The Fall of The Kings (Riverside) by Ellen Kushner, Delia Sherman Page A

across the room. The boy should have told him who he was; he should never have approached him in public; he might at least have smiled at him. Basil sat down stiffly, determined to preserve his dignity, and saw that Theron was convulsed with silent laughter.
    “Was I perfect?” he chortled. Basil stared at him suspiciously. “Well, Doctor St Cloud?”
    “Campion, are you mad?” Basil growled. “Or am I supposed to say, Lord Theron ?”
    “I’m sorry.” The student wiped tears from his eyes. “I’m ruining the effect, aren’t I?” He reached across the table, touched Basil’s hand lightly. The scholar’s insides lit up like fireworks. “Let us discuss fees, then, so as not to disappoint Doctor Rugg. Tell me—” He leaned forward. Basil smelled his mouth, sweet with mint and the tang of his breath. “How much must I pay for another lesson like last night’s?”
    The green eyes were flecked with gold. Basil smiled. “I wonder,” he murmured, “if you remember your lesson?”
    “Perfectly,” the boy smiled back. “I paid particular attention. And now I would know more.”
    “Would you, indeed?”
    “You are the subject of my study, Doctor St—Basil. My desire is to understand you thoroughly, to uncover your mysteries, to pass examinations in your history and your tastes.”
    Basil laughed. “My history is not so interesting as yours, Master Campion.”
    “Oh?” said Theron, then, in a very different voice: “What has old Firenose been telling you? That I have a boundless appetite for men, women, and ponies? Or merely that I change lovers as often as I change suits of clothes? Not quite true. I deny the ponies. Are you going to bar me from your lectures?”
    He looked at once haughty and so wounded that Basil reached out to him. Theron glanced down at Basil’s hand, square and dark against his own fair skin, and smiled. “A tutorial,” he murmured. “I’ve an hour free before Tipton’s lecture.”
    TWO HOURS LATER, THEY LAY TOGETHER IN A WELTER of discarded garments and blankets. Theron’s hair was spread over them both like a damp scarf.
    “You’re like one of the Forest Men in the old stories,” Basil said dreamily, “the ones who could drive mortals mad with desire. But if you could get one to love you, they said you’d be young for a hundred years.”
    “And then what happened?”
    Basil stroked a lock of shining hair around his finger. “You died of galloping old age.”
    “Ech.” Theron shivered and pulled a random piece of fabric up over his leafy chest. “I’ve never heard that one before. Who told it to you?”
    “Oh, my mother, probably. She knew a lot of stories.”
    “Really?” Theron was amazed at the things he and his erudite lover had in common. “So did mine! But they’re all from Kyros.”
    “I’d like to hear them someday.”
    “Mmm.” The end of Theron’s hair had somehow found its way to the soft skin inside Basil’s elbow, and was making quiet havoc there. “But mostly she told me about my father. You know, the famous Mad Duke. Who wasn’t a duke by the time she married him on Kyros—and not mad, either, at least by her account.”
    “A flexible fellow.”
    “You have no idea. My father,” Theron went on, warming to his theme, “was a colorful character. I thought, when I was younger, that I would try to be more colorful still. Finding that to be impossible, I settle for pleasing myself. A variety of lovers is a family tradition, really.”
    “It’s an older tradition than that,” Basil informed him. “Hollis tells us the most ancient kings were encouraged to take many lovers of both sexes. The wizards—”
    “Wizards and kings,” interrupted Theron, “are not of any great interest to me right now. They’re dead, after all.”
    “And so are Aria and Palaemon and Redding, and all the other great poets and playwrights you rhetoricians swear by.” Basil pulled himself upright against the pillows. “The past is never dead, Theron. It