Brute (14 page)

He remained in the tub for a very long time. He didn’t scrub, although he did break off a bit of the nicely scented soap to take back to his chambers and use in the morning. It was a small theft, but he thought it might be justified, seeing as he’d paid the full three coppers and hadn’t even needed the water warmed. When he finally emerged, his skin was slightly wrinkled and he felt considerably refreshed.

Until he walked back out and into the sunshine. Then he felt like a loaf of bread in an oven. Which reminded him that he had missed lunch. He still wasn’t very hungry—he could wait until dinner—but it occurred to him that Gray might need more drinking water. He walked slowly back to the Brown Tower, mumbled a greeting to the guard at the door, and went inside.

It wasn’t until he entered his chamber that the smell hit him. He’d become used to the building’s constant odor of damp and age, and of course he tried to empty his chamber pot and Gray’s bucket as often as possible. But this was simply the reek of filth, and it took him a moment to realize it was coming from the prisoner. Of course. Years without being allowed to wash, and now with the heat: Gray was stewing in his sweat and grime. It might not have been so noticeable if Brute hadn’t just bathed, but as it was, the stink was almost unbearable.

Gray stood and smiled when Brute brought him a cup of water. “D-d-did you s-s-swim?”

“I told you. I don’t know how.”

“Sh-sh-shame. M-my father t-taught me. He was a s-sailor.”

Although Gray had grown slightly more talkative of late—and either he was stuttering less or Brute was noticing less—he’d never before mentioned his family. Brute was intrigued even though he knew he shouldn’t be. “Was he from Tellomer?”

“Y-yes. Came b-b-back with amazing tales. A-and my mother. She w-w-was from R-r-racinas.”

Brute had heard mention of Racinas once or twice, but had no idea where it might be and had never met anyone from there. He’d never even met anyone who was related to someone from there. “Did you ever go there?”

Gray’s face tightened. “O-o-o-once.”

Because this was obviously a painful subject, Brute went back to the topic of swimming. “What does it feel like, to swim in the sea?”

“W-w-wet,” Gray said, a slight smile replacing his frown. “C-cold. I-i-i-it moves about y-you, the s-sea does. Always ch-changing. Lifts y-you up or knocks you d-d-d-down. D-doesn’t care who you a-a-aren’t.”

That was a strange sentiment, Brute thought, but an oddly comforting one. Especially for someone like him, who wasn’t so many things and who was so few. But then the entire conversation was odd. It had never before occurred to him that a witch would have family—although of course he must come from somewhere!—or that his father would be someone as ordinary as a sailor, a man who probably loved his son and taught him to swim. “My father was just a thief,” he said, and wished he’d learn to stop blurting things out.

“A g-g-good one?”

Brute thought of the little hut he’d lived in as a child. It had seemed comfortable enough to him then, especially in comparison to the dirt-floored place under the house where his great-uncle usually made him sleep, or the stables, or his room at the White Dragon. But in truth, that hut had been small and run-down, and aside from the bed and a few trinkets of his mother’s, it had contained very few possessions. “No. He was a poor one. They hanged him when I was a boy.”

Gray placed his warm hand on Brute’s arm and gave it a quick squeeze. “S-sometimes a d-d-desperate man makes b-b-bad choices.”

It was too hot in the cell. Brute stepped away and bolted the door, and then he stood there in the middle of his chamber, his mind whirling in a turmoil he couldn’t explain. “I’m going,” he said gruffly. And unnecessarily. He took the washbasin and jug with him when he left.

The guard watched with mild curiosity as Brute filled the containers at the well. It was slightly difficult for him to carry them back. He tucked the basin into the crook of his left arm and held the jug in his hand, and he tried not to slosh too much water as he walked. When he got to the door, the guard squinted at Brute’s hair, which was still damp from his bath. “You’re going to be very clean,” the guard observed with unusual garrulousness. Usually they just grunted.

Brute gave him an awkward little shrug and entered the tower.

Gray seemed surprised that Brute had reappeared so soon, even more so when Brute used his free elbow to open the bars. “S-s-something wrong?”

