by Lady Bast
Trowa had not seen Duo for many days, but he still remembered the night of Kamenit's assassination. He remembered the morning after as well: the taste of sour wine on his tongue and the hazy walk from the garden to his apartment, the empty hall pungent with the scents of old perfume, spoiling food, and stale vomit. He remembered the waves of homesickness mixed with wine sickness as Tetiun silently cared for his needs. He missed the simplicity of his own tribe, where intrigue did not come in such pretty packages.
The feeling passed, as he knew it must, and thought he thought about the priest quite often, Trowa did not see Duo anywhere about the palace. Wufei assured him that Duo was well, Heero assured him that Bakara was as harassed as ever, Relena assured him that Hilde was quite charmed by her new suitor and Selket-em-paf assured him that the priest was busy in the Prince's employ, but Trowa saw him not at all.
Katrah-en assured him of nothing.
"He is supervising the reconstruction of the Chief Wife's garden," said the Prince drily when Trowa asked him about the priest's whereabouts. "He is one of the few who still remembers how it once looked. It has not been tended since my mother's death. Now, Prince Terewa, will we discuss issues of government or do you wish to persist in this ridiculous questioning?"
Trowa's days had rapidly fallen into the sort of rhythm that the city of Nekheb seemed to demand. His slept late, swam, practised sword work or archery on the training ground, bathed, slept, talked with Selket-em-paf or Wufei, bathed, and visited with either Heero or Relena. Sometimes he visited with both at once, sometimes neither were available and he would walk in the market accompanied by Tetiun and his guards. His evening meals with the Prince had resumed and his evenings belonged to Katrah-en.
Although the Prince would have him think that his company was distasteful, he never failed to extend his rather curt invitation through the mouth of Wufei. Nor did he shorten their time together. If anything, the visits were growing longer. Trowa often accompanied the Prince on his rounds of the temples. Every day, a different chapel was tended and then the final prayers were said at the temple of Nekhebet. He didn't mind waiting in the courtyards where the scent of incense mingled with that of the garden flowers. He never wondered what was happening in the inner sanctuary. His eyes, ears, mouth, and nose were filled with gods while he waited. Sometimes they wore the masks of his own.
"That is Nefertem, who oversees the fragrances," said Wufei one evening when Trowa commented on the heady perfume of the water lilies that choked an ornamental pond. Immediately, Duo's voice filled his mind, telling him of the nature of the god, playful now amid the blossoms.
The Prince was never so poetic.
"Why this fascination with common water flowers?" he said when he collected Trowa that same evening. "I thought you didn't believe in our gods."
"I'm not much of a believer in gods of any kind," he'd replied, "but I'm beginning to think that I have made a mistake. There might be gods after all...although Kemet's gods belong in Kemet. I don't think they'd like it much across the sea."
"It sounds cold," the Prince complained.
"Sometimes."
Trowa smiled. The Prince's petulant child routine was not particularly endearing, but it only manifested when Quatre's stone-like mask began to drop. Trowa used such emotions as a gauge. One day, he was certain, he would see the Prince at his most vulnerable. For now, he wondered if anyone besides himself and Wufei had ever seen an inkling of Quatre's true essence. Duo, he decided. Duo must have.
"Well, if you're done poking your nose into the business of frogs and fishes, I suggest we go back into the palace. I don't like the feeling in the air."
Trowa shrugged. "If you insist," he said, falling into step beside the Prince. They walked in silence for several moments before he spoke again. "Why do you never show me the city?"
Quatre paused along the path, a shifting form of black and gold in the flickering torch light. As simply clad as ever, with only a kilt and the most basic of jewellery and make-up, he looked more like a statue cast in bronze than a noble prince. Trowa willed himself not to flinch beneath his razor-sharp glare, the blue eyes little more than dark, shimmering pools in the night. For a moment they were deep and turbulent, filled with an indecision that mingled with shouts and tears and passions and fears, and then they clouded over; the flat glass eyes of a bronze effigy.
"Now why," he said slowly with a lilt of genuine curiosity, "would I want to take you into the city? I, the Prince of this nome and you, the foreign ambassador in my keeping? Do you know how many guards a simple stroll would require simply to guarantee our protection?"
