for delousing. Aria hadn’t asked questions, although she’d undoubtedly had her suspicions as to the nature of their relationship and the circumstances under which Kisten had come to know her. Instead, she took the poor thing in and arranged for her treatment. Khalimah had, as far as Kisten knew, been devoted to her mistress ever since.

  When he had seen Khalimah, it had been while she was waiting on Aria. Usually in the company of Garja but, sometimes, without the more senior maid. She brought Aria coffee while she wrote, or sewed her clothes, or accompanied her on various excursions around the cantonment. And during these times, Khalimah was quiet and demure and, overall, gave every appearance of propriety. She was pleasant enough to Kisten but paid him no especial notice, all but treating him like another piece of furniture.

  Kisten approved; he had no interest in one of Aria’s maids causing a scene.

  Still, he eyed the young woman with interest as she faced him across the room. She’d filled out in the months since she’d joined their household; although she was still slim. Soft and appealing curves had replaced hollow planes. The shadows had gone, leaving her nicely rounded. In particular, he admired the slow swell of her hip under her simple shift. That she was dressed like someone’s maiden sister only drew attention to her charms. Kisten, a lifelong fan of lingerie and other pretty wrappings, had always believed the maxim that the best clothing hinted rather than revealed. The imagination, he thought now, should be allowed to do its work.

  He sat back in his chair, an overstuffed leather thing that he’d had imported from Brontes, and steepled his fingers. He was wearing gray wool trousers and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He’d thrown his jacket over the back of another chair. There was a smudge of ink on his knuckle. His shoes were bespoke, and very comfortable, but he’d rather not be wearing them. He’d rather be home, with a drink and a book. Or possibly a woman on his lap.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello,” she said shyly.

  She had a nice voice, very soft, and she was blushing—an attitude that struck him as incongruous. He’d seen her naked, and so had hundreds of other men. Then again, perhaps that was her problem; she could do whatever she wanted, now, remain in their household or get married or go wherever she wished. She was a free citizen of Brontes. But the challenge would be to convince herself of that. Many people remained in shackles they’d forged for themselves their whole lives, convinced that there was no way to break free.

  Kisten remembered reading a story, as a child, about a man who visited a golden city and begged admittance at the gate. He was denied and, to make a long and rather dull story short, waited there for the rest of his life as he slowly wasted away. Just before he died, he asked the gatekeeper why he’d never been found worthy to enter. The gatekeeper had replied, rather unfeelingly given the circumstances, that the gate hadn’t been locked.

  People found this story perplexing but Kisten had always considered the point to be rather obvious: the man hadn’t gone in, because he’d been waiting on a permission that only he could give—to himself.

&nbs
p; He motioned her forward and she came, settling herself on the edge of his desk. She placed her hand palm down on the leather desk blotter, resting her weight on that arm while leaving the other in her lap. Posed like this, she was turned slightly away from him. Her skin was the golden shade of cinnamon sugar toast and her hair was almost as dark as his. He’d seen the same transformation with Aria, after she’d been rescued and brought aboard Atropos; modern hygiene really was a wonderful thing.

  She studied the picture on his desk: not one of the formal portraits of which both the media and his family were so fond, but a candid shot of Aria sprawled in the grass, surrounded by those infernal rodents and laughing. She’d been feeding them when one particularly enterprising creature had decided to cut its mates out of the competition and climb right up onto her leg. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun and her eyes sparkled with merriment.

  “I love her, too,” Khalimah said.

  “Then we understand each other,” Kisten replied.

  Outside, wind blew through the trees. The shadows were starting to lengthen and soon dusk would cover the cantonment like a blanket. Kisten hoped very much that he’d be able to have dinner with Aria, but he was still waiting on a final report from Aros. He smiled slightly. Even if he’d rather be elsewhere—a conclusion he was now debating—the waiting might turn out to be rather pleasant.

  Khalimah turned her head slightly, studying him with her cool gray eyes.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  “I wanted to thank you I…owe you so much,” she said. “And that’s all I want. I don’t….” She bit her lip, a rather charmingly coy gesture that was entirely genuine in its artlessness.

  Kisten knew what she meant. Unlike Naomi, Khalimah truly did understand him. Any woman who occupied any place in his life did so conditionally on acceptance of the fact that Aria was the only woman he loved. Or ever would love, or wanted to love.

  He liked to entertain himself and, he supposed, that was a failing. Many women certainly thought so. Although, he was privately convinced, from a lack of understanding of why men did what they did rather than from any genuine censure. A great poet had once said that curiosity was the foundation on which desire was built and, but for curiosity, most men would be content to spend the whole of their lives exploring one woman. Since, in the main, all women were alike. But curiosity, that cross under which all labored, great and small, impelled cats and men alike to seek out new women and wish ardently for their possession—for no other reason than that they were new, and their possession thus a novelty.

  “I’m open to…being thanked,” he said languidly.

  She smiled slightly.

  The door wasn’t locked, but he didn’t care. Anyone who could make it past his aide’s endless recitation of the marriage vows deserved what they got, in terms of seeing what there was to see. Lieutenant Motiani seemed to have forgotten that the cleric would prompt him if he was having trouble. Or, indeed, that all he had to do was sign the damn contract.

  She crawled across the desk and climbed into his lap. She didn’t weigh much and she smelled quite pleasant, of lavender and orange blossoms. Her skin was warm beneath his hands, and her lips were firm but not insistent. She tasted of coffee and caramel and mint, and she pressed herself against him as she straddled him and rested her hands on his shoulders.

