A Burning Sea by Theodore Brun (snow like ashes series TXT) 📗

I’ve suffered. I am no monster. But I must contend with monsters, yes. And something monstrous is what I need to overcome them.’

‘My lady, you are mistaken.’ He shook his head. ‘Here, take your gift. It is not welcome. You are not welcome.’ He pressed the dark silk into her hands. ‘Please leave.’

‘As you wish,’ she said, the taste of defeat sour in her throat. At the door, she stopped and dropped the stole on a side table. ‘Give it to your wife. It’s the least she deserves.’

Katāros watched Lilla leave from the shadow of the portico across the street. Nearby, the bells of St Stephen’s basilica tolled the doleful hour, when the grey gloom of evening thickened into night. He waited until she had passed, her head down in her hurry to reach the corner of the Grand Portico that would take her back towards the palace.

The guards posted on Nikolaos’s door stood erect but inert. He had but to show his face to them, a murmur of imperial business, and they would let him pass.

Nikolaos appeared a little shaken when he showed the high chamberlain into his reception room, which overlooked the little courtyard.

‘You seem agitated, my friend,’ Katāros said.

‘A little distracted, that is all. Oh, I forget myself. Here, let me take your cloak.’ Nikolaos came around the back of him and drew the dark woollen cloak from his shoulders, surely catching a breath of the eunuch’s perfume, worn for his benefit. Katāros possessed many scents – some masculine, others more feminine in note, wearing each as the mood took him, or else the occasion. Tonight he wore a rich, peppery oil, offering an afterthought of cardamom and saffron. It had served him well in the past.

He had taken trouble over his appearance too. Subtle outlines of kohl to enhance his eyes, his long mane of black hair combed till it shone and falling loose down his back, a deep red gown draped over one shoulder with a golden girdle and black slippers. He saw his host’s reaction, the flicker of something in his eyes, instantly suppressed. Katāros knew the man, knew his mouse of a wife. A man didn’t marry a woman like that unless he had something to hide.

‘You must be in need of refreshment, my lord,’ said the fire-maker, suddenly at sea in the room he knew so well, picking up random objects and absently putting them down again. At last he found the silver platter on which the wine and glasses stood. ‘I’m flattered by your visit. Is your business urgent?’

‘Necessary. Not urgent. I have no need to rush away. We can enjoy a drink. ’

‘Good, good. Please.’ He offered Katāros a place on the couch. The chamberlain slid into it while Nikolaos finished pouring out the wine. He handed Katāros a cup, stooping awkwardly and then standing back. ‘What is this about?’

‘Please.’ It was Katāros’s turn to be gracious. ‘I cannot have you standing there like some schoolboy at his lessons. There is plenty of room.’ He shifted artfully to one side, but not too far, so that when Nikolaos sat down they lay quite close together.

‘Your health,’ said Katāros. They touched glasses and Nikolaos spilled a drop of wine between them. He sniggered nervously. ‘Forgive me. My hands are clumsy.’

‘A little spillage will not hurt.’

The fire-maker smiled. ‘I suppose not.’

The door opened then and the small figure of his wife appeared. Katāros nearly sighed in frustration, anticipating laborious introductions, but Nikolaos was already on his feet. ‘Out, out, you little pest! Can’t you see I’m busy?’

The humble creature ducked her head remorsefully, mumbled something and retreated from the room. ‘Go to bed, woman. We may be some time,’ he called after her. ‘And close the door!’

The door was duly closed.

A sardonic smile crept over Katāros’s lips. He hadn’t marked the fire-maker for a domestic tyrant.

‘Now,’ said Nikolaos, regaining his composure. ‘What can I do for you?’

They talked for some time. Katāros had made an art of recycling endless streams of figures – quantities, delivery times, budgets, output, source materials, wastage, and so on and so on – pausing only to season the dull business of administration with occasional forays into courtly gossip, which seemed to delight Nikolaos no end. And the more he drank the more he laughed, and the more he allowed the eunuch’s large dark eyes to linger on his, or the back of their fingers to brush, or a fleeting hand to alight upon his knee when something was ‘too funny’.

And so the web was spun. At last Katāros sensed the time had come. ‘Truly,’ he said, ‘you are a wonder.’

‘You flatter me.’

‘Not at all. There is no more important man in the city. Think of the power you possess in these hands.’ He reached out and took hold of the fire-maker’s hand, smoothing his thumb over the pale palm, as if he expected to feel the secret to the man’s magic engraved there. His eyes snapped up, fixing Nikolaos’s gaze in a grip they couldn’t escape. ‘A toast to you.’

‘To me? Well then, if you like.’

‘The most brilliant man in Byzantium.’ They touched glasses and sipped their wine. Katāros peered over the rim of his glass. ‘And the most desirable.’

Nikolaos gave a nervous little snort. ‘You jest.’

‘Not at all. Genius has an enchantment all of its own.’

Nikolaos’s mouth half-opened, caught between responses, his eyes narrowed. Katāros calmly took away his glass and laid it with his own upon the floor. Then, without another word he slid closer, his silk robe moving easily across the couch, striking before any second thought could enter the fire-maker’s mind. He slipped his hand around his head, raking long nails through his hair, while the other foraged through the folds of the fire-maker’s robes, the tips of his fingers brushing a nipple as it slid down further and pulled him closer.

Nikolaos was ready to yield. Their mouths touched, Katāros tasted tired wine on his breath, scenting that indefinable maleness that he himself