Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [49]
Joscelin was another matter.
"There's somewhat I'd like to see today," he announced one morning as we broke our fasts. "I've been thinking we might try a crop of sunflowers in Montrève, and Tibault de Toluard has invented a means of using a hypocaust system to germinate seeds months early. I thought you might be interested, Imri.”
I shook my head. "I've a session with the ollamh.”
"We'll go afterward," Joscelin suggested. "It's right here in the City.”
Afterward, I had had hopes of wallowing in tangled bedsheets with Sidonie. I toyed with a hunk of honey-smeared bread. "Seems an odd spot to germinate seeds.”
"It's just a trial. If it works, he'll build a larger system in Siovale." Joscelin tapped the table. "You know, Drustan told me about a place in Alba where the springs run warm as blood, summer and winter alike. If Lord Tibault's method works, you might replicate it there. Think of it! A hypocaust that needs no fuel.”
All Siovalese are mad for inventions. Joscelin, born and bred in the mountains of Siovale, was no exception. I drizzled more honey on my bread, watching it coil and dissolve in a puddle of amber-gold. "If it's an Alban spring, like as not it's sacred." I'd learned a few things from my studies.
"Still," Joscelin said dryly. "I'd like you to come.”
I glanced up at his tone. Unless we were sparring, there was very little Joscelin asked of me. And I owed him a debt I could never repay.
"All right." I set down my bread and squared my shoulders. "Yes, of course.”
We spent the better part of the afternoon in a building on the outskirts of the City marketplace, where some enterprising D'Angeline merchant had thought to build a bath in the Tiberian style. The venture had failed, but the Marquis de Toluard had purchased the building and converted the hypocaust to his own purposes.
"See!" he crowed, pointing to the etiolated seedlings sprouting in the trenches of rich soil. "If it works, we'll gain weeks. A month, mayhap.”
Joscelin poked at a seedling with a dubious finger. "It wants sunlight, my lord.”
"I know." The Marquis steered him to the far end of the trenches, where a patch of daylight bathed the seedlings. "See, here…”
His voice trailed away, or at least, I stopped listening. While Joscelin and Lord Tibault debated the merits of his system and whether the benefits of an early harvest outweighed the cost of charcoal to fuel the hypocaust, I lost myself in a pleasant memory of Sidonie crouched between my thighs, performing the languisement. Elua knows how, but the incident at Bryony House had reached her ears and we'd made a wager, both of us laughing about it. I'd lost the moment I saw her delicate pink lips engulf the head of my phallus, sliding down the shaft to meet her clutching fist. The mere sight was enough to drive me over the edge.
I'd paid my debt in kisses, tasting my seed on her tongue, thick and salty.
"…percentage of seedlings don't take root—" Joscelin gave me a funny look. "Imri?”
I shook myself, praying I hadn't groaned aloud. "Oh, yes. I'm listening.”
"Ha!" Tibault de Toluard clapped me on the back. "Daydreaming of love, young highness? I remember it well, those days." He patted my shoulders. "Enjoy, enjoy. May she or he be worthy of your reveries.”
"Thank you, my lord," I murmured.
Joscelin didn't comment, or at least not then. It wasn't until the ride home when he suggested we share a jug of ale at the Cockerel. Emile greeted us with effusive joy. At Joscelin's request, he secured us a quiet table in the corner, backing away with a finger to his lips and elaborate promises of discretion.
"So." Joscelin poured two foaming mugs of ale and shoved one toward me. "Shall we talk about it? Phèdre and I drew lots, and I lost.”
"Truly?" I asked, scandalized.
"No, of course not." He hid a half-smile with a sip of ale. "Well, the part about talking, yes. Since you didn't bring it to her, we both thought mayhap it would be best if I pressed