by Patrick, Den
‘He’s having a slight problem with pregnancy.’ A flicker of amusement.
‘He’s pregnant?’ mumbled Dino.
‘Perseus is a girl?’ said Lucien, failing to hide the disdain in his voice.
Dino dropped to his knees and dissolved into giggles, then gave up the pretence entirely, slumping to the floor and howling with laughter.
‘Perseus, the unfortunately named,’ said Virmyre, ‘is a female and likely to give birth very soon, quite possibly in the next few hours.’
‘I don’t want a female reptile. Can’t you give it to Anea? I bet she’d love to have a drake.’
‘She’s rather taken with her new kitten actually,’ replied Virmyre, placing Perseus back in the tank with the utmost care. ‘And I’m not sure kittens and drakes are terribly compatible.’
Dino was almost crying with laughter by now.
‘Why did you give me a female lizard?’ Lucien sneered, visibly nettled by Dino’s mirth.
‘I didn’t think to sex her,’ Virmyre rumbled in his rich baritone, ‘nor did I predict you’d be so squeamish, Master Lucien.’
‘I’ll have her,’ said Dino breathlessly. He pushed himself to his feet and flicked hair out of his face.
‘You’re not old enough,’ snapped Lucien. ‘I guess I’d better look after them. No one else knows as much about cataphract drakes as I do.’
‘Quite. You’re a veritable bastion of knowledge when it comes to the order of reptiles,’ said Virmyre.
Lucien blushed and chewed his lip again. Virmyre said nothing more and swept from the room.
‘You’re an idiot,’ muttered Dino. ‘I’m going to see Festo.’ He poked his tongue out, then flicked his fingertips from under his chin for good measure.
Lucien drowsed in the chair, idly leafing through one of Dino’s many hardbacks on mythology, the paper pleasing to the touch, the leather jacket reassuring. His new-found interest for the subject made the wait more bearable. He settled on Antigone to replace the now inapt Perseus, purely because he liked the sound of it. A knock at the door surprised him and the book hit the floor with a thud. He lurched out of the chair and spun round, scabbard in hand. Camelia entered the room, bringing a tray of hot food and a jug of water. Her blonde hair was a mess and she was rosy-cheeked, humming to herself pleasantly.
‘I heard the news. Seems I’m not the only one expecting.’ She beamed at Lucien and he smiled back, not knowing what to say. Camelia’s generous hourglass figure was noticeably more rounded. She positively radiated contentment and vitality. The cook eased herself onto the couch and set the tray aside.
‘I brought you some dinner. I guessed you’d not want to leave her. Never know when they might appear, eh? You must be excited.’
‘Of course,’ he managed, helping himself to some bread. ‘How did you know?’
‘Dino came down and told me all about it.’
Lucien forced another smile and poured a glass of water. He remembered Camelia at the last moment and offered it to her before filling another.
‘Thank you,’ she replied ‘What have you been up to today?’
‘Not much.’ He sat beside her on the couch. ‘I found a new name for the drake. I’ve decided on Antigone.’
‘And the little ones?’
‘I don’t know. I like Achilles and Agamemnon.’
‘You didn’t get past the A section of the index, did you?’
‘Ah. No, I didn’t.’ He gave a shrug. ‘But Achilles was invincible.’
‘Oh well, in that case . . .’ Camelia smiled and ruffled his hair, a gesture that would surely be abandoned soon; he was much too old for that sort of thing now.
‘And you’ll give one of the babies to Dino.’ This in a tone that didn’t invite refusal. Lucien knew it all too well.
‘Of course,’ he managed and forced a smile. His eyes caught the wedding ring on her finger, a slim band of gold. It seemed she’d been married only months before the House Contadino kitchens were filled with congratulations. The buzzing of gossip about her pregnancy had been a welcome respite from the darker rumours that circulated Demesne. Lucien felt spectacularly left out. He stared at the offending bump, the tiny unborn usurper.
‘Have you chosen a name yet?’ he asked. He’d seen adults ask the same question and assumed it was customary.
‘Not yet, we’re still deciding. Would you like to feel it?’
