The Traitor’s Mercy by Iris Foxglove

Chapter 4

While Charon petted Sabre and showed off his aftercare skills, Laurent took himself to his office and stared in horror at the assortment of cards on his desk.

“You keep getting mail,” Rose said, breezing in. She dumped another handful on his desk. “Is this all about Epee?”

“Sabre,” said Laurent.

“Does he get to keep his name?” Rose asked. “Or are you gonna change it?”

Laurent fixed her with a look. “You know there are some aspects of this business I don’t want to discuss with you, and this is one of them. But, no. Part of Sabre’s...appeal, to the nobles, will be his name. But I’ve got a few ideas. And none of them are appropriate for you to know about.”

Rose stuck her tongue out. “He seems nice.”

Only his sister would say that, he seems nice, about a noble whose family were put to death as traitors, and who might not have ever noticed Rose enough to stop her from being thrown in front of a cart. But maybe that was wrong of him. “He’ll be all right. Run along, little sister. I’ve got work to do.”

When Rose flounced off, he turned his attention to the cards awaiting his perusal. They weren’t all for Sabre; There were the usual requests for Charon, for Yves, and for the rest of the house. Laurent went through all of them, consulted his ledger so he could make the appropriate notes, and then sent the replies with appointments to the nobles who’d requested them.

And then he looked at the requests for Sabre.

One was from Adrien de Guillory, the crown prince of Staria.

Lord Laurent de Rue,

Please accept my request to host Sabre de Valois for his first night. I will pay whatever will be of most use to him, in satisfying the debt to the House of Onyx. You may be assured I will treat him with the utmost respect and—

Laurent groaned and put his head in his hands.

“My lord.”

“Charon,” Laurent said, recognizing the voice and leaving his head exactly where it was. “How is Sabre?”

“Asleep. I took the liberty of carrying him to your bed.”

“Not yours?” Laurent glanced up. Charon looked as imperturbable as always, with his eyes that marked him as a descendant of the First Citizens of Katoikos, and the neatly-trimmed beard that said he was from Arktos. “I thought you might keep him busy, the rest of the day.”

Charon shrugged. “I would, if you asked it of me. He is drifting, asleep. Could use it, probably, without the dreams that will come.”

Laurent was so curious about Charon, but he pushed the past aside for the present and waved Prince Adrien’s missive. “The prince has requested Sabre’s First Night.”

“Hmm,” said Charon.

“Yeah.” Laurent leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

“A boon, for the House, yes?” Charon asked. “But it seems like you do not think so.”

“The king did not send Sabre here for his son to become his patron.” Just the thought of what it might mean, calling Emile’s displeasure down on the house like a storm, made him want to break out into a cold sweat.

“I forget, sometimes, that Prince Adrien is his son,” said Charon, with a faint air of distaste. He’d never said anything about the rulership of Arktos, but it was clear he didn’t much approve of the capricious whims of a monarch who was not answerable to anyone.

“So does the king,” Laurent muttered. He was only one of two courtesans that had ever had the dubious honor of serving a night with the king, and the less Laurent thought about that, the better. He imagined Absolon felt about the same. “I’m touched the prince cares enough to reach out, but it’s not going to make anything easier for Sabre, if he does.”

“Sabre will not want easy,” Charon said. “Once the cruelty of those pleased to see his family fall has run its course, he will work less and earn more. True sadists are rare and true masochists, rarer still.”

“You know I want to ask you a million questions about how you even came here and know this,” Laurent said.

Charon smiled briefly. “Yes. And I appreciate it that you never have. One day, maybe. My story, you might see me differently.”

“I doubt that, but at least you have one. I still don’t remember anything about my life before I was ten.”

“When I was...before. There was a man, his job was to, ah.” He tapped the side of his head. “Find things, control them, here?”

“A brainwasher?” Laurent stared at him. “I just picture Arktos full of hot men who look like you marching in formation, carrying pretty men like Absolon around on your shoulders and women who could beat me up.”

