Emerald Sea John Ringo
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CHAPTER FIVEAfter another week, Megan had the books in order and Paul still hadn't put in an appearance. And after struggling for that week, maintaining things became easy enough that she got bored again. But she still didn't go out of the room, much, preferring to use the excuse of "keeping up the books" to maintain some relative privacy. She was also exempt from the regular exercise and dance classes, but she kept in shape by working out in the office. Everything was on track except one: The kitchen books still wouldn't add up; the harem was paying for at least twenty percent more food than was being consumed. After going over the numbers repeatedly she reached the point that she was positive it wasn't just sloppiness. Which meant she knew darned well where it was going. The problem was what to do with the information. She could inform Christel in which case the head cook could look to being on the wrong end of a Change. Or she could manage it more . . . obliquely. She was also fascinated by some of the items available for order through the kitchens. There weren't only foods and spices but cookware, distilling materials, cleaning solvents . . . An idea was starting to tick over in her head one afternoon when the door opened and Christel waved at her imperiously. "Megan, go to your room and put on that lovely outfit Mirta made for you," Christel said, smiling viciously. "There's someone you need to meet. Again." * * * "Ah, the washing girl," Paul said, smiling. He was no longer the old man he had appeared, but the face was the same. As was the long hair that hung in lanky strands. But his clothes were clean and finely made. He had the look of being about two hundred, slightly below normal height. Megan suddenly realized that she had met him before, years ago. She truly hoped that he would never remember the meeting. "Her name is Megan," Christel said. "Megan Sung." It was the name she'd used after the Fall. She didn't know why she had changed it; it wasn't like her father was well known. But, then again, the sort of people who would react to the name "Travante" were precisely the sort she didn't want interested in her. "How have you been, Megan?" Paul said, holding out his hand. "You look much better than the last time I saw you." "Oh, I am much better, sir," Megan said, not taking the hand but instead dropping in a curtsey that kept her legs modestly crossed. She stayed in the curtsey for a moment then straightened back up, not meeting his eye. "What a delightful young lady," Paul said, running an eye over her like a horseman with a likely looking filly. "Beautiful bone structure. Love the outfit." "Thank you, milord," Megan simpered as well as she could. Let him choose one of the others, let him choose one of the others . . . "I think we should get to know one another better," Paul said, taking her hand and leading her to the room reserved for him. "Yes, milord," Megan said, trying to sound happy and failing miserably. She bit her lip and the last thing she saw before the door closed was Ashly looking at her with an expression of malicious delight. * * * "The first time is always hard," Paul said, raising himself off of her and rolling to the side. "It will get better." Megan rolled onto her side, away from him, and curled into a fetal position, clenching her hands so hard that her nails dug into the palms of her hands. I will not attempt to kill him, she thought. It's not possible. He's protected. I'm in a prison in a fortress. It will only get me killed. "It was . . . wonderful, milord," she heard herself say. "That is, in fact, a lie," Paul said, neutrally. "But I appreciate the effort." He patted her on her rump. "Get up. Clean yourself. It will help you feel better. And it will get easier with time. What you do here is of great importance. You are a fine group of potential mothers. Good genes should be perpetuated and here you are protected from harm to you and your children. Understand your importance and it makes the life much more pleasurable." "Of course, milord," Megan bit out. I'm supposed to be thankful for being a well-kept broodmare. Gee. Paul rolled to his feet and pulled on his clothes than tapped her on the rump again. "Get up," he said, not unkindly. "I will give you a few moments to yourself but then you will come out of this room." When he had left Megan grabbed one of the pillows and hugged it to her stomach, fighting against tears. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream. She wanted, oh, how she wanted to escape. But neither tears nor screams would do anything. As she lay there, feeling fluids trickling down the inside of her thigh, she had a clear vision of her hands pushing Paul's head into a bucket. And she realized that the bucket was not filled with water, for all that the liquid was clear. With that thought, she rolled to her feet, her face hard and her eyes like agate. She walked to the silver basin and carefully washed herself, then, recomposing her features, she donned her "outfit" and walked out the door. * * * "Marlene, thank you for meeting with me," Megan said, sweetly. She was sitting in the dining room by the door to the kitchen when the head cook came in. The cook was a slightly overweight, older woman with piggy eyes buried in her flesh. "What do you want?" the cook asked, brusquely. "I've got work to do." "I know, I know; it must be terrible slaving over a hot stove all day," Megan said. There were enough cooks on the payroll, if they all existed, to do the work three times over. She doubted that the fat old bitch had been near a stove in a year. "I work for my keep," the cook snarled. "I don't make it on my back." "Well, we all do what we can." Megan sighed. "Speaking of doing what we can, I just had a couple of teensy questions. Nothing really." "Oh?" Marlene said, suddenly wary. "I was just looking at this item for meat last week," Megan said, her brow furrowing in clear perplexity. "You see, based upon what we've worked out in the individual diets, there should have been seven kilos of beef used in last Friday's meal. And it appears that we paid for ten kilos . . ." "Well, there's wastage," the cook said, huffily. "I mean, we order it on the bone. Bones, gristle cut out, you ladies have to have everything perfect . . ." "And I know you make your own noodles, aren't they delicious? But there's another ten kilos of flour listed as used. And, by golly, the servings should have only worked out to five kilos. I'm just so perplexed!" "You had better get unperplexed, missy," the cook said, nastily. "You have no idea what can end up in your plate." "Oh, I rather think I do," Megan said. "I rather think I do. And anything . . . untoward would be easy enough for Paul to detect if one of his concubines turned up dead. And he would wonder, wouldn't he? Let's just drop the bullshit, okay? I've been over the books for the last several months. You're not just skimming, you're stealing a council member blind. What do you think his response would be?" The cook just looked at her, her jaw working in anger. "Now, let's be friends, shall we?" Megan said, after a moment to let the cook consider her position. "I see no reason to cut in on your little . . . peccadilloes." "What?" Marlene replied, suspiciously. "I don't, frankly, care if you steal that bastard's shorts," Megan said, making the point clear. "On the other hand, there are a few things I need. And I see no reason that you can't get them for me." "Oh." "If you're stealing and I catch you out, I'm a hero," Megan said, smiling sweetly. "On the other hand, if you're stealing and at the same time slipping me things I need, while I'm covering you up in the books, that makes us . . . partners." "What do you need?" Marlene said, after a moment. "And is this . . ." "It's not going to cut in on your take at all," Megan assured her. "But you really need to be a bit more discreet. I can point out some areas that are easier, and more profitable, to cover up than others." "Okay," Marlene replied. "What do you need? And how are you going to get it past the Gorgon?" "I'll handle Christel," Megan replied, handing the cook a sheet of paper. "Here's a list. I'll also handle the books on those items. We'll just list most of them as . . . spice." * * * "Christel," Megan said as she was carefully walking the older woman though the last week's receipts, "you know what this harem needs that it doesn't have?" "Dildos?" Christel said snippily. She had been spending less and less time on the books and liked that state of affairs. But she wasn't going to entirely trust "the new girl" either. "No, easier to just get cucumbers from the kitchens," Megan replied with a chuckle. "No, it needs perfume." "Perfume?" Christel said, then smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact it does. I think Paul would like that." "Perfume and cosmetics. I know all the girls are gorgeous, but there's nothing that a little cosmetics can't improve upon. The problem is, I talked to Marlene and there aren't any suppliers available." "Paul could probably find one," Christel said, thoughtfully. "Or just ken it." "He probably could," Megan admitted. "But wouldn't it be better as a surprise?" "Yes," the older woman replied. "But you said there aren't any suppliers." "There aren't. But the raw materials are available." Megan pointed out. "In fact, there's some indication that most early perfumes were invented in harems. Still-rooms used to be common in them." "Stills?" Christel said, cautiously. "One of the reasons we only serve a little wine is that I could easily see us all getting to be drunks . . ." "A still can be used for much more than making alcohol," Megan said, shaking her head. "What you do is you get raw materials for the perfume and you distill them down, concentrate them. That's how you get the concentrated scent. By the time of the Fall they were mostly based on nannites, but this is the old way of doing it." "How do you know that?" "I said I was studying numbers," Megan replied. "That wasn't . . . entirely accurate. What I was studying was chemistry. Early perfume production was part of the history I audited. I can make some simple cologne just from stuff available in the kitchen. But with a few other items, nothing