Mad God's Muse

by Matthew P Gilbert

“So I am to spend my life as a refugee at House Noril?”

  Teretha caressed his cheek, her eyes suddenly deep wells of compassion. And here are her strings for me. “No, my love,” she said softly, as if he were still her babe in the cradle. Then her eyes grew cold again. “I think you will not have to wait here very long at all.”

  Rithard knew when she was taunting him. She enjoyed dangling bits of information in front of him, like teasing a cat with string. “You know something. Tell me.”

  She gave him a cryptic smile. “You'll work it out soon enough. In the meantime, I'll enjoy knowing something you don't. It happens so rarely, it really ought be relished.”

  Chapter 9

  Voodoo Boots

  Shortly after midnight, Ilaweh’s will anchored fairly close to the spot where Ahmed had last seen Yazid, at the mouth of the river near Nihlos. Ahmed allowed himself a brief moment to grieve for the loss of the only father he had ever known, and another hoping that somewhere, Yazid could see what he had accomplished and was proud, then forced himself to sleep. There was much work to be done.

  Early the next morning, he and Sandilianus sat across from one another at the desk in his cabin. From the quarterdeck, the crew struck six bells. The crew would be waking for breakfast, which meant he and Sandilianus needed to come to a decision soon.

  Ahmed drummed his fingers on the desk as he thought “It is a tricky issue, to be certain.”

  Sandilianus nodded in solemn agreement. “I once heard a puzzle about a farmer trying to cross a river with his animals and grain. This feels similar.”

  “Aye. Eleran is a fine fistsman, but I would not trust him with the gold alone.”

  Sandilianus, who had spent much time with the Nihlosian of late, laughed out loud. “He would tell you himself not to trust him with it. It would be too much of a temptation.”

  “If we go with him, these fools will steal the ship, though.”

  Sandilianus shrugged. “Obviously, we must split our forces.”

  “I do not like that notion, either. We are in enemy territory. We must not split up and weaken ourselves even more.”

  Sandilianus shook his head, frustrated. “We have been over this! You must choose one unpleasant alternative or the other. Stop acting like a boy and be done with it!”

  Ahmed glared at Sandilianus, and considered challenging him to fists simply to prove he was not afraid, but he did not relish a beating merely for pride’s sake. Some other time, perhaps, but now there was important work to be done.

  Ahmed closed his eyes, thinking. The ship was certainly a rarity, but he would never find another warrior to equal the ones he had, not here. Losing the ship would be a setback; losing his men would be disaster.

  The ship, then, must be risked. Yet leaving it in the hands of these savages was no ‘risk’. It was sacrifice, plain and simple. Was there truly no other way?

  Ahmed listened intently for guidance, for the voice of Ilaweh, but heard nothing. It was not entirely unexpected. If Ilaweh intervened at every stubbed toe, there would be no need for men of resourcefulness and courage. Ilaweh cultivated such things in men through adversity and challenges just like this one. Ahmed was on his own.

  That very realization shifted stumbling blocks in his mind. He could feel his face warm as a grin spread over it. “Bring me the Nihlosian!”

  Some hours later, Ahmed was ready to implement his plan. It was hardly perfect, but it at least tilted the ship back into the ‘risk’ category. That was enough for him. It had to be.

  Sandilianus’s voice rang throughout the ship. “All hands before the mast!”

  Ahmed took his own place at the fore of the ship, standing at parade rest while the crew gathered. Sandilianus made a run through berthing, searching for stragglers, slapping the backs of their heads.

  When they were assembled, Sandilianus took his place at Ahmed’s side. “All hands present and accounted for, Captain.”

  Ahmed nodded. “Very well.” He took a moment to look over the fifty-seven men, ranging in color from coal black to tan to (in one, singular case) fish-belly white. It was a motley crew, indeed. Would the locals buy it? They certainly wore that gullible, stupid look on a fairly constant basis of late, so there was that factor on his side.

  There was really only one way to find out.

  “As you know,” he called out, “We are here to hire on a new crew to replace you. This is the bargain I have made, and I will stand by it.” He paused for dramatic effect, then pressed on, “We demons are bound by certain rules, and must adhere to the letter of our bargains.”

