Vail walks with me, he thought, remembering Queen Tristella’s words and trying to be reassured by them.
“I have to go back to Serathon. I have to prepare—”
“You waste time,” Savoni snapped. “You can leave from here, go to Reinra, work your way through the Breach however they require you to. And then follow your instincts. The other side of the Breach has many kingdoms. Many languages. Many wars. They are very different from us and fear magic, but they are not so different that you cannot find your way to him. It will take time, and you have wasted a great deal of it already.”
“Why didn’t you send word?” Jarlyth demanded. “Why didn’t you try to help sooner?”
Savoni smiled, the expression not at all comforting. “You are far more naïve than I would have expected, Lord Denara. I have no stake in helping you. My son presents a great threat to my throne. He is SanClare and Voyavel and a Sensitive, all together. Higher-born than any of us, more blessed by Vail...why should I have helped to look for him? Why should I help you now?”
“Please, Majesty. He’s just a little boy.”
“Yes, yes.” Savoni waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve said I would, and I’m not taking that back. I am merely explaining my position. You must understand, Lord Denara, that a waerlok’s help is a dangerous thing. And you must ask yourself just how much you want to save him. Your own life may be in the balance.”
“I’d do anything to save him,” Jarlyth whispered.
The smile twisted into something even more disturbing, and Savoni moved closer again, lifted Jarlyth’s unresisting hand to his mouth, and bestowed a firm kiss on the knuckles.
“With my blessings then, Lord Denara. Be on your way.” Savoni dropped Jarlyth’s hand and stepped back, bowing slightly before turning entirely and walking from the room.
#
Michael knew he shouldn’t be happy about the news, but he rarely tasted the satisfaction of revenge nor any sort of justice, so he indulged in private delight as Lord Jack spun the tale he’d heard from the harbor master the hour before.
Sirra Avram, the Royal Magistrate, had died.
“A tragic error, it seems.” Jack shook his head in dramatic sympathy. “Lord Scarsdell mistook Avram for some young scamp lordling who’d been nikking Scarsdell’s even younger little wife!”
Michael leaned over Jack’s shoulder and eyed his cards. Another bad hand. He’s having no luck tonight. The man grinned up at him as if he held nothing but winners. Idiot. But he couldn’t help but smile back.
He was always happy to see Jack.
Michael met Jack on his first day back after taking several days to recover from Lorel Burk’s attack. During that break, he’d also found a tiny room to rent away from the Red Boar and moved his pitiful, few belongings there to spend his last two rest days enjoying the sensation of being all alone.
He’d been determined, too, to be different from then on—to not just exist and survive but live. To do that, he needed a few reasons to be happy. The room was his second reason. Cyra, naturally, was his first. Jack had given him his third.
Rested and relaxed from his inadvertent holiday, he’d been in a good mood the night Lord Jack had swaggered into the Red Boar. The man had been hailed by at least half the room as he’d ostentatiously turned over his impressive collection of weapons over to the door-guards for safekeeping. It seemed all the girls and door-guards and gamblers knew him well.
Curious, Michael had watched him as he’d worked his way across the central salon to the bar then had flirted and joked his way, full-to-the-brim pint held aloft, to the large round table where all the highest bidders sat, gambling anything and everything and more than Michael could ever imagine.
Michael spent a great deal of his time at this table and had been there that night. When he wasn’t otherwise engaged, he often played lucky charm for various hopeful gamblers, though their hope that he’d tumble them afterwards didn’t always work out to their satisfaction. Sometimes an argument over who should win his bed would ensue, and, if he’d deign to be their wager, the game would be played for stakes that mattered to him.
Jack had been honestly shocked to see Michael there. He’d called Harly over and shouted at him.
“What’s the matter with you, man? Can’t you see he’s but a child? I thought this place more decent than that sewer.” He gestured with a finger toward the One-Eyed Sailor.
Michael didn’t want Harly to get in trouble for helping him. He’d moved around the table to stand beside Jack’s chair, a better vantage for looking up at him through his lashes.
