Songmaster (35 page)

He found the room with no trouble, but hesitated before knocking, trying again to understand Josif’s motives, his reasons for shutting Ansset out so abruptly. He could think of none. Josif’s emotions were not concealed from Ansset—the boy knew perfectly well everything that the man wanted and did not want. Josif wanted Ansset, and did not want to, and Ansset did not know why. It could not be because Kyaren would be jealous—she was not prone to that sort of thing, and if Josif wanted to make love to Ansset, she would not mind. Yet Josif acted as if Ansset’s very touch were poisonous, though Ansset knew Josif had been wanting that touch.

He did not understand, had to understand, and so he knocked on the door and it opened.

Josif immediately tried to shut the door again, but Ansset slipped inside. And when Josif then tried to leave, Ansset shut the door, and stood there, looking Josif in the eyes.

“Why are you at war with yourself?” he asked the man.

“I want things,” Josif said thickly, “that I do not want to want. Please leave me.”

“But why shouldn’t you have what you want?” Ansset asked, reaching up and touching Josif’s cheek.

The struggle was clear on Josif’s face. He wanted to hurl Ansset’s arm away, but did not. Instead he did what he wanted more. As Ansset’s fingers reached along Josif’s neck, Josif’s own hand moved, glided along Ansset’s face, outlined his lips and his eyes.

And then, abruptly, Josif turned away, walked to the bed and threw himself on it.

“No!” he cried out. “I don’t love you!”

Ansset followed him, sat beside him on the bed, ran his hands along Josif’s back. “Yes you do,” Ansset said. “Why do you want to deny it?”

“I don’t. I can’t.”

“It’s too late, Josif. You can’t lie to me, you know.”

Josif rolled back, away from Ansset, and looked up into the boy’s face. “Is it?”

“I know what you want,” Ansset said, “and I’m willing.”

And the war in Josif’s face and voice ended, and he surrendered, though Ansset still could not figure out why the war had been fought at all, or what fortress had fallen. Josif had won, but Josif had also lost; and yet Josif was getting what he longed for.

Josif’s touch was not like the touch of the guard who had lusted for Ansset when he first came to Earth. His eyes were not like the eyes of the pederasts who visited the palace and hardly heard Ansset’s song for looking at Ansset’s body. Josif’s lips on his skin spoke more eloquently than they had ever spoken when only air could receive their touch. And Ansset’s questions began to be answered.

And then, suddenly, when his feelings were most intense, Ansset was startled by a sudden pain in his groin. He had not been exerting Control—he made a soft, inadvertent cry. Josif did not notice it, or misunderstood it if he did. But the pain increased and increased, centering in his loins and spreading in waves of fire through his body. Surely this pain was not normal, Ansset thought, terrified. Surely they don’t always feel this, every time. I would have heard of this. I would have known it.

And climax came to Ansset, not as ecstasy, but as exquisite pain, more than his Control could contain, more than his voice could express. Silently he writhed on the bed, his face twisting in agony, his mouth open with screams far too painful to become sound.

Josif was horrified. What had he done? Ansset was obviously in terrible pain; he had never seen the boy show pain before. Yet Josif knew that there should be no pain, not with the gentle way that Josif had been teaching.

“What is it?” he asked.

Ansset could not find any voice at all, just convulsed so violently that he was thrown from the bed.

“Ansset!” Josif cried out.

Ansset’s head struck the wall. Once, again, again. He seemed not to notice. Spittle came from his mouth, and his naked body arched upward, then slammed brutally against the floor. Josif had known Ansset was on the verge of orgasm, but instead of the gift he had meant to give the boy, there had been this. Josif had never desired to cause pain to anyone in his life; when he did, it nearly destroyed him. And he had never seen such pain as Ansset’s. Every shudder of the boy’s body struck Josif like a blow.

“Ansset!” he screamed. “Ansset, I only meant to love you! Ansset!”

With Josif’s voice ringing in his ears, Ansset finally struck his head hard enough to bring unconsciousness, the only relief he could find from the pain that had long since ceased to be unbearable, that had come to be infinite and eternal, the only reason for Ansset to exist. The pain
was
Ansset, and then, as the room went black and the screams went silent, Ansset was finally able to remove himself from the agony.

