Fencing Academy Pt 02

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thanks for reading this, and for putting the "H" on the previous submission. Hope you enjoy.

Edited by Redscaledknight, a gentleman of worth.

Consultation by LibraLady4U.

Two Years Later

Was this who she was?

Jenny Stirling's chest was bare, her breasts pointed like soft little pyramids, coy smile playing on her lips. She dipped the cotton ball into the amber bottle, tapped off the excess moisture, and held it to her.

Adriana Challette, Grand Duchess of Rotham, pushed her black hair back, leaned forward and took in the intoxicant's sweet fumes. The high came immediately, euphoria erupting like sweat from her pores. Her eyes were open, but she saw nothing, the world had become a swirl of color, strokes of a master painter.

"Do you require release, Your Grace?"

Jenny Stirling's words echoed over and over, but she could not recall if they were said seconds or hours ago. All she knew now was that her head lay against her pillow, gazing upwards at the stars in their strange rotation across the sky. They reminded her of the sparks evoked when sword met sword, or perhaps the stars were more like those evanescent flickers...

"

Do you require release, Your Grace?

"

"Yes," she commanded the nothingness.

Something stirred deep from below... her naked legs being spread by familiar yet curious hands. Something warm and wet touched her from within, lapping at her most feminine of places. Adriana opened her lips to moan, a fragrant smoke escaped from her lips... monk's incense, her lungs burning sandalwood and lilacs.

There were many words for what Jenny Stirling was, most of them hedged the truth: "bedmate", "night servant", "the private attendant"... but what brought Adriana to profound pleasure was a mere masturbation aid, just a tongue and some fingers, whose sole purpose was to ameliorate a virtuous young lady's frustration. Jenny was to be nothing more than that. That was by decree of the Saints.

Through the euphoric haze, Adriana gazed at the three ladies-in-waiting at her attendance, each looking frightfully uncomfortable, eyes downcast, their bodies stiff and hands folded their laps. Their role was to watch for behavior that was unseemly and unnatural between ladies, that which the Saints of Light held depraved. A job they performed admirably. In her eighteen years Adriana had not put her lips on anything but her father's brow.

Adriana twisted a curl of Jenny's blond hair.

What would my subjects think if they saw me like this?

she wondered,

To see their calm, collected Duchess writhing in lust to the ministrations of another woman?

She forgot. Jenny was not a "woman", not in her function right now. It was an easy thing to forget, especially beneath the lotus. Timelessness made certain things lose meaning. Desires long bottled frothed beneath their corks.

Jenny's lips smacked softly against her labia. Adriana loved that strange, elegant sound of two wet things separating from one another; it took her far from herself, the loving noise lulling her into sleep...

###

Adriana had servants to wake her up, but it was always duty that roused her. Jenny Stirling was still fast asleep, snoring peacefully, her arm wrapped around the Duchess's pale chest. She had to ease it off without waking the poor girl up.

Her bedroom had picked up a chill overnight, but she would not have to feel it long. Her ladies-in-waiting descended upon her, taking her like a chattering tornado to her dressing room. Any man would dream of being stripped from their clothes by these girls, the nubile, unmarried daughters of aristocrats and industrialists. But for Adriana it was a routine wordlessly accepted. She was bathed, washed and brushed, the girls would shave the fuzz from her legs and armpits, then finally they chose a dress for her.

Today, they chose a light white sundress paired with elegant white boots. An older woman applied a powdery blush to her skin and a pale gloss to her lips. Adriana preferred light cosmetics. She thought the lead paints slathered over some women of the court to be dreadful.

The sword she put on herself.

Her stylist had long refused to buckle it on. She thought it vulgar for a woman to wear a sword, a heresy of fashion, but Adriana wanted it all the same. The sword's weight was comfortable and pleasing, and should she need to take it out, the ripples on its surface reassured her with steel of exceeding quality. Her blade was supposed to be called

The Duchess's Heart,

which was inlaid in florid lettering to the surface, but Adriana found it to be as ill-fitting as her stylist thought the sword. She referred to it instead as

Papercut,

after what its certificate of authenticity had once given her.

At six-thirty she was expected in the dining room for breakfast. It did not feel odd to her that she should be the only one sitting at the massive banquet table as a row of soldiers, courtiers, civil servants and petitioners stood at attention. Her chefs had made something light and good for the Duchess's skin, a piece of toast topped with pink salmon and inky caviar, topped with a garnish of parsley. An attendant brought her some fragrant tea and squeezed orange juice, a little pulpy and sour, which was to the Duchess's taste. She hung onto every word of Harold Massey, the minister who each day would run through the day's schedule and alert her to events that demanded the Duchess's attention.

