When he’d eaten enough, Steppan pushed his plate away, and asked “Where are the baths?”
Magritta stood up and pulled a bell pull in one corner, which Steppan hadn’t noticed before. A male servitor appeared in response to the summons.
She spoke to him in Yarsfeld.
The man bowed.
“Follow, my lords,” he said, his accent so strong his speech was barely understandable.
“Towels? Soap?” asked Tilthon, ever practical.
“All …. there …. ah ….. ready,” replied Keiron calmly. His Capporean was limited, but they could make that out.
Outside, it had stopped snowing and though the air was cold, the sun was shining. The baths were a block or so away from the Motherhouse. It was a large brick building, divided into several rooms. Each one they went through had a glowing fire and a tiled bath, filled with water which steamed a little. It was utilitarian, not luxurious. In Cappor, there might have been marble statues, mosaic artwork on the walls. The waters might be scented, the towels thick. These were baths for working men, not the rich and pampered.
Around the baths were slatted wooden benches. The fires were surrounded by stones. There were scoops set next to the stones. Keiron explained, “Water. Take. Throw.” And followed this by showing them what to do, by scooping up some water from the bath and dashing it onto the stones. A cloud of steam rose from the stones, making the air thick with moisture. He showed them the shelves where towels were provided. There were small tablets of coarse soap, too. When Steppan proffered a coin in payment, the attendant shook his head. “No pay,” he said, “Proud guests.” He bowed and left them.
Tilthon and Steppan took a towel each, and stripped off. There seemed to be no one else there. They sank into the warm water and, for the first time since they had left Cappor a week before, they felt comfortable.
“Shall we?” inquired Tilthon.
“What if somebody turns up?”
“There’s no one here.”
“Now. But what if someone does arrive? Anyway, Til, we’re representatives of his Serenity the Panthron. We must keep up our state, and not make mad love in a bathhouse, rutting like crazed rabbits.”
Tilthon kissed him. “You totally sure, Step?”
Steppan smiled at him. “No. Not really. All the same. Best not.”
“Are you completely sure about that, honey?” He nipped Steppan’s ear with his teeth, while squeezing one of his nipples with his hand.
Steppan pulled him down and kissed him, enfolding him in his arms. “I do love you, so much, moi car ….”
“I thought we weren’t going to,” gasped Tilthon when he came up for air.
“A man can change his mind.”
“Are you sure it’s your mind we’re talking about?” queried Tilthon, eyeing Steppan’s erection.
Tilthon stroked the other man’s hair. “Well, perhaps not,” he replied complacently, his eyes gleaming, his smile soft. He bent his head to kiss Tilthon’s nipples, his tongue tracing lines round the stiffening nubs of flesh. Tilthon’s own cock hardened.
As always, their love-making felt completely right, perfect. Though it was familiar now, their bodies known, the way to ecstasy habitual, yet Steppan never tired of it.
After, they sank back into the blissfully warm bath, arm in arm.
“Do you miss Lthon?” asked Steppan, out of the blue.
“A bit,” replied Tilthon, leaning against him, and nuzzling his neck. “But he wasn’t strong enough for me. He was—is—very pretty, but you’ve got iron in you. And I need that. I need someone strong to resist me. And to lean against.”
“You mean I’m not pretty?” Steppan pouted.
“Not on the least. You” —and he kissed him vigorously on the mouth—” you are manly, sexy, suavely handsome, erotic, desirable, and perfect. And while we’re asking, do you miss Fluin? Or Ilya?”
“Both,” answered Steppan sombrely. “I was friends with Fluin first, before we were lovers, and it was never about strong passion for me. I loved him and love him, deeply, and always will. He has moved on, though. He has Lthon—though Lthon will have as many partners as he can—and he has Alisya. I watched him you know, when we were at the Khedha’s castle. I saw him looking at her. He was …. smitten, even then. I only made love to him the first time because he had been tortured, and he needed to be loved.” Steppan had told Tilthon the story of Fluin’s capture and torture before, when he and Fluin had been in the Bridgetown, so Tilthon just nodded. “And I don’t regret it. I would never have found out that I could love men, if I hadn’t.” He squeezed Tilthon tightly round his waist, making him gasp. “Sometimes making love, you know, isn’t just about desire or lust, but about comfort and joy. He and I will always be blood brothers.” He was silent for a moment, and Tilthon thought he’d finished, but then he added, “As for Ilya, we were never friends. There was sex, but never comfort. Never joy. Never companionship. With you, my dearling, I have both.”
“What if the Panthron asks too much, one day, relying on your love for him to make you do what he asks?”
“Then I would retire to my holdings. If necessary, in Elfhame. And I’d hope that you came with me.”
“You’d never be able to give up power that easily. You are meant for high office. Idleness would make you ill-tempered.”
“Let us hope that never happens. In the meantime, we have a task, right here, right now.”
In silence, they gently washed each other’s bodies and hair with the coarse soap, rinsed off using the scoop, and carefully dried each other off.
“We should get a bath like this when we get home, yes?” murmured Tilthon as he dressed. “That was good.”
“Yes, we should. At the keep and the city house.”
“Surprising to find something so civilised in Yarsfeld.”
“They need it because of the cold. It would be very unwise to underestimate them, I think.”
Tilthon nodded.
Through a crack in the wooden walls that divided up the building into separate rooms, a watcher observed them, ready to report back to the clan-mother.
Nick Thiwerspoon 