“You are not entirely wrong, especially about the women. But perhaps sometime you could visit a man like that, to find what you have lost.” Charon was quiet. “Or you could let it stay behind the wall, and not seek it out.”

“I could. At the moment, it’s about my only choice, since I don’t think I’d trust anyone in Staria who’d try to help me with brainwashing. No offense to your country.”

Charon waved a hand. He looked too big for the chair. “There is another problem, yes, with the prince. Even if he was not the son of the king who caused Sabre’s family’s downfall, he is a submissive. Our Sabre will be in knots again, the prince will be upset.”

“Yes. And I can’t protect Sabre from being hurt, that’s part of why he’s here. I should have, maybe, let him just...go. Take the herbs.”

“Maybe,” Charon said, who never minced his words. “But you did not, so you must make it work. And I think, if you would know the truth of it, that you have done right by him.” He paused. “Is it true, what they say of his family?”

“That they were traitors? I have no idea. King Emile is paranoid enough that they might not have been. But I...well, I’m not going to say this to Sabre, but it’s not like I could blame his mother and sister, if they were. The king’s always been...like he is, but with Adrien clearly a submissive I know the sharks are circling, so to speak. Not that I want any poor woman to marry him, but without an heir, it’ll probably get worse before it gets better.” Laurent steepled his fingers under his chin. “How do I turn down the prince, though?”

“You are a house that works under different rules, with, ah, specialty courtesans, yes?” Charon tripped over the word courtesan, which was not a word he knew in his language. “I think it would be best if you reached out to someone, asked if they were interested. Made it seem like an honor. Find someone more suited to his needs.”

Laurent thought about that. “Sabre said he took fencing from the Duke de Mortain. I know he’s the king’s closest advisor, but I have suspicions he might be the reason Sabre didn’t hang with the rest of his family, and if anyone could handle Emile, it’s him.”

“Lord Laurent,” a voice called out, loudly. “I have a report for you about the—oh. Sorry.” Yves appeared in his doorway and gave the most longing look at Charon before he chased it off with his usual bright grin. “I can come back.”

“I was just leaving. I will let Sabre sleep, bring him back to you when he’s awake.” Charon rose and gave Laurent a small nod, like he was a noble and hell, for all Laurent knew about the actual hierarchy in Arktos, he was.

“Yes, good. Thank you again. You should rest, too. You’ve got a full schedule. Lord Mayburn booked two hours.”

“Ah. Then I will nap for an hour and forty five minutes, after he comes too quick and falls asleep.”

Yves snorted, and Laurent flashed a grin at him, watching with amusement as Yves stared after Charon like a starving man looking at a buffet. “Sabre is, right now, asleep in your bed. Ugh. Can I learn to like someone putting a gun in my mouth that much?”

“You?” Laurent studied him. “Sure. You’re not a masochist and fear isn’t your thing, but you’re fairly opportunistic and you look pretty with your mouth stretched around something hard.”

Yves grinned at him. “I love it here.”

Laurent was glad to hear that. He tried to run a house with rules and also make it a safe haven for people who both enjoyed their job and wanted to be there, though Staria was a mess of inequalities and it was impossible to know for sure that his courtesans were motivated purely by the enjoyment of their nighttime activities. Yves, especially, was like a hothouse flower—beautiful and young enough to be courted by starry-eyed nobles, but that sort of beauty faded, and hopefully Yves was putting away something for the future. One of Laurent’s rules that differed from other houses was how he did not require tips be turned over toward debt unless that was what the person wanted to do with them. No point in paying off your debt to the house and ending up penniless and broke, which happened to plenty of courtesans who didn’t think hard enough about their future.

The whole system was broken, but it was what it was, and Laurent was doing his best. “You could just ask Charon if he wanted to fuck, you know.”

“Who says I haven’t?” Yves threw himself into the chair, sprawling in it like a brat who needed to be corrected, which was his specialty. “Do you want to know about Sabre? He can’t kneel to save his life and he’s like a kitten, really.”

“His protocol can be addressed, but I think part of his initial appeal will be his, let’s say, uncertainty with how to act now,” Laurent assured him.

