OWNER

The burden of power lasted twenty-six hours a day. Enthroned or in the bath, the Emperor always remained an emperor. With him, all those in his service bore that inconvenience.

As assistant personal secretary to the Emperor, Simon Illyan never took off his wrist comm (a military model, water-resistant) even in the shower. This rule had been drummed in to him from his first day at the Residence. Whatever the surrounding circumstances, he was obliged to answer that call, no matter whose company he was in. Not even the Crown Prince had the authority to divide him from that duty. Pressing the button to respond, he leaned against the wall in the hallway of the Prince's quarters, one hand trying to put his uniform in order. The uncontrollable trembling of his fingers thwarted him, and he barely bit back a curse instead of the required "Yes, sir."

The order was to go to the old archives and find the folder with the testimony of Vorlika and Vorrakin, a task that did not permit delay. He had only a bare handful of minutes to clean himself up, rub his face with cold water, and smooth his hair before the Emperor received him in his private office. It was late in the evening, and the sovereign monarch of the Barrayaran Imperium was dressed in loose silky pajamas, nearly ready for bed.

"Come here," Ezar Vorbarra commanded, taking the folder and unsealing it. The dazed appearance of his secretary caught his attention, and his eyebrows rose. "If I didn't know you better, Simon, I'd think I've just interrupted your non-existent personal life."

"Vows of chastity were not required of me," Illyan evaded with a thin smile. Ezar examined him more attentively, taking in the faint smell of alcohol. The lieutenant shifted uneasily. His uniform in this particular case was more revealing than he'd like.

"What, did I pull you off a woman?" the Emperor asked, adding "You could have finished the job first instead of reporting here like this," in a more pointed tone.

Unfair of him, since his summons had come on the priority zero line. Illyan was not seventeen, that a couple hurried movements with his hand were enough, and he hadn't been allowed a quarter hour in the shower to take care of his half-arousal. Even the presence of his Imperial master was not helping things. Rather the reverse, actually – he had been conditioned to see Ezar as the center of his existence, the magnetic pole his compass arrow was inexorably drawn towards. He dug his fingernails into his palms behind his back, trying not to exacerbate the problem.

"Where did you come here from, anyway?" Ezar demanded impatiently.

There was no sense in hiding. The Emperor would hear about the Crown Prince's party tomorrow morning at the latest. "From His Highness's party."

The Emperor put the folder down on the table suddenly and came to his feet. "Oh, yes, I suppose it would have to be my twit son who decided to give you a good time!" His eyebrows snapped down suddenly and he rounded the desk. "Him and who else?"

The interrogation was in Ezar's usual style, as if he was double-checking the electronic memory. Images that had never left his mind slid to the forefront, and he dutifully listed the attendees, Ezar's lips growing thinner at every word. When he hesitated near the end of the list because the whores had never been introduced to him, the Emperor interrupted him impatiently.

"Do not play the fool with me. First – yes, a lot of people. And then?"

The question was unexpected because the answer was so simple, and Illyan stumbled on it. Though he would not risk telling a falsehood any more than he would risk jumping out the window, sticking his hands under his armpits and flapping his elbows like wings, Ezar read his hesitation differently, and the Emperor's voice became edged with steel. "Remember, Lieutenant: Your memories belong to me. If you are ever such a disloyal shit as to forget that, there is no place for you in my Service."

His spine chilled. The Emperor was rarely moved to make such threats, and he never made them idly. Why was he in such a dangerous mood?

"Only the Crown Prince and Commodore Vorrutyer," Illyan said.

Ezar turned his whole body and looked straight at him. A rare touch of color could be seen on his pale cheekbones, and his lips were a thin line. "I thought so. Well, let me guess why you needed them," he snarled. "Knowing my offspring - for obscene games. The company of Vorrutyer for worse things, of far-reaching consequences to your career." His glance skipped downwards. "You seem amused enough. So what do you say to that?"

"To what, sir?" Illyan asked, confused. "No excuse, sir," he added without much conviction.

Ezar's expression at that was uncharitable and utterly exasperated. "Did you lose what little sense you ever had in the first place, Lieutenant? Or were you enjoying yourself too much and forgot how Vorrutyer's little games were going to end? Your chip's not defective, you are!" His voice rose suddenly. "Well?!"

Illyan remained mute. His head was buzzing, and although he understood that he had done something wrong in Ezar's eyes and aggravated it every second, he could not pick out his mistake from the continuous flow of data. He was beginning to suspect he was significantly more drunk than he felt.

"And you have nerve enough to come to me like this?" Ezar's fury was only increasing. "Did you think you were going to a whorehouse or to report to your Emperor?"

