Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [26]
Unaccountably, I shuddered. Something in his words summoned a memory of the zenana, so powerful that I could almost smell the stagnant water in the abandoned pool. I remembered the Bhodistani women fasting there, hollow-eyed and serene. Somehow they had maintained dignity and modesty alike in that terrible place. It had carried a cost. One of them had died at the point of a knife rather than consume a morsel of food in the Mahrkagir's hall.
"No." My voice was thick. "Not that."
"Ah, well." Gilot was oblivious. "There's Dahlia if you like 'em haughty instead; or Camellia, they're a proud lot. Or, of course—"
"Enough, Gilot." It was Hugues who intervened. His voice was mild, but there was somewhat implacable in his pleasant blue eyes; and too, the set of his broad shoulders. "As Philippe said, Prince Imriel has years to choose."
I smiled my thanks at him.
"Sorry, Imri." Gilot shrugged. "I meant no offense."
"None taken." I shook my head. "It's no matter."
It was, though. I did not want to hear him name the other Houses—not Balm or Gentian; healers and dreamers I did not mind—but the other two. Mandrake and Valerian, those given over to the sharper pleasures; the one giving, the other receiving. Their clientele was smaller, but it was select.
They played with dangerous toys, there.
I knew too much about those.
We passed through the Northern Gate and turned up the collars of our cloaks against the cold wind. I felt it whip against my cheeks, scouring away the City's clinging touch, and I was glad. Although a part of me yearned for it, I was not ready, yet, to be a man among men, speaking casually of desire and the pleasures of the flesh. Not yet, not really.
Besides, there was Maslin.
What was the truer test of manhood? To know another, to plumb the depths of desire? Or to face one's fears and accept the burden that responsibility entails? Anyone could do the former. It was in the latter that the challenge lay.
We reached Lombelon before midday. The seneschal, Jerome Bargot, greeted us with startled good manners, calling for mugs of hot perry cider and ushering us into the great room, where we might warm ourselves before the fire.
"Welcome, Prince Imriel," he said when we were settled. "Forgive us for not being prepared to better receive you."
"No matter." I smiled to put him at ease. "The fault is mine for coming without notice. But have no fear, we will not trouble you long."
"As you will, highness; it is no trouble." He paused. "How may I serve you?"
I cupped my mug, feeling its warmth seep into my cold hands, and took a sip of perry cider. It was sweet and spicy, blazing a trail of heat into my belly, and I felt stronger for it. "I wish to see Maslin," I said. "Anne Livet's son."
Jerome Bargot, who was a florid man, turned pale. "Has he… has he given offense, highness?"
"No." I shook my head. It was strange to have so many people worried about offending me; although I suppose the seneschal had cause for concern. I reached into the pouch at my belt, withdrawing the sealed deed. "I have come to set right a certain matter. Will you summon him?"
The seneschal's eyes bulged. "Highness!" he croaked. "He is… he is in the orchards, tending to the fall mulching. Perhaps you would prefer to wait until—"
"Bring him," I said simply.
Jerome Bargot bowed. "As you will."
We lounged in the great room and waited while Maslin was summoned. The fire crackled. We grew warm and threw off our cloaks. Hugues brought out his wooden flute and played a simple, merry tune. A serving maid brought a plate of bread and meat and strong mustard, and Gilot caught her eye, grasping her hands and convincing her to dance a measure with him until she drew away, laughing and protesting.
It reminded me of Montrève, and I was smiling when Maslin arrived.
He brought with him a strong whiff of dung. I rose when he entered the great room. We took each other's measure at a glance. Hugues' flute fell silent. Firelight laid a ruddy crown on Maslin's pale hair. He clenched his