The Red King Page 17

  “Tell me,” Andrew whispered. He was standing right next to Rory now, having moved closer while he fought with the nausea and trembling the memory incurred.

  “When I had been with him three, maybe four years, he had me watch him with another slave, a girl no older than I. I was… jealous,” Rory told him. That was why he was sick, the memory of the horrible, bitter envy he felt that he was not the one chosen. “Maarten laughed. He found it amusing. He asked me what I would do when I was old and no longer beautiful. He asked if I would kill myself because he did not want me. I…cried. I cried and he laughed and then he fucked me right there next to the other slave, because my pain aroused him. That was when I realized he’d killed her. She was not asleep or unconscious; she stared at me with dead eyes and a broken neck. I think I screamed.”

  Andrew pressed himself against Rory, but did not touch with his hands. His voice was soft. “You have never laughed at my sorrow nor found pleasure in my pain. You are nothing like him.”

  Rory turned his head to look down at Andrew, lifting his eyes from the sand. Andrew met his gaze without wavering and Rory felt the warmth return to his chest. “That is not entirely true,” he said. His arm tightened, not pulling but holding firm. “There have been times that I have found great pleasure in causing your pain.”

  There was no blush this time, only an answering gleam in Andrew’s eyes. “Perhaps, but those times offered me pleasure, as well, and I do not begrudge yours,” he replied, his voice lowering in timber.

  “Even the girl?” Rory asked.

  “Were you pleased by that?” Andrew countered.

  Rory hesitated. He had not been. It had not been arousing in any way. He’d felt …alone, despite his and Andrew’s linked fingers. “No. It did not provoke the feelings I had expected.”

  “But when you first took me, and I wept and wailed, you felt it then.” Andrew was looking up at him, his eyes very soft and warm.

  “Yes, you…” Rory began, but stopped to clear his throat. The memory was still so fresh, so lovely; Andrew’s skin, his trembling limbs, even the sounds he made as he found his release. “You were perfect, but I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “Would Maarten have thought to kiss me, to promise me it would end soon, and still seek my pleasure?”

  Rory shook his head.

  “You are not like him.” Andrew smiled, his hand cupping Rory’s cheek. His face was pink and his eyes darkened and Rory suspected he was remembering the moment just as clearly.

  “I will not let you sleep tonight,” Rory warned. He slipped an arm around Andrew’s waist and bent to brush his lips across the man’s scraped cheek.

  Andrew turned his face into the kiss so that their mouths touched. “You seek to distract me.”

  “Is it working?” Rory asked, one corner of his mouth curling upwards.

  They heard voices then, coming closer down the path to the boats. They separated slowly. It was with great excitement that the men of the village assembled, cutting short Andrew’s answer. They pushed the small boats out, exuberantly shouting as they jumped into the vessels. The Taibhse was near enough to hear the bell, see movement on deck, but continued to draw closer before dropping anchor. The men were already on the water, ready to meet the ship and ferry supplies and men back to land.

  Neither Andrew nor Rory had to row, though there was some argument as to who won the race. In the end, they rode with Idir and another man and their speed was greater by far. Rory was at the aft, his brow furrowed as he thought over the memories, both good and bad. He felt he was losing a struggle. The struggle to carry the anger and hate and misery, letting it slide away from him. He wanted to let them go, feeling for once that maybe he wouldn’t drown if he released them.

  The angry, damaged child in Rory was still not ready for that. Not just yet.

  When they were close enough to hear the shouts of the crew, Andrew responded with his own happy wave. “Ahoy!” he cried, his arm arcing above his head. He threw a smile over his shoulder, to Rory who put aside his brooding to admire him thus.

  A rope was dropped to Rory when they reached the anchored ship. He was hauled up quickly and dropped to the deck to be greeted by his men. They seemed in extremely high spirits, even more than their usual rough carousing, and jostled him with claps to the back and friendly hugs. “It has only been a few days! Did you miss me so much?” he laughed.

  Yousef took him by the arms. “We weren’t sure if you would come back to us, now that you’ve found your inamorato!”

