Deception of the Damned

by P C Darkcliff

  “Hey there, my good man,” Hrot said, imitating the way Anath had talked to the innkeeper in Turnov. “Would you be offended if I bought you a drink?”

  The man’s face puffed some more with glee. “What a silly question from a lad with such bright, intelligent eyes!” The words rolled in his mouth, coming out chewy and salivated. But his mind was evidently still clear enough. “Of course I would not be offended! Hey Karla, a cup for me and my new best friend!” he shouted at the tavern keeper. Then he turned back to Hrot and said, “Do take a seat, lad.”

  Hrot sat down and glimpsed at the open valise. The leaves were covered with lines and lines of beautiful markings. So this was what had kept this man so enchanted. But what was it?

  “I’m Albius the librarian,” the man said.

  Hrot shook the man’s offered hand. “I’m Hrot,” he said, wondering what librarian meant.

  Karla came with the drinks. Her large breasts struggled out of her low-cut gown just inches from Hrot’s face. However, his eyes were once again bored into the beautiful calligraphy that covered the pages.

  “May I inquire about the reason for your generosity, lad?” Albius asked, taking a mighty gulp.

  “I was wondering what this is.” Hrot pointed at the book.

  “Oh, that’s a copy of Chronica Boemorum by Cosmas Decanus.”

  “Is it some sort of incantation?” Hrot asked, not understanding a word.

  Albius drained his tumbler and grinned. “In a way it is. All books are magical, Hrot. They transport you through time and to other worlds, and they endow you with wisdom and culture. This book is a chronicle that tells the history of the Czech lands. Other books can teach you the history of the world—or, geography, science, medicine, religion, and any other discipline of human mind. They are wonderful companions and tutors that speak to you whenever you let them.”

  Hrot’s eyes bulged in wonder. It seemed that the things his new friend called “books” had even bigger powers than the Emissary. “Are there also books that tell about alchemy?”

  “Of course!” Albius exclaimed. “There’s the Emerald Tablet and the works of Geber, Avicenna, al-Razi, and Magnus, and even many contemporary authors. As well, there are countless books on Greek philosophy, Islamic esoterism, and mathematics and astronomy, which are essential to the understanding of the sigils and allegories commonly used in alchemy.”

  Seeing the amazement in Hrot’s eyes, Albius’s grin widened. “I’ve got many of the books next door, lad.” He waved his chubby hand in the direction of the neighboring library. “And I bet you’d like to take a look!”

  FROM THAT DAY ON, HROT no longer minded spending the whole days indoors. Outside, he was just a shy, shambling man who still stared at the tall buildings and the chaotic traffic like a child or a peasant. In the library, though, he felt good about himself—for the first time in his life. The library enabled him to safely confirm that he was truly much smarter than others.

  In just a month, he’d taught himself to read and write almost fluently, and a month later he was already making progress on Greek and Latin. His diligence and intellect helped him develop the ability to memorize long texts by merely running his eyes over them.

  He was the first to rush in when Albius unlocked the massive door in the morning. Only when Albius blew out the last candle did Hrot set off for home. Hrot’s head usually throbbed horribly by then, and his eyes stung from reading by the candlelight. Yet he always grinned like a boy leaving a sweet shop with his pockets stuffed with candy: filling his head with knowledge filled his soul with happiness. He was confident his wisdom would impress every royal alchemist, and even the king.

  But he was still hungry for more. He still had to find a way to transmute base metals into gold.

  Hrot spent the whole winter buried among massive leather-bound books, heaps of parchments, and scrolls of vellum. Not even the spring sun that shone through the library windows would lure him outside. Only on Sundays, when the library closed, did he roam the streets as in the old days, hoping to gain access to the royal laboratory . . . and to find Anath.

  As his mother wasn’t there to cook for him and urge him to eat, he often skipped meals and grew slim. Karla pelted him with lascivious looks, as did some of the other beautiful girls of Prague. However, Hrot was too shy and innocent to even notice.

  In any case, Anath was the only woman he thought about. The pining for his mother and the dread of the Emissary made him worship the mature sorceress as if she were a deity. She was the only person who could save his soul. But she seemed to have vanished.