“Hmm. You say that, but one thing I’ve learned about nobles? They take it as an insult if you’re not showing enough respect, and I’m not sure it’ll go well, for Sabre, if he’s seen as being challenging.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Laurent said dryly, remembering Sabre asking how to ask to come. “His clients at first are going to be very...let’s say, aroused by his being a mess.”

“At first, sure. But you don’t last in this business if you don’t adapt, m’lord. Which you should know better than anyone, yeah?”

Laurent considered this. “You’re not wrong. All right, you can keep working with him, but let’s wait until the initial interest surges.”

“Poor unlucky bastard. I can’t imagine being all right with that many people wanting to fuck me up and getting off on my misery.”

“That’s the nobility for you,” Laurent said.

“You are the nobility, m’lord,” Yves pointed out.

“I know.” Laurent picked up some of his hand-stamped House of Onyx stationary. “Speaking of taking advantage, you’ve also got a full schedule. Lots of nobles wanting to spoil you and spank your cute ass in those shorts, so you’d best go get ready.”

“I’m always ready for that,” Yves said, but blew him a kiss on the way out of the door.

Laurent smiled after him, shook his head, and hoped that Yves wouldn’t burn out too fast. When Laurent had explained that Yves was pretty enough, and popular enough, to matriculate to the House of Gold and transfer his debt...he’d grinned and pointed out that being popular there for wanting to call noblemen daddy was like a cow eating grass back home. Here, he was popular and one of the few who tempered his brattiness with seduction, and stood out amid the house’s more unique personalities. It wasn’t a bad thought, really. Laurent hadn’t been lying when he’d called Yves opportunistic, but it wasn’t a bad thing, not at all.

Laurent finished his letter to the Duke de Mortain, then caught Rose when she tried to sneak by his office and ignore work in favor of her theater friends for the day. He gave her the missive to take to the palace, and then decided he, too, should get ready for the evening. Sabre would need some direction to observe as part of his training, and Laurent figured it wasn’t too early to get a jump on the laundry.

* * *

Sabre wokewith his legs tangled in Laurent’s sheets, fingers clutching at the warm gold of his collar. There were faint scratch marks at his neck, as though he were trying to claw the damned thing off in his sleep, and his heart was beating rapidly, the taste of copper sharp in his mouth.

He’d been under the king’s boot again, screaming into the marble to drown out the sound of the crowd, gasping into the unsettled silence as ropes creaked and nobles murmured overhead. Except Sabre hadn’t been naked when it happened, he was only stripped afterwards, when the king latched the collar around his throat and threw him to the lords of the pleasure houses.

He stared up at the ceiling of Laurent’s bedroom and touched the collar, running his fingers over the etched scales. He didn’t know how long he lay there, tangled and panting, eyes wild, but it felt like only a moment before the door opened and Laurent came striding in.

“Oh, yes,” Laurent said. “That’s healthy.”

“What.” Sabre caught his breath. “I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t catch that?”

Laurent glanced at the ceiling. “Get up and fix the sheets. You’re in training, Sabre. You can sleep when the night is done.”

Sabre kicked his way out of the sheets and tucked them into a semblance of order, and Laurent tossed a bundle of clothes on the bed. He picked up a soft white cotton shirt, dark brown trousers, and a tie for his hair. No shoes.

“Put them on. I had to guess at your size. We’ll have better ones made for you, before your first night.”

Sabre pulled on the shirt. It was a little tight around the chest, but it was functional, and the trousers fit perfectly. He started to tie his hair back in the style he preferred, froze, and pulled it loose again. This time, he tied it simply, just a low tail hanging down his back, the way he wore it during lessons.

“You’ll do,” Laurent said, when Sabre was done. His gaze raked over Sabre, assessing him, likely weighing him up against all the professional courtesans who made a living being charming to distraction. Sabre looked away. “Let’s go.”

