The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition) (105 page)

Now Peter struggled with the cork, wondering how the slaves, who were forbidden to touch anything that might be used as a weapon, managed to get wine bottles open. Andrew, after one curious glance, had gone back to arranging the basket. Beyond him, in the corridor, a woman giggled. A man responded, and Peter realized that the "woman" was actually Lord Sutton's latest slave-servant, Eugene.
Peter made a face. Eugene was a eunuch. All of Lord Sutton's slave-servants were eunuchs. Peter had been puzzled by this until he had overheard Drogo gossiping with another free-servant about Lord Sutton's taste. The conversation would not have meant much to Peter the previous year, but just this year, the Chara had decided that it was time that Peter understood his "marital duties." And so, with the air of a time-pressed man who must nonetheless clear his schedule for an important talk that only he can deliver, the Chara had explained what sort of duties Peter would be required to undertake when he married.
It had been an interesting talk. Peter's father and mother had loved each other very much, and so they had spent a good deal of the Chara's leisure hours undertaking these "duties." Peter was quite sure, by the end of the talk, that he would make a good showing on his wedding night, however far in the future that might be. The Chara had not married until he was nineteen; it was unlikely that Peter would marry earlier than that, since he was not yet Chara himself and therefore had no pressing need to beget heirs.
He had been shocked, though, when he had grasped what it was that Lord Sutton did with his eunuch servants. Of course, Peter knew that some of the unmarried lords made use of their female slaves in such a way, and he also had known, from a very early age, that eunuchs were not men. That was made clear in the Law of Inheritance, which forbade eunuchs from inheriting property and titles that were assigned only to men.
But Eugene
looked
like a man, even if he did not sound like one. The idea of Lord Sutton taking someone who looked like a man into bed with him . . . The thought made Peter's stomach churn, and he felt even more sick when Drogo suggested, with a laugh, that Lord Sutton was the sort of man who would sleep with true men if the law permitted it.
Peter had felt sorry for Eugene after that. Neither man nor woman, dressed as a man, yet forced to be used as a woman . . . Peter had resolved that the first thing he would do when he became Chara would be to forbid the bedding of eunuchs against their will. He had puzzled for some time as to how eunuchs could be willingly bedded, since they could not sleep with women. Perhaps, he thought, they could sleep with each other, and would not mind that.
It would provide them with companionship, at any rate. He remembered a long-ago dinner conversation with Lord Carle, in which his father's friend had told him that commoners usually slept on pallets rather than beds, and sometimes the commoners could not even afford pallets for everyone in the family, so the family members slept together.
"That sounds uncomfortable," Peter had said doubtfully.
Lord Carle had given him his quirk of a smile. "It has its benefits. When I was young – oh, older than you are now, but I was not so well off as I am today – I shared a pallet with a friend when we were staying in an inn. It was . . . companionable. Yes, that is the word." He stared off into the distance, his smile fading, and then, with an abruptness that was almost rude, he had turned the conversation.
Peter thought now of the pallets that the slaves slept on. The basement where the slave-quarters was located was very cold; the floor must be colder than in Peter's chamber. And punished slaves were not even permitted a pallet.
Peter frowned as he remembered the shock he had felt when he had found that Lord Carle's heavily beaten slave was lying naked on the floor of the punishment chamber. Andrew's legs had been modestly drawn up to hide his groin, so the slave had not been displayed in a shameless fashion. But the room had been winter-cold; it was amazing that Andrew had not died from the chill alone.
As Peter placed the still-corked bottle of Koretian wine on the sideboard next to his bed, he sighed, so heavily that Andrew looked up and stared enquiringly at him. Peter explained, "I have so much to do once I become Chara. It's hard to know where to start. There are so many injustices to right. It frustrates me."
"That," said Andrew, "is why you will be a good Chara. —Come see."
For a moment, Peter stayed motionless by the table, his heart thudding rapidly like a war-horse at full gallop. This was the first time Andrew had given any indication whatsoever that he respected the Chara's son, though Peter supposed the fact that Andrew trusted his new master not to punish him should be indication enough of his respect. Finally, picking up the bottle again, Peter came over to look at the finished basket.
