Floreskand_King Read online

  “How – how do you know my name?”

  She tapped a long thin finger against his temple. I heard it.

  “What’s she saying?” Dasse demanded.

  Tell him to wait and be patient, she urged.

  Sos nodded, wondering why she didn’t tell Dasse herself. He called across, “She’s treating the wound you gave me – she’ll tend to you in a moment.” Only then did he realise that the woman hadn’t spoken with her lips; by Arqitor, he was slow, perhaps due to the blow to his head. “How far can you…?”

  Speak with my mind?

  He bobbed his head in agreement.

  She smiled, a striking image of a mouth with a tooth missing, lips bloodless, gums as green as her eyes. I need to be as close as this.

  “Who brought us here?” he asked.

  “My son Kran found you both.” She pointed behind her. Beyond in the gloom stood a young man approaching puberty perhaps. He resembled his mother in complexion and musculature, though his lips were thicker and he had two normal eyes, brighter, more alert. “He was playing with his friend Gami. Finding you was quite a shock. Our people, the Myndrachons carried you here.”

  “You know my name. What is yours?”

  “K-Kwan,” she said.

  “And you all live down here, don’t you?”

  She applied a fresh bandage. Ratava have lived under the ground for centuries. It is all we know.

  “Ratava?”

  You call us the Underpeople.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JAN-RE OSA

  “In painting the skragrak, you may delineate his skin but not his bones; in your acquaintance with a woman, you may know her face but not her heart.”

  - Dialogues of Meshanel

  Fourth Dloin of Juvous

  Daen hunting pavilion, near Lornwater

  “Dear delightful Jaora, it sometimes amuses me to wonder what my tutor would think if he saw how good a student I have become of his wife…” The Prince Royal’s veal-coloured lips moved up her bare spine, his breath tantalising, moist. “So what excuse have you made to your husband?” The narrow square of blond moustache tickled.

  Baroness Laan Jaora smiled to herself. “I didn’t need to. He’s meeting other nobles, I believe. Their business concerns money but does not interest me.” She twisted round gently, let his mouth brush over her breasts. She arched her back and her nipples hardened against his chest. He was thin, willowy, his complexion yellow-brown, paler than his father. “I much prefer to be passionate about more down-to-earth matters.”

  “Base things?” he teased, voice husky.

  “Oh, yes, Haltese, yes, indeed. Pierce me again!”

  She felt him enter her for the second time this afternoon. She’d waited for him in the sumptuous royal hunting pavilion, a secret lover, a role she enjoyed. A short while later, he’d arrived fresh from a successful hunt, his blood up, and he’d taken her quickly and roughly on the animal skins strewn over the floorboards. Now, this time, in the broad bed he was more leisurely, but even so she braced herself, for he still persisted in riding her as if he were competing in a tourney of jousting noblemen. He was about twenty-six years younger than her, but she prided herself that her vigour was still a match for his.

  From outside the high-pitched singing of the prince’s eunuch reached her ears, offering a paen to romance, an emotion he would never enjoy. Masteef didn’t know what he was missing, she thought, gasping in unfeined delight.

  When they were done, they lay back on the rumpled black silks and smoked clay pipes packed tightly with mindsaur.

  She idly stroked his face, ran her fingers over the spider-shaped nevus on his neck.

  Irritably, he brushed her hand away. “Don’t – you know I hate this blemish!”

  Her heart lurched for an instant. At times, he was so sensitive about the smallest silliest things. She mustn’t invite his ire. Not now. “Sorry, I forgot.” She brushed her hand over his blond close-cropped hair.

  “Don’t forget again,” he grated. His tone implied she would regret a recurrence. He blew a stream of grey-green smoke.

  “I won’t. I promise. Have you given more thought to what we discussed the other day?” she asked.

  “I have. If your husband will support me – and if the majority of the other nobles followed him, it would be easier for me to wrest the Black Sword from my father.”

  “Just so, Prince.” She puffed on her pipe, amused that Jhuren was unaware that she indulged. After sex, it tended to amplify her feeling of wellbeing. “I have inferred as much, have I not?”