"...Overnight you have received five new offers of marriage," said Massey, reading from a clipboard, "The first is from Rory Quentin, the Earl of Bearwood..."

The Duchess swallowed a portion of the salmon and wiped her mouth. "He is over fifty. Besides, he is no longer the Earl of Bearwood. He was deposed."

Massey bowed. "My apologies, Your Grace. He still styles himself an Earl." He continued reading. "The second is from —"

The Duchess was tired of hearing of marriage proposals. "If you wouldn't mind, Massey, I'd like to move onto domestic matters."

Massey cleared his throat. "Very well, Your Grace. Three more bodies were found in the Blackwater last night. The newspapers are declaring this the work of the Weeping Maiden..."

The papers could scarcely stop talking of the Weeping Maiden. The Duchess supposed that a vengeful female killer preying on men was more exciting than another stabbed whore on the harbor. Still, they probably expected her to do something about it. "Issue a reward of a fifty pounds to whoever can capture the Weeping Maiden."

"...On top of the hundred we are already offering?" ask Massey.

Adriana didn't know about that. "No, a hundred is fine. We don't want people to start beheading harlequins." She popped the rest of toast in her mouth and listened to Massey intently.

"...Negotiations between H. Humbert and Sons and their employees have deteriorated. The workers are barricaded inside the factories. Some think this is the start of another Great Unrest..."

Adriana swallowed the last of her breakfast. "Tell my brother—"

Massey looked uncomfortable as he corrected Adriana. "—

Your cousin

, Your Grace..."

Adriana gave Massey a hostile glance. "He's my brother, half or not, a bastard or not."

"Your Grace," continued Massey, "calling him a 'brother' has certain political implications..."

Adriana huffed. "Tell John Clay, Captain of the City Guard,

my cousin,

to take down the barricades, but also suggest, in the interests of the city, to the Humbert Company that their workers be allowed to unionize."

"Yes Your Grace... there is one other matter. Your cousin Gwenevere Challette is arriving today in from Svandia... I have taken the liberty of scheduling you some time with her in the gardens, before your fencing lessons."

Gwenevere... it had been six years since they had last seen each other, though at the rate they exchanged letters she always felt much closer. She had four years over her, and had seen as her concerns went from handsome knights and dragons to issues of state, foremost being marriage. They were far apart in peerage now. Adriana ruled not just a duchy but an empire, her title commanded allegiance from kings, foreigners, rakes, murderers, nobles and armies.

Gwenevere, however, would never command anything, not since her mother produced a male heir. It made tittering with her as productive as fishing in the Blackwater, but that was exactly why she wanted to do it. Stars, sparks, swords, Jenny's serpent tongue plying against her cunt, the imagined kisses of a man of worth... and Gwenevere, with the promise of comfortable, idle chatter... these things washed away thoughts of flagpoles, peacocks, pens, guns, treaties, miters, gavels, barristers and wigs. A diversion... if only for a short while.

"Excellent," she said, "I'll be eager to see her."

###

Everything about Marcus Challette reminded her of a raven.

Most of all it was his midnight black hair, the shade all Challettes were known for. On him, it was long, it framed his head like a cloak. His doublet, breeches and cape were all the same shade, dark velvet of fine quality. A frown had become a feature, spoiling what should be a smooth, young face with something twisted and grim.

It was that grimness that made him perversely handsome... to some girls, at least.

As Adriana approached he stiffened alarmingly. He was very tall if not broad, and even a slight movement was noticeable.

"My lady Adriana..." he spoke reverently, bowing slightly with his hand over his heart.

"Cousin Marcus, how goes my uncle?"

Marcus cleared his throat. "Sickly. He sends his apologies."

Thank the Saints.

There were few words to express how much Adriana preferred Marcus over his father, and Marcus was awkward, clumsy, and humorless.

Her champion, Fiona, smiled pleasantly on seeing her and sauntered over. She had somehow become middle-aged, her hair a sandy blond with a that famous streak of white. In truth, she had only started to earn the lines to match the gray spot she'd been born with . When Fiona used to carry Adriana on her shoulders, the heir of Rotham would run her chubby fingers down that same streak. "Silver on gold," Fiona would boast.