His silence was already verging on le`se majeste', but he could not find any words to justify himself. He bit his tongue, wishing he could sink through the floor. Or several floors, even, to somewhere quiet and secluded in the basement where he could handle his problem in peace.

Ezar waited for an answer and then smiled coldly. "So. Only to be expected after all. You're clearly unfulfilled in your work, to stray from my service into the Crown Prince's bedroom. He entertains his guests well, I hear, but even that wasn't enough for you? You had to tangle yourself up with that fucker Vorrutyer on top of that?"

He angrily exhaled through his teeth. "Did he think I'd forget you belong to me? You, not just the valuable piece of metal I paid for…? But no, the chip in your brain is worthless when you're only thinking with your cock." The Emperor's voice dropped to a whisper. "Attention, Lieutenant."

Illyan straightened to regulation posture, blood pulsing just as strongly in his groin as in his ears. The floorboards creaked behind him as Ezar approached, and he felt cool dry fingers on his face and then under his chin. The Emperor's hand delayed a moment on his vulnerable throat, but not in a lover's caress. He forced himself to be as still as a statue, wondering for a mad moment if his liege-lord intended to strangle him.

Instead, he heard the Emperor's harsh voice directly above his ear. "So who did I haul you out from under? Ges? Or did my son personally do the honors?" Illyan shuddered silently, his eyes wide. "Have you grown so ambitious, Simon?"

Ezar's touch trailed down his body, and the usually cold Imperial quarters suddenly seemed overheated, like a sauna. Illyan's entire body burned with a strange mixture of shame and lust. Let me be, you old devil, he thought dimly, before his mind went blank at the feel of Ezar's hand resting on the fastening of his uniform trousers. It was too much to expect that the Emperor was done with his little joke. He must object, knew Ezar still expected him to object - but he could not. It was not in him to refuse this man anything, and he felt utterly defenseless.

"Already up again?" Ezar asked with feigned sympathy. His voice had an ominous undertone, heavy enough a bullet could be cast out of it. "Did my son drug you so you'd make a better show?"

I've just been called an idiot, Simon thought through the fog in his head. He'd have had to have forgotten all security procedures to swallow tablets of dubious origin from the hands of the Crown Prince.

"I..." He stuttered.

"Be quiet!" Ezar's voice was harsh. "Shut up and stand still, Lieutenant."

It was an impossible requirement, yet as one of Ezar's hands constricted on his shoulder while the other undid his trousers Illyan found himself unable to move even if he wanted to. He couldn't even look back, he was already a pillar of salt. He felt Ezar's presence at his back, the distance between the two of them fallen to nothing, borders irretrievably crossed. The Emperor's presence where the monarch ought not to have a place both terrified him and fueled his unshakable arousal.

"Your mind belongs to me." Ezar said, and then chuckled humorlessly. Simon could not see his face, only hear his breath in his ear, heavy and sharp. "If I need to remind you of your place, I swear that you will remember it for a very long time."

In any other circumstances but these he might have laughed dutifully at the joke, but now his temples ached. He could not forget, he could never forget. Ezar wasn't done with him yet, though, and he no longer dreamed of pleasure, only deliverance.

A hand closed around the base of his cock and worked its way upwards, thumb coming up to stroke the head with practiced skill. The Emperor had commanded him to be silent, but the sensation overwhelmed all others, so shamefully good that he was unable to hold back a soft groan. He almost covered his mouth, appalled, but forced his hands to stay put on the seams of his trousers.

"I can't hear you…" Ezar's voice was coldly mocking.

"More," Simon whispered, resigned to his fate.

"Still?" Ezar's voice broke into a snarl. "You're cornered, boy. Who?"

Simon couldn't answer. Not now. His brain wasn't working, and he was only able to feel and hear, not think. The cruel voice from behind him, making his skin crawl, Ezar's hand pumping him rudely, confidently, and quickly, muscles aching under his enforced stillness, and on top of all that, an icy concoction of fear and hot shame spiked with illicit desire. God forbid anyone else this cocktail. He felt like alcohol had been injected directly into his veins, his heartbeat growing frantic, his hands weak, his throat dry. "Please," he muttered, "more… I need you." Once he started, he couldn't stop, a stream of words escaping him in an involuntary, obscene torrent as he came.

Ezar let him go, and he struggled to stand, trembling, confused, unable to keep the floor and wall straight. He took a step, breathing hoarsely and swaying in a desperate attempt to keep from falling on the carpet. He'd not been ordered 'at ease', but one mistake more right now was nothing. Not important.

