“No, no,” said the man with a small smile. “You’re not staying here. This is temporary. You will be taken tomorrow to the Island of Wherry stop, and incarcerated for life in the Asylum for the Dangerous Insane. And that will naturally be far, far worse.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The school room resembled a corridor, which made it difficult to hear every word at the back. Benches ran side to side with a narrow gap – yet another corridor – through the centre. Each bench, although a little crowded, held four boys, and so eight boys in each row. Twelve rows. Ninety-four boys, with two vacant spaces at the back. The youngest, small and wide eyed, was just six years of age. The eldest, sitting cramped in the middle, was cross-eyed and twelve years of age. He was invariably asleep, but few of the teachers bothered caning him since the child was clearly dim-witted.
“Dimwitted,” screeched Mistress Takka, both hands in the air. “Let the brat sleep. Had I asked him to add two and two he would have started to cry and eventually guessed six.” She was not the senior teacher, however, and two of those in positions of seniority had both decided that caning the boy they called Dim-Face, might reawaken his brains.
Standing slumped against the city walls at the Lower-City end, Ganga House had once been a charity institution. Shortly after the ending of the invasion many years previously, Lord Mereck, the great grandfather of the present Lord Mereck, had surveyed the wretched number of orphans running the streets, their parents killed in the war, and no one left to care for them. Many became molly boys, others formed gangs and learned to thieve. Some died of misery and starvation and some leapt into the river and drowned rather than live.
Lord and Lady Mereck had bought a series of warehouses and had them built into one sheltered haven for orphans. And they organised schooling to take place downstairs in order to educate the children for future salaried work. Within a few short years the school, which the founders had named after their youngest son Ganga, was overflowing even though the thieves and the molly boys also remained. And as time passed and the Merecks lost both money and interest, the school, being the only one in Eden City, lost its ideals.
The school was only for boys; they spent the nights in large dormitories upstairs, breakfast and midday dinner in the dining room, one day a scrubbing clean the surrounding streets, and the rest of the time in the school room learning whatever the teachers chose to enforce. Mathematics and language, which included basic reading and writing, were the two principal subjects, then steam presses and levers, cooking, cleaning, building and gardening. Those few who took any notice of the lessons were prepared for a future job. The others ran off to the gangs.
Neither the youngest nor the oldest, Lick thought he might be roughly nine or ten years of age but did not think it mattered much. He could remember no mother nor any father and remembered only growing up in the Molly House. He had cuddled up in bed with his friend Feep, and when Feep had left, he had run away. After only a few days living in wet gutters or the doorsteps of houses with awnings to shelter from the rain, the boy had been seen by the priest of the local chapel and taken back to live with him for three days. Lick had expected to work, either as a cleaner or as a Molly Boy, but strangely enough the priest had simply bathed him, dressed him in new warm clothes, and had fed him with better food than the boy had ever enjoyed in life. It had seemed like paradise, but it did not last.
The priest then took Lick to what he called a school at a short walk from the chapel. The boy had no notion what a school might be, but he obeyed adults as he had been taught. Disobeying had always meant severe punishment.
So with his hand in the priest’s large warm palm, the boy entered the Ganga House School, and was passed to the head teacher, a Master West, each smiling at the other. “I’ll look in on the boy from time to time,” said the priest, which rather disturbed Master West.
“And what’s the dear child’s name?” the teacher asked.
“He tells me he’s called Lick, though it’s a name I’ve never heard before,” the priest had answered. “And he thinks he’s between nine and ten years old. To me, he seems very bright, and extremely well behaved. But the poor boy has been living on the streets with little or nothing to eat.”
“We serve excellent food here,” smiled Master West.
The boy’s name was not Lick, but since he knew neither parents nor guardians, he presumed he had never had a real name of any kind, except the one they had called him in the Molly House, the teasing title of Lick Arse, since that was all he could do when he arrived so young. Eventually he had progressed to the usual work, but the nickname had stuck.