"I think you overestimate my worth, Prince," said Trowa. He had decided long ago - much as Wufei and Het-Hori and even Duo must have - that an air of calm complacency was the best way to deal with Katrah-en. It was possible to contradict him, question him, so long as it looked and sounded as though the issue would not be pressed. "I don't think it would be half the trouble you expect, but the choice is yours. I was simply curious that a ruler who takes such pride in the perfect workings of his city would not want to take every opportunity to show his works to outsiders. If you were to come and visit me across the sea, I wouldn't hesitate to boast on behalf of my people."
"Well, the lot of your people wouldn't fill a single nome," sniffed Quatre. "Things are considerably more dangerous when those people are confined to the small space of a city. This does not include the many travellers who make Nekheb their temporary home. It is a major trade centre, after all. There are foreigners of all descriptions milling about at any time of the day and, while the guards Rashid has trained are probably the best South of Weset, there is no guarantee that they can protect you from someone who means you harm. It is the Pharaoh's order - may he live long, be healthy, and prosper - that you be kept safe. I would sooner give you a full tour of the palace than assume responsibility for your life beyond the most well-kept areas of the city."
"Very well," said Trowa mildly. "I accept."
He took a fleeting pleasure in the Prince's expression of shock. "What do you accept?"
"The tour of the palace. I've seen quite a bit of it, but not nearly all. I'm rather afraid of getting lost." Trowa pretended to lose himself in the splendour of the night sky. It was the best way he could think of to hide his smug smile. "Since you claim it will be safer than a tour of the city, I accept."
"Tonight?"
Irritation coloured the Prince's question and Trowa decided not to force the issue. It was enough that he had trapped Katrah-en into an agreement. "If you like," he said and bowed low. "I would be satisfied with seeing just a small part of the palace on any night you find convenient. Although I have been through many of the rooms, I haven't found anyone with time enough to tell me about the architecture or explain the meanings of the murals to me. I have been told that they usually reflect the triumphs of the family. I would be honoured, Prince, to hear the glorious history of your ancestors and I'm sure you are the best qualified to tell it."
Somewhat mollified, Quatre nodded. "I suppose that much is true. If you insist, I will show you a little of the palace every night. I can't be spared for a longer tour and we can't begin until tomorrow, if that pleases you."
He would do it, Trowa knew, but grudgingly. Even so, a reluctant hour together might give him the opportunity to cultivate the Prince's trust and favour. With Prince Quatre's backing, he would have an advantage negotiating terms with the Pharaoh. Trowa glanced as his host as he walked in the moonlight. Even if nothing came of it, he decided, he had had worse things to look at.
Dangerous as it was, Trowa crushed the thought. Instead, he spoke. "Consulting your father tonight?"
"No," replied the Prince, the cold edge returning. "It is none of your business and you have no right to ask, but I have no secrets to keep. I am not consulting my father. Duo's power is strong, but even great power must be regenerated. When he is through working in the Chief Wife's garden, then I will see."
Quatre's tone was brusque and business-like, but Trowa felt that he was trying to convince himself more than his guest. Either way, Trowa was relieved. From Selket-em-paf's description of Amunmose, the less the Prince tried to imitate his father, the better. "If I might be bold enough to speak, I think it is a good thing. You are a prince in your own right. Why live in your father's shadow?"
Quatre's pale jaw tightened and his blue eyes narrowed. "You may not be so bold, prince Terewa," he replied firmly. "My family's history may be shared, but our relationships may not. You'll refrain from such comments in the future."
Not a request, but a command. It mattered little. Trowa had already managed to make his point. He nodded. "My apologies, Prince," he said as they entered the palace. "I am more tired than I suspected and my mouth speaks words meant only for my heart. If I may be excused, I will return to my apartments and rest."
"Excused, no, but you may be dismissed," said Quatre sourly. "Rest well. I won't tolerate any such fatigue tomorrow night."
Trowa bowed. "You have my assurance that it will not happen again," he said. "Have a good night, Prince."
Hiding a smile, he returned to his apartment.
"The nerve of him, Het-Hori! The sheer arrogance! Who does he think he is, directing my day? It was bad enough thinking that I would have to put up with more of his kind should negotiations be called, but to have my evenings wasted on architecture? Who is the ruler of this nome, Het-Hori?"
"You are, my Prince," replied the body servant as he gently rubbed his master's back with a natron solution.
"If I am the ruler of this nome, then how am I tricked into playing tutor to this foreign creature?" snapped Quatre.