“Not exactly. Hang on.” He set the containers on the floor beside Gray and then ducked back into the main chamber to grab his single towel. After a short pause, he opened the bottom drawer and took out his old shirt as well. It was hardly more than a rag, but it could still serve a use.

“Wh-wh-wh-what is it?” Gray asked when Brute was back in the cell.

“Here.” Brute pressed the cloths into one of Gray’s hands, fished in his pocket to retrieve the bit of soap, and placed it in Gray’s other hand. “There’s water in the basin at your feet.”

“F-f-for what?”

“Washing, of course. I can’t take you to the sea or even the baths, but….” His voice trailed away uncomfortably.

Gray licked his lips and then chewed on the lower one. “I-I-I d-d-d-don’t—”

“It’s hot and you stink. I thought you might want to clean up a little.”

“Is… is it p-p-p-p— Fuck! P-permitted?”

Brute gave the same answer he’d told himself about improving the prisoner’s meals and giving him a quilt. “Nobody said I couldn’t.”

Gray laughed. He crouched down and shoved his blankets out of the way, then felt around until he found the washbasin. “M-m-might get a b-b-bit of me clean, anyway.”

“Do you want… I could cut your hair. Shave you.”

“W-w-would you? P-please?”

“I’m not much of a barber, but I can try.”

When Gray nodded enthusiastically, Brute fetched his knife and razor. It couldn’t have been comfortable for Gray as Brute hacked away at the matted mess on his head, but Gray didn’t complain. Eventually he was left with uneven stubble on top of his skull, clean-shaven cheeks and neck, and an enormous grin. “Good gods, th-that feels better!”

He was handsome, dammit to all hells, with finely sculpted cheekbones and a full bottom lip. His neck looked slightly delicate—almost calling out to be stroked—but the effect was marred by the iron collar, a dark abomination. “I feel l-like a new m-m-man.”

Brute mumbled some sort of reply, which was abruptly cut off as Gray began rubbing the soap over his dirty arms and chest. “T-tell me if I’m m-m-missing spots,” Gray ordered, which meant that Brute
had
to watch. Not that he could have torn his eyes away even if he tried. He watched as the dirt was gradually scrubbed away, revealing moon-pale skin with a dusting of dark blond hairs and a pair of flat pink nipples. Which was bad enough, but next Gray washed his flat belly, his balls and soft sex and the curls that surrounded them, his thin legs. Brute tasted blood and realized he’d bitten his tongue.

“B-better?” Gray asked, holding his arms out.

“Um, yes.”

Gray spun around. “D-do my back?”

The answer should have been no. Brute knew that. But Gray was standing there, right in front of him, and his back really was filthy. And it wasn’t as if Brute had never touched him before. At least those were the rationalizations he made as he dumped the dirty water into the slop pail and poured fresh from the ewer. He took the soap and began moving it across the other man’s shoulders. This close, and with the dirt gone, he could see that Gray’s skin was rubbed raw at the edges of his collar and manacles, and no doubt on his ankles around the cuffs as well. At least the bruises and scrapes Brute had spied when he’d first arrived had faded away, leaving him to wonder if the wounds had been caused by something more than Gray being forced to sleep on the hard floor.

“Wh-what’s wrong?”

Brute realized he’d been growling slightly. “Nothing. Sorry.” He scrubbed a little harder at Gray’s shoulder blades.

When Brute reached Gray’s lower back, Gray shifted his stance to spread his legs a little and Brute froze. “Umm….”

“Y-you don’t have to. I c-c-can—”

“It’s fine,” Brute said firmly. He was a grown man. He could manage to scrub a dirty prisoner without acting like an idiot. Even if that prisoner had a surprisingly pleasant ass.

By the time Brute reached the prisoner’s feet, Gray was considerably cleaner and fresher smelling, and Brute was uncomfortably hard. He was just feeling thankful that Gray couldn’t see the way the fabric of his trousers was straining when Gray made a strangled sort of sound and half turned back to him. Gray was erect too, and his shaved face was colored by a blush. “S-s-sorry,” he said with an embarrassed smile. “D-d-didn’t think the damn thing even w-w-worked anymore. It….” He made an accurate grab for Brute’s soapy hand and ran his long fingers over Brute’s wide ones. “C-calloused. F-f-felt good.”