  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL Sunday morning. Having weaved through the sunlit streets of the Lesser Town, Hrot was climbing up Golden Lane. Slush still covered the cobbles, but the strong sun promised to swiftly destroy it.

  In spite of its name, Golden Lane was as disgusting as any other street of Prague. Due to the sheer number of horses, mules, donkeys, and oxen that passed there on their way to or from the castle, he couldn’t make a few reckless steps without sticking his foot into a heap of manure. Some parts of the alley were so narrow that if he walked with his hands stretched sideways, he could run his fingertips over the stones of the small houses on one side and the wooden planks of the stables, pigsties, and lean-tos on the other. That made maneuvering around the stinking piles nearly impossible. Sometimes he had to leap over them or tiptoe right through them.

  Only one latrine served the lane’s one hundred or so inhabitants. It stank so badly most people preferred doing their business in shadowed archways. Hrot was just rushing past a squatting boy when he saw a pudgy, middle-aged man dash out of one of the houses.

  The man was wearing nothing but a short undershirt that revealed his stubby legs and sometimes even his penis. On the other hand, the beautiful young brunette who ran after him was fully dressed. And she was brandishing a large cleaver.

  Screaming at the top of his lungs, the man galloped toward Hrot. He was probably hoping to find salvation at the hands of the king’s marksmen who lived at the bottom of the alley. But the woman was swiftly gaining on him. Fearing that the man was about to be murdered, Hrot rushed to an extinguished bonfire and picked up a charred log. He tossed the log at the woman just as the two were running past him. He missed her, and the log hit the man right in the face.

  The man fell on his back like a large half-naked frog. The woman stood right above him. The cleaver was still in her hand, but the sudden turn of things had disconcerted her so much she only looked around and blinked. Tears poured down her pretty, flushed face when she saw the marksmen.

  They must have heard the man’s screaming, and they were now rushing at her, their pikes pointing at her belly. She dropped the cleaver and staggered. The older marksman grabbed her by the wrist so that she could not escape while the younger bent over the man.

  “Why do so many of your trysts end up in attempted murder?” the marksman asked as he helped the man to his feet.

  “Oh, she didn’t try to kill me!” the man said in a raspy but pleasant voice. He was unscathed, except for a bloody nose. “She was just being more playful than usual, that’s all.”

  “We’ll take her to Daliborka to cool off,” the older marksman said, waving his hand toward the prison tower that loomed above the houses at the top of the lane. “Get dressed and come up there to give your statement.”

  “No need to take her away,” the man said as he stroked the woman’s tear-drenched cheek. Having overcome his initial shock, he looked rather amused. “She’s a good girl, just a little too jealous. And it’s my fault anyway. I should have realized that catching me with her sister could make her a little upset. I completely lost track of time again!”

  The marksmen looked at the crying, trembling woman. It was clear she no longer posed a threat.

  “Alright, off you go, wench,” the older of them said, releasing her wrist. She rushed down the lane, wiping her tears and rubbing her wrist.

  “And you, please schedule your trysts more carefu
lly.” The younger marker turned to the pudgy man with a smirk.

  The marksmen left, and the man turned to Hrot and pumped his arm. “This was quite an unorthodox way of saving a man’s life,” he said with a laugh. “But I thank you anyway.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Hrot stammered. “I was aiming at the woman, of course. The log must have slid out of my hand and—”

  “Don’t you worry, my friend,” the man chuckled. He was still squeezing Hrot’s hand in his. With the other hand he wiped the last drops of blood from his nose. “I’m really grateful to you. A little nosebleed is much better than a hacked spine, isn’t it? And she would have really butchered me like a hog, that crazy one, I’m sure she would. But let’s go to my place and have a drink before my prick turns into an icicle, haha-haa!”

  They walked into the house the man had run out of. A narrow, darkened hallway led them to a small bedroom that distinctly smelled of sex. A girl with a beautiful mane of auburn hair stood by a canopy bed, dressed in a beige petticoat and putting on her chemise. She screamed when she saw them at the door. Having thrown on her gown, she squeezed between them and scurried down the hallway toward the exit.

