“Ah, the great minds of the Open Council.” Her total calmness was only making him angrier. It was how his mother would’ve behaved, but with more of an edge. “What did they have to discuss?”
“Nothing much.” Only civil war. “State of the government.” And its violent overthrow. “Banter, you know.” It had been banter, hadn’t it? Or had they been deadly serious? Had he been deadly serious? He turned away to frown out of the window, through the darkened trees towards the lights on the Middleway.
He heard the rustle as she stood. “Is something bothering you?”
“No.” Only future treason. And past affairs.
“Come now.” She came to stand beside him. “There should be no secrets between husband and wife. Not on the first day, anyway.”
“You’re right.” He turned to look at her. “But we hardly know each other, do we? We spent one night together.”
“Part of one night.”
“Part of one night. I know you… own things. Manufactories, and mills, and mines.”
“I recently acquired a large stake in the Lord Governor of Angland, in fact.”
“Huh. And he got one in you.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Worried over your investment?”
“Not till I spoke to Selest dan Heugen.”
“I wouldn’t take anything she told you too seriously. The woman hates me almost as much as I hate her.”
“She told me…” Leo had a feeling if he said it, there’d be no going back. But he had to know the truth. That and his leg was burning and the day and the week and the month had been full of frustrations and he felt like a fight. “She told me you and the king were lovers.”
There was a long pause. Savine didn’t so much as twitch. A woman made from porcelain could have given more away. “And what did you say?”
“I told her if she repeated it, I’d break her fucking nose.”
“That I’d rather like to see.”
“Is it true?”
“Had you imagined I was a virgin?”
“Any doubts on that score were put to rest in Sworbreck’s office.”
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “As I recall, you were far from a reluctant visitor.”
“Not the only one, by all accounts. Is it true?”
A muscle worked in her jaw. She hid it well, but he could feel the anger coming off her. He rather liked it. “The king and I have… some history.” She was breathing hard, through her nose, chest rising and falling. “But that is what it is. History. It’s nothing for you to—”
“Is the child mine?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed further, hard creases spreading around the bridge of her nose, chin angrily pointed up at him. “How can you ask me that?”
“Is there even a child?”
She hit him.
Not some theatrical little tickle. She hit him as hard as she could with an open hand, and for someone of her size she hit shockingly hard.
It made a sharp smack, knocked his breath out in a sharp gasp, snapped his face sharply sideways and made him stagger against the window frame.
There was a pause which felt very long, then he turned slowly back towards her, and he stared at her, and she at him.
“Leo,” she whispered, lifting a trembling hand. “I—”
Leo caught it by the wrist. “Shush.” Shock had turned to excitement, and excitement to a thrill that reached every part of him. Very slowly, very deliberately, he lifted her hand up, and let go of it.
His breath came fast, almost painful in his throat. The blood had flooded to his face, making it burn and tingle, but you could’ve said just the same for his cock.
Very slowly, very deliberately, without taking his eyes from hers, he turned his unslapped cheek towards her. He thought he saw the slightest smile at the corner of her mouth as he said the word.
“Again.”
The next slap was no softer than the first. He would’ve been disappointed if it had been.
“How fucking dare you?” she hissed, stepping close, breath hot on his stinging face.
He gave a kind of whimper as she caught him around the throat, kissing him, biting him. Her other hand was already busy with his belt. He kissed her back, clumsily, angrily, tangled his fingers in her hair and it shifted in his hands. A wig. It came loose, skewed, she twisted it off and flung it away. She looked shockingly different without the softness of it, hair clipped to dark stubble, lips curled back in a snarl, paint smeared from one eye down her cheek in a black streak.
She shoved him. He didn’t even try to stay standing. Caught his head on an occasional table as he fell, bit his tongue and sprawled on his back, surrounded by scattered ornaments. Marshal Kroy stared down at him from the heavy frame. His feelings on the business were hard to judge.
“You fucking worthless shit,” she hissed, ripping Leo’s trousers down around his ankles. He gave a dumb moan of excitement with every breath, shivering, trembling, wriggling up onto his elbows. He could see the whorl in her hair at the crown of her shaved head as it bobbed up and down, lapping, slurping.
“Fuck…” he whimpered, dropping back. Almost painful, almost painful, then definitely painful. By the dead, his leg was on fire, trapped under her at the wrong angle. “Fuck…” His mouth tasted of blood. He reached out desperately, caught the claw-carved leg of an armchair and gripped it like a man hanging from a cliff by a tree-root, carpet rucking up around his shoulders as he wriggled helplessly. “Fuck… ah… ah—”
She clambered over him, dragging her skirts up around her chest with a ripping of gauzy fabric and a couple of pearls popped free and rolled twinkling away. He reached for her, wanting to drag her down, wanting to kiss her, but she caught his wrist.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” She forced his arm down above his head, pinned it against the floor. She was strong, but not that strong. He could’ve flung her across the room if he’d wanted to.
He wanted nothing less.
Skirts tickled him under the chin as she straddled him, muscles twitching around her sharp collarbones as she reached down, and somewhere in that mass of rustling fabric gripped hold of his cock.
“Stay…” she breathed, lips twisted around gritted teeth, “there.” She worked her hips in circles, she giving a little growl and he a little sob each time she pushed lower. Her face inched closer until her open mouth pressed against his open mouth.
And they bit and snapped and grunted at each other, squirming on the carpet of their meticulously decorated living room.
The King’s Pimp
Orso puffed out his cheeks as he rearranged his hand. Awful hand. Utter crap. “I suppose it’s comforting, in a way,” he murmured, “that some things don’t change.”
The same table in the same little place they’d always favoured. The same overwrought furniture and the same threadbare drapery. The girls were different, and looked even more nervous than they used to, but then the girls were always different and always looked nervous. It all seemed a little sadder than he remembered. But maybe he was the sad one.
Oh, and six Knights of the Body stood about the walls, bristling with weaponry, trying to look as inconspicuous as half a dozen fully armoured men can in a brothel, which proved to be not very. Corporal Tunny didn’t appear to notice. He was a man who could play cards through battle, flood or riot and, indeed, claimed to have done so on more than one occasion.