Unfortunately, that was not Fiona's most notable feature any longer. A leather eye patch was slipped over one side of her face, a strap really, cut from a thick, sturdy hide. Even so, it was not large enough to conceal all the burns that spread beneath it, a black shadow creeping across her left cheek and seeping above her eyebrow. It was a wound earned in the Great Unrest ten years ago. A wound that had made Fiona a living legend.

"How's my girl?" Fiona brushed the hair from Adriana's face.

"Fiona..." said Adriana.

They took each other into their arms. As a child Adriana always confused Fiona for an aunt. Her father was the first to remind her, ever so sternly, that servants were not family. Fiona was to champion her and die for her, if necessary, but she was not be her friend. But Duke Corliss II was dying now himself, bound to his bed, and no longer the duke besides. She could do what she wanted.

Fiona patted Adriana on the head. "Let's not dawdle. It's too rare a day to be cramped up in that palace." Fiona's voice had a trace of gravel in it, it was rich and mature.

"Mother is not with you, I take it?"

Fiona frowned. "Lady Tetra is by your father today. She's not feeling well."

It had been months since mother had last felt well. She was taking her husband's slow, lingering death poorly, and hardly left her chambers most days. It was all her servants could do to make her touch her food.

A line of seven coaches had been waiting for them. Most of them were filled with bodyguards, others with her personal advisers and assistants. On these casual outings, seven was all she needed.

The three of them piled into one of the coaches. Marcus took the seat opposite Adriana and Fiona. They lurched as the horses began to trot.

"How is your sword work shaping up?" asked Fiona, fishing a silver case from the cleft between her breasts.

Frustrating.

The burden of governorship had taken too much time and energy away from her studies. She was not improving.

"It is going well," lied Adriana.

Fiona opened the case and took a pinch of snuff onto her finger. She snorted it noisily one nostril at a time.

"As always, if you need a sparring partner, I am available at any time," said Fiona, pushing the case back in.

"Thank you, Fiona, I should take you up on that offer."

Marcus leaned forward, swallowing as though to clear his throat for a dramatic statement. "And I should say... Adriana, I would be your sparring partner too, if you would take me."

Marcus's offer was delivered so stiffly and with such restrained affection it could have been mistaken for a marriage proposal. It would have made for quite an uncomfortable situation had there been anyone but family present. When Adriana glanced at Fiona, she was covering her mouth to keep from bursting out in laughter.

Better end my poor cousin's torture,

thought Adriana. "Thank you Marcus. I shall take you up on that offer too... next time we are in fencing class together..."

A snigger escaped from beneath Fiona's hand. Marcus looked at her in confusion.

Fiona rubbed Marcus's knee affectionately. "You're a good lad Marcus," she said.

Their party arrived to the Ducal gardens not long after. It was a square of tended land on the fringe of the city, high hedges blocking Rotham's skyline. Anxious for Gwenevere, Adriana craned her neck towards the road, watchful as her entourage chattered amongst themselves. When the coaches came and her cousin stepped out, she ran over to embrace her.

"Gwen," said Adriana.

Gwen combed her fingers through Adriana's hair. "It is wonderful to see you too, cousin."

When they separated, Adriana held onto Gwen's hands. "You're looking radiant."

She truly was. The last time Adriana had seen Gwen she was gawky and skinny, her broad face tight with nerves. Now, she had fleshed out, her expression relaxed.

"They say a child will do that to a woman," nodded Gwen.

Adriana's eyes widened. "Oh... Anjelm! Is he here?"

Anjelm was mewling in the arms of large, broad man covered from head to toe in rich silks and velvet, fringed with brown bear fur. He wore an embroidered cap of crimson, out from which spilled long blond hair. He was surprisingly young of face, his features sharp and handsome with a long nose, impetuous smile, and bright blue eyes.

Not a fleck of hair on his cheeks,

she noticed,

I suppose that is why they call him "the beardless"...

"Ah, my Duchess," said the man in a heavy Svandish drawl. He gave the child to Gwen as went to his knees to kiss Adriana's ring finger. He rose again and said, "I have been hearing of your beauty from my homeland, but I am seeing they were filthy liars... you are

much

more beauteous than the most boasting of boasts..."

"You don't have to take someone's word for it. Last I heard they had photos in Svandia," chided Adriana with a smile.