Sabre followed him down the stairs. There were more courtesans out and about, now, running half-dressed between rooms, pinning on false eyelashes, whispering in corners. Simone was in a full evening gown that would have looked at home in his mother’s closet, studded with embroidered stars at the hem. When Sabre passed, he spotted her unzipping it from the side, revealing the silky cloth to just be cotton, with a pocket of cloves hidden next to the bust. She took one out and handed it to Nanette, who lit it.

“No,” Laurent said, snatching it out of Nanette’s hand. “Outside.”

“You’re a beast, my lord,” Nanette said, without any heat to it.

“An absolute tyrant, darling,” Simone said. She took out another clove. “Tell me, Nan, are we playing a dashing pirate today? Or the kitten?”

“I’ve lost a tentacle,” said a woman with long sheets of dark hair and the most aggressively pushed-up bosom Sabre had seen in his life. She ducked into the bath. “If someone’s taken the blue tentacle, I need it for You Know Who.”

“Margritte,” Laurent said, softly, as they took another turn down the stairs. “They aren’t actually tentacles. They’re phalluses shaped like tentacles.”

“Is that…better?” Sabre asked.

“Yes, she tried making ones that moved, before, but it was…” Laurent frowned. “Well, it was eventful. She has casts, if you’d ever like one made.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sabre said. Laurent pulled him out of the way as Yves came running up the stairs, eyes lined with kohl and his chest bare, nipple rings flashing for all to see. “It wasn’t this busy last night.”

“We were open,” Laurent said. “That’s when we keep the chaos on the inside. Here we are, the laundry.”

He opened a plain wooden door, which led to a small patch of open air just behind the main house. They were fenced in on all sides by empty buildings, and the gravel rolled under Sabre’s feet as Laurent led him to a shed with a single open window. They ducked inside, and when Laurent lit the lamp by the door, Sabre stared at the vats of water warming over low, grated fires.

“Get used to this room,” Laurent said. He tapped a chalkboard on the wall, which had a list of names, times, and marks. “We have a maid who does some of the work on busy nights—Dot, you’ll know her, she’s a terror—but otherwise, whoever isn’t working, or whoever is in training, goes to the chute there to collect soiled bedding or clothes. You’ll be receiving them throughout the night. Soiled bedding goes in the first vat, colors in the second, prod them with a stick—You never did laundry, I assume.”

“No. We had servants for that.” Sabre grimaced. “Sorry.”

“Yes, how dare you.” Laurent walked him through the next steps, pointed out the lines where laundry dried in the morning, and gave Sabre a stack of sheets to carry up to the hidden closets along the upper halls.

“Do you do this, as well?” Sabre asked. Laurent gave him a dry look.

“That’s what you’re here for,” he said. “Go on, we don’t have long.”

Sabre spent the better part of an hour running up and down the stairs, hastily shoving sheets and towels into panels in the walls while Laurent watched, stopping occasionally to speak to one of the courtesans. The two lookalikes were at the host table, dressed smartly in black and going over the ledger, and Rose burst in at the last minute to hold them up, talking excitedly about wherever she’d been on her errand.

“Oh, it was so glamorous,” she said, leaning on the ledger with both her elbows on the pages. “You should get the uniforms some time, pretend to be guards.”

“Rose,” Laurent said. “Book.”

“You’d think this place was on fire,” Rose said.

She took over the laundry after that, which left Sabre trying to pretend like he wasn’t panting from running up and down the stairs. Laurent looked at him keenly, seeing right through him as usual, and straightened the collar of his shirt. A bell rang from the first floor, and doors shut throughout the house, the chaos of chattering voices dying down to a respectful hush.

“They’re lighting the lamps on the street,” Laurent said, and gestured for Sabre to follow him down the hall where Charon was only just stepping into his room, the door clicking shut behind him. He stopped between Charon’s door and one draped with a violet curtain, and pulled a key from his pocket.

“This is another aspect of our work, here,” he said. He slipped the key into a crack between the wood paneling and turned. Something clicked inside the wall. “It’s unique to the House—I had these installed when I took over.”

