House of Lust (34 page)

“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 gravitated 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.”

“Good.  Can’t wait.  Did you step in poo?”

“Ugh, might have.  They just go everywhere.”

“Lucky it isn’t a fantor,” Argan said with a laugh.  Kerrin snorted in good humour.  Thetos had just come in and eyed the two.

“Fantors again?  You wouldn’t like looking after one of those.  All that mucking out, avoiding being stood on and trying to fit the harness to it.  We wouldn’t have a place big enough for one anyway.”

“Governor,” Argan leaned forward, “you said they do exist – so where are they and what do they do?”

Thetos speared a hunk of bread on his hook and picked up a knife.  “Ah, far to the west.  They were used in war by ancient warlords but nobody has done so for centuries.  They only exist in our stories now, and people dismiss them as fantasies.  Rubbish of course, they do exist and should anyone manage to use them in war again, well it’ll be hard to defeat them.”

Argan recalled the colourful books he used to read in Kastan City when he was much younger.  The images stayed in his mind.  He wished he could still read those, but his parents and guardians all insisted they were too young for him now and he should concentrate on things proper to his age and station.  Being a prince was not always a good thing.  “I would like them in my army.”

“Hard to control, Young Prince, and need a lot of feeding and care.  Not always an advantage, and you could hardly sneak up on an enemy with a load of them with you, eh?”

“Hmm,” Argan pictured Istan crashing through a wood, knocking the trees over.  “No, I suppose you’re right – but would an army need to sneak up on anyone?  I mean, there would be so many wearing clanky armour it would be very hard to be quiet.”

Thetos chewed for a moment, then waved his hook haphazardly.  “Men can stay quiet when ambushing an enemy, waiting behind bushes, or trees, or a fold in the ground.  With fantors you couldn’t do any of that!”

“Ahh, yes.  I see.  Fantors would be good in some situations but not in others, yes?”

“Precisely.  There you go,” Thetos grinned and waited for the arrival of his piscine.

Argan finished first, excused himself and went to his room to change into his riding gear.  He was looking forward to being in the saddle again.  It had been quite some time and the weather had been too bad to have riding lessons, but today was different.

He was looking forward to the coming spring and summer.

The arrival of the lone rider caught emperor Astiras’ attention.  It was one of the army’s relay riders, employed to pass on messages through the empire as fast as possible.  The new watchtowers with their relay stations were getting post and messages delivered much faster, to the emperor’s delight.

However, delight was not his emotion as the rider vaulted off the equine and came running up the stairs to the keep entrance.  Something in his body language told Astiras something was not well in the Kastanian Empire.

Astiras stood just inside the entrance, fighting the urge to stride forward.  He had to keep the impression of calmness and authority.  The rider came up to him, knelt and lowered his head.  “Sire, urgent dispatch from Mazag, compliments of General Vanist.”  He offered a small tightly rolled up scroll with the red ribbon of Mazag tying it.

Astiras waved to Vosgaris to take it and pass it to him.  Once in his hands, Astiras impatiently opened it and scanned the message.  His heart sank.  He looked up and nodded to the rider.  “You may rest and refresh yourself.”

Vosgaris indicated a guard to show the man the canteen, then faced his master.  “Bad news sire?”  Astiras’ face was a giveaway.

“Bad enough.  Mazag has learned of an alliance having been signed these past few days between Venn and Zilcia.  Moreover, a new Venn army is being assembled in Kral, with contingents from Zaros and Rhan, and they are gathering in a huge camp just over the border close to where our southern border meets Mazag.  Mazag are not sure who is the likely target, but you can safely assume our ceasefire is about to end.  Damn their black hearts!  Will it be Venn invading Mazag and Zilcia us?”

“Zilcia do not share any border with us, sire,” Vosgaris pointed out.  “And they can only attack us by sea which is risky, as Venn found out a few years ago.  Unless of course Venn allows a Zilcian army to land in Epros and march overland into Makenia.”

“Which is what I would do.  Damn it!” Astiras whirled.  “Gather the officers of the army, Captain.  I want a Council of War in the hall in one watch’s time!”

The hall was transformed.  Out went the cutlery and crockery, plates and candlesticks, and weights put in their place on the table.  The room was swept hurriedly and the servants vanished, both being found new tasks and glad to be away from the severe looking army officers gathering in the cavernous hall.  The banners hanging from the ceiling and the crossed spears over the wall mounted shields seemed more appropriate now.

Astiras took the chair at the head of the table, Isbel next to him.  Vosgaris sat on his other side, Landec down one place from him.  Opposite him sat the castellan of Zofela, and then came the company officers, spearmen, archers and mercenaries.