Lucien knelt down on the rug, holding forth a tentative hand. Camelia smiled, folding his hand in her own, pressing it against her abdomen. He was just beginning to get bored when he felt something push back through the elastic confines of her stomach.
‘That’s disgusting!’ he blurted. Camelia burst into a rich chuckle and tears appeared at the corners of her eyes.
‘Sorry. I mean, ah, it took me by surprise. Did it hurt? Are you unwell?’
‘No, it didn’t hurt. You are funny, Lucien.’
He fell silent and noticed the drake had rolled over onto her side. He sprang up from the floor and pressed his fingers against the glass.
‘Camelia. Look, she’s . . . ah . . .’
‘Gone into labour,’ she supplied. With great effort Camelia knelt down next to him and they watched a tiny face appear from the drake’s soft underside.
‘Strange, isn’t it?’ breathed Lucien. ‘Most reptiles lay eggs but these ones are different.’
The infant drake slithered out of its mother and lay panting on the warm sand. It was slick and wet, each scale perfect and tiny. Antigone seemed to be ignoring the newborn.
‘Perhaps she’ll only have one. Professore Virmyre said they never have more than two.’
‘Just as well,’ said Camelia. ‘So is that one Achilles or Agamemnon?’
Lucien considered this for a moment and scratched his hair. He chewed his lip thoughtfully.
‘Achilles wasn’t really invulnerable, was he?’
‘I’m afraid not. He had a weak spot on his heel.’
‘Maybe I should call that one Agamemnon then.’
Seconds later another tiny face appeared. Antigone then scurried away behind a rock, leaving the two juveniles to dry out. After a moment or two the mother returned, feeding ripped-up portions of a cricket to the newborn. Neither seemed to be in the mood to eat. Lucien and Camelia watched the tiny creatures with wordless reverence, then she told him to get ready for bed.
‘How long will you be away for, you know, after your baby comes?’
‘Oh, probably about a year and a half.’
‘A year and a half?’ He surprised himself with how loud his voice was. ‘Why so long?’
‘Babies need a lot of looking after. You were the same when we first got you.’
Lucien climbed into bed; he’d absent-mindedly taken the mythology book with him. He slipped it under the pillow meaning to read it after Camelia left.
‘Did you know Antigone was born out of an incestuous relationship? Her father Oedipus accidentally slept with his own mother.’ He was sitting up in bed, doing his best not to yawn.
‘I’ve heard of Oedipus, but I never realised he had a daughter. That sounds very confusing for everyone.’ She folded up his suit and hung it in his closet, then retrieved his boots from where he’d kicked them off, placing them neatly under the mantelpiece.
‘Do you think that’s what happened with me?’ Lucien said in a small voice. Camelia turned to him, then approached the bed. She sat down with eyes full of concern.
‘I don’t know Lucien, I honestly don’t.’
‘But it would make a certain kind of sense, wouldn’t it? You said yourself, it would be confusing for everyone. The best way to solve the problem would be to get rid of the baby.’
‘Lucien, you can’t spend your time thinking about this type of thing. It’ll do you no good.’
‘But I do think about it.’
‘All I know is that I’m glad I met you, Lucien.’ She smoothed back his hair from his forehead. ‘Every day you grow up a little bit more, and I’m
proud to have helped make that happen.’ She smiled. ‘Not to say you don’t have a few rough edges, mind.’
He smiled and tried a laugh, but tears arrived instead. He blinked them away.
‘Will you still talk to me, you know, after the baby comes?’
‘Of course I will, foolish boy. You’ll be like an older brother, no doubt. Or an uncle at any rate.’ She leaned forward and clutched him tightly. Lucien couldn’t help another sob escaping.
‘Why didn’t my mother want to keep me the way you want to keep your baby, Camelia? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘No, my beautiful boy, it doesn’t,’ she whispered, still holding him.
‘Do you think I’ll ever meet her?’
‘I wouldn’t pin any hopes on it. Hush now, go to sleep. Don’t spend the night worrying at it.’
He cried some more, tiring himself with the effort of his upset, before exhaustion overtook him. Camelia remained until the candle flames were noticeably lower before making her way out. She brushed away tears of her own, pulling the door closed behind her.