  Murmurs rippled through the natives. Ahmed studied the faces of his men carefully, searching for any hint of humor. They were strong warriors, but it could be very difficult not to laugh at such things. He was relieved to see that each and every man’s face was a mask of gravity.

  “Yes, it is true. We thought to deceive you and take you all to hell, but your man Bendaro saw through us. He forced me into this bargain. You should thank him.”

  Ahmed paused again, allowing the natives to do just that. They looked at Bendaro with reverence and gratitude, some bowing, some stepping up to shake his hand. Bendaro, for his own part, looked quite uncomfortable. Damn! Has he changed his mind?

  “But know you this!” Ahmed roared. “Bound by a bargain I may be, but I am a powerful sorcerer, as well as a demon! And if you break our bargain, you will break my bonds, and you will feel my wrath!”

  The natives’ eyes were wide with fear. Ahmed could see some of them were actually trembling. Good. Time to rub it in.

  Eleran spat on the ground and called out, “Bullshit.”

  Desperate, strangled cries burst from several of the crew. Shouts of, “Idiot!” and “Shut up, fool!” rang out across the deck. Eleran clenched a fist and took a step toward his closest detractor. The man shrunk away.

  “Yeah, you know what to be scared of, don’t you?” he muttered to the man, then spoke to the crowd at large. “I’ve told you fools for years! They ain’t demons! And he ain’t no sorcerer, either! I’ve seen sorcerers!”

  Ahmed pointed a finger and him and shouted, “Dog! You dare defy me? Suffer!”

  Eleran clutched at his chest and screamed, staggering this way and that over the deck. The natives screamed along with him, stumbling over one another, desperate to avoid him as he bumbled about. At last, he collapsed to the deck, writhing and screaming.

  The crewmembers were practically gibbering in fear by now. Sandilianus drew his blade and brandished it. “Silence!” The other Xanthians also drew their blades and stepped back from the crowd.

  Ahmed gestured to Sandilianus. “I will show these fools I am not to be trifled with! Bring me his boot!”

  The crowd parted before Sandilianus as he moved toward Eleran. Eleran had stopped screaming now, and was flopping about the deck like a fish. His lips were flecked with foam, and his eyes rolled in his head, unseeing. Sandilianus grabbed his right boot and began pulling.

  “The left boot!” Ahmed shouted.

  Sandilianus switched to Eleran’s left foot, scowling.

  Ahmed called out, “It must be the left boot, fool! You do not understand sorcery. Do you wish to test me today?”

  Sandilianus shook his head, fear on his face. “No, dark master!” He jerked Eleran’s left boot from his foot and brought it to Ahmed.

  Ahmed twisted his face into a caricature of evil as he cried out, “Behold, dogs, what happens to those who incur my wrath!” He raised the boot high above his head and brought his other hand just beneath it, fingers twisted into a claw.

  Fire sprung from his hand and licked at the boot. On the deck, flames sprung up on Eleran as well. Within seconds, he was engulfed by them. Screaming, he leapt to his feet, ran to the ship’s railing, and dove overboard.

  Ahmed waited a moment for the whole scene to sink in, then cried in his best voice of doom, “Bring me your boots, dogs! The left ones! And know if you betray me, you will suffer the same fate!”

&
nbsp; As Ahmed and his men walked down the makeshift gangplank of Ilaweh’s Will, there was little doubt in his mind that the ship would remain just where he had left it. Sandilianus, just behind him, carried a heavy sack containing thirty-seven boots over his shoulder. The natives watched them go, their faces so pale with fear that they looked more like Eleran’s people than their own.

  Ahmed bit his tongue to keep from laughing. “Don’t look,” he gasped. “It only makes it harder!”

  Sandilianus nodded. “I know. Too late. I already did.”

  Eleran met them a mile upriver, looking none the worse for wear. “Did they buy it?”

  Sandilianus laughed loudly. “I am almost ashamed at the fear we have put in their souls. Those men will starve to death before they leave.”

  Eleran beamed. “Neat trick, eh? Did I earn my share of the gold?”