This wasn't a pleasant post-orgasmic weakening he was going through, but a general loss of strength. The emotional cocktail drained slowly, but finally reduced itself to dregs of cold fear in his empty stomach. The alcohol was still affecting him badly.

God, I wanted it. What was I thinking, in this place?

He wanted it. Cretin. Romantic idiot, starved for human contact. A girl in officers' epaulettes - because a man was not someone who shivered and shook, even after she… he'd been rolled over in the hayloft.

I didn't want it to be like this. Where did I go wrong here?

He risked a look over his shoulder. Ezar stood near the table, wiping his hands. The fierce furrow between the brows gradually smoothed itself out, to be succeeded by the remnants of stimulation, irony, surprise, and… indulgence? Illyan stood blinking. Complex reasoning was failing him at the moment and anything more complicated than "don't fall over" was beyond him. His grasp of physics had barely grown to encompass the possibility of an additional vector when the Emperor put a hand on his shoulder and made him turn around.

"You're clearly drunk," Ezar established after a brief once-over. "You're green all over. Go and get in the shower before you throw up on my carpets."

Green? Oh hell. That's the way it had to end up. He felt sick to his stomach, though not from the wine, and his thoughts flowed slowly, as if frozen. He was not even surprised when a hand reached to take his elbow as he stumbled on the threshold of the bathroom. An escort. Have to undress in front of Ezar too. As if reading his thoughts, Ezar slowly shook his head: no, I am not going anywhere; I'm at home, and you are pleased to comply with orders. You're not a girl, march into the shower Lieutenant.

Right. Simon turned the hot water on and felt its heat on his skin, as intense as the gaze he sensed from the other side of the frosted glass. His tremor and nausea gradually began to retreat under the heavy jet of water that lashed his face and shoulders, and he tried to collect what was left of his wits.

His brains were what made him an ImpSec analyst, after all, and not just a naked boy in the shower. Certainly they were what made him more than an irresponsible libertine idiot or whatever the Emperor now thought of him. But what could he make of this?

The Emperor always knows exactly what he's doing. That was an axiom. Ezar always had in mind three or even four goals at once, but what could his purpose be here? To intimidate his secretary to such an extent that he wouldn't dare consider having a personal life? To emphasize his ownership of Illyan in a flagrantly physical way? To prevent him wasting his valuable brains on indecent thoughts? Or, God forbid, was Simon suspected of disloyalty for his association with the Crown Prince? Had Ezar decided to smash this interest in Serg, thinking that Illyan was seeking something there that he couldn't have here? Or was he just testing his secretary for queerness and latent masochism?

Oh. For a moment Simon wondered about the last, remembering the rigorous anti-torture conditioning he'd been through for ImpSec. He wasn't exactly turned on by pain and fear, but it didn't interfere with his functioning, either at work or… intimately. He'd had proof enough of that tonight, and was still reeling. Vorrutyer playing around with handcuffs for ten minutes couldn't hope to compare to Ezar's aristocratic cruelty.

Illyan had never known his cold-blooded logician of a liege-lord to do anything quite like this, even in a rage. Serg's little tricks had been nothing in comparison. It was possible that Ezar just preferred not to show this side of himself, but... Yes, he thought unhappily, but. What happened to those who discovered it? Were they locked up in the dungeon incommunicado? Ground up by Negri into fertilizer for the north gardens? Simply swept out of sight, so that the Emperor would never need to be reminded of a moment of weakness?

Hmm. Or maybe Ezar was just being logical, and the punishment was commensurate to the crime. 'The best-learned lessons are the most painful ones', and all that. Had he just been imagining the alleged excessive cruelty in the parts of his brain that tended to produce obsessive delusions about a gallant officer's love for his all-powerful monarch? Oh, shit. His babbling from ten minutes ago echoed in his head and he realized all was lost.

But had anything terrible really happened? Yes, he'd been stupid enough to come to his commander and overlord in a debauched state, and had been ridiculed and intimidated for it, but at the same time he'd gained a man's help with one small problem. Was that all, then?

No, that wasn't all of it. Ezar's anger had been genuine. And disproportionate. For that matter, Illyan didn't need to be a Betan psychoanalyst to understand that the Emperor wouldn't have done this simply to punish him, nor would he be watching him now through the glass without the slightest hint of embarrassment. The conclusion was as simple as putting two and two together… but terrifying. Fear was not an obstacle to arousal. He was hard all over again at the thought of Ezar's interest in him being personal. Time to switch to a cold shower.