It looked like Koretia. That was Peter's first thought as he stared down at it. Perhaps the resemblance came partly because of the shape of the basket, but mainly it was because of the trees. There were dozens of them: little bare twigs sticking up, as though the autumn leaves had fallen from them. Peter had never seen autumn tree-leaves himself, but he had looked at pictures of what Emor was like in the olden days, when the Charas were first given the law. The tiny trees were everywhere in the little creation basket: atop bright green moss that looked like meadowland, between cracks of pebble mountains, along trailing paths composed of vine tendrils, over hazelnut hills, next to bridges composed of bits of bark, surrounding blue-black berries that Peter supposed must represent houses, and around the earthen border surrounding a large leaf.
"What's that?" Peter asked, pointing at the leaf.
"A lake. It doesn't look much like a lake, I suppose. I've never seen lakes, only the moat around the capital, which was always muddy. But there are small lakes in Central Koretia, so I thought I should include one."
Peter stared at the brown leaf, trying to envision lake-water, but seeing only dry leaf. "It looks as though the lake has dried up in its bed."
"I suppose so."
Andrew's voice had turned toneless. Peter glanced at him. The younger boy was expressionless, as he had been when he spoke of his burial.
"Wait!" Putting down the wine bottle next to the basket, Peter hurried over to the sideboard and picked up the pitcher there. It was still full of the water that Drogo had delivered. Nearly spilling the heavy pitcher in his haste, he brought it over to the basket, then cautiously tipped it. A few drops landed where he had aimed them, upon the leaf. He set the pitcher aside, and he and Andrew leaned forward to look.
The water was as iridescent as the bowl, capturing the colors around it: brown and green and black and the undyed cream color of Andrew's slave-tunic. As Peter leaned further forward, the lake turned suddenly golden, as though sunlight had fallen upon it. It took Peter a moment to realize that it was reflecting the royal emblem brooch, which he had decided to wear today.
He straightened up and looked over at Andrew and then realized, startled, that Andrew was smiling faintly at him. That did not happen very often. In fact, it had happened only once: on midwinter's eve, shortly before Lord Carle had Andrew beaten for three days.
Peter smiled back. "It's very good. I like the trees."
Andrew turned his gaze back to the basket, his smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. "You don't have many trees near the palace, do you?"
Peter was surprised until he realized that, of course, Andrew would only have seen the small stretch of Emorian land between the black border mountains and the palace. "We don't have
any
trees in Emor," he replied. "Only in the dominions. It's fields here in Southern Emor, and then there are mountains with shrubs on them, and then come the plains of the Central Provinces of Emor. After that come the northern dominions, but the trees there are all evergreens. Or so my father said," he amended. "He saw them when he was young, before he became Chara."
"No broad-leafed trees?" Andrew's smile had sunk away during the speech. "But you have fruit trees, don't you?"
It was on the tip of Peter's tongue to say no. Then he remembered Lord Carle's orchard, on his country estate. Of course – Andrew must have assumed that, since Lord Carle had trees on his estate, trees were common in Emor.
"No," he replied. "There's only one orchard in Southern Emor. We have some vineyards, though, in the borderland," he added. Too late, he remembered that the vineyards grew wall-vine grapes.
"No trees," murmured Andrew, staring down at the tree-filled landscape he had created. The iridescent water was beginning to sink away, absorbed into the winter leaf.
Peter touched his arm. "Let's have the wine now," he said.
Andrew, without glancing at the label of the bottle, reached over, uncorked it with a practiced twist of the hand, and poured wine into one of the gold goblets at the end of the table. Peter's gaze had wandered past him to the fire. The logs there were burning fiercely; more logs were stacked nearby, placed there by Andrew the previous day. Peter wondered suddenly why his chamber had always been heated by wood, if trees were so scarce in Emor. Surely logs must be expensive, if they had to be carried all the way from the dominions?
He looked around his chamber again, seeing it with new eyes. Gilded furniture, an expensive tapestry on the wall, a bed . . . Andrew had probably never slept on a bed, even before he became a slave.
And a glass bowl. The most beautiful glass bowl in the world, and Peter could afford to fill it with earth. What must Andrew think of a boy who was spoiled with such riches?
