Dead But Once

by Auston Habershaw

  Artus pinned Brana with an arm bar, forcing Brana to tap out. The two rolled slowly to their feet, breathing hard. Brana was grinning. “Good pin, Artus!”

  They slapped hands and then hugged. “You’re an arse,” Artus said, smiling.

  Tyvian held up the invitation. “You can go, Artus. Don’t bring a sword, but definitely bring a machete or two.”

  Artus poured some brandy over his cut hand. “What? Why?”

  “Your paramour isn’t being totally straight with you—expect a surprise. Hopefully it’s a pleasant one.” Tyvian thought about it, then added. “Bring Brana, too.”

  Hool scowled. “Why? Brana is not in love with this girl!”

  Tyvian nodded. “No, but Brana, against all odds, is popular with young women and is a good person to watch Artus’s back.”

  “I don’t want Brana to go!” Hool countered.

  Tyvian looked at Brana. “Brana, do you want to go?”

  Brana paused from moving back the furniture and wiggled his arse. “Yeah! I go, too!”

  “Artus,” Tyvian said, “do you want Brana to go?”

  “Ummm . . . well . . .” Artus scratched his head.

  Tyvian tapped the invitation. “There’s going to be a chaperone, Artus—your torrid adolescent imagination is going to be disappointed anyway.”

  Artus looked at Brana, who was quivering all over with excitement. “Okay—fine.”

  “There!” Tyvian looked at Hool. “It’s settled.”

  Hool glowered at him. Saying nothing, she rose and left for her bedchamber. She slammed the door hard enough for a painting to fall off the wall.

  Tyvian grimaced. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. You two get dressed. Have fun, but keep your eyes open.”

  Artus nodded, already pulling off his dirty shirt. “Yeah, thanks. See you later.”

  Tyvian snapped his fingers at him. “One more thing . . .” He paused—was he really about to say this? Gods—I guess so. “Keep it in your pants.”

  Artus’s mouth hung open. “Gross!”

  Brana laughed, tongue lolling out. “Pants! Ha!”

  When the door closed behind them, Tyvian watched from the window until they got in the coach and rattled off. For the first time in his entire life, Tyvian felt old.

  Chapter 11

  Wild Night

  Elora, as it turned out, did not have a chaperone. She was sitting in that coach, all alone, dressed in a midnight blue and silver gown that exposed her whole shoulders and a generous quantity of her upper chest, wearing a tear-drop diamond necklace that basically formed an arrow straight down her cleavage. And Artus got in with his idiot “brother” in tow. Like a chump.

  As the coach rattled off, Artus was stuck sitting across from Elora instead of next to her, which basically meant they got to look at each other but remained safely out of each other’s reach. They were, instead, forced to make polite conversation while Brana stuck his head out the window.

  Elora smiled and nodded at Brana. “Does he always do that?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.” Artus slapped Brana on the backside. “Stick your head back in! You look like a loon!”

  Brana popped back inside, his golden eyes alight. “We’re going to the lake!”

  “I love that glamour on your eyes, Brana,” Elora said, touching him on the knee. “It’s very striking.”

  Brana laughed at her and then sniffed the air. “Dogs!” he shouted, and stuck his head out the window again.

  Artus sighed. “Sorry about this.”

  Elora waved off the apology. “No, no—it’s all right. I was too subtle. Maybe we can convince him to walk home, though?” She gave Artus a wink. It hit Artus like a knife to the gut, taking his breath away.

  Did she really mean that? Did she really want the two of them to be alone? Well, obviously, right? She came here alone. Artus found he had to use all his willpower to avoid blushing, all while stupid Brana shook his rear end in his face.

  Elora laughed. “It’s all right. I think he’s kind of adorable.”

  Artus grimaced.

  They arrived, and of course Brana was immediately out the door. Shaking his head ruefully to Elora, Artus descended, then held his hand out, helping the lady down. That first touch was electric. Though improper, Elora let her hand linger in his for a moment too long. A blush overtook him and he withdrew his hand. Embarrassed at his own cowardice, he looked around . . . and his embarrassment was forgotten. The Floating Gardens had caught Artus’s attention since they first arrived in the city. They seemed so otherworldly, so unnatural—floating above Lake Elren like a kind of fairy crown, serene and untouched. The mageglass bridges that connected them looked like gossamer threads, too delicate to be real. Now, at the edge of the lake, Artus got a close-up look at one of the lowest ones.