He awoke with the dim light of morning coming in through a window. The walls were stone, but not thick; he was still in the castle, but in one of the buildings in the courtyard. He became aware of movement in the room. He turned his head. Calip and two doctors stood by him.

“What happened?” Ansset asked, his voice weaker than he had expected.

The three men immediately became alert. “Is he awake?” Calip asked one of the doctors.

“I’m awake,” Ansset said.

Calip rushed to his side. “Sir, you’ve been delirious all night. It took us two hours to find out enough about what had happened to you to know how to relieve the pain.”

“It might have killed you,” one of the doctors said: “If your heart had been any weaker, it would have.”

“What was it?” Ansset asked dully.

“The Songhouse drugs. Nothing should do what they did to you. But we found a combination that might, and since it was our best chance at saving your life, we tried the contra-treatment, and it worked, after a fashion. It’s incredible to me that they would have let you stay here past the age of fifteen without letting us know the treatment formulas.”

“What caused it?” Ansset asked.

“You should have listened to me,” Calip answered.

“Do you think I don’t know that by now?” Ansset said, impatiently.

“The Songhouse drugs make orgasm torture for you. Whoever your lover was, sir,” said the doctor, “she set you up for a good one.”

“Will it happen every time?”

“No,” the doctor said, glancing at his colleague and then at Calip. Calip nodded.

“Well, then,” said the doctor. “Your body feeds back on itself. Like birth control, only stronger. It will never happen to you again, because you’re permanently impotent, or will be at the slightest sign of pain. Your body isn’t willing to go through this again.”

“He’s only seventeen,” the other doctor said to Calip.

“Will he be all right now?” Calip asked them.

“He’s exhausted, but there’s no physical damage except a few bruises. You may have headaches for a few days.” The doctor brushed hair out of Ansset’s eyes with his hand. “Don’t worry, sir. There’s worse that could have happened to you. You won’t miss it.”

Ansset managed a wan smile. It didn’t bother him too much—he didn’t really know what he was missing. But as the doctors left, he remembered Josif’s touch, and realized that the way he felt before the pain began—that would never come back again. Still, he wanted Josif by him. Wanted to assure Josif that it hadn’t been his fault. He knew Josif well enough to imagine the terrible guilt he was feeling, the certainty that he had caused pain where he had meant to bring joy. “I must talk to Josif.”

“He’s gone,” Calip said.

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” Calip said. “He wasn’t here this morning, and I haven’t bothered putting out a search order. I really don’t give a damn where he is.” And Calip left the room, and Ansset, wearier than he had thought, slept again.

He awoke again with Kyaren beside him, looking worried.

“Kyaren,” he said.

“They told me,” she answered. “Ansset, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Ansset said. “Josif couldn’t have known. And I didn’t know. It was the Songhouse. They could have told me.”

Kyaren nodded, but her mind was on something else. “Calip won’t authorize a search for Josif. He keeps saying that he hopes he falls off a cliff. It’s raining out there. You don’t know, Ansset. Josif tried to commit suicide before. It’s been years, but he might do it again.”

Ansset was instantly alarmed. He sat up, and was surprised to find that his head did not hurt very badly, and that he was only languid, not incapacitated. “Then we have to find him. Call the Chief of Security.”

She called him; he came in a matter of moments.

“We have to organize a search for Josif,” Ansset said. “I find it hard to believe no search has been organized up to now.”

The Chief looked at the floor. “Not really,” he said.

“He may be suicidal,” Ansset said, letting the outrage pour into his voice.

“Calip didn’t ask for a search, sir, but I wouldn’t have organized one anyway.”

Ansset could not believe the insubordination from these men, who in the last two years he had thought were dependable. “Then you would have been removed from office, as you are right now.”

“As you wish, sir. But I wouldn’t have organized a search for Josif because I know where he is.”

His voice was still uncertain—he may know where Josif is, Ansset thought, but he certainly doesn’t know
how
Josif is.

“Who has him? Where is he?”