He pushed, and the wall slid aside, revealing a narrow, pitch black alcove. He stepped inside, and Sabre had to brace himself before he could follow, shoulders tense in the sudden darkness.

“Close the door,” Laurent whispered.

Sabre pushed the door shut, leaving them in the dark. Only two lights shone in the crowded alcove, small holes on either side of the wall.

“Clients at the House of Onyx come here for services the other Houses are reluctant to provide,” Laurent said. “While this allows us to be selective in our clients, it also comes with certain risks. If a courtesan isn’t with a client, they can come here, to make sure no one crosses a line they’ll regret, in the morning.”

Sabre pressed close to the wall, peering through the hole on the far side. Yves stretched in the middle of his room, dressed in tight shorts and nothing else, surrounded by silks and jewels and little baubles hanging from the wall.

“I remember hearing once, when I was young,” Sabre whispered, pulling away. “That someone in the House of Iron was…strangled.”

He couldn’t see Laurent’s face in the dark. “Yes. Don’t mention that to Nanette. She was in training there, at the time.”

Sabre leaned against the wall. “So when I receive clients?”

“Someone will be there,” Laurent said. “Behind the wall, just in case.”

Sabre took a breath, ragged in the dark, and Laurent placed a hand over his mouth. There was the sound of a door opening in Yves’ room, a soft gasp of delight.

“Oh, daddy,” Yves said, his voice muffled through the wall. “You came.”

Sabre pulled a face under Laurent’s hand, and Laurent huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh.

They didn’t have to watch Yves, really. He played coy, teasing the poor, hapless merchant who followed him around the room, stealing kisses and fleeting touches until—as Yves expected, probably—he threw Yves over his knee and spanked him until he was sobbing, begging him to stop.

Sabre glanced at Laurent, who leaned in so close Sabre could feel his lips brush Sabre’s ear.

“He likes to put on a show before he gets what he wants,” he whispered.

Sabre suppressed a shiver.

Yves ended up bouncing in his client’s lap, still crying softly, breath hitching pitifully as the client stroked his hair and called him his beautiful, sweet boy.

“Oh, yes, daddy, I’ll be so good for you, I’ll—”

There was a crack of a hand striking flesh behind Sabre, and Yves stiffened, scrambling to hold onto his client’s arms.

“Please, daddy, please let me come—”

“Charon,” Laurent whispered.

Yves came messily all over himself the moment the client grabbed his cock, and whimpered as he was pushed onto the floor, pliant and gasping and still begging even as the client came over his back.

“He’s convincing enough,” Laurent whispered, as Yves reached for his client, gazing up at him like he hung the stars. “When his client is done, we’ll go to Simone. She’s in the stocks, tonight.”

Sabre couldn’t hide the way his breath caught, not so close, and he could almost feel Laurent smiling.

“Duly noted,” he whispered. “But not yet. First, you’ll master laundry. Then we’ll see what you look like in the stockades, mm?”

Sabre was grateful, at least, that the darkness hid the way his cock reacted to that. “Yes, my lord,” he whispered back. “I think laundry’s fine.”

Laurent chuckled, low and bemused, and Sabre closed his eyes. “Good to know.”

* * *

The replyfrom the Duke de Mortain came the next morning, delivered by a messenger dressed in the duke’s livery. Laurent could count on one hand the number of nobles who would so brazenly send someone to the House of Onyx and not give a whit at having anyone see.

Lord de Rue,

I would be interested in speaking with you about the matter you proposed. Please attend me in my suite in the royal palace at your convenience. I am certain you recall the location, but if not, I’ve included it here.

Yrs,

Isiodore de Mortain

Bold of him, too, just to sign his name like that.

Laurent dressed with care before he left the House of Onyx. He knew what his former clients thought, with him sauntering in the palace as if he belonged there in the daytime. And it delighted him, more than he’d admit, that they had to treat him like an equal and a dominant. Meaning he always tended toward more extravagance than strictly necessary, with shined boots and a purple cape fastened with an onyx set in silver.