  The bridge was wide enough for two people to walk abreast and slender in its construction—the single arch was no more than an inch thick in any one place, and did not thicken or broaden toward the ends, as a bridge should—so that Artus thought it improbable it could hold his weight, let alone the weight of the three of them collectively. Of course it was mageglass, and so was only half real anyway. The laws of nature did not strictly apply. Still, he was a bit nervous—as much about the bridge as he was about Elora’s proximity.

  They made their way across together, Brana in the lead, and after a first hesitant step—which caused Elora to give him a mocking look, causing him to blush—they made it across to the first garden. It floated only a few inches off the surface of the lake and many of the flowering vines that covered the trellises that ringed the garden’s edge dipped their roots down to touch the water. The center of the garden featured a single cherry tree, already in bloom, with even more flowering vines encircling its trunk. Everything was colorful and fragrant, even in the light of the moon. The grass was lush and soft beneath the soles of his shoes.

  Brana was no sooner on this garden than he was hurrying off to the next one—across another narrow bridge to another, slightly higher hunk of floating earth. As soon as he was out of sight, Elora took Artus by the hand once more—and the surge went through him again. This time he had the good sense to not let go. Her amber eyes twinkled in the moonlight, and her necklace positively sparkled. “I’m so glad you came tonight, Artus!”

  Artus felt his whole body tingle. He felt as though he and the garden were floating into the sky. “I’m glad, too.”

  Should I kiss her now? The question—one he hadn’t considered until exactly that moment—was enough to make his heart beat at twice the normal rate. Should he? What if he was wrong? What if he was misreading her signals? Were they, in fact, signals? Maybe she always went about with her shoulders bare like that! Maybe there was some rule of etiquette the kiss would violate. Gods, he thought, feeling a bead of sweat run down between his shoulder blades, why is this suddenly so terrifying?

  Elora was still smiling up at him. “We’re all so sorry about what happened to your uncle. The others are going to be so pleased you’re here!”

  Artus, again, felt his head spinning. “Others?”

  “Oh, just my cousin, Valen, and his friend Ethick. Oh and Michelle, of course.” Elora made a face, “I can’t seem to do anything without that girl tagging along.”

  Brana ran back into view. He had a rose in his teeth and one behind his ear. “Here, Artus!” he said, handing him the spare flower.

  Artus took it. The stem was slick with the gnoll’s saliva. “Yeah,” he said to Elora, “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Some more people were coming up the bridge. Artus turned to see Valen, followed by the thick-necked Ethick, and then Michelle. They were all dressed as though they were about to go on a hunt or something—high boots, thick doublets, and the willowy Michelle in a suede dress cut for riding. They were all holding mugs of what looked like beer. “I spy two lovebirds!” Valen shouted, loudly enough that it echoed off the lake. He looked to be just a trifle drunk.

  Elora rolled her eyes. “
You weren’t slumming it, were you?”

  Ethick belched. “That ale house was far from a slum. Charged us three silvers a mug!” He took a sip from the mug. “But yes. We were slumming it—we were drinking beer! Disgusting place, though—no cushions on the stools or anything.”

  Valen slapped Ethick on the arse. “Yes, because we all know you don’t have enough cushioning back there, eh?”

  “Really, Valen,” Michelle groaned. “Control yourself—you only had two.” She looked at Artus and gave him a shallow curtsey. “Well met, Master Artus. Pleased to see you again.”

  Artus smiled and shrugged. “You can just call me Artus, really. It’s okay.”

  That earned him a smile from Michelle, who pushed a stray hair behind her ear. Then Brana trotted up and gave her the other rose, and she turned bright red from her ears to her nose—the blush was visible even in moonlight.

  This sent Valen and Ethick into hysterics, though they refused to say why. Michelle, unable to banish the blush, folded her arms and scowled. The rose, though, remained in her hand.