23
The Fall
HOUSE FONTEIN
– Febbraio 315
They carried him from the sanatorio to the King’s Keep. Ten of them at first, rough hands like manacles on his limbs. His head throbbed from where it had struck the steps during his tumble-down descent. Terrible pain emanated from his chest where the Majordomo had struck him. His eyes wouldn’t focus, snatches of vision coming to him sometimes blurry, other times with jagged intensity. The distance between Lucien and Ella grew with every step the guards took.
His heart sank.
The men carrying him spat and cursed, calling him a ‘filthy Orfano’, ‘strega’, ‘buco del culo’, ‘figlio di puttana’ and worse. He’d heard all the insults before of course, just never to his face. The age of the Orfano was over, and Golia was on course to be its lone survivor.
The curving corridor of King’s Keep merged into another part of the castle. Ten men became eight, then two more peeled off for other duties. Two more stopped as they passed through what Lucien thought he recognised as an armoury in House Fontein. His mind lurched and drifted, struggling to maintain lucidity. There was a low murmuring, subdued congratulations, then quiet crowded in once more. Now it was just four men carrying him. He was still limp, mind foggy, body unresponsive despite his wishes to the contrary. The corridors were almost pitch-black in this part of Demesne. Strange that he should be carried by four men now. Four men. Eight legs. Like a spider. He was the mindless body being stolen away by marching limbs, ever onward.
Everyone knew about the oubliette. Mothers mentioned it to scare children into obedience; criminals were cast down into it, never to be seen again. As infamous as it was mysterious, few knew where the entrance to the oubliette lay, only the most trusted of House Fontein or those set to discover what lurked beneath. Just as Lucien’s head was clearing he was placed on his feet. He swayed a moment, then the rough hands held him fast. He looked down at the front of his jacket. The knife remained lodged in the lining. For the moment.
Guido, the capo de custodia, stood to one side, regarding a rusting grille set in the floor. He’d foregone his usual livery for a suit of sombre black.
‘Do you remember what you said to me the day of the duke’s funeral?’ the capo asked, a smirk playing on his lips. The two guards held Lucien firm, arms pinioned behind his back.
‘All of our conversations are so riveting I have trouble discerning one from the other.’
The capo stiffened, lips curling into a sneer.
‘You told me you’d chop my head off.’
‘Really?’ said Lucien casually. ‘That doesn’t sound like me. You must have been very naughty that day.’ One of the guards at the door of the chamber failed to stifle his amusement. A laugh escaped him before he had the sense to feign a coughing fit. The capo glowered at the man, then wrenched up the grille. He cast it to one side of the room where it hit the floor with a bell-like clang.
Lucien took stock of his situation. They were below House Fontein. In a basement under the bustle of the kitchens and the silence of the pantries. Two guards on the door, two holding him fast, and the smug face of the capo in front of him. There was no way he could overpower all of them. The knife inside his jacket was slowly cutting through the lining, shredding the silk, threatening to fall out at any moment. Before him, four feet wide and yawning darkness, was the entrance to the oubliette.
And oblivion.
‘Say hello to Salvaza for me, next time you’re balls deep in her.’ Lucien winked at the capo. Using Lady Prospero’s first name was bound to rile him.
‘She can’t wait to be rid of you,’ grated Guido from between clenched teeth. ‘Giancarlo’s assassins have put paid to almost all of you degenerate Orfano filth. Only Golia remains now, and he won’t last for ever.’
Lucien suppressed a grimace. He’d not needed a reminder of Dino and Festo’s deaths. Still, interesting to learn Lady Prospero’s ambitions were not aligned with the Majordomo’s schemes.
‘Good luck trying to separate Giancarlo from his favourite animal. I think you’ll come unstuck there, Guido.’
And with that Lucien was cast down into the darkness.
He had at various times of his life tried to picture what the oubliette might be like. He’d read various accounts of such places in his ghost stories and dreadfuls. What followed was much more subtle than he could have imagined.