  “You pig,” she hissed at the man before she left. The man gave her a loving smile.

  “That’s the reason the other one nearly killed me.” He turned to Hrot as the front door slammed shut. “Look at me—can you believe that women fight over me like cats? And that they get murderously jealous when they find me in bed with their sisters?”

  Hrot really found it hard to imagine what women saw in his new friend. The stranger had a shock of thick brown hair that reached to his shoulders and made him look somewhat youthful. However, he already displayed the pallor and pudginess of an aging man whose life orbited tables heaped with meat and liquor. A boyish, mischievous light sparkled in his pupils, but his eyelids were droopy. A few liver spots already blemished his puffy cheeks.

  “Well, they do get crazy, these precious loves of mine!” the man continued as he peeked under the bed in search of his clothes. “I wonder about it day and night. Can’t say I mind it, though, apart from all the attempted killings.”

  The man found an elaborately embroidered jacket, and a pair of silk breeches and leather boots. As he put them on, he said, “My friend, I have tested the mattress of every pretty girl in the city. And now I’ve got my eyes set on the haylofts in the countryside. I might get killed by a pitchfork one day, but I’ll die happy, haha-haa!”

  When the man covered most of his withering skin and stood in front of Hrot in his expensive attire, Hrot realized what the stranger’s attraction really was: he was probably successful and influential, and rich like a silver mine on top of that.

  “Let’s have a drink in the study,” the man said, leading the way out of the bedroom. “God knows we both deserve it.”

  He took Hrot into a small room that sweltered in the heat of a blazing fireplace. A grimy servant boy, who was stoking the fire, bowed and left as soon as they entered. As the man walked to the bar and poured two tumblers from a tall bottle, Hrot gazed around with a growing excitement.

  From the wooden ceiling to the stone floor, the walls were hung with thick tapestries. They depicted strange geometrical shapes and mystic symbols and allegories Hrot had seen in some of the ancient scrolls in the library. Everywhere he looked, large bookshelves creaked under the weight of thick books. He found most of the titles familiar. Hrot felt a feather of thrill tickling his spine. Could it be that he’d finally stumbled over a chunk of good luck?

  “You’ve saved my life, my friend,” the man said as he handed Hrot a glass of Slivovice. “And I’ll be forever grateful to you. Who are you? And what is your name?”

  “I’m Hrot. A student of alchemy.”

  The man gave him a knowing smile and then he emptied his glass. “And I’m Felix. A recreational mattress tester. And a full-time royal alchemist.”

  FELIX PROMISED HROT to do all he could to get him an audience with the king, but he warned him it wouldn’t be easy. It had taken Felix more than ten years to be appointed as a royal alchemist. That was in spite of the fact that his intellect was equally powerful to Hrot’s, and that he came from a noble family.

  Felix’s father was the head physician in the Moravian capital of Brno, and his mother was the daughter of a Hungarian baron. Even though he spent most of his university years risking his life during alchemical experiments, Felix had somehow graduated from medicine with honors.

  Having refused his father’s offer of a post at the Brno hospital—a decision that eventually led to Felix’s falling out with all his family—Felix went to Prague to plunge into the ocean of scientific materials the city had to offer. That same year, King Rudolph II moved his royal court from Vienna to Prague, making Prague Castle the European center of occult teachings. Seeing this as a divine sign, Felix hoped to receive a royal post.

  Unfortunately, the king often suffered from prolonged lapses of lethargy and melancholy during which he wouldn’t grant an audience even to visiting dignitaries. By the time he had managed to attract the monarch’s attention through a series of ingenious chemical tricks, Felix was nearly starving.

  As Felix confessed, neither he nor the other alchemists had ever come even close to transmuting metals into gold. The more books Hrot read, the more unattainable the feat seemed.

  Hrot was starting to think that only Anath’s magic could save him from the Emissary. Felix claimed he’d never heard of a woman by that name—but something about the way he’d said it told Hrot not to believe him. That was another reason why Hrot visited his new friend every week.