  Elora looked displeased. She took Artus’s elbow. “Well, are we going to stand around looking like buffoons, or are we going to do something fun?”

  Artus jerked a thumb toward the bridge leading to the higher garden. “I thought we were going to walk through the gardens?”

  “Pshaw.” Ethick rolled his eyes. “That might be all well and good for you Eddonish lads, with the ladies on your arms and what-not, but what about me and Valen, here? Are we going to nuzzle each other in a gazebo or something?”

  “I’m not on his arm,” Michelle snarled, but then gave Brana an apologetic smile. “I mean . . . you know what I mean. No offense.”

  Brana grinned. “Want another flower?”

  Again, Michelle turned deep red. “No. Thank you, but no.”

  Ethick thrust his tankard forward like it was a cavalry saber. “Back to the ale house!”

  Michelle groaned. “Do we have to?” Ethick made a pleading gesture and she rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine.”

  Valen smiled. “Sounds fun to me.” He looked at Elora and Artus. “Up for it? Can Lady Elora handle a cushion-less stool?”

  Elora sniffed. “If we must, but let’s not stay all night. I’d rather not go home reeking of tobacco.”

  Valen chuckled and then called to Brana, “Hey, flower boy! You want to come get drunk?”

  Brana looked up from the chain of flowers he was weaving. “Drunk? Okay!”

  And so they went, Valen leading the way. Artus noticed that Brana, on the way to the bridge, offered Michelle his arm. At this point, her blush looked permanent . . . but she did take his elbow.

  This—running into Valen and Ethick and Michelle here—had to be what Tyvian had meant when he said “expect a surprise.” Except it didn’t seem like such a sinister surprise to Artus—they were trying to make friends with someone who might be important one day. What was so suspicious about that?

  The ale house was tucked a few blocks inside a neighborhood of Westercity, or so Artus was told. The big, palatial homes of the wealthy had given way to the small houses and cottages of the poor. The ale house was mostly outdoors, actually—rows of tables and stools set up beneath a heavy canvas awning and lit by smoky tallow candles. The ale was inside the small brewery, which seemed chiefly to consist of a man squeezed behind a short counter and surrounded by massive wooden casks.

  The brewer was pleased to see his mugs return, and particularly pleased to see members of the peerage drinking his brew. He had his son—a lad of maybe ten—come round with a pitcher every few minutes, just to make sure nobody’s mug went empty. Valen was paying for everyone, but Artus noted the coinage being passed along. The brewer was gouging them—it was costing two gold marks for a round, which was about ten times what Artus guessed it should be. This fact never seemed to dawn on Valen, or anybody else, for that matter. Two marks wasn’t enough money for Valen to care about, even if he did notice. The brewer, meanwhile, looked as though he was being blessed by the gods with every coin Valen slipped him. Artus was pretty sure the man was weeping with joy when they turned their backs.

  No one else was in the alehouse—they had the place to themselves. It made Artus wonder why—the beer wasn’t too bad, actually, and on a cool, clear spring evening, it should have been quite the draw for locals who had worked a long day. Maybe the nobles frightened them off. Maybe that was why they were being charged so much.

  In any case, Artus didn’t bring it up. There were far more interesting things to think about.

  Elora, for instance.

  Valen, Ethick, and Brana were at a separate table, each taking turns chugging beer to impress a completely unimpressed Michelle. This left Elora and Artus alone at their table, perched on stools, heads close together, holding hands. The crickets chirped in the untamed lawn at their feet; in the distance somewhere, a man sang an old Rhondian ballad to the tune of a squeaky concertina.

  Elora smiled. “This is actually quite nice. I wasn’t expecting this.”

  Artus smiled back. “What?”

  “I wonder sometimes what it’s like to be a peasant.” She shrugged. “You know—no obligations, no expectations. Just go out into the world and . . . and, you know, live your own way.”

  Artus laughed. “That’s what you think it’s like?”

  Elora rolled her eyes at him. “Oh, come on—this is unfair. You’ve lived among them all these years, so you obviously know better than I do, but think about it—if you and I were poor, we could come here every night, by ourselves! If we wanted to . . .” She stopped herself, blushing. “Well, you know—we’d be freer than we are now.”