For three years Lick struggled with the discipline of the school. He was quickly able to read, write, speak averagely understandable Edenite language, and manage basic arithmetic, and some a little harder. He was quite happy with the scrubbing days and was perfectly content being polite and working hard. Yet the caning, the beating, the shaming and the days without food all bothered him. After one year, Lick ran back to the priest. But after two days of kindness, the priest returned the boy to the school. He was then manacled to his bench seat for three days without bed or food of any kind and became ill. He was finally permitted to crawl to bed, where he vomited only phlegm, since there was no food in his stomach to bring back.
After two more years, three in total, Lick ran away again and returned to the Molly House. He was then startled to discover that it was no longer there. The entire Bridge, and half the islands complete with their buildings near where the Bridge had been, were now missing. Nor could Lick find Symon or any other of the boys. He began to walk.
Walking into the Upper-City for the very first time was a pleasure. Cleanliness washed across the fronts of buildings, shops and streets. The station, though never clean and always covered in the soot and steam of the trains, was a bustling hive of fascination and noise, rush and climb, and the fierce disorganisation that Lick adored after the regimented cruelty of the school.
He decided he would like to be a train driver.
From there he continued walking; he could not see over the walls of the palace but was able to peer up to the dark stone turrets and battlements surging up into the clouds. He slept that night in the station, cold but sheltered, and walked again the following day, returning each night to the station.
The first man to approach him was tall, thin and spotlessly dressed in the scarlet livery of royalty. But, on each arm, he also wore a vast golden bracelet which reached up to the elbow and was clasped across his sleeve. These were both studded in many coloured patterns, badges perhaps, or awards. Medals. Lick Arse watched him in reverent amazement, wondering if this might be the king himself. But the man bent over him where he crouched on the ground and smiled kindly.
“You appear to be all alone, my boy. Yet perhaps only ten years of age.”
“Twelve,” Lick sniffed.
“You are very small and, forgive me, somewhat skinny. Have you eaten this day? Are you hungry?”
Nodding vehemently, Lick mumbled, “Reckon I can do wotever you wants, mister, fer some good food. And drink. I only got water from them gutters and there ain’t much. I reckon it were just some piss.”
“I have not yet tried piss,” said the man, “but I doubt it’s the best choice. Come with me, boy. I have a use for you.”
Following, half scrambling, half hopping, the boy continued to chatter. Climbing into bed with complete strangers was not too bad, he thought, when the compensation was food. This man did not look cruel, nor talk like a demon. Hopefully it might be a quick swive and then down to the kitchens to eat and eat and eat.
“Me name’s Lick Arse,” he admitted with cheerful disinterest. “Then they dun calle me Scrubber. I doesn’t know wot I likes best nor wot I likes worst. Tell the truth, I doesn’t care. Tis wot I is and me’s me, ain’t it. The name ain’t me.”
The scarlet gentleman stopped, turned, and smiled. “What a remarkably intelligent belief, young man,” he said softly. “My name means nothing, and exa
ctly as you say, I am who I am and the name does not define me. Therefore, I shall call you Cavo. Unless you can think of a title you prefer.”
Wide grinned, “No, reckon not, mister. I likes Cavo. Sounds growed up.”
Again, the man walked on with the newly delighted Cavo in quick pursuit. “Does I call you m’lord, m’lord?”
“I am no lord, and my name is Pentaggo,” he replied, smiling. “You will call me Master, but you should know that to others I am Sir Pentaggo. Hurry now, we are nearly home.”
“N – but mister, I means Master, it ain’t no home. Tis the palace.”
“This is the home not only of the royal family, the majority of the nobility and the rich and powerful, but also of those in high service to the king, as I am. Now, keep close and do not speak one word. I will speak on your behalf.”