  He teased a tangle of her auburn hair that dangled across her right breast. “Of course, the baron would be amply rewarded.”

  She liked the sound of that. “And me, as well, I trust?”

  He blew smoke into her face. “Oh, yes. You, especially, my dear.”

  Fighting back a cough, she forced a smile. “I will try to influence my husband to aid you.”

  ***

  Second City, Lornwater

  Baroness Jaora took her time as she undressed in front of her husband in their bedroom. He wore a single silk robe, open at the front; his long white beard fell to his hairy chest. When she stepped free of her clothes, his florid complexion deepened. He moved forward and held her arms. “You’re still warm from his bed.” His voice was thick, throaty.

  She knew he didn’t mean it in the literal sense, since the ride from the pavilion took time; but she understood. She ran a hand through his long straight snow-white hair, twirled his moustache. “That is what you wanted, my darling.”

  He let go, his hazel eyes darting playfully over her. He whispered in a rueful tone, “That is true.”

  She moved away from him and walked into the adjoining room, her bare feet slapping on the tiles.

  Robe flowing, he followed her; their sunken bath was in the centre of the floor. “Do you enjoy him?”

  She turned, pressed her hand on his chest, and felt the thud of his heart; she did that to him. Briefly, she wondered if his concubines had a similar effect on him. “No. I enjoy you,” she said, sliding her hand down his torso, fingers lingering amidst his grey pubic curls. “I love you.” She refrained from mentioning his two concubines, not out of any sensitivity, for indeed she had selected Ari and Misk. She harboured no jealousy towards the two women; their presence in the household signified Jhuren’s wealth; true, in many eyes they were considered as secondary wives, but there the resemblance ceased, for wives came with a dowry, concubines did not: their worth was limited to the satisfaction and pleasure they afforded. “I’m a loyal wife and will do anything to further your ambitions. But you know that already.”

  His narrow mouth curved. “I do – and I love you all the more for your devotion.”

  She released him, and lowered herself into the sunken bath. It smelled of roses, and was warm, welcoming. Now she would wash away all sensory memories of hateful Haltese.

  Through hooded eyes, she watched Jhuren as, still aroused at her touch he discarded his silk robe on the floor and entered the bath. She opened her arms to embrace him.

  Slowly, like a ritual, they lathered each other. Her hands sliding over his muscular frame, she said, “I know you’re anxious to learn what Haltese plans.”

  “All in your own good time, my dear.” The bath-water churned as they joined. “I’m happy to wait.”

  “I know. You’re good at that – and that’s what I love about you...”

  Afterwards, she told him, “The Prince Royal will do as you want, though he didn’t put it like that. He believes the ideas are his, of course.”

  He grinned, and then kissed her lips. “Delightful. Now I think I am ready for my next move.”

  She turned away briefly, puzzled. The prince was primed to move against the king, as Jhuren desired. Yet she knew that Jhuren was a secret agent of the king. What game are you playing, my love? Is your plotting going to cause us grief?

  ***

  New City, Lornwater

  Muc
h later that night, Baron Laan Jhuren slipped out of bed. Jaora lay sprawled on her back, sated and asleep, her full ripe lips puckered. Her creamy white complexion contrasted with her long auburn hair splayed on the pillow, the rust-coloured bush between her legs and the dark red sheets. It was moments like this when he questioned why he bothered with Ari and Misk; the demands of wealth were arduous at times, he mused. Enough, he must get dressed. A secret assignation beckoned.

  Slinking through the Second City’s streets lit with guttering torches, he left sector seven and passed through the varteron portal and entered the New City. Wending his way through sector twenty-one, he made his way to the Red Tellar.

  Established in 1480AC on the occasion of the First Festival of Brilansor, the Red Tellar Inn was built even before the walls around the New City were completed, some twenty-two years later. The area then had been known as Miner’s Town. It now rose before him in Marron Square.