Het-Hori did not reply. It was one of the reasons Quatre had chosen him as a body servant. Knowing when to speak and when to remain silent was a talent highly valued in personal servants. He did not, for instance, suggest that Trowa had been allowed to manipulate his master because his master found the barbaric foreign prince to be surprisingly beautiful of body. That would certainly have lost him his favoured position. And with good reason! His master was not the least bit interested in his guest's physical attributes, no matter how attractive they might be. That was the word of Ma'at and no one would speak differently for words spoken were deeds done.
Thoughts unspoken, however, were not evidence in the courts of either men or gods. Of this much, Quatre was certain. Relatively certain. Despite his time of study with the priests of Amun, he was not a particularly religious man, but he had neither read nor heard any evidence to the contrary. This was fortunate, for the fact remained that, in his unspoken thoughts, he found the foreign prince beautiful in a way that frightened him greatly.
It was not merely a physical attraction, though that should have, and did, generate terror enough. For a man to lay with another man was a violation of the laws of Ma'at and could put his seven shades in jeopardy when it came time for the weighing of his heart. He had worried for three long years - ever since facing the fact that his body simply would not respond to the charms of women - never admitting his preferences to anyone for fear of poisoning his heart or, worse, incurring the wrath of his father. The Prince Amunmose had told him that all rulers walked alone, but he had also been a great advocate of female companionship, never knowing that his son, who did not share his desires, would have to face an even greater loneliness when he seized the reigns of government. The wild chariot which had taken away all of his friends would also deprive him of a partner with whom he could share the burden.
Quatre sighed to himself as Het-Hori wrapped a kilt of gossamer-thin linen around his waist and poured him a cup of pomegranate wine. He knew he should fight these terrible thoughts, but could not bring himself to do so. Sitting himself by the window, he thought again of the prince. He supposed that he could take a male lover like some rulers had been known to do - he had gold enough to buy the forgiveness of the gods after all - but as his father had taught him, people were superstitious. The city was like a well-trained squadron. If one wanted the soldiers to perform at their peak, their leader must, by necessity, be the model for all soldiers. If he were flawed in any way, the morale of the troops could be broken. If he, trained in the temples of Amun, was seen flaunting the laws of Ma'at, what right did he have to judge the misconduct of others?
And yet, the chance of punishment, be it human or divine, was not what Quatre feared the most. There was something in the foreign prince's manner, as crude as it might be, that drew him. There was a void in his self - the self that he was and the self that he had been - that seemed to need those qualities which prince Trowa had claimed as his own. In a better world, he might have been free of the trappings of princehood and been free to pursue his interests. In such a world, he and Trowa would have formed a complement of perfection. Trowa as he was, and he as he had been.
He was suddenly lonely for Duo's company. He would never admit it - could never admit it - but in the deepest recesses of his heart, he knew that he had taken his childhood friend for granted, using his gifts and his status for his own petty whims and needs. Oh, he'd had his reasons - Quatre could rationalize his decisions for days, weeks, even months if necessary - but in the end, it was his own selfishness that was to blame. He'd had but two close friends in his life and one of them was the son of a murderer. Who else could he have trusted? Who else was both clever enough and loyal enough to suffer his paranoia and follow his instructions to the letter?
Most importantly, who else could have taken his blame so easily?
Quatre bit his lip and gripped his cup. It had been so convenient. Duo had been raised since childhood to brew poisons and stalk the unwary. He had bypassed most temple studies through experience and easily replaced his father within the temple structure. He was the perfect scapegoat...not only by his nature, but by his duty. Quatre still remembered the guest wing filled with priestly students on a pilgrimage to the capital and then to the festival at Bubastis. The level of depravity within the palace district had increased dramatically and he had been shocked. He had known, but not really understood, the function of all these young priests until Duo, who had come to his chambers for a game of sennet, had taught him how to avoid both loneliness and guilt. If a gift of appreciation was given - never a payment, always a gift - it was well worth the price.
Duo had been very sympathetic when he had admitted his preferences - Quatre could remember it clearly - and while he had stressed the fact that he preferred women, he had not been adverse to the idea of sharing a bed with another man. He had, in fact, had some practice with a fellow student named Solo. After all, one never knew when the skill would be needed. The key to it all, Quatre had been told, was that he must never ask for this thing outright. Words spoken were deeds done. He could hint, suggest, tease, and if Duo or one of his number took it upon themselves to interpret his words in a certain way...well...how could he be blamed?
