10. Lyr

10

LYR

A fter Lyr had wandered back into the kitchen, dazed from his encounter with Damon in the orchard, he waited for Damon to come and speak to him.

But Damon doesn't come. Not on that day, or the next, or the next. Lyr waits half a moon's turn and Damon doesn't come.

Damon ran from him, ran from Lyr as seed was drying on Lyr's belly. Ran after his wife. Lyr doesn't know what it means, but perhaps after Lyr spent Damon decided he'd taken all he could risk. Or all he wanted.

Lyr thinks that if this is the case, Damon could at least explain. If there is to be no more, Damon ought to tell him so.

But he doesn't.

The days roll into each other, filled with nothing but the frantic work in the busy kitchens, thoughts of those sweet moments with Damon in the orchard and the aching, sad knowledge that Damon is here with him, under the same roof.

Sometimes Lyr washes the dishes from the manor and wonders if Damon's dish is amongst them. If he is touching something Damon has touched. Sometimes he lingers by the pump in the yard by the stable, hoping Damon might come by. He never does.

Lyr is nothing but a kitchen slave. A scullion. The lowliest person in Sanglora Manor.

His only solace in the bleak passing days is that, as his obsession with Damon fills his thoughts, his memories of his time with Jareleezi in Blackstone Castle are fading. He has a new life. He has escaped.

He spends most of his time thinking instead of the feel of Damon's fingers curling around his cock, whispering filthy things in his ear as he urged him to spend.

On this particular day, Lyr is collecting more herbs for Cook when he sees Damon for the first time since he fled the orchard. It's late morning and Damon rides up to the stable block on a large grey mare. Lyr pauses with the basket on his arm. His heart beats hard. Damon looks as majestic as ever in his usual sleeveless leather jerkin and with sweat on his brow from a hard ride.

He swings down from the saddle and passes the reins of his steed to a stablehand. Lyr waits for Damon to say something to him. To speak to him, or even simply look at him. Look at him with heat in his eyes.

But when Damon glances in his direction he looks right through Lyr as if he were simply an invisible scullion. Lyr returns to the kitchen hurriedly. He hands over his basket of herbs and makes an excuse about needing to fetch something from the servants' hall. He makes it there before he starts to sob.

Everyone is so busy. He knows he will get a clip around the ear or worse for not returning swiftly to the kitchen for his next duties. But he still ends up, lying face down on his bed and weeping .

Damon will not even look at him.

It is Mina who finds him. "Lyr," she says from the doorway. "I was sent to fetch you. Are you sickening?"

Yes, Lyr thinks, yes I am sickening. He rolls over and sits up. "I don't know what to do."

Mina comes over to Lyr's bed and sits down beside him. "About what?"

"About Damon, Master Damon."

"What about him?" Mina sucks her bottom lip. When Lyr doesn't reply, she says, "Lyr, if you don't hurry back Cook or Kres will tan your hide for this slacking."

Lyr swallows. "Mina, if I tell you something, will you keep it a secret?"

"Of course, you can tell me anything."

"You know the rumours about Master Damon? About his preferences in bed?"

Mina's eyes stretch wide. "You mean?" She gasps dramatically. "You mean you truly are his pleasure slave. I knew it. People do whisper that is what you are, yes. Even here in Master Damon's own house. And there have long been rumours that he is sly. They stopped of course when he married. But then, well, people say when he discovered King Ramel had a male pleasure slave he insisted on taking him for himself, taking you for himself. And I have heard that he fucked you in the revels in front of every man present and they cheered him on because he was The One Man Army. And, of course, the rumour is that his old sin has followed him home. I thought that was talk, because, of course, I know where you lie, unless…?" She furrows her brow. "Does he wait until everyone is asleep and then command that you attend him in bed? Has he hurt you?"

"It's not like that. He'd never do that. Almost none of that is true. But, Mina, please, you must tell no one, but he is indeed sly."

"Have you lain with him?"

"No. He cannot. He told me he does not wish to sin and he is trying to be a good man. And now…" Lyr sniffs. "Now he is ignoring me. He does not even look at me."

"Are you sure he hasn't bedded you? You are whimpering like a serving wench who has been used by a great man and set aside. You should not be surprised. Noble men do it all the time."

