House of Lust (14 page)

Two big men stood over him, one was holding him by the shoulders, pressing him down into the chair, while the other, a muscular bald-headed man, stood next to the chair waiting for Lalaas to speak.

“So what has the prisoner revealed?”

The muscular man stirred.  His voice was deep and gravelly, emanating from his stout black leather boots.  “Sir, he was the traitor Purfin’s manservant and sent here to pass on messages to their contact in the palace.”

Lalaas knew the interrogators would have been told who that had been, but the man was trying to be diplomatic.  “Who turned out to be a double agent,” Lalaas added, just to make it clear Amne was no traitor.  “Anything of interest apart from what we already knew?”

“He had been told that once the coup worked he would be major domo here and that all who worked for the Koros regime would be arrested and killed.  Only those who the traitor authorised would be permitted to work here.”

“No names, no addresses?” Lalaas felt disappointed.

“Clearly the traitor did not trust this piece of filth,” the interrogator said, sneering down at the gibbering prisoner.

“I do not blame him,” Lalaas said softly.  “Very well.  It seems the hunt for Dragan Purfin will have to go on as before.  Thank you for your efforts.  Place him in a cell.  Prince Elas has yet to decide what to do with him.”

“Very good, sir.  What of the other prisoners?  The ones captured last night in the courtyard?”

“The same.  Get any information out of them, and let me know if anything of interest becomes known.  Keep them in the cells otherwise.”

“Thank you sir,” the interrogator beamed.  Those words were music to his ears.  More torture, more inflicting pain on helpless people.  Perfect.

Lalaas nodded and gestured to the jailer to allow him out.  Once back up the stone steps into the servants’ area he sucked in deep lungfuls of air.  The dungeon was a place not for the likes of him.  He needed to get outside and enjoy the purity of the air, rather than the foul atmosphere of the place he’d just come from.

Night had fallen and he wandered the passageways.  He was tired; he’d not got much sleep the previous night, what with the counter-coup and Amne insisting he spend time with her.  At the thought of Amne, he frowned.  She was not herself at the moment; it seemed she was getting desperate for affection.  It was a dangerous thing, especially with the moody Elas becoming even more severe and cold.

He was concerned about her and decided to have a word in the morning after a well-earned sleep.

He yawned and cocked one eye up at the sky, flexed his aching shoulders, and returned to the palace.

____

Cut head, severe bruising, a broken nose, possibly a rib or two, too.  Other cuts and bruises to the arms and torso.  Kerrin had been lucky.  The head wound had clearly been the first blow, as he had no memory of anything after entering the darkness of the stables.

Argan had refused to attend the second session of the Council, being more concerned with the state of his friend.  Kerrin’s face was swollen, one eye was shut and it would be black for days.  Someone had done a really good job on him.

Panat, his father, was there kneeling by the bedside, his face distraught.  Argan stood on the other side of the bed, his arms folded, an angry look to his face.  Two others were in the room, the castle apothecary – a man whom Argan had little faith in for personal reasons – and the acting head of the guard, Lieutenant Bevil.  Bevil was a tall man, with a straight nose, clear blue eyes and a set of even teeth that had others envious.  He had a deep suntanned skin and clearly had northern ancestry rather than southern.  He was a competent man if given to being a little hidebound.

Argan had taken over.  He dismissed the apothecary after the treatment had finished.  The man bowed and shuffled out, sent on his way by a look of impatience from the prince.  Bevil snapped his heels together and stood straight before the prince.  “Sire.  A bad business.”

“Very bad.  He’s lucky to be awake, you heard the apothecary.  Knocked out, and then kicked and beaten as he lay there helplessly.”  Argan’s hands clenched.  How could such a thing happen in Zofela to his personal friend?

Kerrin’s one open eye moved and he regarded Argan.  “’Gan,” he said, extending his right arm, hissing as it set off waves of pain.  Argan knelt by his side and took his hand.  “You went there because you were sent a note?”

“Eth,” Kerrin confirmed.  “No thignature, put under my door.  It thaid you wanted me there.”

“And this note, young sir, is gone?” Bevil asked softly.

“Eth.”

Panat smoothed his son’s head, rumbling in a low voice that he shouldn’t exert himself and that he should rest.  He would be with him at all times.

