Swordpoint by Ellen Kushner Read Free Book Online Page A

complexion.'
    With a jolt, Michael realised what Horn had been trying to do for some time now. Now that he knew it, he became aware of the eyes fixed hotly on him from the shadows. They burned a flush of colour into his own face.
    'I understand', said Horn, 'how you might be very busy indeed. But one always finds time for the right things, don't you find?' Mutely, Michael nodded, aware that the betraying firelight was strong on his features. Fortunately Horn slid his hands to the arms of his chair and rose to stand before the fire, his back to Michael. Now, for the first time since his drop from the drainpipe, he let himself think of Olivia.
    He'd always felt sorry for Bertram's wife. She was a beautiful woman. Bertram was fool to ignore her as he did. Michael liked Bertram, with his strange ideas and fierce possessiveness. But he didn't think he'd like to be married to him.
    When Olivia had approached him with her awkward, naive flirtation, Michael had been flattered, for her reputation was chaste. He'd believed then that she had read his sympathy and attraction to her, and was responding in kind. He'd believed, as he was touching her with his expert hands, kissing her white throat and being so careful not to put her in danger, while she made caution almost impossible with her moans and digging fingers, he'd believed that she wanted him.
    She hadn't wanted him. His sympathy and desire, all his tenderness, expertise and charm, were nothing to her, only made her job easier. She hadn't wanted him, she had used him for his sex to get back at her husband and to father an heir.
    Horn wanted him: for his youth, his beauty, his ability to please and be pleased.
    Horn should have him.
    He came up behind Lord Horn, sliding his hands onto the man's shoulders. Horn took his hands and seemed to wait. Touched by the formality of their moves, Michael turned him in his arms and kissed his mouth. He tasted spices. The man had been chewing fennel seeds for his breath.
    The expert tongue flicked eagerly. Michael pressed closer. 'Lydia's eldest,' Horn murmured. 'You have grown up.' With nothing between them but the costly fabric of their clothes, Michael felt the man's need, twin to his own. Over the roar of blood he heard the ticking of the clock.
    A polite knock broke them apart like a nutshell. A roaring breath of mixed lust and annoyance tore through Horn's flared nostrils. 'Come in!' he called gruffly. The door opened to a liveried servant carrying a tray with steaming mugs; behind him another bore two branched candelabra, fully lit. Horn stepped
    forward irritably to hasten their office, and the light caught him full in the face like a mailed fist.
    For a moment, Michael could only stare.
    Slackness had invaded the carefully tended skin, blurring the fineness of Lord Horn's features. Little folds hung like someone else's laundry from the sharp lines of his face. What had been uniform ivory skin was turning sallow, except where blood-vessels had broken along his cheeks and the sides of his nose. His blue eyes had faded, and even the lustre of his hair was dimmed like old summer grass.
    Michael gasped, and choked on his breath. The handsome man in the green velvet coat was gone, swept back to his youth in his mother's garden. Olivia had thrust him into the arms of this revolting stranger. The mug shook so badly in Michael's hands that hot punch spilled over his knuckles onto the carpet. 'I'm sorry - terribly sorry.'
    'Never mind,' Horn growled, still annoyed at the interruption, 'sit down.'
    Michael sat, paying close attention to his hands.
    'I was with the Duchess Tremontaine,' Horn was saying in a loud voice meant for the servants. It would not do to be caught hurrying them.
    'Charming woman. She extends me such courtesy. Of course I was a close friend of the late duke's.
    A very close friend. I am to dine with her on her barge next week, when Steele sends up his fireworks.'
    The liquor, and the effortless inanity of the conversation, were