He had allowed everything that had happened that night, this was true, but it had been done secure in the knowledge that the taint was not his own. The act had brought a great relief and a great fear for Quatre knew that no matter what technicality might protect him from the gods, his father would never believe that Duo was at fault. Just as no one finding the body of Kamenit would ever think that Duo had acted entirely on his own despite the fact that he, Quatre, had issued no direct command.
He regretted the death. Now, in the safety of his chambers, he regretted the death. In essence, Kamenit had been nothing more than a love-sick fool, taken with an image of a princess he could never have. If Quatre had been a common man, Kamenit would have been little more than an annoyance. The man himself had not been a danger, but his words...his words taken to heart could have provoked an attack, an assassination, or a revolt. Here! In his most perfect city! So Kamenit had been killed to protect the city and its Prince. It had been necessary. It had been right. If anyone blamed him, they could take him before a court of law and Duo would be there - with his knives and his poisons and his red, red wig - to say that he had killed Kamenit of his own free will in the wake of hearing his master's concerns. No one would contest him. Life would go on.
But they would know...as they already knew. As he already knew.
"And why do you care about the thoughts of a foreign prince?" he said softly, surprised to hear himself speak aloud.
Ever-attentive, Het-Hori looked up. "My Prince?"
"Go back to work," said Quatre quietly. "It's nothing."
He sat by the window, watching his servant tidying the room as he sipped at his wine. Why did he care about the thoughts of a foreign prince? Why indeed? Would prince Trowa think anything at all? Surely he had disciplined rogues in his time...
Quatre's thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of motion from the garden.
Straining his eyes, he could just make out a figure walking along the furthest wall. If its stride had not given away its identity, the long hair would have. It was not uncommon to see Duo walking in the garden, and indeed it was not Duo who had caught his eye, but the other, swifter-moving figure. Quatre could not recognize him, but he had arrived at a run and seemed to be breathing heavily. A messenger, no doubt, but what would a messenger want with Duo at this hour?
Whatever the reason, Duo's stiff posture indicated that he was not impressed by the intrusion. Stiffly, he pulled the other into a leisurely walk among the cultivated trees. They soon passed beneath a canopy of small palms and out of sight.
Rising from his seat, Quatre strode through his apartment and flung open the door. "Ahmad!" he cried, startling the guard. "I want the doors to the palace complex barred and all messengers attempting to leave the grounds taken aside."
Ahmad stammered, flustered by the sudden command. "My Prince!" he protested. "What messenger would be about in the middle of the night?" Quatre flushed with anger. "It is not your place to question me! Go and do what I say!"
The Saracen bowed quickly and hurried to do his duty, but the shock and dismay that had crossed his face had told Quatre all that he needed to know. Ahmad knew something of the messenger. He might even be involved in some small way. Well, some secrecy among underlings was to be expected. He would not know how to deal with the man until the messenger was caught and questioned. He had no doubt that Ahmad would do his duty. To say that there had been no messenger or to allow the messenger to escape would implicate the guard far more than either he or his family could afford. The one who worried him the most was Duo.
There was no help for it now. All he could do was wait until the messenger was brought before him. He drained his cup and set it aside before returning to his seat by the window. "Het-Hori, light the braziers," he said, staring down into the garden. "The night is getting colder."
The apartment was empty and was just the way Hilde liked it.
With Bakara safely tucked into bed, Hilde allowed herself a cup of watered wine and sat in the dim light of the chamber, thinking her secret thoughts. Mainly these thoughts were about Duo. He was quite unlike anyone else she had ever met and she, living in the capital, had met any number of unique individuals. People from across the Great Green and across the desert sands, dark Kushites from down south and the pale Libu of the west....all of these had she seen, but Duo was far more different than any one of them. They were foreigners and expected to have odd customs. Duo was a son of Kemet and his customs were here own, but twisted and turned in such a way that she hardly recognized them.
Of all the priests she had met, he was the only one who had spoken so truthfully and soulfully about the world and about the gods. Not simply the gods as she had been taught to know them, oh no. Duo spoke of them in a way that made the colours of the world come alive; the scents on the breeze that much clearer and truer; the feel of cloth, wood, stone, and even sand that much more sensual. He spoke in a way that could make her believe - a part of the world instead of someone who floated through it - and he did it all without the conventions so often pressed upon his kind.
