Virtue and Vice

One

Run.

It was the only word in Notsah Mevoot’s brain. Her feet moved, one in front of the other, bare flesh slapping on polished marble. She ignored the pain in her ankle from where she’d twisted it leaping the stairs and the different sting across her shoulder blades from the cook’s switch. She clutched the loaf of bread to her chest beneath the fluttering tatters of her blouse.

Her father, Invisible Mother watch over him, had always said if you’re going to do somewhat, do it well. It was clear Notsah lacked her father’s evasive skills, her mother’s light-fingered talents, else she’d not be running this way with the Shomer Melek as hot on her heels as hounds after a hare. Apparently, she couldn’t thieve worth a damn, but she could run faster than the king’s guard, at least for the moment. Favoring her wounded ankle, she dodged a few pillars and took a sharp turn down a small hallway half hidden by a tapestry. She leaped the faded carpet that threatened to trip her and stumbled on the other side. She skidded on the marble, not quite as polished in this corridor, and rolled.

Hands and knees, skinned. Bread, squashed. Head, spinning. Notsah got to her feet. Her heart pounded but she paused, breathing hard, listening for the sound of boots on marble. Shouts. Maybe they’d passed by this hallway, gone another way.

Down here! The chit’s gone this way!

A waft of a breeze pushed ahead of them warned her of the soldiers’ approach. Notsah gulped at the air, trying to fill her lungs but only giving herself a dizzy head. She had to run. Harder, faster, longer, dodge and weave or stay still and silent as a statue in the shadows until they passed. Whatever she had to do, she needed to it well.

And now!

She won’t get away. She recognized that voice.

Erekon Kosem, the Aryon Melek. The King’s Lion, leader of the Shomer Melek.

She knew him overwell. The smell of him. The taste, too. A man who’d taken her up against a wall without even bothering to kiss her first couldn’t be expected to show her any sympathy now, no matter what they’d once shared between them. Notsah tested her hurt ankle, which after a few moments’ rest had stiffened and ached even more.

Run, she thought, and pushed herself as the bang and thump of boots came closer. The shouts. They had weapons, those soldiers, but they needed no spears, no swords to wound her. They had their laughter and anger, and most of all, they had their righteousness.

Ahead of her, tucked into an alcove, was another floor-to-ceiling tapestry. Notsah knew what that meant—you couldn’t be a kitchen slag or a thief without recognizing that here in House Bydelay such hangings disguised doors not meant to be opened. Not secret, exactly, just unused rooms or back passages between state rooms for the purpose of smuggling lovers in and out.

The soldiers would know it, too, of course, and look inside, but if the Invisible Mother were smiling on Notsah she’d find a place to hide. Maybe even another door to another corridor. Make her escape, though the possibility of this seemed less and less likely the closer the Shomer Melek came.

All of this for the sake of a pie, she muttered, rolling the shoulders the cook had switched upon discovery Notsah’d had a taste of what she wasn’t meant to savor.

The theft of the bread had been an afterthought, somewhat to nourish her on the road as she ran away from this place, the only home she’d known for the past five seasons since both her parents had been imprisoned and she’d been sold at auction to serve here. Now she was likely to join them and for what? A half-burned crust and a fingerful of fruit pie.

The thought of facing her pursuers, of begging for mercy, passed through her mind swifter than a flash of silver in the sky. There’d be no mercy for the likes of her. The thought of taking her own life came next, but she had no knife to stab herself and the windows here were all barred. She couldn’t even jump.

She’s this way!

After her, lads, the first to catch her shall have a ten-arro coin from my own purse!

Her ankle hurt too much to run for long, but she put on a burst of speed and headed for the door behind the tapestry. For one awful moment Notsah thought it was locked, but then the wood creaked and gave as she yanked, and she hurtled herself through it, closing it behind her without a slam to alert the soldiers. It was a small room, a closet almost, set up with a wee fireplace burning scented logs. A chair, a footstool, a pair of bookshelves. A ewer and basin. This was a sanctuary, somewhat like a chapel. A refuge.

