By Chance Met (10 page)

He glanced around the room and spotted something on Naeth’s writing desk. Ruomi softly exclaimed and strode to the desk. He picked up Naeth’s suncrystal stud and a gold coin. Swinging around, he worriedly showed the items to Reijir.

Reijir swore. “What in Aisen entered that witless head of his?” He glared at Keiran.

“Did you say something to him?”

Keiran scoffed. “I’ve made him feel as welcome as a member of the family, Rei. If he was offended by something said, it was more likely uttered by you than me.”

“But I haven’t said anything to him that could be remotely deemed offensive,” Reijir protested. “I’ve done naught, but been the soul of tact and patience.”

“Even when he tested your limits,” Keiran agreed. “And he wouldn’t take to heart anything the household staff told him, would he?”

Ruomi shook his head. “He reported everything to me. Even mild spats and minor gossip.”

“So it wasn’t anything said. Perhaps it was something he saw or felt.”

Reijir impatiently sliced through the air with his hand. “All speculation.” He read Naeth’s letter again. “Would he really return to Losshen?” he asked.

“Why not?” Keiran said. “His home is there.”

“Nay,” Ruomi interjected. “He told me he sold what remained of his family’s property. The proceeds were just enough to get him to Rikara.”

“So he lied.” Reijir frowned. “To throw us off his scent no doubt. How much remains of his allowance?”

Keiran shrugged. “Not much would be left. Mayhap enough to see him through a few days if he scrimps.”

Reijir clenched his hand, crumpling the letter in the process.

“Ruo, search amongst his schoolmates and instructors,” he ordered. “He might have taken refuge with one of them. If nothing comes of that, check on everyone else he knows well enough to ask favors from.”

Ruomi nodded and left to assemble a search party.

“And if their searches come to naught?” Keiran softly said. “What then?”

“Then we’ll look elsewhere,” Reijir grimly declared. He unclosed his fist, smoothed

out the letter and folded it. He tucked it into the pocket of his jerkin. “We’ll keep at it until we find him.”

Naeth counted out his money. He sighed. Thanks to his near maudlin breakdown as he finished packing his belongings, he’d forgotten to put his earring and the gold coin in the money pouch. He silently berated himself for his carelessness.

Dinner would be thin pea soup and plain bread at the dingy stall down the street.

Breakfast tomorrow would perforce be sparser. Even half a kipper was too expensive. He would have to make do with gruel. Maybe the stall owner would take pity on him and add honey and a sprinkling of nutmeg to make it more palatable.

He would have to look for new lodgings. Lemael had broadly hinted to him earlier that he had outstayed his welcome.

The problem was the lack of means to pay the rent on even the most squalid room in the district. There were no jobs to be had at the moment for a Deir still in his minority—

at least, legitimate jobs that did not require him to service any stranger who could pay the price. Naeth’s thoughts strayed to Lemael’s friend. The one who owned a sporting house.

He’d recoiled as soon as he learned Davon’s business and refused to give the matter serious thought. But with his funds fast running out, he realized he had no choice but to consider every available option, decent or not. He swallowed hard and forced himself to focus on the ramifications of working in Davon’s establishment.

Sporting houses had nowhere near the social acceptance of
hethare
clubs. Nor were its
felkar
required, as club companions were, to entertain their patrons socially and intellectually, only sexually.

A
hethar
could pass the night without bedding a single guest. Not so a house prostitute who was expected to smile and perform whatever carnal act was asked of him by whomever the house owner sent to his room. What basically separated a sporting house from a full-blown brothel were its cleanliness and, as far as Naeth had managed to learn, the prohibition of certain acts deemed harmful perversions by the general population.

The
hethare
clubs were the domain of well-born Deira, especially the bluebloods and the landed gentry. The sporting houses catered to members of the middle-class who aspired to enter the ranks of the upper crust by way of money, political connections or wedlock.

These social climbers tried to ape the upper class even to the extent of showing that they could afford indulgences the vast majority from the working class could not. But the costly services of the
hethare
were usually way beyond their means. This was where the sporting houses came in.

