The House of the Stag

by Kage Baker

  He saw, rather than felt, the white anger surge up, a distant thing. He resisted the urge to let it pull him down to that fighting floor.

  The amulet must come off, therefore the cuirass must come off. And Quickfire was left-handed. Therefore …

  Gard feinted and fell back, feinted and fell back, working himself around to Quickfire’s right. Quickfire moved like his name, but he could not overcome his body’s habit; all the attacks were staged from the left, with the right arm used only to block, the sword used like a shield.

  Gard lunged forward, fighting through the barrier, driving the point deep into Quickfire’s upper right arm and piercing the sinew there. Only one cut, but just where it needed to be. Quickfire dropped the sword, and he might have cried out, but the audience outcried him, their roar sent dust floating down from the ceiling, made the very sand underfoot vibrate.

  Gard kicked the sword across the sand. It spun into the gutter and the edge, teetered there for a moment, and dropped into the salvager’s pit. Was Triphammer in there, wringing his hands? Would he throw it back? Or was he wearing a green ribbon too?

  Quickfire recovered himself and turned edge-on, presenting his left, and came at Gard with furious speed, with slashing head cuts. Gard beat them away, dancing to the left, always to the left, circling and circling to come at Quickfire’s right side. Quickfire’s right arm hung useless, but the small wound was hardly bleeding. Round and round Gard turned him, and then, without any signal, bounded away to the right and dropped low.

  As Quickfire raised his blade for a head cut, Gard came in beneath and sliced upward, cutting through the side strap on the cuirass. It came at the price of a slash down Gard’s cheek, slowed as he was by the amulet; he bounded away and circled again, disregarding the blood that welled at once and ran down, disregarding the yells of the crowd. They were shouting for Quickfire, young and handsome and brave, who showed no fear even when wounded.

  “Oh, well done, Gard,” shouted Quickfire, and gasped for breath. “You’ve wounded my armor. And I’ve spoiled your good looks, haven’t I? So sorry. Shouldn’t be a problem, though, should it? Don’t you hump your females from behind? Not as though they have to look at you!” The audience shouted with laughter.

  Gard let him talk, circling, evaluating. How did the shoulder of the cuirass fasten? How strong was the protection the amulet generated? He focused, went out of himself, and watched as he feinted toward Quickfire’s heart. A veil of flame appeared, catching, delaying his blade point. Almost impossible to strike with a mortal wound there, then. He darted in toward the right side once more, aimed a scratch at the useless arm, and found the veil was not nearly so quick to materialize where the wound was not likely to be mortal.

  It was all he needed to know. Gard circled again, parried an attack, then launched himself at Quickfire in the killing leap, bounding straight up. He struck downward with his left-hand blade, and the spell veil formed instantly over the vulnerable throat and neck. His blade’s point slid away, struck instead his true target, the strap that closed the left shoulder of the cuirass.

  It punched through, going into Quickfire’s shoulder no more than an inch, nor was the wound deep. But it bit with painful force; Quickfire shouted and brought his fist up as Gard came down, and his blade stabbed upward through Gard’s billowing robe and cut a trench in Gard’s side from waist to shoulder. The point stopped just short of Gard’s chin.

  Gard hurled himself backward, ignoring this wound too. He watched Quickfire intently. Quickfire, enraged, started forward, flinging up his arm for a last head cut—

  And his cuirass opened like a book and fell off him.

  Gard sprang forward and knocked him down. Quickfire went sprawling, and how the crowd screamed and moaned in sympathy! There was a buzzing roar of wrath, like a disturbed hive, as Gard set his foot on Quickfire’s chest. He leaned down and grabbed the amulet, breaking the cord from which it had hung. He held it up for the crowd to see.

  Breath indrawn in a thousand throats. Gard felt the compass needle of their regard swing slowly round, as they recognized what it was he held, and what it meant.

  Now they hated Quickfire. Howling, hooting, the audience sent their scorn on him in immense waves of sound, and he lay drowning in disgust with Gard’s right blade an inch from his heart.

