"I don't have any concubines to offer him," Kyrtian pointed out. "I suspect that's one of the things Aelmarkin tries to use against me with the other Lords, that I'm—ah—"
"Virginal and chaste—and probably sexless, hence no fit heir," Gel growled bluntly. "Well, you may not have a harem to offer him at the moment, but what are you going to do? Have you made any plans?"
"Mother had an idea," Kyrtian replied, but made a face of distaste. "I don't like it, mind you, but... she thinks it's just that I'm too fastidious. She's going to send Tenebrinth to the slave markets and buy a pretty concubine or two just before the visit; she'll meddle with their memories to make them think they've been here for the last couple of years, keep them isolated in a tiny harem of their own and have me offer them to Lord Kyndreth."
"You're too fastidious," Gel told him bluntly. "It's perfect. They won't know anything about us, and they won't be related to anyone here. If there's an ... accident... we won't be losing any of our people."
Kyrtian's distaste grew, but he couldn't deny that Gel's pragmatic view was at least practical. "And what do we do with them afterwards?" he asked sourly.
Gel shrugged. "Hardly matters. Concubines aren't the brightest as a whole, and I suspect any that your mother picks will be very pretty and very dim—much safer that way. We
could probably marry them off to someone, if you've got no taste for having them around. Or sell them again," He raised an eyebrow at Kyrtian's expression, and snorted. "Do yourself a favor; let your mother and Tenebrinth deal with it. Keep your hands clean if you dislike it that much."
As if my not knowing makes it any better, he thought grimly. No, that's no answer. "I'll tell Mother you agree with her idea, and even though I don't like the idea, I agree it's necessary, there really doesn't seem to be a better solution."
"There isn't," Gel said, with emphasis. "What else do you want to do, ask for volunteers?"
That was definitely no answer. He shook his head. "I'll do the memory manipulation—mother isn't going to be able to impart many convincing illusions about—um—I mean, it's not as if she's a male—" He flushed, and didn't complete the sentence, but got the distinct feeling that Gel found his embarrassment highly amusing. "We'll do what we have to, all of us, and try to make things up afterwards if there's anyone hurt by this." He just hoped that Lord Kyndreth wasn't one of those who left women damaged. "I can always make the girls forget everything when he's gone," he added, as much for his own benefit as for Gel's.
Gel looked relieved. "You'll never be a real commander if you can't make the difficult decisions and carry them out," he reminded his erstwhile superior—perhaps just a touch smugly.
"I just did, didn't I?" he replied, irritated. "Enough; we're spending more time on this than the issue warrants, and it has nothing to do with your part in this, which is getting the fighters ready. Well?"
Gel grinned. "Oh, they're ready. Very eager to show their paces, and just as eager to see you vindicated. Have no fear, they know their parts. We'll give Lord Kyndreth a show he isn't likely to forget for the next three centuries."
Triana considered the slave dispassionately—a rare state of mind for her. There were several considerations here, not the least of which was this; how far could one trust a human? As she had told Aelmarkin, she seldom trained female
slaves. Never was not the operative word; never was not a word to be used at all among the Elvenlords, whose long lives had no room in them for never. Sooner or later, whatever it was that had been vowed against would happen. Mind, there were Elvenlords so rigid in their thinking that they actually believed that they could say they would "never" do something—but Tri-ana knew better.
This woman was not of her breeding; the female slaves that Triana bred on her own estate were strictly utilitarian, and while not plain (she couldn't bear to have anything plain or ugly about her) were about as animated as statues in the presence of their mistress. This girl, bought, not at auction, but handpicked from among the offerings of a private sale, was the opposite of stoic and unanimated. She was trained as a dancer as well as in harem skills; she was very intelligent. Triana needed a woman who was intelligent, but with intelligence came the liability of thinking for one's self.
How far to trust her? That was the question.
"Would it surprise you very much to learn that I need a spy?" she asked aloud.
The slave shook her head slightly, enough to indicate that she was not surprised, but not so much that the mute reply could be considered impertinent.
"The mother of a certain young lord is purchasing harem slaves, and I intend that you should number among them," Triana continued. "I need to know what goes on in his household, and harem slaves are in a unique position to find that out."
"But harem slaves are kept in isolation—" the girl responded tentatively.
Triana smiled. "But men do not heed their tongues when among them," she corrected. "I could have merely planted a teleson-ring on you and sent you on as a passive listener—but I would not learn a tenth as much as I will when you work for me in full knowledge of what I want." She considered the girl further. "It is your duty to give me that, but your previous master indicated that you are bothersomely intelligent—"
Here the girl flushed and looked down at her feet.
"—and as a consequence, I am aware that mere duty is not
going to extract what I want from the place to which I am going to send you." Triana chuckled, and the girl looked up again in surprise. "Oh, come now—I am not one of those lords who prefers slaves to have no thoughts of their own! You little mayfly humans may not have the capacity to appreciate what your masters can, but you are still as motivated by the prospect of gain as we are. I know full well that once planted in this household, your leash will be slipped and you can and will do as you please in this matter." She leaned forward, catching and holding the girl's gaze with her own. "I have an incentive to offer you, so that you will work that dear little mind of yours to the fullest on my behalf."