But she wasn’t the only one in it.

The young man sprawled on the chair, thighs spread, trousers open, startled when she flew through the door. His feet pushed at the floor, tipping the chair but not sending it over backward. He let out a hoarse cry of alarm.

Her mind whirling, Notsah took in the scene and wanted to laugh. Some young lord had snuck in here to indulge in what was known in the kitchens as the cleric’s vice, though Notsah had always wondered how anyone could ever consider celibacy a virtue and self-pleasure a vice. Here she was, interrupting. His fist was still closed around his prick, though he was no longer pumping it, and his eyes glittered with bright passion.

What the—who by the Void are you? His face had flushed crimson, a color that did not suit him, as his face was marred by a series of small, blistery pustules that now stood out all the more against his cheeks and forehead.

Notsah knew this man, too. Not by the cut of his waistcoat or color of his hair, but by that face. Only one man in House Bydelay suffered so blatantly from Trystan’s Pox.

Jarron Bydelay, prince and heir to the throne of the Second Province.

I plead your mercy, Notsah said.

From the corridor, the shouts grew louder. She stared straight into the prince’s eyes. In all her dreams of him, and she’d had many, Notsah had imagined herself in this place many times, though never in this situation. Without thinking twice, she dropped to her knees in front of him.

He didn’t resist when she replaced his hand with hers, but when she covered him with her mouth, he cried out again. Low and hoarse. Surprised. His hand came down to grip at her hair. He was very hard, thick and throbbing on her tongue, and Notsah closed her eyes as she sent up another prayer to the Invisible Mother that she might be granted mercy.

Let the soldiers come and see only the prince and his whore, let them be shamed of their intrusion. Let them go away without bothering overmuch to check. Please.

He groaned, a familiar noise of male pleasure she knew would soon culminate in his climax. He’d been almost there before she even began, and though it was far from the first time Notsah’d ever had a cock in her mouth, and nor was it the first time her skills had brought the act to a swift conclusion, she needed him to hold off a while longer. Just a little. She slowed the pace, adding a hand to the base of his cock, the other cupping his sac. She sucked gently, but not fast.

His fingers in her hair twisted, tangled. Pulled. Not hard enough to force her to release him, and she couldn’t tell if that were his intent or, if like so many men, he was simply so lost in his own pleasure he had no idea he might be causing her pain. She didn’t really care. She was not his lover. Not even a mistress. She was simply a thief, stealing even this act for her own purposes and reasons.

Jarron cried out again in the same low, hoarse voice. His cock throbbed and in the next moment he released inside her mouth. Notsah shook, not with her own climax though he might’ve thought so—men often did—but with resignation. He was finished. So was she.

She swallowed and took her mouth from his cock. She sat back on her heel, careful to keep the pressure off her injured ankle. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at the man from whose kitchen she had so recently fled. He’d never missed a meal in his life, that one. He dressed himself in silks and satins and wiped his ass with lace.

His eyes fluttered as he looked down at her, then opened wide. She’d never been this close to him before, though she’d mooned over his portrait often enough from the shadows. Erekon had hated it when he saw her staring with wide eyes at the pictures of the prince, whose formal portraits never showed the blisters. Jarron Bydelay had blue eyes beneath the shock of thick, dark hair tumbled over his forehead. The blisters, some clear, some white, stood out against the blush on his cheeks.

Who are you? he breathed.

The door flew open hard enough to slam into the wall and rattle the books on the shelf. Two of the Shomer Melek burst in, tangling the tapestry as they came and pulling it from its hooks. Erekon came just after them, his dark eyes flat and assessing as he looked around the room.

Too late. If her face had still been buried in Prince Jarron’s crotch, Notsah might’ve had a chance, but as it was, Erekon was already crossing the room to snatch her up by the back of her collar. Notsah dangled in his grip, her breath catching as the shredded throat of her blouse cut into her skin. Her wounded ankle connected with Erekon’s shin and hurt her worse than it ever could’ve hurt him.