  Gard looked down into his eyes. “I defeated you fairly. I am a better fighter than you are, and you knew it. You cheated because you were afraid of me, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, shut up and kill me,” said Quickfire. Above them the audience was screaming, pounding their seats, and every pair of eyes was fixed on the point of Gard’s sword.

  “Should I kill you?” said Gard. “That would earn me the enmity of your kinsmen, wouldn’t it? And then I’d need to look over my shoulder always, and wonder if the food or drink set before me had been poisoned. I don’t think you’re worth it.”

  “No!” Quickfire tried to rise, his eyes starting from his head in horror. “Don’t do this to me! Give me a decent death!”

  “No.” Gard bore down on him with his foot. “Why should I, when your life was all talk and spite? I will be merciful and pardon you. Watch me.”

  Gard looked up at the audience and weighed the amulet in his hand; then he cast it into the sand cleaners’ pit, in a gesture wide enough for all to see. A moan of anticipation came from the crowd. He turned and was just raising the point of his sword, and the moan was fading to a breathless silence—

  Then, with a hollow boom, all four doors to the arena were flung open at once.

  Armed figures ran in, dozens of them, and began to kill members of the audience. Gard looked up, astonished to see that those masters who had worn green ribbons were drawing weapons and joining in the massacre. Magister Obashon’s family was slaughtered around him where he sat, and though he raised his arms and summoned explosions in red and blue and green to blind and blast his assailants, Balnshik herself leaped through the fires and cut away both his hands.

  Vergoin was mercilessly dispatching some family group in cloth of gold livery. Magister Tagletsit, adorned with green ribbon, had prudently withdrawn to a seat against a pillar and waved an athalme in a threatening manner whenever the tide of the massacre drew too near for his comfort. Duke Silverpoint was on his feet and killing with efficiency the entire party of Magister Imriudeth, so that those he had not got to yet were shedding the colorful livery that marked them and running for the doors. Even so, none made it out alive.

  A percussive shock, scattering flower petals, threw Gard to the sand. Lying there, he saw that Quickfire had rolled over and hidden his face. Gard followed his example. There were more explosions, and much screaming. A fine mist of blood drifted down into the arena.

  Gard rose cautiously when the screams had all but stopped. Quickfire remained on his face, sobbing.

  All through the tiers of seats, bodies were slumped, though a crew of slaves were being directed in their removal by Magister Hoptriot. The living, most of whom wore the green ribbon, were moving among the dead stripping them of ornaments. Balnshik seemed to be kissing one of the masters; she rose with a languid motion and Gard saw the gaping wound in the master’s throat, the white face with its eyes rolled back.

  He was still staring at it when he heard the tunnel doors flung open. Someone was coming up the fighters’ entrance. Gard turned to see who it was.

  Lady Pirihine strode forth under the lights, naked as when he had seen her last, save for a green ribbon tied in a bow around her neck. Grattur and Engrattur flanked her, grinning. They, and she, carried blades no less naked and were splashed with blood in several colors. Lady Pirihine’s eyes shone with cold triumph.

  She raised her hand and pointed at Gard:

  “I want him.”

  12th day 2nd week 10th month in the 246th year from the Ascent of the Mountain. This day, Slave 4372301 reassigned to Personal Service: allocated to Lady Pirihine, most puissant Narcissus of the Void, of the exalted line of Magister Porlilon. />
  “Bet you weren’t expecting this,” said Grattur.

  “Bet you never imagined you’d be so lucky!” said Engrattur.

  “You see? We said she wouldn’t forget you!”

  “Oh, you’ll lead a sweet life now. Lucky bastard!”

  Gard looked around them, slightly dazed. They had brought him to a suite of rooms up a long staircase. The rooms were splendid, all black and gold, draped and ornamented and rich beyond measure—and scrupulously clean, save for a long smear of blood where some faithful retainer’s corpse had been dragged out.

  “What is this place?”

  “It was Magister Obashon’s own chamber,” said Grattur.

  “Was. It’ll be our lady’s, now. Look at this!” Engrattur stuck his head through a doorway. “A bath, all polished stone and scented salts!”