Just at that moment, he heard the Emperor's exasperated voice from the other side of the fogged glass. "Lieutenant, are you asleep in there or going for seconds?"

Illyan's reflexes barely saved him from falling on the slippery tile at the unexpected rebuke. Jumping out of the shower, he frantically looked for a towel. As he did so, Ezar straightened from where he'd been leaning by the door. His frank gaze measured Illyan from head to toe, not overlooking what the cold shower had been too late to fix.

"What, caught stealing chickens? The bathrobe's on the hook. Put it on and follow me."

It was the Emperor's own bathrobe. His suspicions grew, almost to the point of certainty, but he refused to think about them too closely. Otherwise his arousal might grow along with his certitude. Ezar might sometimes forgive a mistake once, but never twice.

Ezar took the only chair in the bedroom for himself, nodding his embarrassed secretary to the bed. "At ease, Simon. Sit there." Illyan preferred to stand at attention, even if it was stupid in a bathrobe, but obediently sat. It was difficult to sit up straight on the mattress in his state and he suspected that if someone pushed him, he'd fall. Ezar was not going to push, but his stare noticeably pressed.

"You survived," the Emperor said with a snort. "Was I too hard on you?" It was a rhetorical question, seeming not to require any response. "I hope you've recovered your wits by now," he continued in a different tone. "So let's talk."

If Ezar wanted to talk, instead of throwing him out, and if he wanted to talk here, in the depths of the Imperial apartments where not even cabinet ministers were permitted to come to make their reports… Illyan swallowed. The following conversation would be brutally frank. He'd find no escape in Service regulations.

"What happened with Serg? Tell me the truth," Ezar said, adding with a frown, "I won't punish you for it, Illyan." "But you can..." Illyan gestured towards his temple in confusion. The Emperor had a uniquely simple way to find out everything accurately and in detail.

"No." Ezar shook his head. "I want to hear it from you, not from the chip. If you are ashamed of your conduct, you need to recognize why it is shameful so that you will not repeat your errors in the future. Begin."

Despite acute embarrassment, Illyan did not even consider disobeying the direct order. He hesitated for other reasons. As an analyst he was accustomed to summarizing things like the meetings of the General Staff, but was it appropriate to describe the Prince's entertainment in the same fashion? What should he say and what should he omit as obvious, and how objective should he try to be about his own behavior? Should he try to explain himself or report only on his actions without trying to excuse himself?

First, he presented a brief summary of events. Invitation, booze, whores, parlor games, idle talk, his own nai"ve obliviousness to the Prince's special interest in him. He knew the next parts would be harder, but it was necessary to cover all this.

"Towards late evening the guests began to disperse, but I was ordered to remain." He bit his lip and corrected himself. "I mean, in form this was an order, but since the Crown Prince is not in my chain of command I understood it as a suggestion. Once we were in private, Vorrutyer and the prince attempted to convince me to have intimate relations with them by verbal means. When this failed to work, they switched to nonverbal methods of persuasion."

"Explain what you mean by that."

"I spilled some wine," Illyan said in a flat tone. "On the prince. Serg took that as an excuse to accuse me of assaulting him and insulting his person… and Vorrutyer put a stunner to my head and handcuffed me." He swallowed and continued honestly. "This probably testifies to me being incompetent, sir. I wasn't tracking Vorrutyer's movements and let him get behind me with a weapon."

"Maybe," Ezar agreed calmly. "A well-prepared ImpSec officer should not allow himself to be driven into a trap. But this still doesn't explain the state in which you came to me, unless of course you get incredibly turned on by everything that reminds you of work."

The thought of work gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. No doubt he'd be gone tomorrow, unless Ezar decided to spare him. His only hope of mercy was to see this through and tell his liege-lord everything, down to the last ugly detail.

"When I was immobilized, Vorrutyer and Prince Serg began to do lewd things to me," Illyan managed, his ears already burning.

"What?"

"They started to undress me and paw at me, sir. And, um, grope me too," Simon explained, going red to his shoulderblades. The chip retained only the video and audio, but even that was enough to be disturbing. "It was suggested I sleep with the crown prince. They had me drink a glass of wine then. Serg was very insistent."

Ezar looked at him intently, and something in his stillness was very bad. "Is it my son that attracts you?" he asked quietly, not hiding his displeasure.

"Excuse me, sir, but just then I was attracted to everything on two legs and I'd probably have screwed anything in front of me," Simon admitted. "Commodore Vorrutyer understood this and took the handcuffs off. Just then you called me. I convinced Vorrutyer my duty to you took precedence, and I was permitted to leave."