Naeth began to curl up his lips in derision as he recalled one of Wilfur’s scornful comments—the sporting house was the jumped-up Deir’s
hethare
club, but one never said so out loud among such folk unless one was looking for a fight. He stopped when it occurred to him that he might end up depending on these arrivistes for his livelihood. He closed his eyes in anguish.

His money would only see him through another day. There was no way around it. He
would
end up thusly.

Chapter Eight

Fallout

Camrion looked up from arranging mugs and glassware beneath the counter just as a Deir of obvious noble birth entered the Vomare and headed straight for the bar, two other Deira behind him. Camrion started in surprise then smiled when he recognized Reijir Arthanna, the Herun of Ilmaren.

“Welcome back, Your Grace!” he softly exclaimed. “What can I get you and your friends?”

“You can tell me where Naeth is,” Reijir said without preamble.

Camrion stared. “Naeth?” he repeated. “But I thought—Doesn’t he live with you, my lord?”

“He ran away,” Reijir replied. “Three days ago.”

“Sweet Veres. Why did he—? But he’s still here in the city?”

“We believe so. He didn’t have much money left, so it’s doubtful he left Rikara.”

“Did you call on his schoolmates?”

“And his instructors and every Deir he came into contact with the past year. You’re our last hope.”

Puzzled, Camrion frowned. “And you think I know where he is? But I’ve only

arrived today from out of town. Just a few hours ago as a matter of fact. And Lemael would have told me if Naeth had come by while I was gone.”

Even as he spoke, he realized Reijir was closely watching Lemael, which impelled him to do likewise. Camrion noted the way his mate abruptly averted his face. He also noticed the angry look directed at Lemael by Wilfur, who had just emerged from the backroom. Camrion turned back to Reijir in time to see the Herun glance at the taller of his companions. Probably his aide, Camrion guessed from the Deir’s dress and comportment. The Deir nodded and silently moved off to intercept Wilfur.

“So you didn’t see Naeth?” Reijir addressed Lemael.

Lemael reluctantly looked at him and said, “Nay, not a glimpse, Your Grace. But then he wouldn’t come here if Camrion was away.”

“But he wouldn’t have known Camrion was away unless he came here,” the Herun’s other companion pointed out. Camrion was certain he was kin, so closely did he resemble Reijir in countenance if not in height.

Lemael flushed. “Erm… I meant he wouldn’t have entered if he didn’t see Camrion about,” he stammered.

“That’s because you never treated him right, Lem,” Camrion said reproachfully. He looked at Reijir anxiously. “I hope the lad’s all right. But what in Aisen made him do something so foolish?”

“I would dearly like to know his reasons myself,” Reijir dryly said.

Just then, his aide returned. The Deir softly recounted what he’d learned. When he was done, Reijir turned on his heel, his face black with fury.

Without warning, he strode behind the bar and grabbed Lemael by the collar. Cries of alarm rang out when he brutally thrust Lemael against the counter, nigh bending him backward in half. Lemael yelped as the edge of the counter dug into his spine.

“My lord!” Camrion cried. “What are you doing?”

Reijir ignored him and glowered threateningly at Lemael.

“Where is Naeth, blackguard?” he barked.

“I don’t know!” Lemael gasped. “I haven’t seen him since you took him away!”

“Yet you were seen just two days past introducing him to one Davon Irve, owner of a sporting house.”

Camrion gaped. “What?” he croaked. “Naeth
was
here? And you didn’t say a word?”

Lemael wheezed as Reijir’s hand tightened around his throat. “He only wanted lodgings for a day or two,” he choked out. “I let him use his old room.”

“But, Lem, you know what Davon does! Why did you let him near Naeth?”

“I didn’t! He approached us! All I did was be polite.”

Reijir snorted. “So polite you told him Naeth was looking for work.”

Despite his situation, Lemael shot a venomous glare at Wilfur who hovered nearby.

Reijir hauled him up, twisted him around, and smashed his face into the back wall.

Lemael shrieked when his nose collided with the hard surface.

“Do you know the penalty for procuring a minor?” Reijir said, his voice icy with rage.

Lemael whimpered fearfully. “But I didn’t instruct Naeth to join Davon’s stable,” he sobbed.

“Nay, you only suggested your pimp friend provide him with employment. I tire of this!” Reijir suddenly threw Lemael down on the floor. He planted a foot on the blubbering Deir’s chest, bearing down hard on him.