  The word brought Rory up short, but his unease went unnoticed as Andrew landed and was at once surrounded. Rory did not hear the question, but Andrew’s answer was innocent enough. “I rode a camel! It was much easier than I had imagined but I would have still rather been on the ship.”

  “You found your sea legs, then. When you wish to return, you have a place,” Yousef said, taking him by the shoulders.

  “Thank you, Yousef,” Andrew answered, his pleasure obvious in his smile.

  “Captain!” Malik’s voice boomed over them all.

  Malik gave Rory a hearty handshake, but left off after the greeting to go to Andrew. He took Andrew into his arms for a mighty hug, exclaiming, “Ah, Coinin! It does my heart good to see you!”

  Andrew made a strangled sound. “Not so….hard, Malik,” he managed with what little air he had left in his lungs.

  Rory could not help but laugh. “Easy, Malik, he’s had a rough couple of days. He’s learning to defend himself and has the bruises to prove it.”

  “Indeed!” Malik said and set Andrew back on his feet. “Why, you do look well! You have color in your cheeks and flesh on your bones, a refreshing change!”

  Andrew peered up at him. “What is that in your ear, Malik?”

  “What, this?” he said, his fingers gingerly touching the gold hoop through his left lobe. “A bit of trickery on some of the men’s parts; they caught me unawares.”

  “We caught him in a drunken stupor!” Yousef interjected.

  Malik glared at him but Andrew smiled. “I think it’s rather nice. I’m sure the ladies will find it dashing.”

  “Dashing, eh?” Malik said, still eyeing Yousef, balefully.

  Clearing his throat, Rory announced, “Gentlemen, let us get the load from ship to shore. We have much to do!”

  With that the crew went immediately to their prescribed duties; some holding the lines that lifted Andrew and Rory from the boats, others entering the hold to unload the cargo, a group lowered the ship’s own dingy to assist in the ferrying to shore. It was without jumble or confusion.

  Noticing a significant amount of small, wooden barrels, Rory asked Malik, “What are all of these? I recall none in my purchases.”

  Malik smiled. “We met a Greek in Tunis. He had the most wonderful wine, Ruaidhri.”

  “And what did you trade him for the wine?” Rory was almost afraid to ask.

  “Some spices, the raki…he had an abundance and was happy to make a trade,” Malik said.

  “I liked the raki,” Rory complained.

  Malik laughed. “You were the only one! You were not here, Captain, so I put it to a vote. The men chose the wine.”

  Sighing, Rory told him, “Leave some of those onboard, and one of the boats when you are finished. Andrew and I will row ourselves back in.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “And Malik, mind you drink no more than two.”

  With a grin, Malik said again, “Aye, Captain.”

  Andrew was helping Yousef lower a stitched bag of grain to a waiting boat. He was laughing, caught in the rope for a moment and dragged to the gunnel. Yousef kept him aright and pushed him back, telling him to fetch another bag. When Andrew turned, he saw Rory watching him. Rory backed towards his cabin, inclining his head in the direction of the door. Andrew gave him a small nod.

  Rory entered his cabin and went straight to his bed. Kneeling, he opened one of the drawers, pulling it from its secured pegs to remove it completely.
He reached into the recess, searching for a moment before feeling the fabric tucked into a crevice. He pulled and the bundle came free. “There you are,” he muttered, and removed his hand from the hidden space.

  Andrew entered, quietly, and asked, “What do you have?”

  “Sit,” Rory said. He joined Andrew at the table and set the bundle before him. Within the layers of muslin, slowly exposed to the light, was a gemstone nearly the size of his palm. It was a deep, dark blue, translucent, seeming to emit its own light. Rory lifted it, holding it up to catch the sun.

  It split the light, casting prisms around the room, across Andrew’s astonished face.

  “Sapphire. I took it from Maarten in the hopes that he would leave his fortress. He did not, obviously,” Rory said.

  Andrew held his hand out. “May I?” Rory laid it in his palm. “When I first woke, here” he cast his eyes towards the bed “I heard you and Fleming speaking of a gem.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you spoke of me, as well.”

