House of Lust by Tony Roberts

thought on that for a moment.  “Using nouns as adjectives.”
    Mr. Sen beamed.  “Precisely.  It appears some of what I’ve told you has stuck in that head of yours.”
    “I remember most things, Mr. Sen.  Sometimes it gives me a headache, but I remember.”
    “Oh, not like your old headaches, I hope?  We don’t want that to happen again!”
    Argan shook his head.  “No, not like the ones I used to have before Metila cured me.  I don’t even have nose bleeds either.”
    “A very curious thing that was too, may I say, young prince.  Still, amongst other things it’s given you a wonderful ability to recall memories and things you’ve learned.  You’re way beyond your age in understanding matters.”
    Argan grinned.  Mr. Sen saw something of Astiras in the smile.  The boy had become steely-minded and much more confident since his near-death experience and his healing at the hands of Metila.  He had changed subtly, but he was still the pleasant-minded humorous prince of old.  So much preferable to his brother, Istan.  Mr. Sen was thankful he did not have to tutor him; that was the responsibility of Gallis, that former priest who had accepted the job without a murmur of complaint, and stoically stuck to his task no matter the abuse heaped on him by the foul-tempered Istan.
    “I think that’s enough for this morning, sire,” Mr. Sen announced, glancing at the sun angling through the narrow arrow slit.  “It will be time for your martial lesson with Panat Afos soon.”
    “Yes – a quick snack, then a change and its more hacking and gouging at a post and learning to duck that horrible swinging thing.  It whacked me the other day – and it hurt, I can tell you!”
    Mr. Sen nodded in sympathy.  “Best you learn the hard way now; it might come in useful when you do get in a real battle.  Learn to watch your back.”
    “Yes.  Perhaps Venn will use loads of those swinging machines in battle?  It’d be hard to defeat!”
    Mr. Sen chuckled at Argan’s humour.  It was offbeat, to say the least, but inoffensive.  He stood and bowed to Argan as the prince left with a wave.
    Argan walked along the passageway of the day chambers of the keep, on the first floor.  An occasional guard either stood on duty or came walking past on their rounds.  All saluted with their volgar, that fearsome looking bladed weapon on a long pole, slapping it close to their side and putting one arm across their chests.  Argan inclined his head in acknowledgement to all.  He was mindful that as one of the ruling House, he had to show manners to all.  So many of the preceding rulers, the Fokis, the Duras and others, had forgotten that they could only be popular if they treated their subjects fairly.  As Mr. Sen had once remarked, a ruler is only ruler for life.
    The two associates of Istan were lounging indolently by an archway, set at the end of the passageway by the staircase that ran down to the ground floor.  It was a major junction as in the other direction it ran round the edge of the great hallway and then vanished up into another staircase that led to the upper floors.  The two were wearing daggers, which was strictly against the rules, and apparently were doing nothing other than passing the time of day making unflattering comments about the people who passed by.  They weren’t necessarily leaving enough space for these people to get through, depending on their social station.
    The door they were outside was Istan’s classroom, so he was clearly learning something from Gallis – or maybe trying not to learn something, Argan corrected himself in his mind.  As he went to pass, one of the two, the bigger one, stepped across his path, not looking at him. 
    Argan stopped.  “Move aside,” he said curtly.
    The Bragalese youth looked round in mock surprise.  “Oh, forgive me, your highness,” he made the title sound like an insult.  “I didn’t see you there.”
    The second one smirked