  “Look at this bed, all black silk and eiderdown!”

  “Ooooh, lucky Icicle!” they chorused.

  “I’ll draw you a bath, she said you were to be washed.”

  “Look at this, you just open this bit and water runs out!”

  “Bet you’ve never seen the like of this!”

  “Bet you’ve never lain in such a bed!”

  “Where is he? You big fools, there’s a trail of blood all the way up here,” said Triphammer, peering through the doorway.

  “It’s not from me,” said Gard.

  “That’s something, anyway,” said Triphammer, entering cautiously. He avoided Gard’s gaze. “I’ve been sent to patch him up. All right are you, Icicle?”

  “What’s happened?” Gard sat on a padded bench—unbelievable softness—and let Triphammer come and inspect his hurts.

  “Another war, what do you think?” said Triphammer.

  “Surprise!” said Grattur.

  “What fun we had!” said Engrattur.

  “Idiots! It’s a serious business!” said Triphammer. “Never good for the masters to fight amongst themselves. Always fewer of them, every time they have one of these little spats, and the bloodlines are getting thinned out. And it may have been all fun and games for you, but what about the poor devils who had to abide by their binding spells?”

  “But that was the beauty of it,” said Grattur.

  “Our lady worked out a way around the spells,” said Engrattur.

  “She’s clever with words, that one.”

  “We just had to obey exactly what she said.”

  “She put it in such a way we weren’t technically disobeying the Great Order.”

  “We carried messages for her.”

  “We let the demons know, and her secret friends.”

  “But that’s the end of the line of Magister Obashon,” said Triphammer, dabbing something that stung on Gard’s cheek. “Every last child of his, you slaughtered. And he was great and wise.”

  “Not wise enough,” said Grattur cheerily.

  “Should have killed our lady when he might,” said Engrattur.

  “Well, you two won something, anyway,” said Triphammer. “Stand up, Icicle, let me see that long cut. Sssssst! But it’s only bad here, and here. You’ll need me to stitch those bits, and the cheek. She won’t want your looks spoiled, eh?”

  Triphammer rummaged in his kit for needle and thread and set to stitching Gard’s cuts while Grattur filled a bath and scented it with perfumes. Engrattur, singing, flung back the silk sheets of the bed, scattered them with flower petals.

  “That was a dishonor, what Quickfire did,” Triphammer murmured softly, as he worked. “Wouldn’t have thought it of him. Coward. You did right not to kill him. Sorry I couldn’t … well, it’s over and done now, eh? Lovely days ahead for you, that’s certain. And you got to retire from the arena undefeated, do you realize that? They may even breed you, wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “What?” Gard thought with horror of raising children in that place.

  “Don’t be humble! They could use a little strong hybrid blood, especially now. It all works out for the best, see? It’s like I always say to myself. ‘Triphammer,’ I say, ‘what’s so terrible, really, about being a slave? What were you when you were free but a beggar, a thief, never knowing where your next meal was coming from? Here, at least, you amount to something! You have a place!’

  “And you, Icicle, where’d you be, if they hadn’t rescued you from the snows? Worse still, what if you’d stayed in your jungle? You’d never have seen a beautiful room like this one, that’s for certain. Or got to meet the likes of her ladyship, so refined and lovely. Or learned manners and reading and all from the duke. Know a stroke of good fortune when you see one, my friend.”

  “And now you’ll be Mistress Pirihine’s plaything!” said Grattur.

  “You’ll enjoy her. We can tell you, we have had the pleasure!”

  “Lightning in a girl’s skin, that one, hot snow, cool fire.”

  “ ‘Give it to me, you big animals,’ she said, and we had to obey.”

  They pounded each other, chortling. Gard watched them bleakly, wincing as Triphammer stitched his cheek closed. He was exhausted—and shaken by the slaughter he’d seen; but the prospect of easing his lusts after so long was beginning to glimmer through to him, like a hopeful dawn. He wondered if he might come to love Lady Pirihine, as a man ought to love a wife.

