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Again he is plagued in the night by a lascivious mental theatre of Xan the Plumian. How long must he endure this?

At least the memories are hazy. Nothing specific. This time he wakes simply with the loose notion that he had spent the night in some depraved erotic decadence, the likes of which he would never indulge in. He cannot even fathom where his mind has drawn such ideas from.

As he rises, he tells himself these dreams are simply the product of the uncertain times. As likely an explanation as any. The time between an Emperor's death and a new Emperor's ascension is notorious for being tumultuous. The previous afternoon, simply working in the temple and moving about the palace, after Xan’s meeting with Atticul, he had heard all kinds of things. There is unrest in the streets, the strange weather making it worse. Not enough food, not enough fuel. Someone said he had seen two beggars fight to the death over a blanket. There are murmurings that Atticul should not take the throne. That he is unfit — and even that he was a bastard, as his father’s marriage to a second wife was never truly sanctified in the light of Zai. He has heard the name Damon Darekul more than once. As if Damon would be more fit to be emperor.

Damon lives, they whisper. He will return to take his rightful throne.

Is it any wonder that Jemel’s mind is troubled? That his nights are haunted? When the city around him is falling into ruin?

He performs his morning rite to Zai and goes to the bathhouse. He feels the need of it after his strange night’s dreaming.

Jemel loves the pleasure of a hot bath. It is the great delight of living in the Rose palace, although he only ever goes to the baths before dawn when he can be sure of finding the vast underground chamber empty. The temple baths are extensive, but they still get busy throughout the day in a way that Jemel finds far too overwhelming for it to be pleasurable.

But if he goes early enough, the whole echoing, steam filled space can be certain to be completely deserted. The bathhouse is fashioned entirely from the glittering pink stone that makes up some of the most elaborate parts of the palace. The room is lit by candles set into alcoves in the walls that make the stone glitter like a starry sky. There are a dozen sunken baths, in two rows, each filled with hot sulphurous water, piped up from a deep spring below Attar. Steam rises from the pools keeping the room damp and warm. Between the two rows of baths a channel runs the length of the room, filled with cooler fresh water. In one corner, towards the back, a deep pool is kept ice cold. Every bathing pleasure has been considered. The room is well stocked with rich oils and salts, but Jemel usually bathes simply with lye soap, preferring not to spend his days in a cloud of bathhouse scents.

This morning the familiar chamber is different. In one very particular way. There is someone else there, reclining naked in one of the tubs.

Xan.

Jemel stops in the doorway.

Xan looks at him and grins, “Baraboo,” he says, unnecessarily loudly, his voice bouncing off the stone walls and pillars. “At last, some company. This place is so quiet.”. He sits up, water sloshing, revealing more of his dark skin, wet and glistening like archenwud. The same gold and silver tattoos that cover his arms, swirl over his chest. Jemel looks down.

“Of course it is quiet. It is before dawn,” Jemel says to his feet.

Jemel knows he should keep his eyes lowered, but he can’t. He looks up at Xan. His body — the body from Jemel’s dreams — is striking. The muscles in his arms and chest are large and shapely. The gold and silver swirls adorning them only serve to make them look all the more inviting. Jemel feels his mouth growing dry despite the damp air. The dream he had thought forgotten rushes forth and his mind swirls with thoughts of pressing his mouth to that smooth, perfect skin, of those hands on his thighs, pushing them apart, of Plumian words he should have no need to know growled in his ear.

It’s infuriating. How dare this man be here now? In his special private place. Jemel is fully clothed but he feels as full of shame as if Xan had caught him naked. Xan holds Jemel’s gaze lazily and picks up a bottle of rose oil. He pours it over his chest. It’s so warm in the room. Jemel can’t help thinking Xan’s body would be even warmer. His skin would feel hot as the sun’s rays.

“What are you doing here?” Jemel snaps.

Xan cups some of the steaming water and scrubs his face. “Bathing. You are surprised I bathe?”

“Before dawn? In the small hours of the morning?”

“I was cold.”

This, Jemel considers for a moment. It could be the truth. It is cold in the Rose Palace. The fires are all lit day and night but the building, indeed the whole city , is built for much milder winters than the one they are currently experiencing, with open terraces and hard, tiled floors. But despite this, Jemel thinks this a convenient lie. “Did you know I’d be here?”

“How would I know such a thing?”

Jemel looks at him. He is correct. How would he know? No one sees him here.

“You bathe in that, Baraboo?” Xan says.

“In what?”

“That veil. I am imagining that you bathe with your body stripped and that thing still covering your face. It would be quite the sight. I am looking forward to seeing it.”

Jemel shudders at the idea of such a wanton image. He does not bathe in the veil. One of the reasons he comes to the baths in the pre-dawn hours is so he can remove the veil in private.

“Come, Baraboo,” Xan says, still infuriatingly merry. “You can share my tub if you wish. I will not touch you.” His smile grows more mischievous, more seductive. “Only watch.”

“I do not wish to share your bath,” Jemel says, voice brittle. “And do not call me that.”

Xan raises an eyebrow. “Call you what?”

“Baraboo.”