“For those who don’t know,” Astiras began the meeting without any introduction, standing up and leaning on both fists set on the table, “Venn has signed an alliance with Zilcia, which opens up the possibility of a longer front of hostilities on our eastern frontier.  I have also been informed there’s a new Venn army being assembled just over the frontier in Kral close to the Ister River, so we don’t know yet whether they’ll invade Bragal or Mazag.  I’m convinced those motherless bastards are going to resume the war now they’ve got Zilcian nipples to suckle on.  Thoughts?”

“What’s the stance of Mazag, sire?” the castellan asked.

“Friendly.  They are the ones who gave us this intelligence.  General Vanist is mobilising his Army of Valchia and I wouldn’t be surprised if their main army on the plains to the south are also making themselves ready.  Venn would be a fool to invade Mazag but since Venn are damned fools anyway I can’t put that past them.”

“Will the Army of Valchia come to our assistance if Venn invades Bragal?” Vosgaris asked.

“I believe so, provided we feed them.  I don’t want a foreign army on our soil un-provisioned.  That’s a disaster waiting to happen.  I will write back to Vanist and ask him to post his army in Bragal.  It’ll serve both our purposes well, for they will be in a forward position to meet those motherless filth eating porcines before Mazag territory is affected, they will be supplied by ourselves, and we will have an army already in the field to face any attack.”

“What of our forces, sire?  Should we mobilise?” Landec asked.

“Not yet.  It’s costly and I want to save expenses – but I want an alert sent to Turslenka and Kornith, and border patrols to be stepped up.  We need to send alerts to Romos and Lodria too because Venn may try to attack from Cratia once again.”

“And of Zilcia’s intentions, sire?” the castellan asked.

“Hmph!  No idea.  They’re not saying.  Vosgaris, arrange to send a letter to Kornith and get from that engineer fellow a breakdown of their armed force capabilities and composition.  I need to know what they have and what they are capable of.”

“Sire, if Mazag are going to site an army on our soil,” Vosgaris responded, “I think it would be sensible to appoint a liaison officer to their staff.”

“Agreed.  You’re volunteering then?”

Vosgaris looked surprised for a moment, then shrugged.  “Why not?  It’d give me something different to do and an insight into Mazag military capabilities.  I don’t speak good Mazag, though.”

“Then get another volunteer, Captain, who does and who will act as interpreter.”

Vosgaris nodded.  “No doubt you’ll suggest that in your message to General Vanist?”

“Of course, Captain.”

Isbel stirred.  “We should appraise the population here.  Last thing we need is for the locals to think Mazag are an enemy.  We will need to stockpile food and the like for our allies too.  Where are you thinking of siting them?”

Astiras pursed his lips.  “Hmmm, not sure.  Anyone here have a place in mind?  Needs to be somewhere south of here.”

“Sire,” one of the company officers raised an arm.  “A day’s march to the south is a plain – a valley – with a water supply and grain grass fields.  There are a few farms and three villages nearby but the valley bottom is perfect.  Tracks south, east and north.”

“Good, point it out on this map,” Astiras thumped the map of Bragal before him, weighted down on all four corners.  The officer came over and studied it for a moment, then pointed at a small blank spot to the south of Zofela. 

“We haven’t given it a name but I’ve heard the villagers refer to it as Kamalak.  Nor sure what it means.”

“Bountiful water,” Vosgaris said.  The others looked at him.  The captain looked abashed.  “I – ah – have been learning Bragalese since….. well….”

“That’s fine, Captain,” Isbel smiled and put a hand on his arm.

Vosgaris nodded and looked down.  It was still painful talking about Alenna.  “Lak is water, kama is plentiful, or bountiful.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Astiras nodded.  He had a knowledge of Bragalese and knew enough to know Vosgaris had been accurate in his explanation.  “That sounds perfect.  I want supplies gathered, and a militia unit set up to police the area.  I do not want any incidents between the Mazag and the villagers.  This close to Zofela, are they Bragalese or Kastanian?”

“Two are Bragalese, the one furthest north is Kastanian, sire,” the same officer spoke again.

“You seem to know a lot about the area, Commander.  Are you a local?”

“No, sire.  I have patrolled there frequently.”

“In that case you will command this militia unit.  Make sure the Bragalese in particular are kept well away from Vanist’s army.  I don’t want stories of rampant village women humping their way through our allies, pursued by vengeful husbands.”

“Shouldn’t the Mazag ambassador here be involved?” Isbel asked.  “After all, it’s his people involved and he may be of use as a liaison officer.”

“Or appoint someone suitable – hmmm yes, good idea,” Astiras grinned.  He eyed Pepil standing close by.  The major domo, now fairly wizened with age, waited patiently.  “Get the ambassador and inform him of the situation and suggest he appoints one of his dual language speakers to accompany Captain Vosgaris here to the camp of General Vanist when he marches here.”