"Without even finishing things?" There was faint disgust in Ezar's tone. "The Imperium would not have collapsed without you, Lieutenant."

"Because I didn't like what was happening to me, sir," Illyan said firmly. Ezar had to understand this, he needed Ezar to understand it. He and his body were two different things. "And I knew that if I stayed with them I'd regret it later. So I could say you rescued me."

"Oh, yes, what miraculous salvation! The Holy Spirit descended upon you straight out of the comm. I'll now know my secretary for a lucky idiot." Ezar focused on Illyan and unexpectedly chuckled, his irritation seeming to give way to sudden amusement. "A very lucky idiot! Well, I'm sorry, but that's how it looks..."

It wasn't funny to Simon. The situation, of course, was absurd, but he'd need much more endurance to laugh at himself right now. He answered politely, though. "Yes, sir, I understand…"

"Do you?" Ezar asked, no longer laughing. "Well. Perhaps you have a chance to fix things after all. Tell me then, Simon: what was your error?"

It was not a ridiculous question, and he had to think hard about the answer. Had he screwed up in letting himself have fun? In not successfully hiding the consequences? In not being observant enough? In not running away from the Crown Prince's rooms at the slightest sign of danger? No, none of those were it.

"My mistake, sir," Simon offered, choosing his words carefully, "was in the way that I tried to get to the bottom of things. I thought it was better to get more information so I could understand more about what was going on."

"Too convoluted. Say things plainly."

"I was curious about Vorrutyer. I didn't know much about him… and I never considered that not all knowledge is useful, that there might be some consequences to looking into his affairs. With someone as unpredictable as the Prince around, logic often isn't the best approach. While I was trying to study them, they were studying me… and trying to trap me. They almost did, because I was less invisible and invulnerable than I thought I was. They wouldn't have killed me, but they could have destroyed me. The lesson that I learned was that some problems cannot be solved logically, and there are also things it's really best not to know."

"Yes?" Ezar asked skeptically. "Very well. But I also misjudged the situation, you know. So what was my mistake?"

But this was a clear trap. Emperors did not make mistakes, and if they did, it wasn't appropriate for disgraced junior officers to comment on it. Did Ezar want to hear a veiled admission of guilt, like 'Your mistake was in trusting a young fool just because of the expensive piece of metal in his head?' Something simpler, maybe, but keeping the same meaning. Or would that be exaggerating his fault in the matter – was what he'd done forgivable?

"Your mistake," Simon said, looking into Ezar's eyes, "was that you did not ask me what had happened. There's both an intellectual and an emotional basis to my loyalty to you – in any case, lying to you would be simultaneously dishonorable and foolish. I may be an idiot, but I'm not that much of an idiot. Even when you're angry with me and do not believe me – do not require me to be silent, sir."

"And why am I angry?" the Emperor asked patiently.

Illyan stayed mute, lowering his eyes. He knew that Ezar did not want to hear excuses for what happened, stung as he was by his secretary's real or imagined betrayal. But if he had relied too much on logic, then Ezar had yielded to emotion. He did not say that aloud though, despite Ezar's command. Simon was not suicidal enough to tell the Emperor he was jealous. He was not a telepath, and it was possible he was wrong.

"Okay," Ezar sighed. "Half the answer, but I'll take it. Very well. Listen to me, Simon." He leaned forward in the chair and rested his hand on his knee, reducing the distance between them. He was not the ruler on the throne now, not the judge on the high chair, but this did not make their conversation any less difficult.

"You belong to me. This is a fact. Unfortunately, you cannot divide your life - and head - into two halves, one of which I am not a part of. Deal with it. This is not for life – well, yours, anyway." A brief grin. "But it… limits you. Not by the obligation to observe chastity, you're a healthy fellow after all..."

He exhaled, pausing for thought.

"The problem is Serg and his environment. It's been an unpleasant surprise to me that it can entice you. In the future, consider for simplicity's sake that the same rules apply there as in enemy territory, though my son is not your enemy. As far as you're concerned, I expect he just wanted to have fun, but there's also Vorrutyer…. I need your head to remain unspoiled. Stay away from them. With that sole exception, Simon, you may share your bed with anyone you please if you're not content to sleep alone." There was a glint in Ezar's eye now, and he continued with only the briefest pause. "And who, by the way, would please? I won't hand him over to you on a leash or anything, but I'm curious."

Simon went still, feeling almost as if he'd been ordered to be at attention and unzipped again. Perhaps he deserved such mockery, but it was no less hurtful. And who would you rather I select instead of you, Sire, and why are you giving permission? The last part was if anything the most offensive. Had Ezar just benignly ignored all his earlier babbling?