He became aware that Andrew was holding out the goblet. Or rather, he was holding a gold tray, with the goblet upon it. It was not the first time he had served Peter this way, but for the first time Peter realized that Andrew would not serve himself unless Peter urged him to.
Of course he would not. He was Peter's slave.
Peter nearly choked on the wine, though it tasted very good: sweet, like cider. His father had said, over and over, that the gap between nobleman and servant was too wide to be bridged by friendship. Lord Carle had said the same. And Andrew . . . what did he think behind those inscrutable eyes, behind those carefully trained motions of service?
What could you give a slave who, by law, could own nothing? What would tell Andrew that Peter wanted more than service from him?
"Here." He thrust out his goblet suddenly, in Andrew's direction.
He had offered the gift impulsively, without thinking whether Andrew would even understand, but from the widening of Andrew's eyes, Peter guessed that the slave had this much familiarity with Emorian custom. Andrew stared at the goblet. Slowly he reached out to take the half-filled goblet in his hand. For a moment he stood there, as though he were a balance weighing the wine. Then he turned, refilled the goblet, and handed it back to Peter.
This time Peter could not even taste the wine; the bitterness in his mouth was too great. He could not tell whether Andrew had rejected the wine of friendship, or had misunderstood what Peter was offering, or simply was too cautious a servant to make assumptions. And not knowing, Peter could not ask.
"You can drink the wine too," he told Andrew.
Andrew silently poured some wine into one of the plainer cups, sipped from it, and began coughing. Peter remembered just in time not to pound him on the back. "What's wrong?" he asked the slave.
"It's
sweet
." From the way Andrew spoke, it was clear that he considered sweetness to be the greatest crime a vintage could commit. "What is it made of, some sort of Daxion fruit?"
Sighing inwardly at his continued inability to select the right gift, Peter was still composing a reply when a knock sounded on the door. Peter spun around, trying to figure out where to hide the creation basket from Drogo.
It was too late; following some previously given training, the servant opened the door. Andrew – seeing that the servant was overladen with a silver tray holding a serving platter, two plates, and eating knives – hurried forward to hold the door open. His gaze lingered on the servant.
So did Peter's. The food was quietly placed on the sideboard; then the servant carefully backed away. Head down, hands clasped together at the front, eyes looking up through thick lashes, waiting.
Peter managed to clear his throat. "Thank you, Laura. That will be all."
A shy, pleased smile; eyes lively with curiosity under the lashes; then the milkweed-pale hair shimmered as the servant ducked her head further and curtsied. She left the room without a word.
Peter went to the door, ostensibly to see that it was shut, but actually to watch as Laura went over to a handcart and began pushing it down the corridor, her hips swaying as she walked. After a few minutes, the girl turned the corner and disappeared from view.
As he slowly closed the door, Peter turned to see that Andrew's gaze was focussed, not on the Chara's son or on the chamber they stood in, but on the northern wall, as though he could see through it to watch Laura's progress. His eyes turned to meet Peter's.
Peter bit his lip. Smiling slightly, he said, almost apologetically, "She's very pretty."
Andrew gave a slight nod.
Peter took a deep breath and moved away from the door. "My father brought her into service this year; she was part of a shipment of slaves from the latest troubles up in Arpesh. The Chara told me that her father was involved in plots of rebellion . . . but she had been in free-service already, so the Chara decided she was trained well enough to serve his quarters. She usually cleans his sitting chamber . . . but sometimes, when all of my slaves are busy, she comes over and cleans my chamber." He kneaded the back of his neck, as though a pain were developing there. "It's rather hard to study when she's here."
"I imagine so."
There was no amusement in Andrew's voice, only sympathy. Peter flashed him a smile, relieved that there would be no need to explain further. "Well, you must have seen more of her than I have; you live in the same part of the slave-quarters together. Have you found that she—?"
The rest of his query was broken off as the door burst open.
Peter jumped in place as he turned to look at the door, startled by the sudden entrance. Andrew, snarling like a wildcat, skidded in front of Peter, placing his body between the Chara's son and the intruder. The intruder got no further than the threshold, though; immediately, guards were around him, pulling him back. Peter heard garbled voices from the struggle that followed: ". . . only want to see how he . . ." ". . . not without permission, sir. If you apply for entrance . . ." ". . . will be