Argan stood up.  “Lieutenant, I want you to find out who could have done such a terrible thing.  Eliminate everyone who was here at that time who was not in the courtyard area.  It was during the time the Council was being held and I was there with all the delegates and my mother and father.”

“Your mother and father are not suspects, sire!” Bevil said, shocked.

“Of course not, Lieutenant, as they were clearly elsewhere.  You will look for someone with cuts or bruising on their fists or hands, or blood on their clothing.  It took place not a watch ago.  My first order to you is to go to the laundry chamber.  Clothing might have already been sent for washing.”

“Sire,” Bevil saluted and left.

Argan stood over Kerrin once more.  “I’ll go now, ‘Rin.  Rest; your father is right.  We’ll find who did this and punish them.”

“Prince Argan, do you know who did this beastly act?” Panat asked, his face tortured.

“No proof, Panat.  With no proof I cannot say.  I’m no Duras.”  He held Kerrin’s hand for one more moment, then left.  He had his suspicions and made his way through the passages, acknowledging the guards’ salutes.  Outside Istan’s room there was one guard only, and he looked as if he would prefer to be elsewhere.  Argan found out where his brother was and made his way to the kitchens.  Fantor-Face was feeding again.

There were the three of them, taking a selection of pastries that had just been cooked.  “That’s not allowed,” he announced his arrival.

The cooks looked relieved.  Istan turned round, sneered, and ignored him.  The two Bragalese boys copied him.

“You two, outside now.  I want a word with you.”

Istan turned round again, his face wary.  Argan hadn’t spoken like that ever, and there was something in the voice that made him wary.  “These are my friends and I want them here.”

“I outrank you, Istan,” Argan said.  “You stay here and get fat on pastries – it’s just about the only thing you’re any good at.  These two I’m taking outside for reasons of my own.”

The two Bragalese boys looked at Istan.  The youngest of the Koros wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.  “I’m coming along, too.  You’re not going to say anything to my friends without me being there.”

“As you please.”  Argan led them out into the passageway and then across to a door set in the opposite wall to that of the kitchen entrance.  Pushing it open they entered a small garden at the rear of the castle.  There were trees, shrubs and a water feature here, tended to by a gardener.  The gardener was not there at that time, which Argan knew.  He turned and faced the three younger boys.  “A short while back my friend Kerrin Afos was attacked and beaten up.  I’m looking for whoever did it.”

“We didn’t,” Istan said.  “Well, you’ve asked, we’ll go now.”

“No you won’t.”  Argan grabbed the nearest boy’s arm and pulled it towards him, staring at the hand.  “Where did you get those bruises?”

The boy eyed him truculently.

Argan cuffed him about the head, hard.  “Speak, demon child,” he spat in Bragalese, “or I’ll hand you over to the gaoler.”

“I fell over,” he said lamely, holding his head.

“Really?  That’s not what it looks like.”

“Well it is!” Istan snapped.  “I’ve heard enough from you, you girl.  Crying over your friend.  If he was stupid enough to fall over and bang his head in the stables then he should watch himself better.”  He beckoned to his two associates to follow him back into the castle.  “Goodbye, girl.  Go cry about Kerrin some more, ha ha ha!”

The two Bragalese boys smiled and followed Istan, leaving Argan alone to think over something Istan had said.  He had more or less given away the truth and it made Argan feel sick.  Why Istan and his two sidekicks had decided to beat up Kerrin was beyond his understanding – Kerrin had never done anything to any of them, nor had he given them any cause to be angry against him.  He felt alone, with Vosgaris gone and Kerrin in bed ill.  That really only left Amal.  He suddenly needed to see her.

A quick search of the servants’ quarters yielded her location.  She was finishing her evening meal.  Argan stood in the doorway of the servant’s dining room and caught her eye.  She nodded and finished, then rose from her bench and came up to him.  “Is there anything wrong,
Lakhani
?” she asked.

“Yes.  Come with me, I’ll tell you.”  He spoke to her quietly, in Bragalese, as they made their way up to his quarters.  She listened, shocked at the brutality of the attack and the state of poor Kerrin.  Although not that close to the injured boy, he was one of their circle, so to speak, and it made her a little fearful.