Most of the house was still sleeping after a relatively busy night, but a few were up and about. Sabre was busy doing various chores under the instruction of Dot, who would make sure he was kept too busy to get lost in his thoughts. Charon was sipping his tea on the balcony, and Laurent endured Yves fawning over himself in delight at his clothing, bowing and calling him m’lord fancy pants until Laurent threatened not to spank him, or let Charon do it for him.

Rose also laughed at him, but then pouted when Laurent refused to allow her to accompany him. Running messages was one thing, but sauntering into the vipers’ den that was the Starian court was another. He’d save her from that as long as he could.

He did, however, pick up a trinket from one of the market stalls for her; a colorful sash to add to her costume collection, and a pinwheel made of red and purple and yellow just because he thought it might make her smile. He hired a hackney for the rest of the trip, just because he could, and tugged the brim of his tophat down when they passed the palace gates. Laurent had no idea if they strung up nobles like they did commoners to serve as a warning, but he’d rather not see the decaying bodies of Sabre’s sister and mother hanging there in the bright, warm afternoon sun.

The Starian royal palace was set up like a spiral, the center of the sundial that was the city of Duciel. Duke Isiodore de Mortain, as the second-highest ranking noble at Court, had rooms nearest the royal suite itself. His were said to mirror those once used by the de Valois family, as the late Duke de Valois had been almost his equal in court. The walls along the corridor to the royal suites were lined with frescoes of ancient Starian myth, which mostly seemed to feature women standing in fields of wheat with a single goat off to the side for flair. It wasn’t the pinnacle of artistic genius, but it was old, and in Staria, that usually balanced itself out.

Laurent tipped his hat to a man who used to dress up like a pirate and chase him around his rooms at the House of Gold, who was, all things considered, a fairly amusing client. He passed a woman who used to feed him truly excellent chocolates and equally excellent gossip while he lay between her thighs, and another who mumbled something and wouldn’t look Laurent in the eye, likely embarrassed that he’d always wanted to suck on Laurent’s toes and have him recite you are a worthless scoundrel while he jerked himself off.

De Mortain’s rooms were bright and airy, and looked just as they did the last time Laurent was there, though admittedly this was the first time he was received in the duke’s drawing room. De Mortain had always preferred his entertainment be brought to him, and Laurent hadn’t minded. He had a hell of a bathing room, and while Laurent was no submissive, de Mortain was dominant enough to make the evening enjoyable, if not slightly terrifying.

Noble he may be, but Laurent still rose and bowed when the duke came striding in, precisely as the clock struck the hour. He was a striking man, tall and lean with thick, long dark hair he wore almost unfashionably long, tied in a neat queue with a black silk ribbon, and cold, clear gray eyes. His clothing was perfectly tailored, and as much as Laurent liked his colorful ensemble and silks, he felt a bit like a carnival barker compared the austere, crisp perfection of de Mortain’s somber black.

De Mortain arched a dark brow, and Laurent realized he was staring.

He smiled wryly and bowed. “My apologies. I was just thinking that old adage was true, about how you can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse. I don’t know if there are enough hours in a day for me to learn to wear a suit as effortlessly as you.”

De Mortain didn’t smile, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice when he said, “Perhaps, but if you’ve the money, my tailor will find enough hours in his to make sure you don’t need to. I’ll make the introduction, if you like.”

Laurent laughed. “Thank you. And thank you for seeing me. I—”

“M’lord! Oh! Oh, no!”

A brief look crossed de Mortain’s features before he schooled them into impassivity and turned, facing a young house maid with a mass of red hair and huge aquamarine eyes. She looked perhaps to be Rose’s age, and while Laurent watched in something like amused horror, she bowed to de Mortain, then Laurent, then de Mortain again.

“The, the tea!”

“Yes,” de Mortain said. “That would be lovely, Moira, thank you.”

“Is it—oh, no,” she whispered. “I don’t. I’ll be just a—” she said something in a language Laurent didn’t know, but was vaguely musical and, oddly, vaguely familiar. She seemed to realize she hadn’t spoken in their shared language and went even paler. “I’m so—”

“Please do bring the tea, Moira,” de Mortain said, so much dominance in his voice that Laurent might have gone to fetch the tea, maybe.