  Ahmed clapped him on the shoulder. “Indeed! How did you manage that flame, anyway?”

  Eleran smiled. “I could tell you. But then I’d have to—”

  “Kill me,” Ahmed completed, rolling his eyes. “Fine, keep your secrets. Let’s get on with this. We have far to go.”

  Chapter 10

  Pain as a Truth Serum

  Prandil paused writing for a moment and considered the image in his head. House Veril was a wretched lot of indulgent, insipid fools who practiced the most shallow of arts, performance. They were barely a half rung above thieves and beggars. It wasn't as if their opinion mattered overmuch, so there was no worry about going too far. Still, insult and mockery were art forms in and of themselves, and it wouldn't do to get it half right. The rest of the houses would all be reading this in the morning paper, after all.

  He was still considering when Thrun, his personal slave, entered the study, a piece of paper in his hand.

  “Ah, just in time,” Prandil called. “Are the presses ready for the morning run? I have some fine print here. Tell me, would you prefer outright calling Sadrina Veril a vacuous, flatulent cow? Or something more subtle, say a waste of food and air?”

  Thrun leaned against one of the many bookshelves, raised both hands overhead, and stretched. “She's dead, Prandil. Kind of harsh.”

  “Oh, it's not kind of. It's full and intentional. You know what they're doing, don't you?”

  “The protest? Yeah, it would be hard not to, with you bitching about it all the time.”

  Prandil grinned and raised both arms in victory. “That's just the point! I intend to mock them without mercy until they grow up and nominate a house leader.” He paused a moment and lowered his hands, noting the paper in Thrun's grasp. “What have you there?”

  Thrun started a bit, suddenly remembering why he had come. “Oh! A letter from House Amrath. The slave who delivered it said it was 'very important', so I assumed some juicy news on recent events.”

  Prandil raised an eyebrow at this. “Well, there are all sorts of leaks we might find useful from there of late, eh?” He made a twirling, hurry-up gesture with his hands. “Go on, let's hear what it says! We have taught you to read, yes?”

  Thrun gave him a sour look, but opened the envelope and began to read. “Amrath Narelki extends her invitation to Idlic Prandil to join her for dinner at a place to be determined, and would visit House Idlic to discuss said location.”

  Prandil considered a moment, pulling at his beard, his smile growing. “Well, now, that is a pleasant surprise!” He quickly took the letter from Thrun and held it to his nose to sniff it. “Perfumed. So it is, at least ostensibly, a romantic overture.” He looked at it again. “Mei, I thought you were just a clod paraphrasing words you didn't understand. This is the actual text, hmm? Who wrote this? A slave?”

  “A lawyer, more likely,” Thrun opined.

  “Certainly not an editor or other literate.”

  “I hear tell editors can fix your mistakes, but are otherwise unable to communicate via the written word.”

  Prandil nodded at this wisdom. “That is true. I actually have to remove one hat and put on another before I can perform my duties properly.” He looked at the letter again, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He took in a deep breath, relishing it, and let it out, the scent of the perfume still faint in his nose. “So her writing is stilted. She has other qualities that interest me.”

  “I haven't seen you this excited since they started adding bran to the pancakes.”

  “Nonsense! I'll have you know I was at least as excited to run the headline of Sadrina's timely demise.”

  “Well, true, that was a happy day for us all,” Thrun chuckled. “Still, I guess there's more between you two than I know about.”

  “I suppose you are a bit lacking in details compared to your father.” Prandil suddenly felt wistful. First Narelki stepping out of the past, and then to think of Alric. The man had practically raised him. “I won't apologize for outliving him, but I miss him terribly.”

  “He told me a lot of stories about you, but not this. I'm guessing there's a good reason.”

  “I shudder to hear the sort of tales he might have told you of my youth, but this is from a bit later, and nothing complicated. Narelki and I used to be lovers some hundred years ago.” Again, Prandil felt a deep, pleasant nostalgia rising in him, remembering things he had thought gone forever. Ah, it is so lovely to find a hope one counted lost. “She was the sort of beauty that might freeze a man in place, just contemplating her. And a regular demoncat in bed!” He gave Thrun a conspiratorial wink, then waved as if dismissing a ghost. “It's not surprising you don't remember. What are you, all of fifty and learning to shave?”