Argan led the way into his room and she shut the door, remaining standing uncertainly next to it.  “What would you wish of me,
Lakhani
?  A rub of your muscles?  You seem tense.”

“No, I don’t want that,” Argan said.  He held out his hands to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she came across the room to him.  He took her to his bed and guided her to lie down next to him.  “I need the comfort of you here.  Please lie with me tonight.”

He slipped his arms round the Bragalese girl who nestled close to his chest and looked up at him, smiling.  This was a great honour to her, one of the imperial family showing her such affection, and she rested her head against one of his arms.

Together, relaxed, they spent the night sleeping innocently in each other’s arms. 

Turslenka was a smaller version of Kastan City with a harbour and shoreline along one wall.  The River Storma ran along another wall, plunging into the Aester Sea next to the city, and the main road to Kastan City crossed the river via a bridge composed of many stone arches; a spectacular sight.

The road from Bragal wasn’t so blessed.  It had run down the Storma Valley, a pleasant journey for the three men, but Vosgaris’ mind wasn’t really on the flora and fauna of the land and river.  He led the two others past farmsteads and country houses towards the Bragal Gate.  The road joined the eastward running route towards Epros and Pelponia, a very old military road built in the Somorran period, and Vosgaris remembered reading about it when he had been a student at his father’s estate.  The Vaimagina Road, it had been called.  An old Somorran word, meaning something like Swift Route.  It had served the empire well in acting as a conduit between Drazino and Kastan City, allowing armies to march swiftly in either direction, bringing help to any endangered area in a short time.

Then had come the years of neglect and retreat, and the road, like many things, had crumbled and rotted, and now in many places the old stones had gone, to be replaced by a wider area with cart wheel ruts that marked it as a road.  Closer to the city it was in better condition but it couldn’t be described as a comfortable surface for anyone travelling in a wagon.

The walls of Turslenka seemed in fair condition, Vosgaris mused as he rode slowly up to the wide gate, guarded as it was by two towers.  Guards stood ready at the entrance, the portcullis raised behind them.  They seemed smart and attentive enough, but were they professional or lax?

He came to a halt and was challenged, as was expected.  He produced a scroll and passed it to one of the guards.  “Captain Vosgaris, Zofela Imperial Guard, on the emperor’s business.  I need to see the governor.”

The guards looked at one another in surprise.  One of them bowed and passed into the city through the gateway, clearly referring the situation upwards.  Vosgaris sat patiently for the moment, looking at both Arkanin and Hendros, but both displayed no emotion, stolidly waiting for an event or order.

Footsteps broke through Vosgaris’ contemplations and he turned back to see the guard returning with an officer, an under-captain, the most junior of officers in the Kastanian army, commonly referred to as a lieutenant.  “Good morning, ah, Captain,” he began, smiling widely to reassure his important visitor.  “This is indeed an unexpected but pleasant surprise.  How may I be of service to you?”

“I am here to see Governor Olskan.  Please provide me with an escort to the governor’s residence.  Those orders you have there are for his eyes only, signed and sealed by the emperor.”

The lieutenant looked at the scroll as if it had suddenly sprouted there, then hastily handed it back to Vosgaris.  “Of course, sir!”  He barked at two men standing on the other side of the gate, and they stepped out ready to lead Vosgaris and his two men into Turslenka.

The two officers saluted one another and then Vosgaris led the other two under the gatehouse into the paved streets of Turslenka.  Most of the walls were still of wood, he noted, and so would not repel any determined attack.  Kastan City, Zofela, Slenna and Niksos were the only places he could think of that had stone as the norm.  The empire was still vulnerable to anyone who had the force to back up any great ambition against it.

The road ran in between two rows of houses, an array of differing sizes and shapes, and it wound gently first to the right, then the left.  Some repair work was going on which Vosgaris noted.  That was a good sign.  After going up a slight hill they levelled out and emerged onto the main square.  This was evenly paved and the governor’s residence loomed on the far side.

Vosgaris thanked and dismissed the two guards from the gatehouse and went up to the gated entrance of the residence.  Two more guards stood to attention, and Vosgaris dismounted and introduced himself.