  He opened his mouth under hers, exploring her. Once in awhile, he enjoyed the sensation of being on the bottom. There was something to be said for the woman doing all the work. She was slow, and hesitant at first, but her eagerness wasn’t feigned. When he slid his hands up under her shirt, her nipples were hard. It was, he knew, a difficult thing to learn to have sex sober. He was happy to teach her. Her skin was very smooth. Her lips still on his, she unbuckled his belt and freed him from his pants. Somehow, her panties disappeared and then he was inside her and she was very hot and very wet and very, very excited.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  “Have you been doing as I asked?” he asked his mistress. He knew she had, had never doubted her for a moment but he posed the question all the same because he had to find out what she knew.

  Renta nodded slowly. She was sitting across from him in the large, open chamber that adjoined her bedroom. The same pleasant breeze that had been with them for the last several days blew through the windows that overlooked the courtyard and fluttered the gauze-like curtains. Renta herself was dressed to match her décor, in shades of blue and gray that complimented her eyes. The thin material, which he’d purchased for her, did everything for her generous curves. Her hair was tied back in a casual chignon, tendrils escaping to frame her face. Her small feet were tucked up under her on the divan, pink lacquered toenails just peeking out, and she looked thoughtful.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally, “this makes me uncomfortable.”

  Kisten felt a stab of irritation, which he suppressed. As Renta knew perfectly well, involvement with him entailed certain responsibilities. Part of him wanted to tell her to damn well get with the program and the other part, somewhat softened of late by a life of unexpected domesticity, recognized that she was out of her ken. She was, for all her intelligence and charm, a woman and saddled with a woman’s limitations. Whether this was due to socialization or some natural infirmity, he no longer knew.

  “I find that hard to believe,” he drawled instead, sipping his drink, “for a girl raised at court.”

  Renta made a face, and the moment of tension passed. “And perhaps it’s because I grew up at court that I’m cognizant of the dangers,” she pointed out.

  He smiled slightly, and she smiled back. Down in the courtyard, someone spoke and his companion laughed. Kisten leaned back and shut his eyes, wishing he could take a nap. Years ago, when he was a very small child, he’d asked his amah when he’d be old enough not to have to take a nap. When you really want one, she’d told him, then you’ll be too old.

  Certain residents of Haldon had been acting oddly as of late and, unbeknownst to them, they were being watched. Several of the men—and women, too—living within the cantonment as well as various of their friends in the city proper. One of those friends was Grace Smith, who’d been in Renta’s employ since her arrival on Tarsonis.

  That she’d ended up in the employ of Kisten’s mistress hadn’t been an accident. Even before their relationship resumed, Kisten thought of Renta as a friend and, more importantly, believed her to be trustworthy. Kisten had been suspicious of Grace for a long time, since shortly after meeting her. She was too suave, too good at switching her charm on and off. She’d been nothing but prickly around Aria but, the minute she wanted help from Kisten, there had been the megawatt smile and cloyingly sweet compliments. He wasn’t able to put his finger on what, precisely, but something about Grace was…off.

  Kisten sent Grace to Renta so he’d know where she was and, since then, had more or less been keeping an eye on her. However, in the past few weeks, keeping an eye on had become actively surveilling. And in order to do that successfully, he’d had to enlist Renta’s help.

  One of Grace’s primary clients was the police chief’s corrupt second in command, an unpleasant man with a paunch. Kisten hadn’t removed the man, although he’d made the police chief aware of the investigation. He believed in knowing one’s enemies and, moreover, in keeping an eye on them. So long as the man was still in office, Kisten knew where he was. Ejecting him precipitously ran the risk of him being replaced by someone Kisten did not know.

  That Kisten would eventually get rid of him—get rid of them all—went without saying. But in the meantime, he was waiting. And learning.

  Renta detailed Grace’s activities. The young courtesan was popular, both because of her novelty—exotic specimens had always been popular on Brontes, and throughout the empire—and because she was reputed to be a spectacular lover. Kisten hadn’t sampled her charms, himself; a great many things could be got over, but revulsion wasn’t one of them. Nevertheless, she had one of those bodies that was made for pleasure
. And she held herself confidently enough that he had no doubt she was every bit as good as she claimed.

  Unfortunately for Kisten, he knew too much about her personality to ever find her appealing. Sex with her sounded about as exciting as sex with a moldy loaf of bread. Masturbation, he thought dryly, was an underrated activity.

  “What?” Renta laughed.

  Kisten glanced up. He hadn’t realized that he’d spoken aloud.

  “Are you practicing this speech for your son?” she asked.

  “Oh, God.” Kisten groaned. He couldn’t talk to Talin about sex. He’d rather talk to his own mother about sex. Rather have sex with his own mother—maybe—than face his teenaged son with either the information that he, himself, was what charitable souls called a sex addict or that condoms really were a good idea. Particularly if one hoped to avoid illegitimate offspring. Yes, he could see that announcement going over very well.

  “Some boys, ah, get up the courage to—”

  “No pun intended?”

  “Talk to girls,” Renta emphasized, still smiling, “by the time they’re fourteen and nearly all by the time they’re sixteen. They go straight from too young to have done it to you know they’ve done it and you’ve missed your chance entirely. The really slow starters wait until college but somehow, with you as a father”—she sipped her drink, some ghastly concoction made with coconut milk—”I don’t anticipate his being much of a wallflower. Unless, of course, you plan to contradict me.”

  “What a laugh riot you are.”

  Kisten’s first discussion of sexually transmitted diseases had come at the hands of—literally—his father, after that venerable man learned that his number one son had contracted syphilis from his friend’s mother.