The man made a noise of disgust but patted his arm. “Stop it. I’d never want an infant like you.” He glared around at everyone else in the room as he subsided into his seat, and more than a few men looked away, embarrassed.
“But you like boys,” Michael said softly. “I can tell.”
The man growled something unintelligible, and Michael sensed how truly angry he was over Michael’s presence there.
“I like men, little boy.” Jack gave him an exasperated look. “Full-grown, hard-muscled, hairy men.”
Michael bit his lip to hide a smile. “Then why aren’t you two rows over at The Hanged-Man?”
There seemed no plan nor reason for where the brothels catering to various tastes were situated around Fensgate, though all the best were within an easy walking distance of each other and not very far from the docks.
As the Hanged-Man’s double-meaninged name implied, that brothel catered to men who preferred men. The Black Cat, yet another brothel a few doors away from the Hanged-Man, catered to those who liked girls younger than those at the Red Boar or its rival and across-street neighbor, the Midnight Star.
“That’s a shame,” was Jack’s elusive reply. “Such a lovely little thing, but you’re knowing and sharp.”
Michael’s smile faded, and he felt oddly hurt by the man’s words. “Don’t be mad at Harly. It isn’t his fault. This was the best he could do.”
“You leave ‘im alone, Jack.” Irini swept up and trailed her arm around the man’s shoulders. “Ain’t no reason to pester the boy. He’s doin’ ‘is best.”
Jack smiled up at the woman as if they were old friends. “In Mirthia, it would never be allowed. Someone would hang for what you’re all doing to this poor child.”
Michael didn’t believe it and almost sneered at the man’s words. To his surprise, however, Irini only shook her head, tsking.
“Don’t I know it, Jack. But ‘e’s stuck ‘ere, idn’t he? Poor thing.” She leaned in to whisper. “They went and branded ‘im.”
Jack straightened, his shock crackling across Michael’s senses, and he turned with narrowed eyes. “I do apologize to you, lad. I’d no idea.”
Irini gave Michael a wink and moved on to a more likely target. Michael, too, turned to walk away, but Jack caught his arm.
“Wait. I am sorry. Truly.”
Michael shrugged. “You didn’t know.”
Slapping his hands onto his thighs with a decisive thwack, Jack gave a nod. “Sit with me for a bit. Help me play a few hands. I’ll give you a clink for your trouble, and we can talk.”
Retreating a step, Michael gave the man a wary, sidelong look. “Why? You don’t like boys.”
“I suppose no one ever just talks to you,” the man muttered half to himself.
Lifting his chin, Michael hesitated for a moment as he weighed the situation. “All right. I’ve just had a bit of trouble, after all. I could use a break.”
Jack told him all about Mirthia that night, and one hour stretched into many. The man won several hands, took a few measured losses, and ended up richer than the rest by morning. So did Michael who Jack insisted should earn a percentage of each hand for being a help.
He wanted to refuse—all he’d done was sit at Jack’s side and observe the game—but he’d long ago lost the pride that allowed him to make such gestures. What a silly waste of his money, Michael thought. But it had been very kind.
The next time Jack came back to the Red Boar, he’d brought Michael a small, leather-bound book entitled Mirthia: A Traveler’s Guide by H. L. Pinhearn.
“I’m not allowed to travel, Jack.” Michael pushed the book back toward the man, wanting to be rid of something that held such an impossible hope in its very title.
“You’re allowed to dream, aren’t you?”
Now, with the news of Sirra Avram, Jack had given him yet another gift. I can’t figure taxes for this one, he thought. It’s beyond pricing. He felt a little guilty, still. But I’ll get over it.
He left early that night, not wanting to spoil his mood, and awoke almost early—well before midday—to see the sun sparkling over the city.
His fourth reason to be happy should correctly have been counted as his first or second, but he’d forgotten it for too long during his endless, miserable sojourn through the streets of Fensgate. His pencils and notebook from Whiltierna were long-gone, left behind when he’d been tossed from JhaPel, but then he’d discovered chalk and pavement and rare sunny days in the park.