"Steady, little kalbah, Erekon said, lip curled, the pet name cruel but murmured in a voice like a caress. Watch yourself, else I feel forced to punish you further."

What . . . what is . . . ? The prince hastily arranged his clothes to cover himself and got to his feet. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Erekon, but then he was hardly a man grown. He lifted his chin, looking at the King’s Lion and ignoring Notsah, who hung like a puppet between them. What is the meaning of this?

This—Erekon shook Notsah—is a thief, my lord. She thieved a pie from the kitchen and when she was caught and punished for it, she attacked the cook, stole some bread, and fled.

The world was graying, lack of air sending Notsah into the dreamworld. Maybe the Void, she thought with a hint of gratitude. Maybe Erekon would simply choke her into death right now and spare her the rest.

Put her down, she heard the prince say. Can’t you see she can’t breathe?

Sweet air whistled into her lungs on a gasp, though when she hit the floor at Erekon’s feet, every bone in her body seemed to break at once. Notsah whimpered and curled into a ball next to Erekon’s polished black boots. No more running. No use.

My lord prince, she is a thief. Stole right from your kitchen; it’s the same as if she’d pranced into your bedchamber and lifted one of your jewels.

Notsah gripped the floor, cold under her fingers. I was hungry.

Erekon nudged her overhard with his boot, right in the tender spot near her ribs. Shut up.

Hunger can move even the most righteous to unnoble acts, the prince said.

Was he . . . defending her? Notsah lifted her head to look up at him, but Erekon pushed it back down. Weary, bruised, nevertheless she drew in a breath of hope.

My lord, she comes from a long line of thieves and vagabonds. The girl needs no reason to steal, it’s in her nature. She can scarce help it.

And yet she was employed in my kitchens?

Erekon hesitated before answering. He turned to his two companions. You two. Out.

He waited until they’d gone before saying, I had naught to do with such a decision, but aye, she was so employed.

And it was common knowledge she was inclined to thievery, aye?

Notsah pressed her forehead to her palms, the backs of her hands flat on the floor. She bit back a smile, though Erekon couldn’t possibly see her face. He’d only have to suspect, and he’d kick her again.

Her service was purchased at auction, so . . . aye, I suppose it was well known. Erekon shifted, his boot coming dangerously close to Notsah’s fingers but not crushing them.

Yet.

If it was well known, if her service was purchased knowing this was what she was, why then the surprise? Why the outrage I hear in your voice, Kosem? You chased her in here as though you meant to kill her for stealing what . . . a loaf of bread? My kitchen bakes a dozen such loaves every day to feed us. Surely one could be spared.

You don’t understand, my lord. It’s not what she stole, it’s that she stole at all. It’s that she attacked the cook. It’s that she ran, thinking she could get away with it . . . Erekon’s voice trailed off and Notsah felt the weight of his attention on her. It’s that she’s an uppity, foul-mouthed little kitchen slag who finds it to her pleasure to make herself as better than the rest, who breaks the rules and thinks she can get away with it.

Let me ask you this, Aryon Kosem. If you stumble upon a nest of wasps and kick it open, do you expect the wasps to sting you?

Of course!

Notsah felt firm but gentle hands on the back of her blouse, pulling her to her feet. She stood, unsteadily, favoring her ankle. The prince was staring at her with an expression she couldn’t determine—not pity. Not compassion. Not lust.

And what do you do when that happens, Aryon?

I kill them, of course. Dead as I can.

The prince blinked and shook his head just slightly. You kill them for doing what is in their nature, and what you yourself brought on. Why?

Because I can, my lord, said Erekon sternly. He put a hand on Notsah’s arm and pulled her a limping step toward him. "Just as I can punish this little bitch, this kalbah, for stealing from your kitchen. It’s within the dictates of my duty. And pleading your mercy, if you’ve an idea otherwise, it’s your father I’ll answer to. Not you."

The prince’s eyes narrowed. So did his mouth. He straightened his shoulders and gave Erekon a looking-over that made Notsah wince.

Are you saying I have no authority in this matter?

Erekon nodded. Aye.

The prince looked her over. I’ll speak to my father, then.