The fall lasted agonising seconds, terminating in fetid water. The mud beneath it clung to him like clay. For a moment he was submerged, the filthy water seeping into his ears and washing over his eyes. He gagged, gulping a mouthful, then another, then pushing himself to the surface, hacking and spluttering. Wet to the skin, he struggled to stand, flailing, failing to find his footing. A taste in his mouth registered itself, like the scent of the air before a summer storm and yet . . .
Shattered furniture bobbed on the foul water, food scraps like flotsam on the rank tide. All about were shadowy presences, pressed up against the walls, ash-grey outlines drawn on the darkness itself. He checked himself and found nothing broken. The knife hadn’t bitten into him under his jacket. It seemed like a strange place to keep a knife, as if he’d been hiding it. He wondered where he’d left his sword. The stagnant water lapped over the top of his boots, swilling around his toes, chilling him. Above came the sound of the metal grille being hefted back into place. Tiny clicks signalled padlocks securing his fate. He’d done something wrong, something to warrant being thrown down here, but try as he might he couldn’t think what. He dimly remembered a stable on fire and a stallion screaming, flames consuming it as it ran through the night. And there had been the secret graveyard of course. Perhaps he’d been trespassing. Above him, the sounds of the capo and the guards receded into the distance, echoes down hollow corridors becoming more faint with each second.
The rib-vaulted ceiling arched above him, just beyond his reach. He stood in a nimbus of light which cascaded down through the grille. One of the guards had seen fit to leave a lantern in the chamber above. The oil would not last for ever, then he’d be plunged into a deeper darkness. He’d been expecting a cramped and chaotic cell full of the doomed, instead he found a warren-like layer of Demesne he’d not known existed. Additional chambers led away from the one he stood in, visible through broad peaked archways. Cobwebs hung from the corners of the room, like bedsheets left to dry. All around was the sickly reek of decay.
The light from the lantern above dipped and wavered. There couldn’t be much oil left. And yet he needed to be free, he needed to get to the building outside, the place where they kept the insane. He groped about for the name of it, his mind as dark as the chamber he found himself in.
Nothing.
He couldn’t recall it, only that leering stone faces looked down from the roof. There was someone locked inside he wanted to see very much. Someone locked inside, just as he was locked inside. Rafaela. He’d be
en trying to save Rafaela. He called out her name in the darkness, hoping the sound of it would wake his cloudy mind.
As the light above grew dimmer, Lucien sank to his knees, feeling the mud ooze and cling. The shadows at the edges of the room crept forward hesitantly, managing to move through the water without disturbing it. Cautiously, Lucien reached for the hilt of the knife. He’d not be able to fight all of them, but if he could make an example of one them he might stand a chance. They surrounded him entirely, at least a dozen, lurking at the edge of the lantern light as it shone down through the grille. Their curiosity and impatience were tangible.
Finally they swarmed forward, pressing up against him. Lucien struggled not to cry out. Hands poked and teased at his hair; fingers pinched at the fabric of his jacket. Guttural voices exchanged syllables and hisses. They wore hooded half-cloaks for the most part. Any trousers they owned had rotted away below the knee. Many of them were hunched, either with age or deformity, it was difficult to tell. Emaciated arms bore claw-like hands, broken nails blackened by the mire. Each one of the shadows was an echo of the Majordomo. Here a strong jaw. Another with thin and downturned lips. All of them had the Domo’s skeletal hands and kept their eyes hidden beneath cowls. The robes were a uniform ash-grey. Lucien wondered what else they shared with the Domo.
The prisoners’ interest in the newcomer waned. Lucien was left alone, the nimbus fading, the lantern oil nearly spent. Hope was extinguished, tiny increments of time slipping away. He’d told Rafaela’s father he’d find her. Or had he just dreamed that part? It was so very difficult to remember. The shadows cast by the grille above became indistinct and diffuse. The other prisoners congregated in small groups, finding patches of earth above the water. Others lurked in corners pawing and groping each other, consensually or otherwise.
‘Rafaela,’ he said again, his voice wavering. Around him the prisoners looked up and paused what they were doing.
‘Rafaela,’ he said again, weakly now, no more than a croak. Above the light dimmed further. The world grew dark.
‘Ella,’ he droned. And in his voice he heard the dreary monotone of the Majordomo himself. Turning down the novitiate had been a poor decision, he realised.