Smiling at the gift of a bright, clear day just after the gift of seeing Jack and learning of Avram’s demise, he threw on his grubby, off-duty clothes, picked up his pack, and, with Cyra following him, left for Carillon Park.
Hours later, he’d gone through all the chalk he’d brought with him, having thoroughly enjoyed every moment of transforming paving stones into artworks until the next rains washed them clean.
Michael had been finished with his last chalk drawing for several minutes, but Jon, one of the many young artists who frequented the park, too, on fine days—“to paint from life,” they all claimed—begged him again to hold his pose for just a few more tics.
“Jon, I have to go!” Michael exclaimed after the fourth such stay was requested. He’d been half-lying on his side, an elbow propping him up over the sidewalk where he’d been working. Apparently, this pose had struck Jon as “most naturalistic.” His friend was no help, adding his nagging to Jon’s.
“You cannot move, Michael,” Dann said, bossy as usual. “You owe it to Art Herself to assist Jon in his quest. He wants to create something fine enough for the Royal Review next moon.”
“Come pose for me tomorrow.” Jon’s charcoal-stained hands moved quickly as he sketched as fast as he could.
Michael smiled. “You couldn’t possibly afford me.”
A coin pinged into the upturned hat Michael was using for donations, and he called his thanks after the retreating girl who turned back and gave him a shy wave.
Jon snorted and was about to say something teasing, Michael guessed, when a third man approached, someone who could afford Michael. He’d overheard their conversation and exclaimed, “Goddess, Jon. Don’t you know who he is?”
In spite of his Red Boar armband, it was unlikely they did recognize him, chalk-stained and lowly-dressed as he usually was for his park outings. Sighing at the loss of his anonymity, Michael waited for the newcomer to have his fun.
“Well, he’s Michael.” Jon seemed confused. “He’s here at least once a quarter-moon, isn’t he?”
But Dann saw it, and Michael could tell just when the connection was made.
“No!” He turned toward the newcomer, shock blooming on his face. “That’s him? Wil, tell me you’re having us on! He’s your ‘Prince of Sorrows?’”
Wil—who was now a firmly-established artist, thanks to the painting in question—threw back his head and laughed. “I can’t believe you didn’t see it! It isn’t as if his face is common.”
Highborn and wealthy and determined to be famous, Wil—better known as Lord Wilem Severn—had hired Michael after seeing him at the Red Boar. Instead of sex, the young man had wanted Michael to pose for him. And he’d been willing to pay a very respectable per-hour rate for the honor.
At first, Michael had demurred, but Harly had encouraged him to accept, explaining that this was employment he was legally allowed to accept since it took advantage of the same loophole which made prostitution virtually the only other thing it was legal for him to do: If it could be assumed that an artist wanted him for his individual looks, then it could also be assumed that he was not taking away employment from a righteous, law-abiding citizen, and, therefore, it was allowed.
Though he was already well-known in some circles, Wil’s painting had made Michael famous throughout Camarat and had brought him to the attention of some of the most powerful people in the kingdom – the target group of firstborns, in fact, which Harly had been hoping to attract. He’d even been the favorite of Prince Leovar himself for several quarter-moons. Though that ended badly, Michael thought, rueful.
If he could have made a living from modeling alone, he would gladly have done so. In spite of the very bad first impression of the breed he’d had from Robyn Vaznel, he liked this set of young artists. They were all so earnest about their work and most of them completely oblivious to Michael’s own profession. Aside from Wil, most couldn’t afford the Red Boar, and, while female streeters modeled for their paintings and sometimes warmed their beds, the idea that Michael was one of that number never seemed to occur to them.
But his artistic acquaintances were mostly impoverished themselves, though in a genteel fashion, and too few to keep him properly employed even if he did start accepting their offers.
“It’s been an honor to sketch you.” Jon stood up quickly as if embarrassed to have imposed.
Michael began to climb to his feet, only to find Dann’s hand under his elbow, helping him. The man’s mind was full of ideas and dreams and random wisps of things, but he, too, was only interested in Michael’s skills as a model. Refreshing.