Pepil bowed and backed away.  He cast a long glance at Isbel and then left.  Isbel, oblivious of the look she’d been given, turned to Vosgaris.  “Is there anything you’ll need to assist you in your duties?”

“Possibly, yes.  I’ll need to gather a list of things.”

“Bring them to me later.”

“Ma’am.”

The meeting broke up with messengers bursting forth from the town, riding hard along the roads of the province.  The news had to be passed quickly, for nobody knew when Venn would act.  It was agreed by those at the meeting that their neighbour had been planning this move for quite some time.

Astiras found Pepil waiting for him in his day room.  “Yes, Pepil?  Is there something you wanted?”

“Sire – I don’t know whether I should tell you this or not – but…. I have been suspicious for some time about the empress.”

“What?  What do you mean, man?  Speak up!”

Pepil looked nervously to the door, then leaned forward.  “It has been noticed that the empress and Captain Vosgaris have been getting close since the death of Alenna.”

“What are you saying?” Astiras scowled, his fingers curling into fists.  “Are you spreading court gossip?  If you are I’ll rip your balls off and force them down your throat!”

“No sire, I haven’t come to you before about this but even when we were in Kastan City I was aware of a closeness between the two.  I have kept a diary of their – secret meetings.”

Astiras slowly sat down.  “And where is this – diary?”

Pepil slowly drew out a folded sheet of parchment and passed it to Astiras.  “I am loath to do this – but since you have been vilified by the empress recently for an extra marital indiscretion, I think it only right that you ought to learn of this.  My loyalty is to you, sire.”

Ingratiating
moklar
, Astiras thought sourly, and looked at the list of meetings.  They were extensive.  He raised his eyebrows and looked up.  “And who else witnessed these – liaisons?”

“Ah, I do have witnesses.  Guards on duty at the time, members of my office.  They are, naturally, afraid to volunteer this information for what it may do between you and the empress.”

“And why, Pepil, are you doing this?  What favour are you asking for in return?”

“Sire!” Pepil affected an outraged stance, “I am a faithful servant of your majesty!”

Astiras growled, then looked back at the list.  Finally, something he could throw back at his wife.  True, they had resumed sleeping together but she still reminded him of his affair whenever the situation – in her eyes – demanded it.  He was getting tired of the subject.  “Very well, Pepil, thank you.  Can these witnesses verify these incidents?”

“Yes sire, if you promise no punishment will befall them for doing so.”

“I vow that nothing will happen.  Now let me go sort this out.”  He left, barging a chair aside, leaving a smirking Pepil alone in the room.

The larger premises in the stone castle meant that Isbel now had her own day room where she and her handmaidens were usually found.  Astiras crashed in without any warning and jerked his thumb at the handmaidens.  “Out.  Go find something useful to do elsewhere.”

The two women fled, frightened at the emperor’s attitude and tone.  Isbel stood up, indignant.  “What is the meaning of this, Astiras?  This is my room and you should knock….”

“Here,” Astiras thrust the parchment into her hands.  “Look at that!”

Isbel read the dates and places and the notes, and the blood drained from her face.  How many years did this cover?  The dates went back nine years.  “What is all this about?”

“Your illicit meetings with Vosgaris, that’s what!  Pepil has informed me of the closeness between the two of you – and you had the damned cheek to put me through all kinds of abuse for my affair!  All the time you were seeing him!”

“Nothing happened, Astiras, I swear!  This is a list of the times I wanted to speak with him on private matters.”

“What, for all the time you were alone in a room together?” he shouted, jabbing the parchment.  “Long enough to do more than just ‘talk’!”

“And you’re judging me by your own sordid standards, Astiras Koros!  As for that slimy creature Pepil, he’s finished here.”

“He is certainly not!”

“Oh yes he is, can’t you see he’s trying to cause trouble between us……” she stopped halfway through her sentence.  “Astiras,” she breathed, horror stricken.  “What if he’s the secret contact of the Mirrodan?”

“He’s been with us for ten years, Isbel!  The Mirrodan have been around for just five!  There was no way he would have known about them when we were in Kastan city, and he was listing your indiscretions back then!  Vosgaris is going to be strung up from the castle walls and you – well you will be banished to a temple!”

Isbel stood up and threw the parchment at her husband.  “This is a complete lie – a supposition with no grain of truth, made up of rumour and scandal mongering.  Where does it say I’ve been seen actually touching the Captain?  Well?”

Astrias glared at her.  “Does it matter?  People have noticed you being close to him!”

“Of course it matters you idiot!  I’m close to my handmaiden, but that does not mean I’m sleeping with her!  You have not one grain of truth, you’re just jumping on some scandalous jumped-up smear against me just to get back at my indignation at you making free with that Bragalese witch!  And it seems its fine for you to do so whereas even speaking to a man means in your hypocritical mind I’m sleeping with him!  Oh, you’re so two-faced, aren’t you?”