Well, well! So here you are, thought Alec.

And you figured out that last line, too.

Wondering what role his friend was playing tonight, he crossed the street and hurried up the stairs and into the spacious vestibule beyond. In his haste, he collided with a tall, handsomely dressed man just inside the door.

"Good evening," he exclaimed, catching Alec lightly by the shoulders to steady himself. His hair was streaked with silver, but his long, handsome face was youthful as he smiled down on Alec.

"Excuse me, I wasn't looking where I was going," Alec apologized.

"No harm done. I'm always glad to meet anyone so anxious to enter my house. You've not been my guest before, I think. I'm Azarin."

The man's blue eyes swept over him in what Alec sensed was well-practiced appraisal.

He'd given no patronymics and Alec's name was not asked for.

Evidently he'd passed muster, for Azarin slipped his arm through Alec's and drew him with gentle insistence toward a curtained archway nearby.

"Come, my young friend," he said warmly, drawing aside the curtain. "I believe you'll find the company most congenial."

"Actually, I was just—"

Taking the room in at a glance, Alec froze, all thought of Seregil momentarily forgotten.

Beyond the curtain, a broad staircase led down into an opulent salon. The air in the softly lit room was heavy with incense. The walls were painted in Skalan fashion with superb murals and, while erotic themes were not uncommon, these were unlike any Alec had encountered before.

Green, he thought numbly, heart tripping a beat as he gazed around.

The murals were divided into panels, and each presented handsome male nudes intertwined in passionately carnal acts. The sheer variety was astonishing. Many of the feats depicted appeared to require considerable athletic ability and several, thought Alec, must have been pure fantasy on the part of the artist.

Dragging his gaze from the paintings, he swiftly took in the occupants of the astonishing chamber. Men of all ages reclined on couches arranged around the room, some embracing casually as they gave their attention to a young lute player by the hearth, others laughing and talking over gaming tables scattered here and there. Couples and small groups came and went up a sweeping staircase at the back of the room. There was no unseemly behavior, but many of them wore little more than long dressing gowns.

The patrons seemed to be mostly noblemen of various degrees, but Alec also recognized uniforms of the

Queen's Archers, the City Watch, several naval tunics, and a red tabard of the Oreska Guard.

He even recognized a few faces, including the poet Rhytien, who was currently holding forth to a rapt audience from the embrasure of a window.

The courtesans, if that was what one would call them, were not at all what he'd expected; some were slight and pretty, but most of them looked more like athletes or soldiers, and not all of them were young.

He hadn't heard Seregil's voice again since he'd entered, but he saw him now lounging on a couch near the hearth. He had one arm around a handsome, golden-haired young man and they were laughing together over something. As the courtesan turned his head, Alec recognized him—it was the same face Seregil had sketched on the margin of the song. Even from this distance, Alec could see the fellow had green eyes.

His heart did another slow, painful roll as he finally allowed himself to focus on Seregil.

His friend wore only breeches beneath his open robe and his dark hair hung disheveled over his shoulders.

Slender, lithe, and completely at ease, he could easily have been mistaken for one of the men of the house.

In fact, Alec silently admitted, he outshone them all.

He was beautiful.

Still rooted where he stood, Alec suddenly felt a strange division within himself. The old Alec, northern red and callow, wanted to bolt from this strange, exotic place and the sight of his friend stroking that golden head as absently as he'd petted the cat a few hours earlier.

But the new Alec, Alec of Rhiminee, stood fast, caught by the elegant decadence of the place as his ever-present curiosity slowly rekindled.

Seregil hadn't noticed him yet; to see him like this in such a place made Alec feel as if he were spying on a stranger.

Seregil's strange, virile beauty, at first unappreciated, then taken for granted as their familiarity grew through months of close living, seemed to leap out at him now against the muted backdrop of the crowd: the large grey eyes beneath the expressive brows, the fine bones of his face, the mouth, so often tilted in a caustic grin, was relaxed now in sensuous repose. As Alec watched, Seregil leaned his head back and his robe fell open to expose the smooth column of his throat and the lean planes of his chest and belly.

Fascinated and confused, Alec felt the first hesitant stirring of feelings he was not prepared to associate with his friend and teacher.

Still hovering at his elbow, Azarin somewhat misinterpreted his bedazzled expression. "If I may be so bold, perhaps you lack experience in such matters?" he asked. "Don't let that trouble you. There are many hours in the night, take your time."

He swept a graceful hand at the murals.

"Perhaps you'll find inspiration there. Or have you a particular sort of companion in mind?"

"No!" Startled out of his daze, Alec took a step backward. "No, I didn't really— I mean, I thought I saw a friend come in here. I was just looking for him."

Azarin nodded and said, ever gracious, "I understand. But now that you are here, why not join us for a while? The musician is new, just in from Cirna. I'll send for wine."

At Azarin's discreet summons, a young man detached himself from a knot of conversation nearby and came up to join them.

"Tirien will attend you in my absence," said Azarin.

Giving the two of them a final, approving look, he disappeared back into the vestibule.

"Well met, young sir," Tirien greeted him.

Thick black hair, glossy as a crow's wing, framed his face and a soft growth of new beard edged the hollows of his cheeks. His smile seemed genuinely friendly. He was dressed in breeches, boots, and a loose shirt of fine linen; for a moment Alec mistook him for a noble. The illusion was shattered, however, when Tirien stepped closer and said, "There's a couch free near the fire, if you like. Or would you prefer to go up at once?"

For one awful moment Alec was speechless; what in Illior's name was he to do? Glancing past Tirien's shoulder, his eyes happened to fall on one of the panels. The young prostitute turned to follow his gaze, then smiled.

"Oh, yes, I'm quite good at that. As you can see, though, we'll need a third man."

Seregil's eyes widened in genuine amazement at he caught sight of Alec framed in the salon entrance, amazement followed at once by a bittersweet pang of something deeper than mere surprise.

The boy had obviously stumbled into Azarin's house by mistake. The tense lines around his mouth and faint, betraying color in his cheeks attested as much.

I'd better go rescue him, he thought, yet he remained where he was, letting the scene play on a bit longer.

A quick glance around the room confirmed that Alec was attracting the notice of other patrons, as well.

And no wonder, Seregil thought with a stab of something dangerously close to possessiveness. For a moment he allowed himself to see Alec through the eyes of the others: a slim, somberly dressed youth whose heavy, honey-dark hair framed a finely featured face and the bluest eyes this side of a summer evening sky. He stood like a half-wild thing, poised for flight, yet his manner toward the young prostitute was almost courtly.

Tirien leaned closer to Alec and the boy's mask of composure slipped a bit, betraying-what? Alarm, certainly, but hadn't there been just a hint of indecision?