  Artus squeezed her hand. “Assuming we could afford it.”

  Elora snorted. “Well obviously we’d have jobs. Everybody has a job—I have a job.” Artus laughed, but she pressed on. “I do! I’m the hope for my whole family, Artus! If I don’t succeed in bringing honor to House Davram, my great-aunt will have no choice but to cut us off—my father has only a small fief, and he can’t protect it himself. Gods, we’re one bad battle away from him being declared errant, and then we’d be homeless!”

  “You wouldn’t be homeless,” Artus said, surprised at the bitterness in his voice. “All that means for you is you’d rent a fancy house here in the city.”

  “Fancy? It would have, what, seven rooms? Ha!” Elora shook her head. “You’re the son of royalty. You have more money than anyone. You don’t understand.”

  Artus looked around at the houses clustered together on the street, most of which housed two or three families and not many of which had more than seven rooms altogether. He thought of his own home growing up, far across the mountains in the distant northern kingdoms. The little farmhouse had three rooms for ten people, assuming you didn’t count the barn. He sighed. He really didn’t understand. He decided to change the subject and use the single piece of romantic advice Tyvian had ever given him. “That’s a nice necklace.”

  Elora looked down, cupping the tear-drop shaped jewel and holding it to the light. “You like it? It’s my mother’s. I filched it from her vanity this afternoon. I like how subtle it is.”

  “It goes with the dress very well,” Artus added.

  Elora’s smile sparkled to match the diamond. “Thank you very much!” She leaned forward, batting her eyes. “I wore it for you, you know.”

  Artus wasn’t sure which was more surprising—that he had actually taken some of Tyvian’s advice, or that it had worked so spectacularly. He leaned forward, too, so close their noses were almost touching. “Now I really wish I hadn’t brought Brana along.”

  Elora rolled her eyes. “Stop talking about your brother for five seconds, will you?”

  Artus shut up. They stayed there, gazing into each other’s eyes, nose to nose, and neither of them moved. Artus felt trapped—unable to retreat, but unable to advance. Eventually, it was Tyvian’s voice in his head that jarred him from the stalemate. Kroth’s teeth, boy! Kiss he
r!

  So he did. He wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it—the few times he’d spied on Tyvian kissing Myreon had typically been interrupted by Hool before he could get any real good idea of what to do. He puckered his lips and pressed, basically. Elora pressed back, sealing her lips around his in an airtight lock. They stayed there, sucking on each other’s faces for a few seconds, which was probably the best few seconds of Artus’s life to date. Then she stuck her tongue in his mouth, and he nearly gagged in surprise and broke away.

  Elora’s eyes were wide. “Sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

  “No, no!” Artus shook his head. “It’s okay . . . I’m . . . I didn’t expect that . . . I just . . .”

  Valen’s hand fell on his shoulder. “All right, lovebirds—that’s enough of that. Time to hear what Artus of Eddon has to say for himself.” Valen’s breath smelled heavily of beer. As did his doublet.

  Artus looked to see Ethick and Michelle, both a bit tipsy themselves, standing behind him. “Where’s Brana?”

  Ethick laughed. “Your brother can’t hold his liquor, that’s for sure!” He pointed. Brana was curled up in a ball, sleeping under the table.

  Michelle cocked her head. “Awww . . . he’s so cute! He looks like a little puppy under there.”

  Valen laughed. “His tongue is hanging out far enough, eh?” Ethick joined him in a series of belly-shaking guffaws.

  Artus frowned. “You had something you wanted to ask me?”

  Valen sat on a stool next to Artus. He was drunk, so he tipped a little. Artus righted him. “Can’t hold your beer either, can you, Valen?”

  Valen laughed. “Shit’s so weak, you . . . you don’t realize . . . how much you’ve had.” He belched. Artus wished Tyvian were there to see it. “Anyway . . . who told you you could call me Valen and not milord?”

  Michelle rolled her eyes. “He’s royalty, Valen. You should call him milord.”

  Elora snorted. “Valen outranks you, Michelle. What’s your excuse?”