As it pleases you, Erekon said and yanked Notsah along with him as he backed up. Come along, you. We’ve somewhat to discuss.

Aryon, the prince said.

Erekon stopped. Aye, my lord.

Take her to my father.

Now? Erekon sounded astounded, and his grip on Notsah tightened.

Now, said Prince Jarron. I would speak on her behalf right now.

King Zevon would hardly want to be bothered on this account right now . . .

The prince fixed the King’s Lion with a look so regal it made it possible to ignore his ravaged face. My lord father will hear me, whether it be in plea on behalf of this girl or in condemnation of your service.

Sweet, fierce joy rose up from Notsah’s toes and all through her at the way Erekon was then forced to duck his head, to give in. To obey. His grip twisted her blouse, and she didn’t even mind the sting against the welts on her shoulders. She was held between the two men, one who’d loved her in the past and wanted to punish her for it; one who seemed bent on saving her, his reason pushed perhaps by a small sort of love.

My lord prince, Erekon said in a low voice. Your mercy, but this is not the battle you wish to fight.

Is it a battle, Aryon?

Erekon hesitated again before answering. It would seem so.

It needn’t be, said Prince Jarron. I would not have it be so. Come with me to my father’s room now, and he’ll hear me out and tell you the course to take. I’ll abide by his word.

My lord prince would do well to remember that I’ve been his father’s Lion since the prince was in nappies, Erekon said.

Prince Jarron smiled, and if his earlier look at made it possible to look beyond the scars and blisters, that smile transformed him into somewhat beautiful. "And you’d do well to remember that when my father passes his throne to me, I shall be in charge of the Shomer Melek. You shall be my Lion then."

But not yet. A familiar anger layered Erekon’s tone. Notsah had heard it often, had been spared it on occasion.

Prince Jarron’s gaze slid over her, and she understood somewhat. This was not about her. Not about the pleasure she’d given him moments ago, nor about her crime. This was somewhat between the two men between whom she was caught.

Take her to my father, the prince said in a soft, steady voice.

And Erekon, having no choice, did as he was ordered.

Two

Ten Seasons Later

And the sky blue, I think. Satin, for the breeches. With the cream hose. Adam held up two swatches of fabric, neither of which Jarron gave the simplest damn about, then shook his head. Not the white. White would be too harsh.

Have I reminded you today I am considering removing the position of King’s Dresser? Jarron said mildly, looking at his reflection.

Adam rolled his eyes and held up the fabric next to Jarron’s face. As you’ve done every day for the past sixmonth. This one, I think. It will bring out your eyes.

Jarron turned from the sight of his own face and Adam’s in the mirror. And if I don’t want my eyes brought out?

Adam Delano, Jarron’s distant cousin and dearest friend since childhood, put aside the fabric and stood behind him to look at their reflection. "Listen to me, love. You’re the Melek Gadol Shetaya, true?"

Jarron glanced at him, eyebrows lifting at the use of the old term. It surprises me to see you so old-fashioned.

See? Adam grinned. You do care about fashion.

It has naught to do with fashion but custom.

Fashion is custom, Adam said. King, then, of the Second Province. It doesn’t matter how you name yourself, everyone will be looking at your face whether you like it or not. Unless you demand they all stare only at your boots, in which case it’s equally as important that you choose the right leather.

I know overwell the sight of my own face.

Look harder. Adam put a finger to Jarron’s chin, turned his face from side to side. You see that face? It’s a handsome face. It’s a face the ladies would give up their honor to ride.

Jarron’s frown didn’t change, but he didn’t look away. He saw his own features. Blue eyes, dark brows, long nose, thick lips. Clear skin faintly patterned with the remnants of the pox that could and did break out without reason or warning.

Adam frowned, too. Ah, such a look! ’Ware, it’ll freeze that way.

Could that be worse? Jarrons said solidly, turning again from his reflection and refusing to allow his friend to pull him back to it. Make the suit in any color you like, in whatever fabric. I don’t care.