  On the fourth Friday, when the fat librarian Albius blew out the candles with his liquory breath, Hrot headed for the Castle District and climbed up Golden Lane. The dreary, silent winter was finally over. Flocks of birds chirped excitedly in the budding trees, and the filthy snow was almost gone, only lingering in shadowy corners.

  Hrot was about to knock on Felix’s door when he heard muffled voices coming from inside. Suspecting that his friend was having a female visitor, Hrot made a few steps back, unsure what to do.

  The door suddenly opened, and Felix rushed out, his undershirt undone, his breeches around his knees, and his eyes wide with shock. Startled by the strange sight, Hrot staggered and slid on a heap of mule dung. He fell on his back so forcibly he nearly knocked his soul out of his body.

  Merriment instantly replaced the shock in Felix’s eyes. “Haha-haa! It’s lucky you’re so smart because you’re one clumsy snotnose!” Felix roared with laughter as he helped him to his feet.

  “What going on?” Hrot asked, eyeing Felix’s fallen breeches.

  “She asked me if I loved her,” Felix explained as he pulled them up. “So I panicked and left the house. I just hope she won’t break all my glasses like the one last week did. Or spank my servant boy like the one last month.”

  Felix tiptoed to the open door and listened. He jumped aside when an aging but very attractive brunette rushed out. “I’m sorry, my precious love,” he stammered.

  The woman stepped closer and slapped his cheek so forcefully he landed in the same pile of dung as Hrot had. She gave Felix a murderous look and rushed away.

  Hrot dragged Felix back to his feet.

  “I guess I deserved it,” Felix chuckled, rubbing his crimson cheek. “But come in, my snotnose. I’ve got an interesting treatise to show—”

  “Wait!” Hrot exclaimed as he noticed a gold medallion around Felix’s neck. It depicted an old woman wearing an embroidered headdress. “What’s that?” Hrot asked, pointing to the jewel.

  “Nothing,” Felix said as he buttoned the undershirt and hid the medallion underneath.

  “I’ve seen this thing before,” Hrot said, recalling the medallion glistening between Anath’s breasts in the sunlit bailey of the Ruins. “The woman called Anath. She’s got the same pendant.”

  “You’re a man of science, snotnose!” Felix snapped. It was the first time Hrot s
aw him angry. “Why do you waste your time with witches?”

  “So you know her?” Hrot gasped. “Why did you say you didn’t? Oh, you old pig! Did you . . . test her mattress as well?”

  It might have been a smidge of envy that had made Hrot insult his friend. But the strongest feeling was a shock at the notion that such a powerful enchantress would revel in carnal pleasures—and lie with men like Felix. Hrot could never imagine a worse sacrilege.

  To his surprise, however, Felix looked appalled at the accusation. “I’d never do such a thing, snotnose!”

  “So how do you know her? Why did you lie to me? And who’s that woman on the medallion?”

  Felix didn’t reply. He looked angry and thoughtful. When he finally spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically grave. “I lied to you to protect you. Anath is a hot stove, that’s true, but she might be too hot for a snotnose like you. She has powerful enemies—and a more powerful admirer still. Stay away from that witch, Hrot. Stay away as far as you can!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Czech Kingdom was an island of enlightenment in a morass of domains that brooded through bigotry, religious wars, and massacres of real and presumed witches and sorcerers. The Inquisition had been officially abolished here, and Rudolph II proclaimed Prague a safe haven for alchemists, astronomers, physicists, and scientists from all over Christendom.

  Nevertheless, the less power the Czech clerics had, the more vicious they got. Anyone they saw as a heretic was far from being safe. The Church’s secret blacklist contained very prominent names, including the king’s. Clerical spies busied themselves all over the city; assassins were paid liberally. The sudden death of the famous Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe, which had rocked Prague the previous year, was often blamed on the clandestine Inquisition.

  Anath’s name was near the top of the list. And her soon-to-be murderess was heading for her house.

  Erna used to be one of the spies working at Prague Castle. A promising paintress and the daughter of the king’s former chamberlain, she’d worked as the curator of one of the castle’s art collections . . . until she was caught trying to steal a priceless miniature of the king.