“My apologies,” de Mortain said, after she’d dashed off again. “She’s new. For the first week, she ran out of every room I entered, which is quite distressing.”

Laurent snorted. “What language was she speaking? It sounded familiar.”

“Is that so?” De Mortain studied him. “Morrey, I believe. You’ve been to Kallistos?”

“Ah,” said Laurent. “No, I’ve never been to the eastern continent. Have you?”

“Once, when I was younger. Brace yourself,” de Mortain muttered, and Laurent was slightly charmed by seeing the notoriously put-together duke even a tad bit ruffled.

Moira came in with a death grip on the sides of the silver tea service, which jingled dangerously. He and de Mortain both let out a relieved breath when she got it to the table without dropping it.

“Thank you,” de Mortain said, to her, and sighed as she dropped to her knees and started sniffling. “Moira, we’ve discussed this.”

“Yes, m’lord. Your Grace! I know.”

De Mortain poured his own tea with a sigh, while Moira composed herself. When she climbed to her feet, she poured some—rather ungraciously—for Laurent, and then handed it over with a bob of her head while tea sloshed over the side. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, I get a bit—It’s always a bit much, when you do well. You understand.”

“Yes,” Laurent said, amused. “I do.”

She peeked at him and smiled, then said something in her sing-song language to him. When he stared blanky at her, she flushed and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, m’lord! I thought you was. Were, I mean. I thought you were from where the mages live.”

“What,” Laurent said.

“Mislia, you’ve the look of them.”

“Thank you, Moira, for bringing the tea,” de Mortain said, carefully enough that she didn’t wail at the censure or burst into tears at the praise.

“You should send her to my house for a few days,” Laurent said, idly, still thinking about what the girl had said.

“Are you suggesting a Kallistoi maid who talks to herself and can’t pour tea would make a good courtesan, de Rue? I suppose maybe she could fail at service and please the sadists among the nobility. Though being one, I cannot say I find it all that worth paying for.” He sipped his tea.

Laurent had no idea if he was kidding or not. “I meant during the day, when we have training for things like that.” He waved a hand. “I’m only amused I looked like a Mislian. Don’t they go about in cloaks summoning demons?”

“You do have a cape,” de Mortain said, and Laurent had no idea how to process that he’d just made a joke. “And while I appreciate your offer, I have my hopes she’ll calm down after a bit. I believe most of it is still nerves.”

“Well, I do have some experience with that, and yes, it usually does work itself out.” The tea was good, nowhere near as strong as the brew Charon preferred, but decent enough. “Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace.”

“You’re welcome. And I must extend my thanks to you, as well, Lord de Rue, for taking in Sabre. A dreadful business with his mother and sister, of course.” De Mortain’s cold eyes did not warm when he smiled, not a bit.

“I confess I don’t know anything about that,” Laurent said, which was truthful enough. “I’ve enough to attend to in my own house.”

De Mortain’s eyes were still cold as diamonds when he said, “Treason against our king concerns all of us, de Rue. Nobility more than most. But as goes the crown, so goes the city, and your pleasure houses depend on stability, you realize. No one has time for indulgence in chaos.”

No one but the rich has time for indulgence, ever. “Of course,” Laurent demurred, though it rankled a bit that he had to, now that he had a title. But even a man noble-born who didn’t earn his title on his back would have to defer to de Mortain.

“You’ve always been clever, de Rue, I know an intelligent man when I see one. I signed the writ of execution for Sabre’s mother and sister, because I assure you, they were traitors. Any longer, and they would have used Sabre for their own ends. And as I’m sure you learned by now, he has no stomach for subterfuge. He would have been found out in a week, maybe less. And then I would have had to sign his warrant, too. I felt I owed something to his father, who I counted as a friend.”