  Thrun chuckled at this, and poked back, “What's that make you, like a thousand?”

  Prandil rose from his desk, feigning shock and placed his hands on his hips in an indignant pose. “One hundred eighty seven and still vigorous enough to thrash a strapping young lad like you!” He flung a pen at Thrun and grinned as the slave caught it mid-air. “And take your women, too. You remember that, boy. Age, treachery, and cold, hard currency trump youth and beauty every time.”

  Thrun rolled his eyes. “Well of course you can beat me up. You're a Meite!”

  Prandil gave him a smug look. “And why aren't you?”

  “You're stalling. Misdirecting. Must be some real meat to this one.”

  “You're like a pit bull, Thrun. Who taught you this tenacity for getting a story, I wonder?”

  Thrun looked dubious. “I wonder. Come on, plate the meat. Why'd you quit her?”

  Prandil, never the sort of man to try to conceal even the tiniest emotion, suddenly wished he had bothered to learn at least some small talent for it. Clearly, just the look on his face told plenty.

  Thrun's eyes widened and he grinned. “Oh!” he shouted, slamming a fist into his palm as if he had scored a goal in a ball game. “She quit you!”

  Prandil heaved a great, dramatic sigh. “Indeed she did. I loved her quite completely, and I suppose I still do, after a fashion.”

  “So even Meites have to deal with rejection now and then.”

  Prandil grew serious. “It was considerably more than my wounded pride. If it were just that, it would be trivial.” He gazed at Thrun for a moment, remembering Alric. The boy had much of his father in him. He was thick and strong, and quite fearless. He was almost the right material to be trained, but the small lack was the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug. To try and fail would be so much worse than to never have tried at all. “How much do you know of our order?”

  Thrun cocked his head, thinking. “Besides the fact that you're all crazy? Not much.”

  “That's quite a bit, actually. More than most understand.” Prandil steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “It is a sort of madness, a carefully cultivated one. We spend our lives denying reality, deciding what we feel based on what we want.” He heaved a great sigh and lowered his hands to his knees as he leaned forward. “What I am trying to say here is that while I remember my heart being broken, my soul utterly crushed, it was just
a moment before I chose to see it another way, to realize I never cared very much for her at all, to see her as a dalliance I was well rid of.”

  “Yeah, that's the same advice I got after my first heartbreak.”

  “You're not fully grasping what I'm saying here. I wasn't merely playing sour grapes. I believed it because I chose to. The same way that I can convince myself that physical laws are not real things. I can fly, Thrun. Anyone can. They just have to stop believing in gravity.”

  “Just like that,” Thrun said, snapping his fingers. “Stopped loving her. It's easier to disbelieve gravity, I think.”

  “Just like that,” Prandil agreed. “A Meite defends his mind as a miser defends his gold. If something hurts us, we lash out. If that won't help, we choose to see it another way, one in which we are the victor, or in which we're merely biding our time, gulling our enemy into a false sense of security. Often enough, we get excited about some other matter and completely forget what troubled us in the first place. It's our way.”

  Thrun shifted and threw an arm over the bookshelf, seeming uncomfortable, as he absorbed the idea. “So how does it play into this story?”

  “She didn't do that,” Prandil muttered. “She turned away from me, and then she turned away from everything.” Prandil paused, feeling unexpectedly haggard and mean. “And all because of that wretch. I should have murdered him when I had the chance.”

  “Who?”

  “I don't remember his name, if I ever even knew it. He was a commoner she took a a brief fancy to when she and I were split. She got pregnant, then tired of him. He didn't take it well.” Prandil paused a moment. Perhaps I ought not tell this part, but Elgar take it. “He forced his way into her home, and then into her bed. Into her, if you take my meaning.”

  “Wow!”

  “She was one of us before him, and he stole that from her.”

  Thrun's eyebrows arched in genuine shock. “She was a Meite? How do you steal that?”