"Simon," Ezar said in a weary voice, "what we've already done is enough to shame us both. Both… performed, here. Tell me honestly, when you say 'need'… are you talking about someone?"

About you. Simon's mouth formed the words silently, head bowed, criminally wishing Ezar would have a sudden heart attack, or they'd suddenly hear news that the Komarrans were revolting.

"I can't hear you," Ezar said gently. His words were an order nevertheless.

As Ezar's words echoed in his ears, Illyan suddenly and involuntarily flashed back to half an hour ago – the same words 'I can't hear you', but Ezar's hand on his cock, Ezar's voice growling at his ear. His conditioned reflex to that was so strong that his brain didn't have any time to remind him he was in the middle of a serious conversation. He froze in the midst of twitching his gown aside and went bright red before finally snapping, unable to think, "About you, about someone else, and that's enough games!"

"Ah. Really?" Ezar rose from his chair with deceptive slowness, like a tsunami wave coming in to shore. He put a hand on Simon's chest and pushed, sprawling him out on the bed, straddling him, leaning over. "Shut up, then."

He promised not to order me to be quiet, Simon thought madly, but he wasn't able to say it, not with another's lips on his, not while he was pinned with a strange weight to the bed. He was in no position to defend himself, but defending himself against this man was unthinkable. All that he wanted was right there – he put a hand on Ezar's shoulder while the other went straight to the Emperor's cock, hard under his pajamas.

"What, so direct? You won't be satisfied with just that when I'm done with you." Ezar impatiently pulled aside the bathrobe, reaching for Simon's groin again, and this time there was no fear to interfere with his experiencing everything. Every touch of fingers or lips… behind the ear, below the collarbone, all along the spine...

In time the bathrobe was gone and only the Lieutenant remained to be embraced and caressed. It was magnificent, Illyan thought, sensual, fun, and and a bit rough. He wondered suddenly if this was really happening, or if it was some hallucination from his chip. Or a dream? Then he needed to kiss harder, take things faster. Dreams were always like that, you woke up with the most important things left unfinished. But this was not a dream – an unexpected pinch to the ass disproved that hypothesis.

He ought to be more opposed to this turn of events, maybe, but Simon could only admire how neatly Ezar had arranged things. Get him undressed, stupefy him and sit him on the bed, maybe not knowing how the conversation would end, but still removing the possibility of resistance… the old general was a strategist yet.

"Is that better?" Ezar smiled in triumph, almost too close for comfort. Not dissimilarly, the alpha male of the pack might have taken his junior by the scruff of the neck and shaken him into submission. Let him have his will now and he'd fuck Simon straight through the mattress. Could he even be refused?

"You do have some knowledge of how to go about this?" Ezar asked, watching Illyan's expression carefully. "I see. In theory. Well, a practical lesson seems in order…"

There was a difference between when someone just wanted to fuck you and when they just wanted you. Completely. Starting with the mind under the military haircut and ending with the ass he'd proved himself to be tonight…

Maybe Ezar hadn't had much practice himself these last dozen years, but his skill was undiminished. The tension in Simon's groin grew intolerable as Ezar possessively arranged him on the bed, and he found himself incapable of more than monosyllabic answers and mute compliance with the Emperor's every word.

The bed seemed wide enough to fit a whole army regiment, not just one skinny lieutenant. "Turn this way, move your foot over there…" His obedience was completely hardwired by this point, trained into him over months of service. "Closer! Now over a bit…" Ezar slid the waistband of his own pajama pants down. "Stay like that. If you can't hold it in, you have my permission to swear." He stared down at Simon. "You're mine."

"I am." The sound of his voice echoed back into his head through the chip, and he smiled, daring to tease. "If you want me, Sire, I live to serve."

"I do," Ezar said seriously. His lip twitched. "But call me by my name, at least."

Simon did, first in a whisper and then, consigning the proper order of things to hell, out loud. There was no organization, really: a sheet got lost, a blanket slipped to the floor, taking in its folds the cap from the massage oil – but still, he realized, there was order, everything honest and sincere and as it should be. There was nothing between him and Ezar, who imperiously beckoned him to the edge of the bed, plotting things out to his own advantage. Simon, agreeable to all this, found himself unceremoniously caught up under his knees, his legs pulled apart. He wasn't quite ready, and as the Emperor looked up at him he bit his lip, giving his liege-lord a tiny headshake. Ezar pulled back from where is hands were probing, lingering a minute to admire the view, his gaze making Simon blush.