expensive or complicated, I can make some really nice perfume. I think. I know the theory, anyway." She looked up and saw the older woman eyeing her warily. "Look, I'm talking about some rose hips to start, okay?" Megan said, shrugging. "I promise I won't be making brandy in my spare time. If I do anything out of line you can always zap me, right? There are two spare rooms. All I need is a table, some glassware, a catchment for runoff and some spices. Perfume, scented candles. I can't sew, but this I can do." "Okay," Christel said, suspiciously. "But if you're trying something . . ." "For the last time," Megan said, letting a note of anger enter her voice. "We're in an impregnable fortress in the middle of Paul's territory. I'm not even sure where we are except up in the mountains. And I'm well fed and well housed. Running away would be stupid, impossible and pointless. I like my brain the way it is. And, let me note, so do you. Otherwise you're going to have to manage all this damned accounting. At this point the last thing either of us wants is me brain-drained." "True," Christel chuckled. "Are you going to have enough time for this and all your other duties?" "Yes, I will," Megan sighed. "All of them. Including . . ." "Keeping Paul happy." * * * Cosmetics turned out to be easier than perfume. There were people who were making the former and if it was available anywhere in Ropasa it was available to "Paul's Girls." The expense of the material made her blanch when she got the bill, but in time she'd find a better, meaning less expensive, source. But within a week she had a supply of rouges, mascara, lip gloss and powders that the girls cheerfully dug into with abandon. So much abandon that she knew immediately that she had to find another source. Perfume was another matter; no one seemed to be making it anywhere in Ropasa. Certainly not commercially. She felt a twinge of anger at being trapped in this damned harem; if she was back on the outside she could make a killing in the perfume business. But needs must and she instead ordered the materials she needed to make it, including a good workbench. The material for the table was brought into the harem by Changed. They were not the half-wild orcs that made up the bulk of Paul's legions but heavy-bodied, dull-witted beings wearing gray smocks that took no note of the women who shrieked and hugged the walls as they came through carrying balks of timber and tools. They were followed by another Change. He was short with preternaturally long arms and legs. He did notice the women but only to wink at them and leer as he followed the bearers into the room set aside for the perfumery. "I want it over there," Megan said, pointing to a wall that got a decent amount of light. "Build it, build it," the shorter Change said. "Sammy build it he will!" The Change started pulling out tools with what appeared to be complete randomness but he worked incredibly quickly, all the time singing and humming to himself. In less than thirty minutes he had taken the raw wood and constructed a heavy-duty table without using a single nail or glue. Megan watched the proceedings with interest. The Change had never bothered to measure anything but the table appeared to be perfectly level and was extremely sturdy. As he was sanding the top she shook it, but it barely budged. "Build!" Sammy yelled. "Solid. Live longer than Sammy it will!" He smoothed the top as the bearers left the room to another cacophony of screams, then began applying lacquer to the whole thing. "Well, Sammy, you did a very nice job here," Megan said. "I'm going to go see about some glassware." "Build!" She thought about the construction as she walked back to the dining room. Paul wasn't only building legions of fighters, but other specialties. She suddenly had a vision, as if she had been there, of rank upon rank of "Sammies" specialized for metalwork turning out weapons and armor for the legions. Of more Sammies building ships and engines of war. She wondered, if Paul's faction won this war, if this was the fate of mankind. If, with the unlimited power and knowledge of Mother available, the New Destiny faction would turn everyone into narrow, specialized, insects. What, then, would be the fate of Megan "Sung"? Would she be specialized for providing sex to a wretched old pervert, so far beyond the bounds of sanity that he thought the women of his harem were happy to be here? In all honesty she knew that most of the women in the harem were happy to be here. The life was far easier than anything since the Fall. And, as Marlene was only too happy to point out, all you had to do was lie on your back and spread your legs from time to time. All. And who was Sammy? Who had he been before he was Changed? What had caused them to Change him into this . . . builder-goblin? Had he angered some council member, one of their staff? Or had he simply been chosen at random. "Five orcs, next one's a builder . . ." She shuddered at the thought and, deep inside, admitted that maybe there were worse things than having to fake enjoying being raped every few weeks. Even if the person they happened to no longer knew it. |