"He has not even bedded me," Lyr whimpers. "I swear, he has not. All he has done is touch me. He made me spend with his hand. Out in the orchard."

Mina gasps with a kind of delighted surprise. "Here in Sanglora?"

"Mina, swear to me, you will tell no one."

Mina smiles. "Truly, if I did it would sound no worse than what people already say Master Damon has done with you."

"Do you think he loves his wife?" Lyr says.

"Why do you ask that?"

"She saw us. She saw us in the orchard and he chased after her and after that, he will not look at me."

"Perhaps it is her doing. Perhaps she has held this over him and made him swear not to speak to you."

Lyr sniffles again, but this does make him feel a little more hopeful.

"On the question of whether he loves her, who can really know his heart, but…" Mina pauses and looks a little smug. "I have heard her handmaidens say he does not share her bed and has not done so since he returned from war."

This statement ignites a tiny spark of delight in Lyr. "Oh? Truly? "

Mina nods, "Yes, although the talk is he is saving his seed for the Feast of Surrus when he hopes to put a son in her belly in the coupling grove. But now, please Lyr, dry your tears. If I don't bring you to Cook now we will both get the strap."

When they arrive back in the kitchen Cook turns and says, "There you are. Where ever have you been? I need you to go to Gleamview Market to place an order with the fishmonger. Take this." She hands him a piece of paper. "And be sure and get it to him before noon or he'll fuss and try to offer some substandard replacement. And we can't have that for the Feast of Surrus. Now run along."

Lyr does as he is bid.

It's the first time Lyr has left Sanglora Manor since he arrived. The city is even busier than it seemed on the day he rode through the streets from the docks in the cart.

On the back of the note for the fishmonger, Cook has scrawled some directions. He memorises them, then flips the note over and reads.

5lbs mackerel, 5lbs sprats, 2 salmon, 2 sturgeon, 5 lampreys.

That seems like a lot of fish. Under the order is written, deliver to Sanglora Manor on the morning of the Feast of Surrus.

Lyr knows that the Feast of Surrus marks the moon turn from Gi to Surrus. It was the one feast of the Sidu he never attended when he was owned by Jareleezi. She would always take him to her chamber for a ritual on that night. But he knows what happens at the Feast of Surrus. Opeth had often told him she was sorry he never got to go.

Lyr takes his time moving through the city. It is pleasant to be wandering freely. He enjoys the air on his skin. He hasn't spent time outdoors since Klish. The streets twist and there seems to be some new fascinating thing on every corner. Bards sing, pillow workers lean out of windows and call trade, cats run in zig zags. People around him speak in every language. He hears Artemian, of course, but also Juran and some delicate Magaar. He even hears bards sing in bawdy Ambolk. It's a cacophony, a great music of the city.

He's drawing near what he thinks must be the market, the crowds are thicker, he can hear even more noise, raucous shouts of sellers and he can smell roasting nuts in the air. He passes a wide open square with a huge punishment scaffold at its centre. Two men are imprisoned there, displayed in a pillory. Signs in front of each detail their crimes. For the first ‘ drunkenness ' for the second, who looks like he has been beaten, ‘stealing '. Lyr shivers. There is a whipping post on the scaffold too, although no one is locked into the tall post's dangling manacles, Lyr can see bloodstains on the wooden platform.

He turns away and is about to walk into the market when a man steps in front of him, a large man in leather armour. He wears a sword belt and a severe expression.

"You Lyr?"

Lyr stares at the man, startled.

The man stares back. "Lyr the whore, from Pellex? Right?"

"Yes?" says Lyr, suddenly feeling very alone in the crowded street.

"Come with me."

Lyr glances towards the stone archway that leads into the market square. "Please, Sire, I am a kitchen slave. I have to place an order for some fish for my Master's house. I must do it before the bells ring for noon."

The man's jaw clenches. "Do you know what this means?" He points to his glittering helm. In the centre of the polished steel is a crest. A golden bird perched on an arrow.

It means nothing to Lyr. "No," he says.

"This," the man says, tapping the crest with a well-shaped fingernail, "is the mark of Prince Atticul, Heir Second and Hope of Azuria, Bain of Heretics. Are you refusing his invitation?"

