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“Indeed,” says Kres. He turns to Mina. “And it would do you well not to suggest your Master is tainted by such sin. Not if you want to keep your tongue. He brought this slave back with him to work in the kitchens.”

Mina says nothing. She looks back at Kres sourly.

The cart trundles on. The other servants are quieter, whispering to each other and looking at Lyr.

The journey takes some time. The cart travels slowly up one of the hills. The streets become wider. The air of Attar that, down by the docks, had been pungent and smoky, becomes sweeter and fresher towards the outskirts of the city.

Lyr is glad when the cart rumbles to a stop outside a pair of iron gates in a high, ornate wall. The driver hops down and opens the gates, then drives the cart through them into a wide open space of neatly kept gardens, flowers and fountains. Beyond that is a fine manor house of white stone. Sanglora.

Sanglora. Blood and glory. A strange name for a beautiful manor house. But perhaps an appropriate one for a house Damon earned with his skills as a warrior.

Despite the name, everything about the Sanglora estate is peaceful. The violence that won Damon this home left far behind.

The cart rolls around the house and stops next to a long stable block.

Climbing down, Lyr finds himself in a yard. Small white stones cover the ground, sharp on his bare feet. The cart’s driver is attending to his horses. The other servants are already unloading the cart.

Lyr looks around. The yard is surrounded by a brick wall about the height of a man. Lyr cannot see over it, but there is an iron gate in the middle that stands open and through that, Lyr can see a glimpse of the rest of the gardens. Huge beautiful gardens. Flowers and trees and rolling lawns. Such a strange thing to see in the middle of a busy city. The street the manor sits on was busy with carts and people, but here, just yards away, it’s like another world.

Damon’s world. Damon’s manor. He is rich, Lyr thinks and then scolds himself. Of course he is rich. He may be a bastard, but he is a Darek. He is the eldest son of Prince Rafus, the Crown Prince of Azuria. He is wealthy beyond dreams.

Lyr turns. Mina is carrying a large bolt of red linen from the cart. She waves to him. “Lyr, come this way. I’ll show you around.”

Lyr follows Mina through a low door at the back of the manor that leads into a warren of storerooms. Mina stows the fabric in a large room full of other rich goods and then leads Lyr down a whitewashed passage and into a wide kitchen. The space is frantically busy. A firepit takes up most of one wall. At least ten people are working, mostly at a wide wooden table that fills a large part of the centre of the room.

There must have been a kitchen as big as this, probably much bigger, in Blackstone Castle, but Lyr never saw it. He’s never seen anything like this. The heat and noise and people.

He is to work here. Will he ever get used to this?

A stout woman in a stained white apron turns to look at Mina. “Who’s this?” Her face is red and sweaty.

“This is Lyr,” Mina says. “He’s a pleasure slave Master Damon brought from Jur-Mattan. He was in King Ramel’s harem.”

At this, all kinds of murmurs go around the room.

“I see,” says the stout woman, looking distinctly unimpressed with Lyr. “Then why in Zai’s holy name have you brought King Ramel’s whore in here?”

“Master Damon has instructed Kres to find him work in the kitchens,” Mina says, seeming proud of her knowledge of Damon’s commands.

The stout woman shakes her head with exasperation. “Very well. If that is Master Damon’s order, I can use another scullion. But he can’t work in here dressed like that. Mina, take him to the male servants' quarters. Assign him a bunk and find him something suitable to wear. Something that doesn’t look like it was designed for him to spread his legs in.”

Lyr feels his face pinken as Mina laughs. She seems pleased to have custody of Lyr’s induction to the manor. She takes Lyr from the kitchen through a maze of corridors until they reach a big room with bare brickwork walls and two rows of low beds.

“Male servants’ hall,” Mina announces. “I don’t know which beds are assigned. I don’t come in here often. But you’ll sleep in here. When your duties are over you can find out which ones are free.”

Lyr nods. How strange, he thinks, to sleep in a room full of people. He has spent years sleeping alone in his tower room or, on occasion, in Jareleezi’s ritual chambers. Never in a room full of people.

Mina walks over to a trunk. She opens it. It’s full of crumpled linen. She pulls out a white shirt and a pair of brownish breeches. “You’re pretty small,” she says, holding them up, “but these should do for the time being. Better than going around in that thing,” she gestures at the alit, “anyway.”

She hands them to Lyr.

“Get dressed,” she says. “I’ll turn my back.”

Lyr is grateful for that. He didn’t expect to get privacy as an assumed ex-pleasure slave, but it is a relief not to have to answer any questions about the ritual markings that cover his body. As he gets dressed Mina says, “Will you miss being a pleasure slave?”

“No,” says Lyr. “I don’t think so.”

“You might. It’s easier work than kitchens I think. I have a sister who works in one of the big pillow houses in Gleamview. She always used to say it was better than being a scullion. But that was before Doroth Zain said being paid for pleasure was a crime against Zai and if she leaves the pillow house now people spit at her, so I am glad I didn’t do that.”