Adam sighed and put away the scraps into his voluminous bag bulging with similar samples. Jarron. Talk to me. You’ve been in a state for a quiverful of days. It’s becoming tedious.

Jarron poured himself a draught of worm and savored the sharp bite of the liquor, the sting of the mild drug diffused inside it. So go. Leave me.

You know I won’t. Adam took a glass and poured himself a drink, too. It’s because of that whore Lady Trudy, aye? I know it, there’s no point in playing coy with me.

Lady Trudy is hardly a whore.

Adam snorted. Only because whores charge a reasonable sum for their affections, and Trudy’s costs encompass far more than what most men can easily pull from their purse.

She’s a well-respected and much-beloved member of this court, Jarron said with the slightest curl of his lip, thinking of Trudy’s simpering laugh, the sweep of her skirts and scent of her perfume.

Ah, and I suppose the fact she used to call you Prince Prickleface has naught to do with your distaste for the lady’s company?

Jarron wanted to laugh at the old nickname, which Lady Trudy had indeed invented. He wanted to scoff that a childhood wound could still burn and sting. Instead, he shrugged and sipped at his worm. Her opinion of me has changed a bit since then.

Of course it has. You’re the king now.

I was a prince, then, Jarron pointed out. The worm worked its way through him, warming and soothing tight muscles. She had to know I’d eventually take the throne.

You were children, then. And she was a little runt-faced brat, now grown into a ferret-faced whore who’d like to get her teeth into you. Adam said this with full authority.

He wasn’t wrong.

Jarron shrugged and took a seat on the low, plush couch he’d had for so long he felt no compunctions about putting his feet up on it, though Adam rolled his eyes at Jarron’s lack of manners. Her place in this court is determined by her birth and her father’s relationship with mine, not by my whim.

Most of the court had, in fact, been in place or at least had been suggested to him by the old man before Jarron took his father’s seat on the throne. The advisors, too. Though Jarron had trained and studied for his entire life in order to replace his father, he’d wanted to respect the former king and not turn everything topsy-turvy just because of old resentments.

You should put her out, Adam suggested. Right out. She’s got money, she’s got a passable face if you like that snub-nosed, tiny-lipped look. She’d find a husband right away; it’s not as though you’d be sending her onto the street to beg from crusts.

Oh, she’s looking for a husband. The lady in question had made that quite clear.

You? Adam burst into raw laughter. After the time she spent teasing you, now she wants to marry you? But of course, of course she does. I told you, love, you’re fair gorgeous.

And the crown and throne have naught to do with it, true? Jarron said, amused by his friend’s response. Nor do they matter to any of the ladies who’ve shown an interest in keeping my company in a rather more intimate manner than I’ve been used to.

As if you’ve ever lacked for such intimate company since you grew hair on your balls.

This was true. The difference was that in the past it had been kitchen drabs and whores who’d spread their legs for him, glad to take his coin in exchange for a few hours’ pleasure, and now his potential bedmates were of much loftier lineage.

Envy doesn’t suit you, Adam.

Nor does self-pity suit you. Adam shrugged and tossed back the last of his worm, then bent to the bag at his feet. "I understand you care little for frippery and fashion, but it’s not really about the color or length of your cravat. It’s about an appearance. If you care enough to call yourself king instead of melek, you care enough about your responsibility to look like one. Which includes the leather of your boots and the fabric of your suits. Really, Jarron, I’m only trying to make life easier for you, not more difficult."

I know you are. And I do appreciate it. The worm loosened Jarron’s tongue, and he yawned, stretching. It would seem everyone’s set on making my life easier these days. Asking my thoughts on this or that or the other, catering to my tastes in ale, in bread, in the fowl they place on the table. I just want to eat, Adam. Sit at the table and eat, so that I might be away to other pursuits. I don’t care for idle conversation, I don’t wish to discuss the tax on hose or even dance the latest gavotte.

You’re spoiled. You spent your youth in hiding, and you’d like to keep living all to yourself, tucked away here in your rooms with your books and papers. Well, you can’t.