This was why the state of his health saddened her. Too often had she seen his kind falter and die at an early age, the victims of their own poisons, drugs, or violence. As you live, so you die, her father had once told her as they watched a young priest collapse amongst his colleagues, his heart burst from strain brought on by the drugs used in their ritual. Duo was by far the youngest she had seen. He was no older than herself, and yet was prone to fits and tremours of the worse kind. She feared for him and for her own heart if something should happen to him. He had promised that he would be more careful - for her sake if not for his own - and while he seemed to have lessened the amount of time spent with dangerous substances, he had, as of yet, refused to see a physician. He claimed to have his reasons, but he refused to tell her what they were.
The opening of the door and the light laughter of Relena and Miusheri, drew her from her thoughts. Hilde rose and stretched. Realizing that her cup was empty, she set it aside and went out to meet her mistress. The Lady Relena treated her far more gently than Hilde had any right to expect, and for this reason, she loved the woman dearly. Checking once again to be sure that Bakara was safe in her bed, Hilde entered the sitting room where Miusheri was putting out wine and a small platter of date cakes. Hilde faced her mistress and bowed low. "My Lady," she said, "I trust you had a pleasant outing?"
"You were not here when we returned so Miusheri took me swimming and to the showers. You are keeping my daughter out late," Relena replied, but without reproach. If anything, she was smiling gently, clearly amused.
"We were safe enough in the garden," said Hilde, politely ignoring the barb as she sat on one of the low stools. "I do mean the palace garden and not the Chief Wife's garden, of course. There are many guards there and little chance of harm."
"This is true."
Relena accepted a cup from Miusheri and sipped at the mint-flavoured wine. She ran one finger around the rim, lost in contemplation. Finally, when Hilde thought she could bear the silence no longer, Relena spoke again. "And how is Duo this evening?"
Hilde could feel the heat of her blood rising to fill her cheeks and colour her ears. "Am I so transparent?"
Relena looked at her for a moment with the fondness of an elder sister. "Perhaps not to the eyes of the palace staff, but I have known you much longer. He has aroused your curiosity, if not your love. You have been following him these past few days - sometimes in my company and sometimes alone or with Bakara - listening attentively to his many stories of Nekheb when he was much younger. You are not known for giving priests your attention, particularly not the priests of Set, so I know that this one holds a special interest for you. Duo, now...he is positively smitten. It is written in his face for all to see."
Miusheri covered her mouth to stifle a giggle, but Hilde heard the sound of nervous laughter nonetheless. Horrified, she realized that it was coming from her own mouth. Hastily, she pressed her fist to her lips to stop the cascade though it could not prevent her from smiling. "You can't know that," she said shyly.
"I can and do...as do the rest of the palace staff." Relena glanced slyly over the rim of her cup. "Come now, don't tell me you haven't noticed the way he watches after you with great, round puppy eyes? Pat his head and I'm sure he will wag his tail."
Relena sipped calmly from her cup as Miusheri exploded into laughter behind her. Hilde's face burned even more deeply before Relena put down her cup and turned to her body servant. "Miusheri," she ordered, "go and turn down the beds. And when you are finished, watch over Bakara."
"Yes, Mistress." Miusheri barely managed the words, but she did bow deeply before leaving the room.
"That...that was hardly ladylike," stammered Hilde when she was gone.
"Oh, but I have liberties now," said Relena innocently. "Or so Heero tells me. I'm never sure how far they extend, but since I've come to Nekheb, it seems I have been given the opportunity to find out." Relena put down her wine cup and turned to look at her directly. "I am asking you seriously now, Hilde. Do you fancy him? I know you would not let your attention stray from Bakara for even a moment if she was in your care..."
"Nor would he," said Hilde automatically. Relena's smile was understanding, but adamant.
"So it seems, but listen now...this is important. What do you think of him, Hilde? Really?"
