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Soran indulged himself in a chuckle. “You know me?”
“Of course I know you.” The Zeheftiman caught his cloak with one hand, his whipping hair with the other. “I haven’t been on your shores for long, but who wouldn’t know your face in this realm?”
“Then you’ll address me as ‘my lord,’” Soran purred.
The gold eyes widened, and for a long moment the Zehefti boy was mute, too prideful to say it until he saw that others were watching, gaping at his audacity. At last he lowered his head and said it quietly. “My lord. And I ask a second time, what do you want of me?”
The cup in Soran’s hand was empty again. He passed it to the girl who had been singing, and tousled the child’s hair. “Oh, a night’s amusement -- which I imagine would be the same ambition that brought you here.” He looked around for the camp master, beckoned the bronze-skinned little Iliosian, and offered him a coin. “This should buy the use of your pavilion until the dawn light. Done?”
“Done, and you’re being generous.” The man made a grab for the coin, as if he had never seen such easy money. “The name is Keffek, my lord. You want wine and silks, and your own harper? A blind harper from Ilios, my lord prince, who doesn’t speak a word of the common tongues of Vayal and Zeheft, so you can say what you please before him.”
“Why not?” Soran said indulgently. He gestured to the young man he had chosen. “Is this one a freeman, or do I owe you another coin?”
He had taken the boy’s elbow and was about to steer him toward the green and white pavilion, pitched like a lean-to against the high side of the galley. Surprise brought him up short when the Zeheftiman snatched his arm away and stopped dead. Soran turned back with a sharp oath.
“You think I’m a houri, to manhandle me?” The boy’s accent thickened with anger. “You think you can buy me for a coin? And even if you could – which you can’t! – the coin would be mine, not his! No one owns me.”
“Then you have my apologies, freeman,” Soran said, amused now. How typical of the Zehefti. Any other man in the Empire would have been overcome by the flattery and honor of being chosen by a son of Azhtoc. “Do you want the coin?”
The gold eyes sparkled. “I don’t want any coin. You’ve not even asked me if I want to go with you tonight.”
Again, astonishment sent up Soran’s brows. “I’ve no need to ask,” he told the arrogant creature. “I am who I am, and every soul in this camp knows it, including yourself. The seventh son of Mahanmec Azhtoc asks for nothing.”
The young Zeheftiman took a breath. “But I’m a freeman.”
“Who could be a bondsman like that.” Soran’s long fingers snapped sharply. “Now, come with me as a freeman, or as a bondsman -- this much choice is certainly your own!” He glanced at the camp master, who had already beckoned his lieutenants. As Soran watched, a length of line, a collar and a hood were passed into the Iliosian’s waiting hands, and without being ordered, he was reaching for the Zeheftiman’s wrist.
The Zehefti moved fast, snatching his hand away. “By Helios, a freeman has the right to choose,” he rasped. His chest heaved with quick, harsh breaths. He was magnificent with fury. The spirit of his people was honored in every bone and muscle.
“Then choose,” Soran invited with mock patience. “But choose wisely, as the freeman you still are … and remember, I am who I am. You possess a name?”
Anger sharpened his features, gave his face a feline quality. “I’m called Faunos. It’s a common enough name. There must be a thousand called the same between your city and mine.”
“Faunos.” Soran tried the name on his tongue and liked it. “It has an elegant sound, well suited to an arrogant, beautiful creature like yourself.” He looked the young man up and down. “Have you chosen?”
“As if there’s a choice,” Faunos spat.
“Then you’ll be pleased to go ahead of me.” Soran held open the pavilion’s wide flap.
A young Incari girl with blond hair and skin like deep bronze stepped out with a fluting giggle, bobbing before him in obeisance. Behind her he saw lamps, a jug of wine, fresh silks on a wide, low divan, a dozen cushions strewn beside it, and the promised blind harper sitting in the far corner. Faunos hesitated a moment longer, and the camp master moved closer.
Soran dropped his voice. “Your fellows are all loyal to the Empire. They’re wise enough to know the law of this land and abide by it. You want to put them to the test? There’s little wisdom in defiance.”
Without a word Faunos stepped into the pavilion. The flap swung closed and the camp master sat outside, already stoking a pipe that would take a good hour to smoke. The air was warm with the crackling brazier and sweet with the fat sticks of joss which smoked in a great brass burner wrought like a drowsing lizard.
Still, Faunos stood in the middle of the wide pavilion, hugging the cloak about himself until Soran held out his hand to take it. With an angry jerk that might have torn the fabric, he tossed it down. All he wore beneath it was the wrap about his hips, and this, he threw at Soran before it could be prompted.
He struck a pose, deliberately seductive, something too obviously copied from the market square houris. “I came here -- my lord -- to seek companionship.”
“Then you should be highly satisfied, for you’ve found it.” Soran frowned at him, less angry than simply confused. It was the first time in his life he had chosen a lover and been told no. “In Helios’s name, what’s the matter with you, boy? Am I so hard on the eyes? Do you have some moral objection to lying down with a prince? Or is it that damned Zehefti blood of yours -- I’m a scion of ‘the great demon Vayal,’ and you’d rather perish than endure my hands on your precious skin. Is that it? Damnit, would you not have chosen me?”
“But I didn’t choose,” Faunos growled. “You gave me no right of choice. My lord.”
“Stop calling me that,” Soran snapped. “You pronounce it like an insult.” The boy’s eyes flared at him, but Faunos held his tongue, perhaps wisely. Soran sought patience, found it at last and sweetened his tone. “Look at me, now, and tell me you would have chosen another. Hados, will you look at me!”
The cat’s eyes lifted, and looked him over from head to foot, slowly and thoroughly. Prickling with annoyance, Soran threw down his own cloak, and stood before him in the sky-blue wrap he had chosen from the selection offered by his bodyslave. Never before in fifteen years of courtship and mating games had he been appraised, judged. For one split second he felt a rush of uncertainty, swiftly followed by anger.
He snatched off the wrap, wadded it up and tossed it like a ball at Faunos, who caught it deftly. “Is that what you want of me? Then, you have it. We’re even now, the pair of us, in the state we were created.” He held out his arms, challenging. “Choose, freeman.”
“Freeman?” Faunos echoed. “Am I?” The defiance persisted, yet his eyes – Keltoi eyes, green, gold, silver at once -- were fever bright, devouring Soran alive, limb by limb.
“You remain a freeman at my pleasure,” Soran said very quietly, his most dangerous tone, though Faunos could not know it. “It pleased me to invite you into this pavilion for a night’s companionship. It pleases me, now, to stand here like a hoplite, waiting be chosen. Waiting to see,” he added wryly, “how much sense you possess – enough to rein in that cursed Zehefti pride? Or not,” he finished ominously.
Turn page to Chapter Nine part three...
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