“Did Naeth ask you for directions to the sporting house?” he growled. Lemael nodded, tears streaming down his face. “When?”

“A few hours ago. Be-before Cam arrived.”

“Holy Saints!” Camrion glanced at the tavern entrance where the lengthening shadows told the time. “He’s probably being auctioned off right now!”

“Where is the house?” Reijir demanded. “Speak!”

As soon as Lemael muttered the address of Davon’s establishment, Reijir released him and raced out of the tavern with his companions. Camrion stared after them in a daze then looked down at Lemael when the latter attempted to rise.

Contempt replaced his confusion, and he said in a hard voice, “Get out, Lem. I’ll not have the likes of you anywhere near me.” He shook off Lemael’s hands when his now erstwhile mate clutched at his leg. “And you’d better pray they find Naeth in time else you’ll think the gallows preferable to dying at Lord Arthanna’s hands.”

Naeth shivered despite the stifling warmth of the small dressing room. He avoided looking in the mirror to his left. He did not want visible evidence of how low he had fallen. And he would fall even lower before the night was done, he miserably thought.

Attired similarly to the rest of Davon’s stable of prostitutes, he was clad in silky drawstring trousers topped by a sleeveless shirt like none he had ever seen before. It closely hugged his body and the small peaks of his nipples and shallow dip of his navel could be discerned through the thin, almost translucent fabric. Fragile ties were all that fastened the front of the garment. Naeth swallowed when he realized they’d been designed thusly in order to make it easy to tear the shirt open. As for the trousers, one yank on the drawstring and they would slide right off his hips.

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the feelings of horror and revulsion that rose within him. There was no helping it. He had to set aside his modesty and learn to spread

himself for whoever made the highest bid for the privilege of taking his virginity.

At least he would only have to service one patron this night, he tried to comfort himself. Indeed, Davon had assured him he would only take one client a day his first week. But thereafter, he would average three Deira nightly.

Naeth sucked in his breath.
Three a night!
Veres almighty, could he do that? He started to shake violently.

I can’t
, he wildly thought.
I have to get out of here!

The door opened, and a grinning Davon looked in.

“You’re pale,” he observed. “And trembling, too. That will drive your price up, lad.

It’s plain as day you’ve never had a shaft up your arse before.”

He grabbed Naeth by the hand and pulled him out of the room. He led Naeth down a short and stuffy passageway.

“Now remember, only buggering is allowed,” Davon briskly instructed. “If your patron wants to have you all the way, he’ll have to negotiate a new price with me first.

And of course, you’ll need to take
mirash
. Last thing you want is a bastard on your hands. Though there are some clients who enjoy tupping expectant Deira. They say it’s softer and hotter inside them. And they’re more wanton, too. Expectant Deira, I mean.

But that’s neither here nor there.”

They entered a curtained recess lit by a small oil lamp. There was a low platform in the center. Naeth could hear the murmur of voices beyond the curtain. He gulped as the feeling of doom grew stronger.

“Just stand here,” Davon said, directing Naeth onto the platform. “Don’t try to cover yourself in any way. The clients like to see what they’re bidding for.”

Naeth recoiled when Davon adjusted his trousers so that the crotch clung to his groin, hinting at what was beneath the soft material. Davon looked at his handiwork, smiling even more widely when Naeth cowered in acute shame.

“They’ll go wild when they see how untouched you are,” he gleefully informed Naeth. “Fifty sovereigns won’t be too high to start with.” He pinched Naeth’s cheeks to bring some color into them then patted his buttocks. “
Heyas
, it’s going to be a very lucrative night!”

He slipped out through the curtain. At once the voices outside hushed.

Naeth heard Davon make the pertinent introductions. He cringed when the Deir made much of his innocence and lovingly described his attributes. It did not help his fraying nerves when Davon described his arse as “pristine as untrodden snow, wonderfully firm and so tight it’s guaranteed to reduce the lucky Deir who gets to break it in to unspeakable ecstasy”.

When Davon crudely announced that “of course, fucking the lad’s sheath is pricier”, Naeth decided he could not go through with it. But before he could flee, the curtain parted. He stared at an audience of Deira seated three-deep in a semi-circle before the makeshift stage.