In a short time indeed he was sat in Thetos’ room, the governor and the notorious slave girl Metila standing to his right and slightly behind.  Both Arkanin and Hendros were comfortably settled in a small barracks, and the equines were stabled.  The captain studied Metila.  Yes, she was an attractive woman, not the most beautiful he had ever seen, but there was something about her that drew attention.  She had that – lusty demeanour – that pulled men towards her.  The promise of sex, and damned good sex at that, oozed from her.  He could understand why Astiras had succumbed to her will, especially if it had, as the emperor had stated to him, been embellished with potions and lotions.  He’d had no resistance to the girl’s advances.  Metila returned his look with a neutral if slightly arrogant stare.

He looked away from her.  “Governor, this is from the emperor, for your eyes only.”  He passed the scroll to the one-handed governor.

Thetos smiled behind his bushy, grey-flecked beard.  “Metila is my confidante, administrator, advisor and everything.  A slave she may be, but she knows more than any other slave does.”

Vosgaris shrugged, and caught sight of Metila’s slight smile.  It sent shivers up his spine
.  By the gods!  She’s getting me excited even at this distance!
  Vosgaris watched as Thetos flicked the seal open with one hand and began reading the ink.  His eyes widened and he looked up at the captain for a moment, then resumed reading.  Finally he sat back and blew hard.  “Well that’s fucked everything up, hasn’t it?” he declared.  He looked up at Metila.  “Some
Kivok
has found out about you and the emperor and is announcing it to anyone who wants to listen.  It’s caused a right old stir in Zofela.”

Metila looked shocked, then hurriedly looked at the captain.  “What they say?”

Vosgaris pointed at the scroll.  “Whatever is written there, but I don’t know what it says.”

Thetos hummed to himself, re-reading it.  “The emperor commands that the Captain here is given full backing in looking into the source of the leak, and there are two families here who are under suspicion.  I am to give the Captain every resource in order for him to carry out his duties.  Nothing much else, Metila.  Just that someone in Zofela got to hear of the three times you and the emperor had a liaison.  He or she is using it to undermine the Koros regime.”

“Who else knew other than you two and the emperor?” Vosgaris asked.

“Only General Teduskis,” Thetos said.  “I told no-one.  We had tight security on those occasions.”  He looked up at Metila.  “Nobody else knew, did they?”

“No, not even Empress.  You know who told?” she asked Vosgaris.

“No,” Vosgaris lied.  It was clear where the initial leak had come from, but now he wanted to find out which of the two suspects he was chasing, the Anglis or Mirrodan, had been told and was spreading the fact for their own purpose.  “I must visit the homes of both the Anglis and Mirrodan as soon as possible and ask them a number of questions.  Can you tell me when this would be possible?”

Thetos rubbed his chin.  “Hmmm.  The Mirrodan won’t be a problem – they are in town.  The Anglis are not here at present, Lord Anglis is up in Zofela, funnily enough, and the rest are at their country estate outside town.”

“Can you arrange a visit to both?  I need to do this fairly quickly, as the emperor has asked me to get to the source of the trouble as fast as possible, and he’s not one to disappoint, is he?”

Thetos grunted.  “No he is not.  Very well, leave that to me.”  He turned to Metila.  “Show the Captain to a room, you witch.”

“You order, I obey,” Metila said huskily.  She pushed away from Thetos’ side and stood over Vosgaris.  “You come.”

The captain heaved himself up out of his chair.  “My belongings?”

“Metila will take care of that, too,” Thetos waved the issue away irritably, as if such things were beneath him.  “They are with your equine, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Metila, you know what to do then,” Thetos said.

“Yes, I fetch.”  She opened the door and waited until Vosgaris passed her before following.  She came alongside and pointed to a door along the passageway on the other side.  “You will stay there.  I go fetch your pack.”

Vosgaris let himself in while the slave girl went the other way.  The room was furnished, and reasonably comfortable, with a slightly worn rug in the centre of the room, a bed with a straw mattress and clean sheets and a couple of chests and a stand for clothing.  Vosgaris grunted.  It would do.  The single window looked out onto Turslenka’s houses.  He was still looking out over them when Metila returned with his pack, and dropped it onto the floor by the door.