  People from all the outlying cities and towns knew of the renowned Red Tellar, for in all Floreskand it was the only inn equipped with duelling rooms. Its ten-storey height alone would draw attention, twice as high as any other known inn, and only overshadowed in Lornwater by the two Minars and the Eyrie above the Old City’s royal palace.

  There were many specialised chambers, among them music and shrine rooms, hotel rooms, residences for the staff, private duelling rooms, the beer-hall and the Long Gymnasium and the Long Banquet Hall.

  Both wings of the building consisted of three floors: the rooftops boasted a vast variety of colour blossoming in their gardens. The central ten-storey tower was covered in sloping ornate red tiles that glistened at sunrise and sunset.

  At the appointed time, the side door opened and Jhuren slid inside.

  A thin woman stood by the door and closed it behind him. “I will take you to Ranell, now, sir,” she whispered. Her full breasts pressed against the fawn-coloured shift dress; she wore nothing beneath.

  He licked dry lips. “What’s your name?”

  Her deep brown eyes pierced him. “Why, sir?”

  Forthright, not averse to answering back to a noble. He liked that in a woman. Fecund, too; slight seepage from her breasts suggested she’d recently given birth. He licked his lips again. “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “But you’re not ‘dealing with’ me, sir. I am only leading you to my master – sorry, he does not like me calling him that…” She flushed attractively.

  “Nevertheless, before I go with you, I would like to know your name.”

  She lowered her eyes briefly. “Very well. I am named Jan-re Osa, sir.” She gestured down the passageway lit by flaming sconces. “Please follow me.” She went ahead and he trailed, eyeing the undulating motion of her bottom.

  Shortly they came to a doorway and six marble steps descended into a long narrow room.

  Decorative shagunblend lamps hung on the walls, interspersed with weapons and shield displays. This was the Long Banquet Hall, Jhuren realised. He’d never been fortunate enough to be invited to any occasion held here. He was surprised at how bare it seemed. Heavy wooden chairs lined each side, interspersed with simple wood square tables.

  At the far end was a dais where a young man sat on a high-backed hartwood chair; beside him suspended from a stand was a big brass gong and mallet. Jhuren had seen the lad more than once. Shorter than Ulran, his father, Ranell had dark wavy hair, glistening alert brown eyes, and almost classical facial features. Despite the late hour, he was smartly dressed in a red silk shirt, dark green trousers gathered at the waistline with puffy legs that narrowed to the ankles. His black leather boots had seen wear. He was slim yet powerfully built.

  “Welcome, Baron,” Ranell said, rising from the chair. His voice was husky, deeper than Jhuren recalled. “What secret do you wish to discuss at this late time?”

  Jhuren peered over his shoulder.

  Jan-re Osa bowed her head, turned on her heel and retreated up the steps, her sandals slapping on the marble, then shut the door.

  Walking forward, Jhuren stopped in front of Ranell. “I wish to talk about the overthrow of the king.”

  “What makes you think I would be interested in that?”

  “It is no secret that you and your father have no love for King Saurosen.”

  “We can rarely choose who rules us, Baron.”

  “True. But this may be one of those rare occasions. I intend to back Prince Haltese against his father.”

  “A family squabble. What is that to the Red Tellar or the populace at large in Lornwater?”

  “I also have the backing of several nobles who are of like mind.”

  “Whose names you cannot divulge at present?”

  “That is so.” Sharp as a new sword, this lad. Definitely his father’s son.

  “Will the edicts of Saurosen be revoked by his son?”

  Jhuren nodded. “That must be his first priority – in order to gain the good will of the people.”

  “Indeed, a usurper cannot rule the people if he doesn’t earn their allegiance. What of the army?”

  Jhuren grinned. “Nine generals are mulling it over and I believe we can sway them, once the esteemed Red Tellar takes sides.”

  “There are twenty generals, Baron. The odds don’t seem very favourable.”

  “The toumens of Generals Ren-asr Ama and Nostur Obio are guarding the Ranmeron border, keeping the Tarakandan Empire in check. And General Yordine Bilorn is in Endawn.”

  “I see you know the dispositions well. And General Queron Destan is at Jhuere Salt Dome, while Varop Lorgen is in Taalland.”