A flicker of emotion passed across the girl's face, and she flushed again. "Incentive, Mistress?" she ventured breathily.
Satisfied that she had found the correct key to the lock of the girl's ambition, Triana leaned back. "A reward, if that word pleases you better; a reward for exemplary service. Exert yourself to the utmost on my behalf, find a way to convince Kyrtian to leave the harem door unbarred to your comings and goings, and above all, report everything you see and hear, however small and seemingly inconsequential, to me. Do that, satisfy me, and at the end of a year in his service I will have you retrieved. You can retire here, and name what you will for your conditions of living, never again being required to do anything you do not care for. From a cottage and mate of your choice to the suite and service of a young Lady. Or—if this is more to your liking—you may go to your wild brethren among the Wizards. I can arrange for that as well."
From the slight quickening of the girl's breath, Triana knew she had caught her. Mine, she thought, with satisfaction, and nodded to set the hook, now that the bait had been taken. "This will not be easy," she warned. "You will have to bend your whole mind to the task, and you will have to keep Lord Kyrtian and his mother from ever guessing that you are not what you seem. If you do not satisfy me—" she shrugged "—I will not be able to punish you, obviously, but I can and will leave you in place, and you will live and die the concubine of a minor lord in a tiny harem with unvarying routine. Kyrtian does not often
have guests, so you would not even have that prospect to brighten your days. I believe that someone like you would find that sort of life maddeningly restrictive."
The slave did not hesitate even for the smallest part of a moment. "I will serve you, Lady," the girl replied decisively. "You will find nothing lacking in my zeal."
Triana laughed aloud, with a glance at the girl to invite her to join in her good humor. Ah, Aelmarkin, she thought, as she settled down to instruct the girl in the use of the teleson-ring and her initial duties. This wager is already won!
Gel knew his business, none better. Kyrtian left the matter of the household to his mother, and took charge of the rest. Now that the warnings were in place and the attitude of the field-hands and farmers had been established, he judged that it was time to prepare the general outward appearance of his people. They must look self-sufficient and prosperous, but not too prosperous. The servants must not look too healthy, too happy. In fact, the ones in the fields must not look happy at all.
He spent a day considering how to accomplish that, researching spells of illusion, wondering what he would do if Lord Kyndreth detected them or broke them. Kyndreth had not gotten where he was by being a fool, and if he detected illusions, he would want to know what they hid—he would first suspect treachery, but he would definitely want to know why there were illusions on human slaves.
Finally, in the twilight, he decided to take a walk to see if the fresh air would clear his head out and let some fresh thoughts in.
The stars were just coming out, and a fine breeze carried the scents of the gardens on its wings. He took a moment to extinguish the glowing globes illuminating the pathways, for he knew the garden paths by heart and had no need of the lights. At the moment, he would rather enjoy the darkness, not because he was brooding, but because he wanted his mind to rest.
How did Aelmarkin's servants look? That would be the sort of thing to get his own people to emulate. Despite their servile stances, there was still something wrong about them that he could not put a finger on. He took slow, deliberate steps and
cast his mind back a few days, trying not to frown in concentration. It wasn't an exact memory he wanted, after all, but an impression. How did the ordinary servants, the ones who cleaned the rooms and brought the food from the kitchen, seem to an observer?
It was easy enough to remember the pretty ones, the upper-level slaves, whose duties included being decorative. Those weren't the ones he wanted, at least in part because he wasn't certain any of his people could manage a convincing imitation of a pleasure-slave, and in part because it wouldn't do any harm for Lord Kyndreth to believe that his household was on the austere and sober side. Let Kyndreth think of him as hard-working, somewhat obsessed with his hobby, and not really interested in the opulent life. That would do no harm at all.
It will also reinforce the impression that we aren't worth the attempt to take us over. Profit can only be stretched so far; we might be austere because we can't afford too many luxuries.
Try as he might, all he could come up with was a vague impression of sameness, as if the lesser servants were all as alike as ants, and as interchangeable. They could have been furniture, floor-tiles, the plinths upon which statues stood, they blended so well into the background.
With a flash of insight, he realized at that moment that this was what he wanted!
They must have all been in some drably uniform tunics, or the like, he decided. They aren't supposed to stand out—they should be invisible. Drab tunics would do that. No matter that he didn't know what such a tunic or what-not should look like—any of the seamstresses could deal with that detail. He'd take the need to them first thing in the morning, and let them decide how to make everyone on the manor lands uniformly drab.
As for making people look unhappy ... he grinned as another idea came to him. I'll have the field-workers stick a burr or a pin somewhere in their clothing where it'll irritate them without really hurting them—or put stones in their shoes, or wear shoes too tight or too big. That'll give them all sour expressions, should any of Kyndreth's people come snooping about.