Vosgaris gave her a surprised look.  She stood there daring him to say something.  “I hope nothing is broken,” he said.

“I will speak to you.”  She walked past and stood by the bed.  “Did letter say anything else?”

“Not about your child, no,” Vosgaris said.  “It would seem whoever is spreading the fact you and the emperor have had an affair does not know about your child.”

Metila stood for a moment and thought about that.  “Only he, you and me know.  Thetos not know, I not want him to know.”

“I understand.”

Metila stepped up to Vosgaris.  The scent of her filled the captain’s senses.  “I not nice if I angry,” she said in a deep, husky voice.  “I very nice if you please me,” she said, pressing herself against him.

Vosgaris recalled the warning not to let her get close to him but that was no good here and now.  He felt his mind spinning and the growing excitement in his loins.  Metila ran her hand over his manhood and smiled, her mouth parting.  “You want Bragalese slave love?”

“Uhh…”

“I show,” she whispered and knelt before him, unfastening his breeches.  Suddenly his lower parts were exposed to the air, and that delicious feeling of a woman’s mouth closing over his swelling rolled over him.  She sucked and licked and Vosgaris couldn’t stop her pleasuring him.  She withdrew and looked up at him.  “You want better?”

“Ahh…” he nodded.

She smiled, slipped off her lower clothing and turned round, ending up on all fours.  “Take me,” she commanded.  “Hard.”

Vosgaris couldn’t stop himself; his head was full of lust and he knelt behind her, then penetrated her hard.  Metila gasped and then coo-ed in pleasure.  “Yes you give hard!”

Vosgaris was a man possessed, the waves of hot pleasure that rippled through his body and mind were like nothing he had felt before when making love to a woman.  Was this typical of a Bragalese woman?  He didn’t know.  He thrust hard into her for a long while, before climaxing with a deep groan and gasp.  Metila remained on all fours for a while, her eyes closed, a smile on her face.  Then, suddenly, she got up.

“You good.  Me help you.  I come later.  You wait here, more love.  I want.”

Vosgaris sat on the bed alone, wondering just what in the name of the gods had happened.  Had he dreamed it or had he actually rutted with that exciting woman?  He guessed it hadn’t been a dream.  It was too vivid and his body was still coming down off the high.  With a groan of reluctance he got up, cleaned himself, redressed and then went to his pack.  He had to get himself organised.

He just hoped to the heavens that nobody found out he had coupled with that girl.  What would Alenna do if she found out?  He was filled with guilt – but he hadn’t been able to do anything to stop that woman from seducing him.  What was it she had?  Had she cast a spell over him?  He sat and thought over it for a time, then knew he had to do something to take his mind off Alenna and the possibility Metila had bewitched him.

He located a small table in one corner and dragged the one chair in the room over to it and began examining the parchment he had with the known details of the Anglis and Mirrodan Houses.

The Anglis were one of the long established families in Kastania.  They had risen over the years to prominence, not quite at the top but not far off.  Based in Makenia now, they had formerly been landowners further east where they had owned extensive farms and had many tenants which was where a lot of their wealth had come from.  They had supplied the empire with many generals in the past although currently they were out of favour, not having had any army commanders over the past twenty to thirty years or so.

The Mirrodan were relatively new, only having come to notice in the last two generations.  It was still unclear as to how they had managed to amass enough wealth to buy houses and land, since they had no pedigree and hadn’t married into wealth either.  One rumour was that they had been fishermen from Pelponia who had lucked in when a ship had foundered and been dashed ashore on the coast where they had been fishing.  The wreck had been carrying some valuable cargo and the family had used it as a basis for getting away from their basic lives and had become land owners.

Whatever the truth of their origins, they had in a short time propelled themselves up into the minor nobility, and although the traditional Houses looked down on them and regarded them as vulgar newcomers with no class, they had enough money to attract plenty to them for whatever reason, and they had quite a fair bit of support.  Their factional alignment was still unknown; would they be in the army camp, or the merchant’s?  Would they support spending on defence, or trade?  Were they supporters of the Temple?  Would they follow the Koros, the Fokis or another of the leading Houses?  Would they set themselves up as a new power in Kastania?  That would be something to watch, as that could upset the checks and balances amongst the Council.