I can do my work here as well, if not better, than in any War Room with a bunch of advisors hovering over me, breathing down my neck and trying to curry my favor so that I take their counsel over another’s. I don’t need the playacting of court to amuse me. In fact, it only distracts. Jarron finished his glass and considered pouring another, but didn’t. Overindulgence could lead to breakouts.

Adam ruffled through the bag and pulled out a handful of silks he laid against each other, head tilted to study the color combinations. You need to play the social role as well as the regal. If we were at war, you could seclude yourself in your War Room with your Lion and his cubs and play at strategy all day. If we were in financial difficulty, you could get away with wearing last season’s jacket and refusing to host any parties. Thank Sinder that the Second is in neither situation.

Not at the moment, no. Nor do I intend it should ever be, which is why instead of focusing my attentions on fashion and whimsy I turn my efforts to important matters.

Jarron yawned again, eyes closing. He should go to bed. The sun rose early, even for a king. His courtiers might lay abed until the noon chime, but he had to get up and tend to whatever needed tending.

Jarron, Adam said. If you don’t open your eyes, I’m going to choose for you, and you’ll have to wear what I design.

I trust you.

Adam sighed and shook Jarron’s shoulder until he opened his eyes. The tenchime has not yet rung, and you’re dozing. For shame!

Should I stay awake that I might go and lose at a hand of cards? Or so I can flirt with a gaggle of ladies dressed in their best who think beauty can replace wit or even charm? Gorge myself on sweets and get drunk, just because I can? Jarron yawned again and fended of Adam’s grip with a swift jab to the other man’s side.

Adam danced out of reach. He might act the part of prancing posy, but he could hold his own in a real fight, Jarron knew from experience. That poke was the last he’d land against his friend—tonight, at any rate.

And what would be wrong with that if you did? Adam demanded.

Jarron sighed and pushed himself up higher on the couch, then scrubbed at his face. Though the skin was clear, his palm still skidded over his cheeks and forehead and he felt the phantom pain of blisters that hadn’t plagued him in near a twelvemonth. I need sleep, not late-night indulgence. For my health.

Jarron . . . Adam said, then sighed. Your father did you a great disservice. Do you know that?

Jarron’s eyes narrowed. Adam had been his boon companion since boyhood, their mothers cousins via marriage. Though he and Adam weren’t blood-related, it was the closest Jarron had to a brother.

Dare you to speak against my father?

Only out of love and fondness for the old man, and you know it. He doted on you. Still does. More even than on your sisters, much to their dismay and the amusement of most everyone else.

It’s not wrong for my father to make me his favorite, as I’m the one who’s succeeded him. And he loves my sisters, as I do. If you’re suggesting my father’s love for me was a disservice, I might be persuaded to hit you.

Adam rolled his eyes. Love, if you were going to hit me over somewhat as simple as my opinion, you’d have laid me flat with your fists a dozen times over in the last few chimes, alone.

True. Jarron gave the other man a slight smile.

And I say it was his love for you that has done you wrong. He gave you everything, there’s no lie about that. He taught you well, too, made certain you’d be able to take over for him when he decided it was time. But he also never forced you to face society, and now that it’s time for you to do so, look at you.

Jarron frowned. My father was concerned for me. My health.

Your mind’s health. There’s naught to say your physical condition would be aggravated or made dangerous by social contact. Adam shook his head and took a seat next to Jarron. He didn’t want you to suffer from mockery.

Or pity, Jarron said coldly. Think you he was wrong to so protect me? I’m his son.

Only those who don’t know you would pity you.

Jarron’s lip curled at this. He knew this to be untrue. Many who knew him pitied him when the pox were fresh and oozing on his flesh. Even when the blisters healed and disappeared, as they always did, he saw them reflected in the gaze of those who’d seen him at their worst.

Only fools, then, Adam amended.

But fools with whom you insist I socialize. Take as my bosom comrades? Flirt with, knowing that behind that fan of lace the lady is likely smirking in disgust at the thought of kissing me?

You overthink this.

Jarron shook his head. You have no idea, Adam. None.

"Not from my own experience, true, but you