“Imperial Security, sir. It was only natural. We didn’t know what had happened to you. We suspected an attempt had been made on your life. It was only three hours after we got to you that we found what was wrong. And in the meantime, we had notified the emperor. He left standing orders with me to let him know if anything happened to you.”

“Imperial Security has Josif,” Kyaren said numbly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“The Ferret told me not to tell you until you asked.”

“The Ferret gives orders that you aren’t to notify me of something this important?”

The Chief looked uncomfortable. “The emperor always backs Ferret up in what he says. And you must understand, sir, finding you the way we did, with Josif the way he was—”

“How was he?” Kyaren demanded.

“Stark naked,” the Chief said blandly. “And screaming his lungs out. We thought he’d tried to bugger you with something, sir. We had no idea what was going on. You never know, with homosexuals.”

Kyaren slapped the Chief, which he took calmly. “You don’t deal with them like I do,” he said. “This sort of thing happens a lot.”

“What sort of thing,” Ansset said, taking Kyaren’s hands and holding them. She was trembling. “It happens all the time that the Songhouse drugs nearly kill someone?”

“I mean violence. Homosexuals are like that.”

“Josif isn’t,” Ansset said. “Josif isn’t at all. And therefore your theory isn’t worth shit.” He made his voice as ugly as possible; he saved vulgarity for times when he needed it, and it pleased him that the Chief winced. “Now get us a direct flight to Susquehanna.”

“There isn’t any from Caernarvon.”

“There is now. And it will take off in fifteen minutes.”

It took off in fifteen minutes, and Ansset and Kyaren sat together in the empty commercial jet. There was only one steward—they dismissed him immediately. The security guards, much against standard procedure, were following in another plane. Ansset was still weak, but the tension had helped him keep going during the rush to the port. Now he relaxed, not sleeping but not wholly awake, lost in his thoughts.

After a while, however, he realized that Kyaren might need company more than he needed rest. She stared out the window at the ocean below, motionlessly; but her hands were white from gripping the armrest on the seat, which was rigid to match her tension.

“Kyaren,” he said. “He’ll be all right. I can clear this up with Riktors in a short time.”

She nodded, but said nothing.

“That isn’t all, is it?”

She shook her head.

“Does it bother you that Josif and I were together? I didn’t think it would, but he acted as if he thought it might.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t mind you being together.”

“But.”

“But what?” she asked.

“You were thinking,
but
. You don’t mind,
but
.”

She looked down at her lap, and intertwined her fingers nervously. “Ansset, the first time, you and he met. Two years ago, when you came home with me for a salad.”

Ansset smiled. “I remember.”

“Josif told me. That he thought he was going to fall in love with you.”

“Did you mind?”

“Why should I mind?” she answered, her voice jumpy with emotion. “There’s plenty of love, what should I care? I love both you and him, you know, and you love both of us, but he kept talking as if it were something that could only—As if once he loved you, he would have to stop loving me. He said that. He said that if he ever made love to you, it would be.”

“It would be what?”

“It would be after he stopped loving me.”

It sounded like nonsense to Ansset. But when he realized that, whether he meant to or not, he had so far loved serially. Esste and
then
Mikal and
then
Riktors and
then
Kyaren. But did he love Kyaren less for having loved Josif? Of course not.

Yet now Josif’s actions made sense. If he really believed that, then it made a perverse sort of sense for him to have resisted his own desire for Ansset for so long, for him to have avoided becoming friends with Ansset, knowing what it would cost him if it ever became more than friendship.

“Where’s Efrim?” Ansset asked.

“I left him in Caernarvon with the wife of the minister of information.”

“Josif still loves you,” Ansset said.

She looked at him and tried to smile in agreement. But her heart wasn’t in it. Josif was in the custody of Imperial Security, and it had happened because he had done the thing he had said would mean the end of them. And what about Efrim?

“There’s always the contract,” Kyaren said, and wept. Ansset put his arms around her, held her head against his chest. He was surprised to realize that he was taller than Kyaren now. He was growing up. Soon he would be a man. He wondered what that would mean. Surely he could not have more required of him as an adult than had been required of him as a child. There could not be more.