"...Yes, we are having those. They are filthy liars too... compared to..."

Gwen stepped in. "Your Grace, this is my husband—"

"—Svieg Rolfson, Duke of Ostfeld, yes," finished Adriana.

Anjelm tugged a lock of his father's hair, eyes shiny and curious. Svieg bounced the boy in his arms. "I think you want to be holding Anjelm, yes?"

Adriana took the boy gently into her arms. He was swaddled with plush furs, and from beneath them the child looked out at the world with curious eyes. He gazed at Adriana's face with wonder.

"Oh, he is precious," muttered Adriana.

"Yes," said Svieg proudly, prodded the child's swaddling skins, "and looking beneath the fur you can see Anjelm is growing big as his father—"

Adriana flushed appropriately. Gwen slapped Svieg on his cheek. "Svieg!"

Svieg rubbed his cheek, perturbed. "What? It is a good thing! Rolfson men all have big cock." Svieg gave Adriana a seductive little wink. "You know, I am having brothers that are all having cocks almost as big as Svieg's..."

Gwen slapped him harder this time.

"What? She is woman! She likes cock!"

"...Do not espouse vulgarities to the Duchess," said a dark voice.

It was a threat from Marcus, and if the tone wasn't clear his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

Svieg's own hand went to his broadsword, his bulk turning towards the boy, eyebrow lifting. "Who is this?"

Adriana cleared her throat loudly. "Marcus, Svieg was just telling me a joke... one that doesn't belong in mixed company..."

Marcus stepped up to Svieg, his eyes narrowing. "What

I

heard was this northern barbarian here offering our Duchess to his... his sweaty... hairy... fur-swaddled brothers..."

Svieg gripped his sword tighter. "You, twig-man, you are so skinny I would cleaving through you one cut!"

Adriana snarled, "If you draw your swords, by the Saints I'll have you both in gibbets!"

Both the men watched each other hatefully for a moment, before reluctantly letting go of their swords.

"Good," sighed Adriana, "Now, why don't you two talk about men-stuff, like hunting or guns or pissing standing up. And Fiona..."

Fiona stood at attention.

"...If they try and kill each other, kill them first."

Fiona bowed her head with a slanted smile. "My pleasure, Your Grace."

Adriana took her cousin by the arm. "Let's leave the men to it, shall we?"

Svieg had his own quaint charm, but men could get awfully intolerable, especially when they gathered in groups and began to compare cock size, in so many words. The two girls walked to the hedges wordlessly. When they were some distance away, Gwen said to Adriana softly, "Marcus is very protective of you."

Adriana nodded. "He is. I wish I was fond of him in the same way he is fond of me."

"He makes romantic overtures?" Gwen asked.

"He makes overtures of nothing," laughs Adriana, "To be so bold would chip his armor of stoic chivalry. What gives it away is how he always keeps his distance, and looks on me like I was an untouchable golden goose."

Gwen giggled lightly. "He

is

handsome though."

"Lots of people are handsome," sighed Adriana, pausing, "I should learn to love him more. He will probably be my fiancé."

"Oh?" said Gwen. She tried to seem casual, but her cousin's eyes followed her reaction with too much interest.

She wants something,

realized Adriana.

"Politically, a match with him makes the most sense," explained Adriana, "Many of the conservatives here would prefer Marcus to become the Duke. And it would keep my uncle Victor in line. He looks on the ducal seat like Marcus looks on me."

Some canvas had been set on the grass for the two them. Adriana and Gwen both had to adjust their gowns to sit on it. When Adriana turned to faced Gwen, she noticed a perturbed frown marred her face. Adriana waited for her to voice her mind.

"Don't you think it a bit early to make a decision on Marcus?" said Gwen finally, "I mean, cousin marriages are not exactly uncommon... but... he's still very closely related to you..."

Adriana sensed she was referring to the family taboo: the time of Count Auguste the Second, when the Challettes had become so inbred that the line almost became extinct. The idiot-count was incapable of dressing himself, let alone ruling his demesne, and the inevitable succession crisis would put a Challette third cousin on the seat who was not quite of such "pure" breeding. Since then, their family had avoided marrying too closely.

"Some would say leaving it to eighteen is far too late," said Adriana, "Besides, it has been a long while since Challette married Challette. The bloodline will not weaken from this."

"I mean... it makes sense, politically speaking," she muttered, "but shouldn't you wait for a husband more suitable? I mean..."