Brute didn’t pull away, and for several minutes they simply stood there, hand in hand, their breathing sounding very loud against the walls of the cell. Brute wasn’t even especially surprised when Gray bent his head and, avoiding the soapy hand, pressed his lips to Brute’s thick forearm. “Th-thank you, Brute.”

“It’s not my name.” He clearly was no master of his own tongue.

But Gray only tilted his head. “What?”

“Brute. It’s what they call me. What everyone calls me, ever since… since I was a boy. But it’s not my name.” Sometimes he almost forgot that. He thought of himself as Brute, in fact, and the last person to call him by his given name was his mother, right before she died. She’d hugged him and kissed his hair and called him a good boy, and then she’d poisoned herself from her flask.

“Wh-what is your name?” Gray’s voice was soft.

“Aric. I’m Aric.”

Gray smiled. “Hello, Aric.”

Somehow after that, the newly rechristened Aric extricated himself from Gray’s gentle grip. He used the remaining wash water to rinse the floor a bit and replaced the soiled quilt with a fresh one from his shelf. He fetched dinner for himself and Gray and they ate in silence, and then Aric bolted the cell. Everything around him seemed sort of fuzzy and unreal, the edges of everything as soft as his prisoner’s name. He opened the top dresser drawer and pulled out the little fabric purse containing a small hoard of coppers, the remnants of a sweets spending spree he and Warin had enjoyed a few days earlier. He tucked the purse in his pocket and walked out of the chamber, out of the tower, out of the palace. His feet knew where to go: to the dingy little corner of Tellomer where the molly houses and brothels were tucked away.

A
RIC
had heard stories about Tellomer’s brothels since he was a young boy. He heard rumors that his mother had once worked in them. After Aric’s parents died, on the rare occasions when drink put his great-uncle in a good mood instead of an evil one, the old man babbled on about the whores he’d had in Tellomer, and how he impressed the ladies with his size and skills. Even at a tender age, Aric doubted that.

When he grew older, Aric heard men at the White Dragon talking to each other about the bawdy houses, teasing or bragging or offering advice. It was those overheard conversations that taught him that boys could be found for sale, and that gave him hope that, given enough coins, someone might be willing to temporarily overlook Aric’s brutish body and repulsive face.

It had taken him a long time to save enough—enough coppers, enough courage—but finally Aric made his first journey into Tellomer during the Festival of the Harvest Moon. His heart hammered in his chest for the entire journey, and when he arrived at the city walls, he was overwhelmed at the sheer size of the place and hadn’t any idea which way to go. There weren’t any signs pointing to Tellomer’s seediest corner—and if there had been, he couldn’t have read them—and he was too embarrassed to ask any of the few people on the street. So he wandered aimlessly for a long time, instinctively veering away from the posher parts of town, until he stumbled upon a narrow street that looked somehow both furtive and inviting. The crudely painted signs hanging on the houses at the end of that street had been made with illiterate men like him in mind, and they left no doubt about what sort of business was transacted inside the houses.

Aric had wandered up and down the street uncertainly, half fearing that even with his purse full of coins he’d be turned away. And then he saw a man exiting the most run-down of the houses, pausing to steal a kiss from a jaded-looking young man before scurrying furtively away. The man had been ugly—although not as ugly as Aric—and fat, and he’d had gouty nodules on his ears.

Aric had taken several calming breaths and knocked on the door of that house.

The house was kept by a blocky man with a badly scarred face and thin tufts of dark gray hair. He stood in the open door, looking Aric up and down with deep skepticism. “What?” the man demanded.

“I, um….” Aric swallowed. “I want… um… sex.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Girl or boy?”

“Boy. Or, um, man.” Because, although any contact would have been good, what he really craved was a big, strong body against his. Someone he wouldn’t have to worry about breaking.