Hilde frowned, accepting without really noticing the cup of wine that her mistress pressed into her hands. "I don't like what he is," she said hesitantly. "I don't like what he does. And yet...he is very kind. He is open and cheerful. He likes to talk - perhaps too much," she admitted, smiling to herself, "but the things he says are not tedious. He is very intelligent, not boastful unless it's in jest, and while he likes to compliment, he's neither insincere nor wearisome with it. He is unique." Hilde looked away, fondling her cup shyly. "I suppose I do like him. I even like his hair, as odd as that might seem. On any other, I might think it unclean. Yes," she sighed, "I suppose I really do like him."
Relena nodded thoughtfully and let the silence stretch until its tension could be felt. Then, she spoke. "Have you given any thought to what you will do about it?"
It was the question that Hilde had been avoiding in her own mind. She groaned softly and buried her face in one hand. "I don't know. I just...don't know."
"Think of it another way," said Relena. "What would you do if he asked you to marry him?"
The silence stretched again, but this time it was Hilde's turn to break it. "Part of me is hoping that he will do no such thing, but part of me hopes that he will. If he does not, I lose nothing. I can return with you to the capital and see my friends and family again. If he does ask me - and I think there is a chance - I don't know if I would be able to refuse. I don't know that I'd want to. And yet, I don't want to live in Kom Ombo if he returns to his temple. I don't want to live in Nekheb if he decides to stay with his Prince. I would rather that he come to the capital and serve the temple there, but I don't know how he would feel about that."
"And what if he wants more than romance and less than marriage?"
Hilde looked to her mistress in shock, but Relena was sipping from her cup, eyes closed demurely. "Too...too many things could go wrong," she finally stammered. "I am a poor girl. I have no lands or money in my name. I cannot pay a physician or a mid..midwife. I...too many things could go wrong," she repeated, twisting her cup in her hands.
Relena set aside her wine and gently pulled the cup from her nursemaid's fingers. Then she gathered the trembling hands in her own and held them tightly. "Hilde," she said firmly and with great sincerity, "you were my friend from the time I arrived at my Lord Heero's estate. You were the only one who treated me fairly and did not shun me because I was a foreign bride. The others spoke all the right words and made all the right gestures, but you were the only one sincere in her respect and open with her friendship. I put my trust and my child's safety in your hands. I will do it again and again for as long as I can bear children. If you choose to marry and leave my service, I will be sad and hope that you will keep in touch, but if you do not, I will never cast you out, no matter how old my children may have grown. You will always have a home on our estate, Hilde, and as long as you are the keeper of the children's quarters, your children, too, will be welcome."
Speechless, Hilde stared at her mistress until the full meaning of Relena's offer touched her heart. Tears filled her eyes, clouding her vision. She clasped her mistress's hands and raised them to her lips. "Thank you," she whispered fervently. "I never doubted, but to hear you say the words brings great relief to my mind."
"I am happy that you are happy," replied Relena, freeing one hand to cup Hilde's chin and lift her face, wiping away tears and smudges of kohl with her thumb. "Now, it occurs to me that with all my planning, I have been neglecting my daughter," she said, smiling knowingly. "I think I would like to arrange for regular visits in the evenings when most of the workers have gone home. You may, of course, do what you like with your free time."
Hilde returned Relena's smile and let the last of her tension escape in a burst of shaky laughter. "I think Bakara would enjoy that very much," she said.
Trowa stretched, cat-like, as he crawled onto his couch. "Congratulate me, Tetiun. I think I've gotten the better of your Prince."
"How do you mean, Master?" said the body servant as he put the bathing equipment aside for pick-up. Trowa described the encounter as the way he had managed to secure Quatre's company for a complete tour of the palace. "I don't see how this is getting the better of him," mused Tetiun when he had finished. "You'll still be stuck with him."
The comment started a laugh out of Trowa. "That, I'm afraid, is the idea. It's difficult to talk politics when you're at different ends of the palace."
The body servant shrugged. "If you like. Will you need me to come with you?"
Trowa opened his mouth to answer, then paused. On one hand, it would be safer to have a servant with him. On the other, he would feel exposed and his baser thoughts might surface. There was no use denying that he found the Prince attractive, but he had no desire to advertise his preferences. They were dangerous enough among his own people; how much more dangerous could they be among strangers? True that Tetiun knew what he was and didn't seem to mind, but Prince Quatre was another matter entirely. Never mind that he seemed to dislike Trowa simply because he was Teresh, if he were to find out that a filthy foreigner thought of him in ways that were not entirely political, there was no telling what he would do. "You can come if you like," said Trowa finally. "At least around the palace. I doubt the Prince will let you follow us to the temple if he hasn't done so already."