And then Simon was constricting his fists in the sweat-damp sheets, hissing through his teeth, obeying the whispered reminder to breathe as best he could. It hurt, but Ezar continued inexorably, not condescending to pity. "Endure, Simon," he said softly, and Simon endured, relaxing enough to let Ezar's hands adjust him into a better position. Finally, the Emperor found his rhythm, stiff and unhurried, and Simon found that there was no need to suffer under it. What pain was still there was a good pain, only amplifying the pleasure.

Ezar's face was predatory in his passion, sharp-eyed and smoothed of the stress-wrinkles that aged his face. Younger, almost, and the words he unashamedly pronounced had the rough accent of his barracks youth. "You're mine alone, boy, and I'll make you a man under me," he growled, his sentences increasingly punctuated with obscenities.

Finally, mutual passions came to an expected climax and subsided. After a lazy grumble from Ezar, Simon fetched the blanket off the floor for him and lay back on the rumpled sheets. He was tingling all over, but felt calmer and happily exhausted. He saw Ezar also subtly trying to catch his breath. The Emperor had strength, still, but he was no longer a young man.

"Well?" Ezar asked the stucco ceiling, lying next to Simon and stroking his lieutenant's close-cropped hair. He rolled to face him on the bed, his expression unreadable. "Tell you what. If you want no more of this – let me understand it, I'll yield."

"And if I do want more, will you also give in?" Simon asked, and then snorted. Everything he could think of to say right now sounded excessively formal, and that really wasn't a good idea at this stage given his Emperor's special sense of humor. Impudently, he took hold of Ezar's hand, meaning to kiss it but only bringing it up to his cheek.

Ezar retrieved it and yawned deliberately, covering his mouth. "I'm an old man. You know what, make yourself an appointment in advance..."

Simon laughed, almost relieved. "What, on your official calendar?"

"Is it already on the schedule? Well, forget it!" the Emperor said in mock anger, reaching out to pull his lieutenant into a closer embrace. His shoulder was bony, but Simon felt contented enough. "You work too hard. Are you unhappy with me?"

"It was necessary for you," Simon said, surprised. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, trying not to disturb Ezar's arm. The discussion was making him sleepy.

"It was necessary, yes." Ezar confirmed irritably. "To train your mind and body. But you know, Simon, you were right about my mistake. I shouldn't have tried to break you by force instead of listening. So forgive me for the first time – if not the second."

Emperors didn't apologize, this was ridiculous. Apologizing for using his own sworn servant as he willed was even sillier. Illyan felt more embarrassed than grateful. "It's nothing, sir," he said quickly. "I won't speak of it again."

"Oh, come on." Ezar said with a smile. "It's worth remembering, at least. Might even be instructive."

Illyan closed his eyes. The sight of the Emperor's jealous rage, desire and anger all twisted together - that was impossible to forget. Memory chip or not, he'd remember that for the rest of his life. The stunning recollection was still looming on the edge of his consciousness when he fell asleep.

His chip's internal alarm clock went off at 07:15. It was warm under the blankets, but he needed to get up. Ezar accepted no excuses from his officers. To sleep with him was one thing, to expect to be treated like his pampered pet was something quite different, and unworthy of him.

Squinting, Simon lifted his head off the pillow and opened his eyes, discovering himself alone in the parade-ground-sized bed. Behind the drawn curtains the sky was still dark, but the lights in the outer office were on and he heard cheerful voices through the door.

"What's this old folder about Yuri for?"

It was the familiar growl of Captain Negri. At this hour the chief was already on his feet. Not unexpected, but surely he could find a better place for his morning exercise than the Imperial suite? Illyan kept very still.

"I've been studying the symptoms in relation to Serg," Ezar said. "Current summary there, if you please?"

"The Prince had sixteen people at yesterday's party." Negri's baritone was perfectly audible through the door. "Women from Madame Timo's establishment... yes, I've checked how they got in. In addition to his regular guests there were four others: Commander Elspet, Lord Vorkeres, Commodore Vorsmythe, and Lieutenant Illyan." A pause. Negri was perhaps shrugging. "The Crown Prince has not yet left his apartments and Vorrutyer is still in there with him. The last guest left the room-" another pause as papers rustled "-at 26:08. This was Illyan. He was not on duty at the time."

What, you have nothing better to talk about than me, even when I'm right here in the next room? Illyan carefully sat up on the bed, every moment expecting a treacherous creak of the springs. He wanted to at least find the bathrobe to restore some sense of his dignity, instead of just sitting here naked in the rumpled bed they'd been in last night…

"Lieutenant Illyan didn't sleep in his room," the chief of Security continued.