Lyr swallows. He supposes the market is not going anywhere. If he places the order late he will have to come up with some excuse. And this man is large and has a sword. "No," he says. "I will come with you, of course."

The man takes Lyr by the arm. His grip is firm, but not painful. He leads Lyr off the wide street and into a small alleyway. Here the buildings rise up high on each side. All the windows that overlook it are shuttered. This alleyway is notably quieter than the bustling market entrance they have come from.

A short way along the alley is a carriage. It is plain. Black with little adornment. Two horses wait patiently in front of it. A driver is smoking a small clay pipe. He nods to the guard as Lyr is led to the door of the carriage and the guard opens it. "In there."

Lyr steps up through the door. The inside of the carriage is a plush, intimate space. The seats are upholstered in black leather with brass buttons.

Prince Atticul Darek sits alone inside. He is more clean-shaven than when Lyr last saw him, with only a moustache, oiled to fine points. He wears a very fine embroidered jacket, black with golden thread dancing in swirling patterns all over it.

He is smoking a glass pipe. The smoke is pale green. The musky scent of it fills the carriage. Lyr knows the scent. A sweet calming drug. Moonleaf.

Atticul smiles. "How pleasant to see you again, whore. Please." he says, gesturing, "sit."

Lyr sits opposite Atticul. The leather seats are warm through the thin linen of his breeches. Lyr wonders what this is. Is Atticul going to kill him in this carriage? Run him through with a dagger and throw his body into the street? Surely if he wanted Lyr dead he would simply have had his guard do it rather than risk soiling his fine leather seats.

Atticul offers the pipe, "Moonleaf?" he says.

Lyr shakes his head.

Atticul draws the pipe back and puts it to his lips. He takes a long inhale.

He exhales and looks Lyr up and down. He says nothing.

Lyr swallows. "Please, Your Great Highness, what do you want with a wretch such as I? I have an errand to run. I must buy fish for the Feast of Surrus." Lyr flaps Cook's note in the air, as if to prove he has a reason to be on his way to the market.

Atticul snatches the paper and reads it. He raises an eyebrow. "The bastard is holding a rite for the Feast of Surrus?"

Lyr nods. "Yes, so you see, I must go about my business."

Atticul smiles. "I will not keep you, slave. I want you to do something for me."

"I am yours to command, Your Grace," says Lyr.

"I want you to tell me about your Master, about Damon Darekul, my bastard brother. "

Lyr finds his turn of phrase strange. Does he think Lyr isn't aware who his Master is? Who Damon is? Perhaps he presumes Lyr is slow-witted. "Please, Your Highness, I cannot betray my own Master. He is your blood. I am sure he would speak with you on any matter you wish."

"I doubt he would be free with this information. Damon is sly, a luxorite, that is a crime here. A very serious crime. It is a sin against Zai. Did he fuck you on my ship? Did he take you like a dog with a bitch?"

Lyr feels like his breathing is too heavy. Like simply by breathing he will give something away.

But give what away? Damon barely touched him on the Azuria Ascendant. He certainly did not fuck him. He thinks of Damon holding him in the narrow cot, whispering poetry in his ear while he sweated through the foribunda. Damon's strong body. His big bare arms. His warm chest plastered to Lyr's back. His deep voice. His broken Magaar.

"No," Lyr says. "He did not."

"You expect me to believe that?" Atticul drawls. "And what about since he brought you to his home? Does he have you serve him in his bed?"

Lyr thinks of the orchard. Then thinks of the fact he has not seen Damon for more days than he can count. "No, Your Grace. I am not for his bed. Master Damon does not bed slaves. I work in the kitchens. I do not go above stairs. I never see him."

"I am aware of what he claims he has done with you. He has to say that, of course. I am sure that Emperor Selim will not allow Damon Darekul to keep a male pleasure slave." He smiles. "I have made sure he knows what Damon the Bastard brought home from his war."

"I am not a pleasure slave," Lyr says, indignant, then checks himself. "Not for my Master. Not in Attar. "

Atticul looks at him. His eyes are narrow. "You lie to me, slave."