“Thanks.” Michael eased himself free of the touch as soon as he could without seeming rude, covering any awkwardness by concentrating on arranging the strap of his pack just so. “I hope the sketch helps,” he added to Jon. “I’d pose for you for less if I could, but...” He shrugged. “I have to earn clink.”
“You look different with your hair back,” Jon said, a bit randomly, until Michael understood what he meant.
Wil smiled at the boy. “Indeed. He wouldn’t be SanClare Black without all that beautiful hair.”
Michael rolled his eyes at this use of the nickname the man had settled on him during the modeling sessions, and he hoped fervently that Jon and Dann would not pick up the habit.
But aloud he agreed, “Oh, yes,” and gave Wil a quick wink as he yanked the tie from the end of his braid and ran his other hand through his hair, loosening it in one, well-practiced move. The affect worked as well in the middle of the park as it did in more private circumstances. Both Jon and Dann looked thunderstruck.
“Shize,” Jon breathed. “I see it now.”
Michael smiled, gave a small, ironic bow, and walked away.
Cyra met him a few lengths down the path. She liked to come out hunting in the park on the days Michael went there to draw. Both of them enjoyed the escape from their everyday lives.
It was still early enough in the day that Michael didn’t need to be to the Red Boar for a few hours. The bridge back to Fensgate was up, letting a steamer ship go through, and he passed the waiting time by buying a cup of coffee and trading a few coppers for some odd bits of fish from a young woman who had pulled close to shore to get out of the steamer’s way.
He sat down under a tree and sipped his coffee and fed the fish to Cyra who devoured all of it greedily. He scratched her ears, listening to the simple, picture-thoughts of his little friend.
He never would have believed his life could be so close to good after all that had happened. Though still a heretic and a whore, in the moons since Lorel Burk’s attack had brought him clarity, he had managed to create a bit of a life for himself between those two absolutes, all the while working to escape them forever.
The steamer was disappearing around a far bend in the river by the time the bridge was passable once more. Wiping his hands on the grass to be rid of any fishiness, Michael
stood up again and continued across it.
Traffic was dire, carriages and carts and trams all backed-up due to the bridge’s delay, and he kept rerouting himself to get around impassable snarls. By the time he cleared the mess, he’d ended up on the sidewalk opposite the docks. And opposite the enormous archway where the witch-burning pyre stood. It looked freshly-blackened and litter left behind by the vanished crowd still blew around the open area. Probably what half the traffic was from...someone died here today.
He’d been by the pyre since that first time and since he’d been branded himself, but it always surprised him when he encountered it, the feelings he’d first experienced welling up each time, full-strength.
Someone knocked into him, sending him staggering a step, almost into the street. He caught himself and turned to glare at the clumsy person, only to see a pack of laundresses heading home from a shift all staring at his brand with expressions of fear and disgust.
He resisted the urge to clap his right hand over the left to hide the brand but instead deliberately brushed at his jacket where one of the women bumped him, making a show of being the wounded party. The nearest woman’s eyes flicked up, saw his face and then took in his Red Boar armband. At that, her expression went blank, and she turned and shooed her friends on their way.
“That was a close one,” Michael commented to Cyra. He pretended a calm he didn’t feel. The women had seemed ready to start something with him. More bullies looking for someone to kick around, and it might as well be the little heretic. Thank Vail for the Red Boar.
Cyra brushed up far more gently against his boot and wandered off as if trying to lead him home. Michael, feeling shaky and almost hysterical with relief that nothing had happened to turn that awkward encounter into something worse, followed.
By the time he reached the Red Boar, Michael managed to put the incident out of his mind. His rented room lay only a short distance from the inn, and his spirits lifted at the prospect of home.
Friendly, loud, and blunt, his landlady, Senna MaGlen, had declared she’d rent to him but only if he’d agree to live in the attic above the servants quarters where he’d be out of everyone’s way with his “all-hours comings and goings.” As this was the quietest place in the entire household, especially during the day when Michael would be sleeping, he’d been more than happy to agree to this restriction.
SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows) Page 22