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Chapter One

T am Becket did not care for Lord Lyford. On the other hand, gods, the man had a cock on him.

The former opinion was one he could trace back to childhood, when Lyford—Master Nicolau, as he’d been known in those days—had knocked over Tam’s table at the village fair one year, smashing the purple marrow that Tam had been nursing along for months and which would have won him the vegetable competition.

The latter opinion could be traced to mid-adolescence, when Tam (against his better judgment and later deeply exasperated with himself) had jumped Lyford’s bones—or possibly consented to be jumped by him—and lost his virginity in Lyford’s father’s hayloft.

On one hand, the prick: Obnoxious, entitled, smug, thoughtless, impractical, excessive, irresponsible, unreliable, and lazy. On the other hand, the prick’s prick: Long, incredibly girthy , deliciously curved, hard as a rock, ravenous, and roped with veins that made it look ferocious enough that Tam’s mouth started watering at the very thought of it and his traitorous legs somehow kept falling open on their own, despite all efforts to convince himself that he definitely did not need Lyford’s cock to live and that he certainly would not die without it.

Hard to remember that when Lyford was digging his cock in to the root and groaning on top of him like that. “Fuuuck, that’s it— fuck, you take me so well, fuck —nobody like you, Tam, gods, nobody takes it like you—”

Tam shuddered through an appallingly good climax. He was well pleased with himself when he managed to keep about ten percent of his brain floating above the surface of pleasure to be embarrassed about it—and embarrassed on Lyford’s behalf for saying such stupid things in bed. The fact that Lyford didn’t appear to be embarrassed at all (never was, the prick) and yanked out his cock to spend all over Tam’s arse... Well, that was just indignity on top of insult on top of injury, like the world’s most terrible cake.

Lyford groaned and sat back on his heels, and Tam took the opportunity to wriggle out of the bed, scrape Lyford’s misspent heirs off his arse with Lyford’s shirt, and throw his clothes back on.

“We shan’t do this again,” Tam said loftily, and was severely taken aback to hear it echoed—Lyford had spoken in perfect unison with him. He turned on Lyford with all the haughty offense he could muster and caught Lyford in the midst of a massive and lavish eye-roll.

“You always say that,” Lyford said. “Was it a particularly good one today, then?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Tam, icy.

“The better you come, the faster you get out of bed after. Fairly fucking flew just now. Liked it on your belly like that? Or was it the talking?”

“Neither,” Tam spat, hurling his clothes on. “I just have things to do.”

“Yes, yes, you always do. What is it now? I thought you were closing up shop for the festival.”

He had. Tam cast around frantically for something else that would be occupying his time—but it was the summer Idle Days, when the phases of the two moons were maximally out of sync so that even the tides fell still, a sign from the gods that it was time for people to rest as well. By custom there were three days of what was supposed to be comfortable leisure, but why do that when you could work really hard to throw a big party and have a good time?

“I’ve volunteered,” Tam said crisply. “With one of the henge committees. For the festival.”

“Oh? Which one?” Lyford rolled onto his back and put his hands behind his head, which as far as Tam was concerned was some kind of war crime. Lyford’s cock, still fat and delectable, lay wet and shiny with oil across his hip and thigh. Rake.

Lyford had asked something. Oh, which henge. Well, which henge did Lyford most often pray at, so Tam could pick a different one? He had no idea. In his youth, Lyford had been pretty devoted to Idunet, the god of indulgence and pleasure and temptation, so Tam had stomped himself over to Brassu, the god of law and discipline and orderliness. He still worshipped there stubbornly—surely one of these days all Brassu’s strengths would sink in. That was one of the ways you were supposed to pick your god, wasn’t it? The one who you were drawn to, the one under whose gaze you found shelter and succor and solace and belonging.

Tam could be a Brassu boy if he tried hard enough.

But he couldn’t say that he’d volunteered with Brasshenge, because he’d seen Lyford there a few times—it was proper for him to be there, no matter how it made Tam grind his teeth. Lyford was the lord of the manor, and Brassu was the god of order and leadership, so it would have been stranger if Lyford was never seen at his henge. It was a natural fit. Just like Lyford’s thrice-cursed prick in his arse.

“Anghenge,” he said randomly, wildly. Lyford wouldn’t go to Angarat, probably. He didn’t seem like the type. Angarat was the goddess of fertility, agriculture, animal husbandry, families, and domestic bliss; Tam hadn’t visited her henge since he was young. The last time, he’d very firmly told the carving on her standing stone that he did not want to be obsessed with the prick’s prick anymore, thank you, so could she please give him leprosy or some kind of other flesh-eating disease so that it’d fall right off and Tam would be forced to move on with his life? She had not seen fit to grant his plea, and he had never quite forgiven her for it.

“Oh, Angarat,” Lyford said with a mild nod. “That’s good.”

“It’s none of your business,” Tam said, wrestling into his coat. “Good day, sir.”

“Sure you don’t want a second round? I can have a bath drawn and we could get cleaned up, and then I could lick you down there for a bit until we’re ready to go again.”

Tam spun around on his heel and stomped out. A second round , gods preserve him. Thanks be to Brassu for his self-governance—or possibly to Idunet for reining back the temptation so that it wasn’t irresistible—but Tam had never sunk so low as to go for a second round with Nicolau motherfucking Lyford.

He was not volunteering with Anghenge’s festival committee, nor was he planning to do so. He hadn’t even volunteered with Brasshenge’s committee, because Brassu was not the sort of god whose followers threw good parties. When it came to festival time, the Brasshenge committee liked to take on the burden of dull things like logistics and planning and fundraising and making sure there were enough chairs and tents and latrines around the village common on the festival day, as if it were a military campaign. Which, in many ways, it was. And that shit wasn’t Tam’s bag whatsoever.