  “Yes. I thought, first, that taking you after stealing the gem would goad him more,” Rory said. He watched Andrew as he stared at the sapphire, tilting it, looking through it, clearly fascinated. It tugged his heart, made him want to smile, but he fought the urge.

  Handing it back, Andrew asked, “Thank you for showing me.”

  “My intent was to show you this,” Rory said, setting the gem aside and lifting a small, glass vial. It contained several small round brown seeds. “Do you know what these are?” At Andrew’s negative head shake, he continued. “They are hemlock seeds.”

  “The killer of Socrates,” Andrew said, softly.

  “A few will send you to the sick room for days, more and you face painful death,” Rory said, laying them in front of Andrew.

  Andrew’s voice was steady, no tremor or hesitation. “Is this what I will use to kill him?”

  “I want to tell you everything, first,” Rory said.

  “Rory, I don’t need…”

  “I promised you, Andrew, and it is owed.”

  Andrew quieted, took a deep breath and nodded. “All right.”

  Rory rested his elbows on the table. “I told you the beginning; the raid, my capture, some of my early days. When I tell you that there was some pleasure I did not lie. Maarten kept me as a sort of pet, something to train and show off. He dressed me in rich garments of velvet and silk. I learned to read, write, dance,” he quirked a little smile at Andrew’s raised brows. “He had aspirations of courtliness.”

  “I had a room, adjacent to his, which he filled with such luxury as a young man I could not imagine. My bed was finely appointed and there were chairs, a desk, even a commode. I had books, maps, games and all manner of toys. Even as I grew he brought the gifts. They became more elaborate, things he had stolen from other countries, other lives. I cherished each and every one.”

  “It’s a strange thing to be a slave, Andrew, to have your very life in the hands of another. Whether he stole me or not, he became my very existence. His happiness was all that mattered, for it was in his melancholy that my worst days would come. When he felt well he was playfully hurtful, only pushing so far as to make the pleasure that much more sharp. Those moments were exquisite.”

  Rory rested, looking away from Andrew’s wide, sympathetic eyes. “I would have some of that wine…”

  “One moment,” Andrew said, and he quickly rose and left the room. Shortly, he returned, carrying one of the casks and a cup. He cut the cork with his knife and poured a healthy draught.

  After Rory drained it he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and continued. “When his spirits would suffer he wanted to make the world suffer with him. I was his slave, trained to offer whatever I could to ease him.” Andrew opened his mouth but Rory stopped him. “I would say all of it, first, please.” Andrew nodded.

  “Maarten started with the whips. You have no idea how many kinds there are, truly. When my back was bruised and bloody, he would throw vinegar on me. It was like being burned by the hottest fire and though it did nothing more than burn, it always seemed to be the worst part. I still bear the scars, for the lash’s kiss does not fade.”

  “He moved to knives, as you can see by the patterns fading on my skin. I feared he might kill me, but he lost interest in those fairly quickly. He had found a new toy. It was a phallus, made of wood and wrapped in leather, huge and ugly. When he became maudlin, he would…use it on me. Or make me use it myself. It hurt more than anything I had ever felt, like being ripped apart.”

  Andrew poured another cup of wine, taking a sip from it before he passed it to Rory.

  “There ceased to be any sort of pleasure. He only wanted pain now and not always mine. There was more than just the serving girl. He would make me fellate him while watching as they were whipped, burned, or cut. One time he brought his own guards in to take turns with a little girl. Then he gave me to them and they plowed me until I was unconscious. On another, a slave caught stealing had his hands cut off. All of this in Maarten’s quarters, in the rooms I was confined to day after day. After a while the smell of blood would not be washed away and the sounds of screams would never leave me.”

  Andrew was shaking and pale. Rory handed him the cup. When Andrew had refilled it Rory gently pushed it towards him, “Drink it.”

  Andrew gulped it down and poured another. His eyes were red and glazed with tears when he next spoke. “When did…when did you escape?”

