Shadows Return - Lynn Flewelling [95]
“So, are you ready to make good on your pledge, Haba?” he asked, taking the chair by the window. “We will try this for a little while: I will visit you as if you are my concubine and let you serve me wine.”
“As you wish, Ilban,” Seregil said, sinking to his knees by the bed, trying very hard to sound submissive. Concubine, indeed! Bold talk for a man with no tack between his legs.
The door remained ajar, and there were several guards posted in easy earshot, lest Seregil get any more untoward ideas. If he’d been on his own, nothing could have stopped him from breaking for it right then and there. But there was Alec to think of, and so he used every last shred of self-control he possessed to gracefully pour and pass the cup, when every instinct screamed for Ilar’s blood. But he played his role, and played it well.
Ilar drank, then reached to stroke Seregil’s cheek as he knelt by his feet. “Hmm, this does have its charms. Very well, then. Let’s see how long you can be a good boy.”
Seregil forced a smile. “More wine, Ilban?”
Thankfully Ilar asked no more of him than that, and after a few nights Seregil’s subterfuge began to bear fruit. Ilar did not trust him, and probably never would, but Seregil could be very charming when he chose, especially with one so easily flattered. Little by little, Ilar began to lower his guard. He spoke more freely, revealed a bit more about Alec and what was being done to him. Evidently a second rhekaro had been made, but Ilar seemed strangely troubled about something.
And still the door stayed open and the guards visible, and Seregil played the chastened slave and humbly performed the tasks required, all the while watching and listening, and biding his time.
One evening a week or so after their truce, Ilar came in hobbling a little and lowered himself into the chair with care.
“Are you hurt, Master?” Seregil asked, trying not to sound too pleased.
Ilar scowled and shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re in pain. What happened?”
Ilar gingerly raised the hem of his robe to show Seregil a dozen or so angry red welts across the backs of his calves.
Seregil stifled a grin; they were clearly the marks of a whip. Putting on a mask of concern, he touched a finger to one of the wounds, making Ilar hiss in pain and jerk away. “Did Master Yhakobin do this to you?”
“It’s your whore’s fault!” he snarled, shoving Seregil away. “His blood is so tainted by Tirfaie filth that the rhekaro is not right. The first was useless, and the second is an enigma.”
“Maybe your master is not doing it right?” Seregil asked without thinking.
Ilar cuffed him on the ear. “You forget yourself, Haba. I’m already in a foul mood. See this?” He held out the arm with the slave mark. “That should be branded over by now. I should have earned my freedman’s mark the day that boy was delivered. It’s not my fault he’s a half-breed! Ilban knew it when he made me his promise. But still I wait and bear the brunt of his frustration. How many of the wretched things does he get to make before he holds up his end of the bargain, eh?”
Seregil bowed his head. “Forgive me, Master Ilar. I’m sorry to add to your cares.” He nodded at the stripes. “That must have hurt a lot.”
“Oh don’t pretend to care! Just make yourself useful. Here.” He took a small pot of salve and some linen wrappings from his pocket and tossed them to Seregil.
So Seregil tended the wounds. The alchemist had probably wounded Ilar’s pride more than his body, he thought, disgusted at such a fuss over so small a matter. The skin was hardly broken. Ilar had hurt him far worse and not given it a second thought. Lips pressed tightly together to hold back any snide observations, he dabbed the salve carefully over each welt as if they were war wounds, then set about wrapping the linen.
“You have a deft touch, Haba,” Ilar murmured, watching him with rapt attention. “But I suppose you must have needed it in your former line of work?” For once he wasn’t sneering. He sounded tired and discouraged.
“I did.