Entering the castle grounds was an experience few managed without the impression of fairyland, magisterial wonders, and the glory of power. A wide path from the outer gates wandered through hedges, rare trees, creepers of different coloured blossoms, huge slopes thick with flowers, archways dripping with garlands, small fountains and the flurry of larger fountains swirling over statues. A thousand birds sang, and tiny white squirrels climbed amongst the blossoms.
Cavo clutched his new master’s long scarlet gown, and Pentaggo did not removed the grubby fingers.
Away from the back entrances which led to the stables, laundries, kitchens, store houses and gardening sheds, they entered through the grand front doorway where other liveried servants opened the high decorated doors wide and bowed as Pentaggo marched through with his new protégé. From the songs of birds and the murmur of the breezes, they were suddenly in bustle and noise. Colour, grandeur and vast spaces all intimidated Cavo, and he clung even tighter to the robe he was creasing, and kept his head down, afraid to meet the questioning eyes of anyone who thought he should not be there. Yet folk, even those in fur and gold thread, bowed to Pentaggo, and there was no one who dared stop him.
It was a sensation Cavo had never experienced before and now adored, for although his new master called himself a servant to the king, he was clearly admired, perhaps even struck fear into men who were not servants themselves.
Pentaggo’s quarters, although at the back of the palace and down narrow stone steps, were also spacious, also colourful and also grand.
“You may now release me, child,” Pentaggo murmured, looking down. “This is home, and you may call it home, although when you are on your own, you will enter and leave from the back. You will be taught the way.”
Mouth open, aghast at how luck had landed on his uncombed head, Cavo nodded with wild enthusiasm, and said, “Reckon I’ll do wotever you wants, master. I ain’t afraid.”
He had been thinking fast. Accustomed to the usual demands, he now decided that something over and above the usual would surely be involved here. No great man offered so much for an average shag. He wasn’t even that young anymore. But he was nervous of reciting the commands he was now prepared to obey, so gave no further details. He was once again surprised, however, at his master’s next remarks.
Pentaggo said, “Very well, Cavo. Listen carefully. I will teach you everything you need to know, and you will obey my every word. I will teach you to be my personal assassin. Dagger and poison, suffocation and strangulation, the removal of the tongue and the slitting of the throat. There are many methods. The crude and obvious will not suffice, whereas the secret and the silent are those I will teach. You must also learn the art of seduction, and practise this for both men and women, though never for myself. I will teach you to spy, to spread rumour, and to deny the truth in a believable fashion. And while learning these skills, you will be my page. You will serve me, run errands, and make up the fire. Others within the palace, both the servants and the gentry will think you a page and nothing more. Are you understanding me?” Cavo gulped. “Do you object to any of these activities?” Cavo shook his head and gulped again. “Have you ever killed anyone before?”
“No master. But I ain’t scared.” Although he was.
“This will be a position of frequent danger and almost constant difficulty,” Pentaggo told him. “But living on the streets and drinking piss, with the accepted name of Lick Arse would, in my opinion, be considerably worse. Life is always difficult and dangerous, even for the king, and even for the affluent, just as much for the poverty stricken and the stupid. With me you will live in luxury and for more than half of the time you will be under my protection. Nor will I send you on any missions until I am convinced that you are ready.”
“Reckon I’s ready now,” claimed Cavo, grinning.
“To creep into his majesty’s bedchamber one night and stab him to death?”
Cavo’s face drained blood and turned white. “Maybe not, I reckon no.”
“Don’t panic,” Pentaggo smiled. “This is not a mission I require – at least, not yet. You will be trained, and trained, and trained again. If you are quick, this will take many months. If you are slow, it might take well-nigh a year. If you are extremely slow, I will send you away to make your own life back on the streets.”
“And if I’s ever so quick?”
“Then,” said Pentaggo, “I will distrust you.”
“I have met his royal highness,” Fraygard said, “and thought little of him. But he is not the king who sentenced me to life in prison in spite of there being no proof. There was not any actual evidence, just word of mouth. More scandal than fact.”