  “I told you of the boy, the one he killed because I would not participate in his torture. That night he nearly killed me, too, beating me with the leg of a chair, giving me this,” he pointed to a scar above his lip, mostly hidden by his mustache but still visible. “When I woke I thought my lip was cut clean through. I was left in the dungeon for a month. When he finally brought me out he only stared at me as if I disgusted him. I probably did, seeing as I hadn’t bathed or even changed my clothes since he sent me away. My face was still battered. I could only cry and beg him to take me back, to allow me to be his servant once again, but he sent me out into the cold. The first time in thirteen years I had been outside the keep.”

  “I was put on a ship, in the brig, and taken to Algiers where I was sold. We had been unfed on the journey, nearly a fortnight on nothing but a few crusts of bread and very little water, and I was so weak I could do nothing but sit there and watch the smith bolt the irons to my hands and feet.”

  Another cup of wine passed between them. Andrew was more composed, no longer threatening tears but still distressed. “I know some of this, how you refused to eat and forced your hands and feet through the shackles,” he said.

  Rory nodded. “I don’t really know how long I was there, maybe six weeks. At the end of it I decided to die. I wanted it to end, either by starvation or murder, it made no matter to me. I was whipped, but I believed nothing they could do was worse than I had already felt. I thought that until they killed my bench mate. He actually thanked me as he died.”

  “My God,” Andrew whispered, shuddering.

  “One of the crew, not the one who had killed him but the one who would wield the cruelest whip, spit on his corpse. I felt something. I felt anger, true fury like I had never known. Feeling it after so long, after years…it gave me an unholy strength. When they left, leaving the dead man beside me, I set to the shackles. My hands were skinned as I pulled them free. My feet I forced, smashing them with my fist until I could fold them, fit them through.”

  “How did you walk? How did you do what they say you did?”

  Rory smiled and there was a shadow of his vicious wrath. “Unholy strength, Andrew; I did not feel anything except their throats tearing and bleeding in my hands, their bodies breathing their last. I killed twenty men that night. The rest locked themselves in the brig to escape me. They called me a demon, a jinn summoned to avenge those they had wronged, and they were right. I found the cruelty Maarten sought from me that night. He succeeded, in the end.”

  Chapter Seventeen


  Andrew looked ill.

  Rory let him sit in silence. Let him absorb the story completely. The emotions playing across his youthful face ranged from pity to anger to disgust. There was pain there, too, and a bitter sort of acknowledgment that drove him to pour another cup of wine. He took a drink, sniffed, and collected himself to speak.

  “When I first saw you,” he began, meeting Rory’s gaze, “you were like something from a dream. The sun was behind you…it looked as if you were on fire, like one of God’s angels come down to smite the wicked.” He gave a small smile and looked away. “Perhaps you were.”

  Rory was stunned. This was not the reaction he expected.

  “You were careful with me, at every turn. Never once did you hurt me, even when I think you wanted to,” Andrew continued. “Yet you did not treat me as a child. You spoke to me fairly, respectfully, and only asked for that in return. You tested my strengths, challenged my skills, but you treated me as an equal.”

  Pausing, he took another drink and filled the cup again. He offered it to Rory, who took it and said, “You accused me of thinking you a simpleton on more than one occasion.”

  Andrew smiled again, a quick flash of teeth that was gone when he spoke next. “That was after we altered the nature of our relationship.”

  Rory nodded and drank the wine. This was unfolding in a curious, astonishing manner.

  “Even then, through the anger and suffering after Fleming’s death, you chose not to hurt me. I do think you wanted to, that you believed it would lift the pain to deal some of your own. ‘Make the world suffer with you’, as it were,” Andrew said, softly. “You gave me more than one chance to leave. I’ve yet to regret staying.”

  “You saved my life, Andrew. Acklie’s pistol was aimed at my heart.”

  “That wouldn’t have stopped a lesser man if he were as aggrieved as you. Most would do what they pleased with me, simply attribute it to the nature of humanity and the world would nod in agreement. You took your pleasure, aye, but you were conscious of my own, and have so remained.”