"I know," Ezar said with a smile in his voice. "He slept here."

Illyan froze in place where he sat, stunned. Negri was apparently made of stronger stuff, because he continued almost without a hitch, disinterested. "This will be repeated?"

"It's entirely likely. Adjust his security clearance accordingly."

And yes. Did it make sense to hide from the security chief what had happened between his primary charge and his immediate subordinate? He was still shocked at how forward the Emperor was being about it, though. Or was Ezar, God forbid, boasting? Illyan listened attentively.

"It's already at the highest level," Negri observed. "Very well. I will inform the head maid." Another pause. Was the Chief lost for words or carefully formulating something impartial? The second, unfortunately. "You are sure of him?

Illyan's resentment at that distracted him from the otherwise very attractive option of hiding under the bed.

"Are you? If we trust him with the reports of the General Staff, can't we also trust him to share my bed?"

It was both scary and heartening to hear this, and despite his nakedness he felt a sudden surge of pride. But now what?

"Significantly more people have access to Staff reports than your bedroom," Negri said dryly. "I cleared him, yes, but I was not considering him in this capacity."

Oh, this was just too much. At least Negri wasn't objecting to him specifically, just the fact this was all outside his job description.

"And that's not sufficient?" Ezar snorted. "He's your man, Negri, I trust he's been screened thoroughly enough."

"So what was he doing drunk off his ass at the Crown Prince's party?" Negri wondered. "Sir, I do not doubt his loyalty. I picked him myself, and the experts have dug through his brain. But as far as personal weaknesses go, more discretion must be required of your…" he paused delicately "…companion than a mere receptionist."

"Do you intend to compile a list of his official responsibilities?" the Emperor asked in growing irritation. "Conduct training sessions?"

Negri laughed abruptly. Using the sound as cover, Simon finally found the bathrobe in the pile of blankets and carefully slid off the bed.

"Don't try to catch me out. The lieutenant will somehow figure out his duties if he's not a complete idiot. But as for training - the idea is at least sensible," the chief of ImpSec mused, adding in a businesslike tone: "His medical and personal safety need to be considered. I'll have a talk with him and explain to him where he is permitted and where he is categorically forbidden to entertain himself."

"The last's unnecessary, I think. I suspect my son's adequately scared him straight."

Illyan silently seconded that, not daring to speak. He tried to recall what he had been thinking yesterday, but his thoughts were strangers to him. Who was this young idiot who'd tried to observe Ges Vorrutyer in his natural habitat, to try to discern his real nature and understand why some were drawn to his company? Why had he naively tried to satisfy his curiosity by convincing himself that whatever he found out couldn't taint him? How was it possible for him to desire someone else, when all he needed was one person? Inscrutable stupidity.

"You indulge the boy," Negri grumbled. "I can't afford to. I'd prefer to beat this into his head myself."

"No." The Emperor's tone was final, his decision clearly not subject to appeal. "You will not speak with him on the subject, nor will you share any detail of this with your subordinates. You have always trusted him in the past."

Illyan finally exhaled and pulled on the bathrobe, grateful for that small mercy. He'd bared too much of his soul last night to Ezar to be able to face a second round with Negri.

"His behavior has otherwise been exemplary," Negri reluctantly conceded. "I understand, sir, and obey. I'll leave the pet you've chosen for yourself in your old age be." In his grumbling voice was concealed a faint hint of amusement.

"So be it," Ezar said. "Forgive me if I did not choose to get your approval in advance. What's new?"

"The current summary..."

Captain Negri sounded faintly relieved as he began his report, as if happy to leave the thorny issue of Illyan behind. Did the chief feel responsible for the imperfection of the private secretary he'd handpicked – or did he perhaps even approve of the Emperor's frivolity? A curious thought – but who could be a better candidate from his point of view? If one of ImpSec's best and brightest wasn't sufficiently reliable...

"One moment," Ezar interrupted, raising his voice without the slightest embarrassment. "Simon, get up! I'll see you in a quarter hour in my office!"

Lieutenant Illyan stood deer-eyed just a moment before springing into action and rushing into the bathroom. A world turned upside-down slowly righted itself. The Service gave no concessions to pretty eyes, and if he wanted to avoid rebuke he couldn't give himself any slack either. Five minutes in the shower to compose himself, no more.

His immediate task was obvious: to present a faultless appearance and give Negri no excuse for a dressing down on the subject of the difference between an Imperial officer and a disheveled civilian idler. Back to work. And so life would go on in its usual rhythm, until late in the evening, and then…

He looked back at the bed and snorted.