“King Ram?” Jak asked.
“Except,” Chia interrupted, “that he made no decisions and suggested no laws. Ram tried, I believe, when he first came to the throne. But he left it all to the Council afterwards. The council took over. With Ram, it was easy to take over. And so it was the Council which condemned my husband without justice. Oh yes, there was a trial of sorts, but it was an absurdity. For dearest Fraygard, it was a nightmare. For me it was a nightmare as well. He was to be allowed visits, even overnight visits within the prison. How could I have left him completely alone? And of course, that was something I could not face myself. I missed him frantically. So it meant losing my baby. Freya was a month since birth. An easy birth, thank the gods. Giving her away was not so easy. I wept for years.”
“And she’s never seen Freya since,” Fraygard said, falling back against the wall. “And I have never seen her at all. We both still think of our daughter as a baby. But naturally – she’s twenty-five now, I believe.”
Nodding, Jak pulled his stool forwards. “So we all love a woman we don’t know. As her parents, you have good reason. More reason than I have. But I knew her well indeed ten years ago. I was a child as she was, but we knew our minds, and she saved my life. My father then chased her away. After a year or two of searching, I should have given up – forgotten – loved someone else. I should have married for my title and my heir. But all I remember is Freya, and she seems so important. I have strange dreams. She calls. I have to answer.”
“When I first left Lydiard,” said Chia, “Hyr was well paid, comfortable, adored my baby, and seemed fated for a hundred years of happiness and health, with increasing wealth and security. I hoped with all my heart that I’d be able to return in a few years and claim my child. But of course, you know what happened.”
“I expected the same myself. Not years, of course. I returned here after less than a month and with no knowledge of what had happened. My father, sadly, carries much of the blame. But since he is dead, poisoned I believe, it’s pointless to hold the anger.”
Chia looked around. The tavern was dingy, and the customers were few. There was a small fire on a large hearth since even in spring, Lydiard could be bitterly cold and a northern wind might still scatter your thatched roof. The walls were dark, the floor was stained boards, and the ceiling was held by beams infested with the more courageous of the insect families. The ale was good, the service was good, but the seating was a collection of stools wobbling on the uneven floor and its scatter of
reeds strewn to smother the spilled dregs of ale, strong beer, and cider. Wine was not served, but hot food came straight from the oven, and that was the greatest consolation.
Chia and Fraygard had been staying in a small room upstairs. Jak now informed the landlord that his grand customers would be moving to the Lydiard Castle.
“Not that it is a real castle. It’s no palace either. But it’s warm and it’s comfortable. Lords officially live in castles,” nodded Jak. “So even if I lived in a cow shed, the people would call it either palace or castle.”
“Even in the city they do the same.” Chia seemed glum and spoke without expression. “The sovereign, whoever or whatever, lives in a palace or a castle. The king’s home in Eden City is a bit of both. Looks like a squashed castle outside and a grand palace inside.”
“Frink used to live in a sand blown manor on the top of a set of storage sheds,” said Jak, laughing. “I saw the place when I travelled south. He must be very proud of his palace now.”
Fraygard smiled back. “I can’t complain. I live there too.”
“And I used to,” said Jak. “But I found the jealousies and slanders too sad.” Jak stretched his legs to the fire and leaned back. “Had we the power to foresee the future, our mistakes would inevitably be fewer.” He was speaking to the flames. “But,” he continued softly, “Though apart from slander, menace and spite, there’s richer food in the city. Here in the north there’s mutton instead of the tender lamb, and venison well hung instead of beef. Roast pork with plenty of crackling – now that’s my choice. Come back now to the castle with me and shelve our miseries for the night.”
Fraygard stood. “You’re not as I expected you, my lord.” He smiled, nodding. “I believe we have a great deal in common.” He looked away briefly. “I am quite sure it was your father who swore I had committed terrible crimes, knowing some of my history from Shamm through the local people.”
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