So, the old lecher barely gave his servants more than a perfunctory response to their greetings before he marched into his private chambers. His harem already knew of his arrival, and were waiting for him on the huge bed which filled a goodly portion of the very large room which served him for a sleeping chamber. Wearing, needless to say, his favorite feminine apparel.
Which was precisely nothing. Jeschonyk had been quite truthful with Demansk. A satyr he might be, but his tastes were simple and straightforward. Granted, his pig-farming ancestors would have looked askance at the oral practices which the modern aristocracy had imported from the decadent Emeralds. But not even they could have complained about the rest of it. No outlandish perversions here—just a surprisingly vigorous old man greeting his concubines gaily and practically pouncing upon them.
They even seemed glad to see him, and to be enjoying what followed. And, who knows? They might have been.
* * *
Jeschonyk found himself wondering, an hour or so later, as he lay in their midst exhausted and sweaty. For a moment, he was even tempted to ask. But . . .
Whatever else he was, Jeschonyk was not a fool. There was no point in asking such a question. No slave concubine in her right mind, after all, was going to tell her master anything other than what she thought he wanted to hear. Especially not concubines who lived in such luxurious quarters and enjoyed such an easy life, the worst of which was simply satisfying the none-too-complicated lusts of their owner. A frequent chore, to be sure—but they had half a dozen of them to spread around the work.
Still, it made him a bit sad. He was quite fond of them, and not simply because of the pleasure they gave him. One of them, in particular—the oldest girl, Kata, the one who’d been with him longest.
Strange, really. She was the only Southron in his harem. Jeschonyk was generally not partial to Southron girls. The problem wasn’t their appearance. Female Southrons did not sport the grotesque tattoos of the males, for one thing. And, cleaned up and shorn of those absurd hairstyles, he actually found their pale skins and light hair arousing. It was simply that the practice of female circumcision which was prevalent among the barbarians made their women, in Jeschonyk’s quite extensive experience, rather unresponsive. But Kata was from the Reedbottom tribe, who—so she claimed, at least, and the evidence seemed to substantiate it—were one of the few tribes which had never adopted that particularly savage custom.
Kata was the smartest of them, that much Jeschonyk had long been sure of. And she was also the one who was most alert to his own moods. So he was not surprised to see the little frown gathering on her face, as she looked down upon him from her cross-legged position at the foot of the bed. The sight almost dispelled Jeschonyk’s melancholy. Not the frown, but the posture. The view was . . . distracting. Or would have been, if Jeschonyk wasn’t so completely and thoroughly satiated.
“Why are you unhappy, master? I thought we—”
“Not that, girl!” He barked a weary laugh. “You were all your usual marvelous selves, I assure you. It’s—something else.”
He took a slow breath and decided to get it over with. He levered himself upright—two of the girls immediately assisting him in the process—and gave Kata as solemn a look as her pose permitted.
“Things may change soon, Kata—girls. I may . . . not be here much longer.” He shook his head. “No, no, I’m not going anywhere. I simply may no longer be alive.”
Kata’s face seemed to grow even paler than usual. One of the other girls—Ursula, that was, the Emerald—emitted a little gasp.
By the gods, I think they are fond of me! A moment later, less happily: Or, of course, it could just be that they’d miss their comforts and luxuries.
Something in their expressions reassured him. He’d never really know, of course, but . . .
A time for decision, just as Verice says. And there’s nothing that prevents me from telling the truth, except the old habits of an old liar.