  Jhuren laughed. “As I see do you, young man. So…” He wasn’t going to beg. He ground his teeth. “Well, will you at least consider it?”

  “I will, Baron. You’re quite right; I’d like to see Saurosen deposed… It’s the question of how that concerns me.”

  “Good to hear. I’m sure we can settle any of your qualms. As soon as I have a tally of the true number of the generals on the prince’s side, I will let you know. That should sway you, I think.”

  “It might.” Ranell shook Jhuren’s hand. “These things can’t be rushed. Lives, many lives, depend on how it is done.”

  Confound the man! Jhuren seethed. “Indeed.”

  Ranell then turned and hit the gong.

  Jan-re Osa entered, descended the steps, her bosom bouncing provocatively under the shift, and bowed briefly.

  “Thank you, Osa,” Ranell said with a smile. “Baron, Osa will see you out.”

  ***

  Ranell paced the long room. The city was riven by politics. He didn’t want to get involved. Yet if factions took up arms, the Red Tellar would be in the middle of it all.

  Oh, Begetter, I need you here – why must you be questing to dark Arisa?

  The door behind his chair opened and his father’s aide Aeleg ushered in Lorar.

  His heart missed a beat at sight of her in a blue and white patterned bell skirt, cream blouse and gold-leather sandals. “I take it you heard?”

  Her dove-grey eyes danced. She nodded, making her shoulder-length brunette hair bounce. “Is it wise to choose sides just yet?” Her voice was deep, throaty, her manner forthright, typical for the daughter of a Master Goldsmith.

  “I don’t think I’ll have the luxury of time to consider which way to jump, Lorar.”

  She lifted her small mouth to his and they kissed.

  He embraced her, pleased to hold her in his arms.

  But she pulled away, disengaging. “You can’t side with the baron, Ranell! You can’t!”

  He shrugged. “He says he has the majority of generals behind him.”

  “That’s what he says – to get your allegiance. You don’t know that, not for certain. When the Lord-General returns from Endawn, approach him, see which way he will turn in the event.”

  “The Lord-General may be a friend of my father, but you can be sure he won’t divulge his heart or his politics to me. Besides, I don’t expect his return for some
time. Arranging his sister’s nuptials will take a month or more. His presence in Endawn is political as well, remember.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “True. At least wait for your father to come back. He can’t be much longer, can he?”

  Ranell pursed his lips, made a mental calculation. “He told me the quest he’s on is long and arduous and may not even be completed for sixty or more days yet. The deadline he mentioned was first Durinma of Lamous.” He shrugged again. “Thus, he won’t be here soon. I must make my own decisions, Lorar, and take the consequences.”

  ***

  Jan-re Osa stood in the alcove beside the entrance steps and listened, a smile crossing her lips. She started, sensing that her babe needed to be fed, and felt the moist dress material over her breasts.

  Silently lifting the hem of her skirt, she hurried along the passageway, entered an arched doorway, and climbed three flights of stairs.

  By the time she reached the landing, her breasts ached for relief.

  She entered the small sparsely furnished room. “Time for her feed.”

  The nurse sitting by the crib agitatedly stood. “Oh, you surprised me, Osa. Is it that time already?”

  Osa nodded and released her right breast, its nipple already dribbling, and lifted Uka out of the crib. In an instant, Uka’s mouth clamped onto the nipple.

  “She is indeed hungry,” marvelled the nurse. Her brow creased in puzzlement.

  “I can sense things, especially where my own blood is concerned.”

  The nurse gawped.

  Osa settled into a rocking chair, cradling her child, bathed in the scent of the clean washed infant’s skin, the smell of her milk, and the satisfying insistent sucking of its tiny mouth. She closed her eyes. “You may go and get yourself a snack,” she told the nurse.

  “I will, I’m quite famished.”

  Osa heard the door swing shut.

  Her baby’s small hands clasped her breast, as if trying to squeeze it empty. It was not so many days ago that Ranell’s father Ulran had bought her from a slaver and then freed her, sent her here under the protection of his son.