Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [146]
After taking supreme office he would initiate his schemes, an inchoation for more aggressive politics. Control over the means of production would be given to only the most profitable landowners. Slavery would be extended for greater productivity. Those at the very top would be rewarded handsomely. The Empire’s wealth would flourish.
“I have made more than enough preparations …” He trailed off remembering his military defeat. He would divulge that in time, and ascertain a way to blame it on the Empress’s strategies.
“And then we’ll arrest them, the Empress and her sister,” he said. “Perhaps best at the Snow Ball, so that every gossiping bitch and bastard inside this building will immediately start spreading the news. I want her deposed quickly and … well, I see myself as a likely elected candidate to replace her, don’t you think?”
Delboitta grinned her agreement with impeccable teeth. She then reached up, caressing his cheek, followed her hands with her lips. “Does this mean,” she whispered, moving her palm to his groin, “that you’ll let me please you, Emperor Urtica?”
For a moment he couldn’t work out which was the bigger turn on: her suggestion, or his future title.
CHAPTER 33
“WHO ARE YOU, REALLY?” EIR WHISPERED, HER HANDS ON RANDUR’S HIPS.
They were rehearsing a slow dance that evening, the Yunduk, and the only communication so far between them had been Randur whispering softly in her ear to correct her posture. No music this evening to accompany them, but they now understood the rhythms by heart, a liquid grace in every step. They were practicing in one of the many unused corners of Balmacara, a disused chamber long forgotten by most of the inquisitive courtiers.
The more reticent he was, the more she wanted to know, the more she needed to understand him. After years spent in isolation among Imperial tutors and the urgent whispers of guardsmen, this islander had burst into her existence and already shown her more of life than she had ever known. Even his most casual comments suggested an exotic origin, his very presence spoke of some other place, a region perhaps physical or possibly mental, it didn’t matter, just that it was somewhere not bound by stone and ice like her childhood environment.
And she had seen beneath the veneer of his arrogance.
“I thought we’d been through this stuff already.”
Her fingers tightened, gripping his waist. “We have, and yet we haven’t. I want to know who you actually are, Randur Estevu.”
“You’d only be disappointed,” he suggested dismissively.
“I’m not so sure I could be. I find your efforts on behalf of your mother are very honorable.”
“I’d rather not talk about that.”
“Tell me,” Eir changed the subject, “instead of just sleeping around, have you ever actually been in love?”
He stared down at her, and by his hesitation she knew that he was surprised.
She continued, “What I mean is, in love with anyone other than yourself.”
He laughed, drew their bodies even closer so that they were touching at the waist for the next dance sequence. Their steps flowed smoothly, beginning to be expressive of new depths, and wherever his feet went she was there with him, in unison, in perfect time.
“No,” he replied. “Being in love hasn’t really been my style. I never really cared much for the girls on Folke anyway. To begin with, they were all a little unclean for my liking.”
“You’ve very high standards for someone coming from such a poor region.”
“Wasn’t always like that,” he grunted, and she felt a sudden guilt that she had labeled him in such a way.
After a moment’s thought she said, “I thought as much. Your manners are far too good, for one thing. You eat well. And