  Triphammer remained until after Gard had bathed, that he might bandage the cuts. “Here’s a set of clean clothes that I brought from your old room,” he told Gard, pulling them from his bag. “She’ll want you to wear her livery, of course, but you’ll need something until then. And here’s a quid for you, because you’ll feel these hurts tomorrow, you know. But don’t have a chew tonight, whatever you do! Her ladyship will be sore disappointed.”

  “She doesn’t like being disappointed,” said Grattur, chuckling.

  “Hits you with her tiny little fists and screams abuse,” said Engrattur, shaking his head with a fond smile.

  “Let’s hope she’ll have a bit of patience with a weary fighter, eh? But you’re strong, Icicle, you’ll rise to the occasion.” Triphammer gathered up his bag. “Cheer up, now! Just remember how lucky you are. Not such a bad life. Best thing, really.”

  Triphammer left; Grattur and Engrattur took their leave too, though only to stand outside the door with drawn blades. Gard sat alone, looking around at the fine things in the room. It was a warmer place, more ornamented than Duke Silverpoint’s apartments. There were few books, and those immense and black, with jewels set in their spines.

  He got up once, to follow the blood trail, and found that it led into a small spare antechamber with a narrow bed. Scattered on the floor were a jar of some oily stuff and a rag, and one ornamented boot with a curled toe. The luckless slave had been cleaning Magister Obashon’s boots when they had come for him. Gard wondered where the other boot was.

  He went back into the bedchamber and pulled down one of the books, to see if it was about weaponry. Written in one of the ancient tongues he had studied only briefly, it did not seem to be. Sounding out the characters (for he still moved his lips as he read), Gard felt the book begin to move in his hands, as though restless. He held it tighter and opened it to another section.

  To kill at a distance: this requires the sacrifice of a child of the same gender as the intended victim, dressed in every respect in the victim’s habit, and in one of his or her garments if possible. Feed the child for three days and three nights on the following mixture …

  Gard threw the book down in disgust. It snapped shut, seemed to shake itself, and began to crawl, batlike, to the shelf from which it had been taken. He heard the door open behind him and turned to see Lady Pirihine enter.

  She was still naked, though her green ribbon was gone. She took in the grand room in a long traveling stare, smiling wide, nodded cursorily at Gard, and strode to Magister Obashon’s jewel chest. It was locked; she uttered a word painful to hear and it sprang open. For some few minutes she amused herself by trying on such rings and necklaces as would fit her.

  �
�Well, Icicle,” she said at last, “here we are. Do you remember when I said I’d have you killed slowly?”

  “I remember,” said Gard.

  “Perhaps I won’t, after all. It was well done, to kill the beast that had laid hands on me against my will. And I owe you thanks, that you so held the attention of Obashon and all his party; they were much too caught up in the spectacle to pay attention to a little backstairs conspiracy.” She dimpled as she found a great somber red stone, pendant from a chain of gold, and slipped it on so it hung between her breasts. “How nice I look! Don’t you think I look nice?”

  “You are beautiful, lady,” said Gard, his body already testifying to that.

  She turned to look at him and clapped her hands. “Ah, what a glorious monster you are! I’ll have you right now.” She hopped up on the bed and crouched, turning her hindquarters to him. “Do it! Do it exactly as you would with a she-creature in your forest tribe, do you understand?”

  Gard was eager to oblige, though a little bewildered that she wanted no soft talk, no gentle touches first. He cleared his throat and began, hesitantly, to sing the Virgin’s Song.

  “What on earth are you doing?” She turned her head to look at him, scowling.

  “This is how it was done with my people. I remember watching, when I was a boy. The song is for a virgin, and the man sings to the woman—”

  “Imbecile! Do you really think I’m a virgin?”

  Gard blushed, grimaced, and looked away. “Not you—I had no chances, where I lived—and then—”

  But she had jumped from the bed and held her hand out in a commanding gesture. The red stone flashed. Her eyes widened. “Tulit’s bones! You’re a virgin!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes,” said Gard wretchedly. He watched a new expression come into her face, a new kind of lust entirely, and it made her look older, and hungrier, than did the simple desire to be pleasured.