Laurent put his teacup down. “I wanted you to take Sabre’s First Night, but I’m...not sure that I’m that—” he caught himself with effort, cursing inwardly. He hated the palace simply because he’d gotten used to speaking far more freely in his house than the king’s. “I’m not sure how to say this.”

“I’ll say it for you.” De Mortain put his teacup down, leaned back in his high-backed chair and laced his still-gloved fingers over his knee. “You don’t think that you’re cruel enough to make him fuck the man who sent his family to the gallows?”

“Ah,” said Laurent. “Yes. I mean, no, I don’t think I am.”

“They were traitors, and they knew the risks inherent in undertaking such a plot. It was poorly thought out, at that. They wouldn’t have succeeded.”

“If you say you didn’t sign Sabre’s writ of execution, why was he on the gallows at all?”

De Mortain’s mouth tightened, so minutely that only someone trained to pay close attention to the reactions of others for a living would notice it. “That was not my doing, nor my idea. And I suppose it is fair to say the king might have hanged him regardless; He is the king. But I will show you the order myself, if you wish to see it.”

“I would rather not,” Laurent said, as the idea of it made him queasy, men and women’s lives signed out of existence to keep an unstable man on his equally unstable throne. “And perhaps don’t mention it to Sabre. He has nightmares.”

If he expected to see something close to empathy on Isiodore de Mortain’s face, he was sorely mistaken, because there was none to be found. “Of course. I instructed him in fencing; He was easily distracted, a bit sloppy, but eager. I assume he’s much the same under your tutelage.”

Laurent gave an elegant, meaningless shrug. “He’s settling in. I know what the nobles who will want him are going to do to him, and I don’t think they’ll care much if he’s any of those things when they get their hands on him.”

“I doubt they will, either. We’re not known at Court for our appreciation of subtlety. You realize that even if I take his First Night, I cannot take them all?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I’m curious why you asked me. And spare me the flattery—you were never required to do it as my whore, so please don’t as my fellow noble and guest.”

“You’re sort of terrible,” Laurent said, staring at him. “Your Grace.”

Isiodore’s smile flashed, and for a moment, his eyes looked less like cut glass and more like rainclouds before a storm. “I know. Answer the question.”

“Well. He knows you, and trusts you, and you’re a sadist, so you’ll at least be able to put him under. And while I believe that you signed his family’s order of execution, I also find it interesting that when he was brought to the nobles of the pleasure district, it was only the Houses of Gold, Silver, Bronze and mine that were there. The House of Gold would never touch the son of a traitor, the lady of the House of Silver would have hanged him herself, and the House of Bronze has no idea what to do with men like Sabre. But there are others. They might have taken him without knowing or caring how to see to him, just for the notoriety. Where were they, that day, I wonder?”

“I obviously have very little knowledge of how the lords of the pleasure district spend their days, I would imagine it was some miscommunication.”

Or you’re still protecting him, and were always going to offer for his First Night, but wanted to see if I was smart enough to come to you and ask. “I imagine that was it, then.” Laurent rose. “I should go, I’ve quite a bit to do but if you’re amenable, I’ll make sure it’s settled. He should be ready in a month’s time, I’d imagine.”

“And here I thought you were good at your job, de Rue.”

Laurent grinned at him, and bowed. “He’d be ready for you now, if you want the truth. But the nobles that will come after, no. After all you’ve done to protect him, surely you can do just a bit more.”

De Mortain’s stare was chilly, but his voice was not quite as cold when he said, “Proper nobles don’t speak of such things in their drawing rooms, de Rue. Thank me for the instruction, and then I shall pass along my tailor and have Moira show you out.”

Laurent gave a theatrical bow and said, “Thank you, but I’m fond of mine and I can see myself out. Spare you the waterworks, or your lovely divan covered in lukewarm, mediocre tea.”

De Mortain laughed, and it seemed genuine enough. “I’ll have you know I signed your titular decree, you scamp. And I always knew you were no submissive.”

“They say you’re a master tactician indeed, Your Grace.” With a wink, Laurent settled his tophat back on his head. “I’ll be in touch.”