"I can come if I like, but you don't really want me," sniffed the servant, contriving to look hurt. "In that case, I probably should follow you to make sure you stay out of trouble. Turn over, please."
Sighing dramatically, Trowa rolled onto his belly, exposing his back to Tetiun's oils and practised hands. "Trouble? What sort of trouble would I get into?"
"You have all the vigours of youth, Master," said Tetiun. His voice abandoned its stiff practicality to match the soothing motion of his hands as they kneaded the muscles of Trowa's shoulders and back.
"And you do not?" Trowa smiled.
"Don't jest with me! You have all the vigours of youth and you are very beautiful. Don't pretend that you don't know it," said Tetiun sternly, his fingers pinching just a little for emphasis.
"Careful! I could have you demoted to kitchen-boy."
"You are," repeated the servant, his voice gentle once again. "And so is Prince Quatre. That is mischief waiting for a master."
"So that's it," muttered Trowa. In his mind, the comment had not been offensive, but his heart felt differently. "You think that just because I am...a certain way...that I can't control my desires. I thought better of you than that, Tetiun. I can appreciate a good body without despoiling it and I never approach those who are not...like me."
"But Prince Quatre is like you!" said Tetiun in a harsh whisper near his ear. "That is the problem!"
He said more, but Trowa was no longer listening. His mind had seized on one thing only and insisted upon turning it over and over in his mind. "When you say that Prince Quatre is 'like me', do you mean that he prefers the company of men?"
Tetiun snorted in disgust. "You aren't listening. Of course that's what I mean! I know because I used to serve Duo who serves the Prince. That is why the women's quarters are empty. I suppose he would take a wife if he thought he needed an heir, but he's still quite young and in no hurry to fill the palace with wives who will demand his attention, but hold no interest for him. I wouldn't be surprised if he allowed himself to be trapped by you - whether he is aware of it or not - simply for the pleasure of your company."
Trowa was intrigued. "Are you suggesting that your Prince might find me attractive?"
His body servant's annoyance was expressed with a gusty sigh. "I am suggesting that if either of you finds the other attractive and tries something...inappropriate...it could go very badly. I am suggesting that if the Prince decides that he is lonesome enough to ignore your differences, things might become awkward. It is said that such things go against the laws of Ma'at. I am not so sure, but then I am no priest and it is not my view that governs the people. If anyone were to find out, it could mean a scandal for the both of you. Worse, if the Prince decides to do you harm, he might use your preferences against you to ruin you in the eyes of his people. No one would dare to speak against him, but you are without defenses."
"I suppose you're right," said Trowa thoughtfully. He lay still, pondering his servant's words as Tetiun's hands worked their way down his back and onto his legs. "I admit, it would be very risky. Your Prince doesn't like me as it is and I'm in too dangerous a position to risk his anger any more than I need to. Even so...are you sure he would find me attractive?"
"Until you removed your kilt, perhaps," said Tetiun drily. "After all, you aren't even circumcised."
"Circumcised?"
Trowa rolled onto his hip to look over his shoulder. To his surprise, Tetiun looked rather embarrassed. "Well, you know how you have skin over your..."
"Huh...so that's what happened to you," said Trowa, frowning. "This is desirable?"
"It is...cleaner," said Tetiun helplessly. "It's a simple matter to cut..."
"No."
"But..."
"No. I don't like sharp blades near any part of my body," said Trowa firmly.
"It would be even more difficult if sand..."
"No."
"...caused an infection..."
"No."
Tetiun shook his head. "I don't suppose it matters. Nothing will come of it anyway. Isn't that so, Master?"
"That's right," replied Trowa, rolling back onto his belly. He pillowed his head on his folded arms and started wistfully into space. "It doesn't matter because nothing is going to happen."
"The Prince of Nekheb" copyright A.C.Smith (aka Lady Bast), 2002. Send comments to asmith@ican.net Please do not repost or print (other than for personal use) without permission. The Gundam boys and all their paraphenelia belong to whomever currently holds the rights...I'm just borrowing them for a while. No infringement is intended, really. Really really. Please don't sue me, I have no money. If, however, you have a burning desire to hire me and PAY me money to write this kinda stuff, feel free to track me down.