"I do not. Damon, my Master, does not desire me so. You saw yourself how he refused to take me in the hall of Blackstone Castle. He has a beautiful wife." Lyr finds that saying those words stings. Damon ran from him, back to the arms of his wife. Every time Lyr sees Inez in the kitchens of the Manor, his heart aches. She is truly beautiful, Damon's beautiful wife. His high-born wife meant to bear his sons.

"He does not desire his wife," says Atticul in a low voice. "I know that man. I have known him a long time. Even after he was sent away, he came home to visit us sometimes. When he was nineteen he was already a war hero. Emperor Selim hailed him as the saviour of Azuria. My father had him sit on his right hand as his eldest son. A bastard-born thing like him. Everyone was so delighted by him. You'd think he'd suppressed Pluma-Ferris alone with his bare hands. But I saw him. I caught him fucking a stablehand. A hideous sight. That's why he hates me. I have seen him for what he truly is. A base animal that ruts in dirt. He is sly filth. So tell me how he fucks you."

"He has not. Even if he is sly and desires men as you say, perhaps he does not desire me." Lyr feels his throat prickle. "I am a small, damaged thing."

"Hmm," Atticul looks Lyr up and down again as if assessing his attractiveness. "Then you must make him desire you. You are a whore. I'm sure you have skills you could use to seduce a man like him. Do what you did to King Ramel." Atticul sucks on his pipe again. The moonleaf smoke curls from his mouth as he exhales. His tone, when he speaks, is conversational. "It is a sin of the body to even desire such an aberration. A creature like you, built for sin, it might be hard for you to understand, but the idea of someone like him, someone with his foul tendencies, rising to such power. Having the ear of Emperor Selim, being treated as if he is part of the royal line. Such a thing is a threat to Azuria itself." He holds the pipe out to Lyr.

Lyr takes it. He inhales the moonleaf. It's as good. Harsh on the back of his throat but soothing to his blood. It makes him feel more confident, less fearful. "As you say, I am not of this world. Why would you even ask my assistance in this? What could I even do, if you want me to state he touched me on The Azuria Ascendant or that he takes me to his bed, then you are asking me to lie."

"You are a slave. The statement of a creature such as you would not be enough to topple a man like Damon. And whatever took place on my ship could be dismissed as taking place outside Azuria. No, I need something more. I need you to seduce him. And make sure someone sees it. A witness must see him inside you."

Lyr coughs on the moonleaf smoke. How could he possibly do this? Even if Damon was speaking to him, this would be an impossibility. "Your Grace." He hands back the pipe. "Damon is my Master. He saved me in Pellex when you would have had me put to the sword. Why would I do this for you?"

"I'm not a fool, whore, I know you require persuasion."

"I will not take your coin to hurt Master Damon," Lyr says tightly.

"I have no intention of giving coin to a creature like you." Atticul pauses, smokes some more moonleaf staring at Lyr with dark eyes. His eyes have silver speckles, like Damon's. Atticul inhales a plume of smoke in Lyr's direction. "Those other whores from Ramel's harem are your friends, aren't they? Opeth, you like her. I enjoy her but she is my property. I could hurt her. I could have her flogged. I could have my men all use her."

Lyr swallows. Opeth dressed his wounds after he had been with Jareleezi and sang sweet songs to him. Without her he would never have survived in Pellex, he is sure. He would do anything to protect her.

But he wonders if Opeth would want that. If she knew of this demand. What would she ask of him?

Firmly, he says, "Opeth has endured worse men than you."

Atticul looks at Lyr, enraged, "You refuse me, slave?"

"Damon Darekul is my Master. He has treated me kindly."

"You know," says Atticul in a low nasty tone, "Damon is taking a great risk keeping you in his manor house. Someone should make sure the Rose Court are aware of exactly what you are."

"It is no crime against Zai to have a kitchen slave, Your Grace."

"Indeed," Atticul says, tone light but face hard. "But you are not a kitchen slave, are you? Now get out of my carriage."

"Very well, Your Grace," Lyr says as he moves towards the door.

He has a hand on it when Atticul says, "You will regret your defiance, whore. I will insist you are removed from that manor house and executed."

But Lyr already has the carriage door open. He jumps down into the narrow street and races towards the market.