In the warm months, Tam liked to eat his breakfast on the front steps of his tea shop. Business didn’t pick up until later in the morning or midday, so he usually had a slow, comfortable couple of hours while he made the day’s little sandwiches and polished the teapots until the customers arrived.

It was, therefore, something of a surprise to see Mrs Hatter bustling down the road, clearly intent on him, but not alarming enough to send him scurrying indoors as he probably should have. “Morning, Mr Becket,” she said as she sailed up and invited herself to a seat in the second chair at the little table Tam had set out front. She was a plump woman, all shades of pinks and creams, and she liked to wear pale greens and yellows that, in Tam’s opinion, didn’t quite suit her—they were a young maiden’s colors, and she was certainly no longer a young maiden, though her yellow hair hadn’t yet gone to white. She was pinker than usual today, breathless and sweating lightly as if she’d already spent most of the morning dashing thither and yon. She tipped her fashionable hat back to dab at her brow with a handkerchief, panting lightly to catch her breath.

“Morning, Mrs Hatter,” Tam said, vaguely suspicious—but only vaguely. “I’m not open today, you know.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” she said, waving her handkerchief dismissively. “Not here for that. I heard you’re going to help out with the festival though, and oh, Mr Becket, you have no idea what a relief that is! Angarat provides, you know.”

Tam’s eye twitched. “Where’d you hear this?”

“Oh, Lord Lyford told me this morning at the henge! What a nice boy—I suppose I shouldn’t call him that, but it’s so difficult when you get to my age and there are grown adults running around who you remember as little tots! He had the prettiest golden hair as a child, you know, and the biggest blue eyes. He’s grown up into quite a handsome scoundrel, hasn’t he! Idunet and Angarat are kind to him—Mrs Cooper says he doesn’t seem to particularly favor any god, but I hear he doesn’t go to Ysthenge nearly so often as he comes to Anghenge, so...” She gave a pointed little shrug and wide-eyed sideways glance, as if to say that Mrs Cooper didn’t even know that she didn’t know what she was talking about.

Tam’s eye twitched again. “His lordship told you?”

“Well, not told— he was all curious as to what you were doing with the festival committee, you see, and I said I didn’t know you’d volunteered—I never see you at Anghenge! I didn’t even know you favored her! You must keep a different schedule than I do, eh?”

“Mmm,” said Tam, stuffing a bite of toast into his wretched mouth.

“Anyway, he assured me that you’d told him in no uncertain terms that you were volunteering, so I asked around and nobody else had heard from you, and so his lordship said that maybe you were shy and just hadn’t spoken up yet. Did you think we’d already have enough help? Or were you embarrassed?” Mrs Hatter clucked her tongue. “I don’t see why men get so self conscious about being one of Angarat’s! Everybody has a family, don’t they. Everybody wants to be loved, everybody feasts on the abundance of her fields and pastures. She’s not just for women and farmers, you know. His lordship comes to Anghenge regularly! Regularly! He’s a very nice... Well. A very nice, grown-up man. Just like you. But oh, I’m glad you’re going to volunteer! We’ve had so many people out sick this year. All the Pethwicks are out with a cold, and Mrs az-Mehmet’s broken her leg, poor thing, and the Harhams just lost their granny two weeks ago, so we can’t ask them to lift a finger—”

Brassu’s balls, Tam cursed to himself. There was no way he was going to get out of it now. He couldn’t just say that his lordship (the prick) was wrong, because then Lyford would know that Tam had been lying, and he’d be fucking smug about it and make some kind of utterly intolerable comment, and then Tam would be forced— forced— to stick his tongue down Lyford’s stupid throat and climb him like a tree.

He also couldn’t just say that he didn’t feel like helping out, not after that damned litany of tragedy Mrs Hatter had provided. Fuck. “I’d be so happy to volunteer,” Tam said, forcing himself to smile. “It was just absentmindedness, I confess—I keep forgetting about the committee meetings until an hour or two after they’ve started.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that!” Mrs Hatter said enthusiastically. “No one on the committee minds it at all when people run late! It’s Anghenge, after all—of course everyone has families to feed and things to look after! You should come whenever you remember, and we’ll be very happy to see you.”

“Thanks,” said Tam. Meetings and services at Brasshenge were nothing like that. If he skulked in even a minute late, there were pointed looks from everyone who had arrived five minutes early or exactly on time. Better to not even attend at all, at that point.

He did not like that Anghenge sounded comfortable. He was mad at Angarat. He had been mad at her for a solid decade now. She hadn’t given the prick’s prick a flesh-eating disease. (Though diseases were more of Nevainy?’s thing, and healing was Mategat’s—maybe he would have had better luck petitioning one of them for it.)

A brilliant bit of vengeance occurred to him suddenly. “His lordship mentioned that he was going to volunteer as well,” he said sweetly. “Has he?”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs Hatter immediately, which rather fucking ruined Tam’s little plan for vengeance, didn’t it. “Days and days ago!”

“Days and days?” Tam demanded, outraged. And he’d kept a straight face while Tam jumped off his dick and lied to his face? Asshole. Smug, insufferable asshole.

“Oh yes, and he’s donated a nice bit of money so we can buy some lovely prizes for our competitions,” Mrs Hatter said, clasping her hands to her bosom. “Such a nice b—man!”

“Great,” Tam said, forcing a smile onto his face. “So great. That’s so great. I’m so glad that he’s volunteering. And that I... am also volunteering. It’s so great to be... contributing.”