The House of the Stag

by Kage Baker

  “Were you frightened for the baby? Don’t be,” said Gard. “He’s alive and strong.”

  “I know.” The Saint could not tell him about the reasonless terror, the conviction that some shapeless thing flailed within her womb. Women have such fears. They’re groundless, always. I am like other women, therefore my fear is groundless.

  But was the baby’s father like other men?

  Gard watched her trying to calm herself. He put his hand on her belly, spreading out his fingers. “Shame on you, Son, dancing in the middle of the night. Here, Wife, put your hand here. That’s a little foot. Can you feel?”

  “Yes …”

  “And here’s the other little foot, and here’s his head. No wings. No hooves. No tentacles. His mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, and he’ll inherit his looks from her.”

  “Not from the Dark Lord?” The Saint smiled a little.

  “How can a baby inherit a mask?” Gard smiled too.

  He left her sleeping the next morning, nodded brusquely to the pair of disciples waiting in the corridor without, and returned the salute of his two guards who waited there also. “Let her sleep late,” he told the disciples. “Her rest was disturbed.”

  He went down to the baths and was mildly annoyed to discover Mr. Ironweld still hadn’t finished the grand mosaic-tile floor. The Child of the Sun, on hands and knees fitting tiny tiles in place, nodded to him. “Morning, Dark Lord, sir.”

  Gard paused to study the image forming, which seemed to be of an immense man bearing a trident and doing something improbable with a leviathan. “What’s that?”

  “That’s Lord Brimo of the Blue Water, sir. Riding his sea serpent to the place of the sea nymphs. Other end of the room, that’ll be the panel where he’s found the sea nymphs. You’ll like that part.”

  “This is going to cost more than you estimated, isn’t it?”

  “Ah.” Mr. Ironweld wiped grout from his fingers. “Well, that’s the great thing about doing a marine motif, you see, sir? Lots of blue. Blue’s a very cheap color. I can get blue mosaic tile for practically nothing. Red, now, red’s expensive. But you’ve got to have it for the sea horses and some of the fish.”

  “Make them blue, then.”

  “Couldn’t do that, sir. Wouldn’t be enough contrast. Foul up my color scheme.” Mr. Ironweld looked at him reproachfully.

  Gard growled but let the matter drop and walked down into the bath. There he splashed around awhile, looking up at the ceiling mural of blue sky and white clouds, the whole of it lit by a circular skylight. “How much did that cost me?” he inquired, pointing at it.

  “Wouldn’t know, sir. That’s Gritpolish’s work. Your werewolf, sir, he’s got each of us under separate contracts. Best way, really.”

  “Is it?” Gard reached for a towel and waded out.

  “Yes, sir. Careful stepping on that bit, sir, the grout hasn’t set.”

  Muttering to himself, Gard made his way to his dressing room, where Thrang waited with Gard’s valets.

  “Good morning, little brother,” said Grattur, holding up three yards of linen. Gard took it and wrapped it around himself. “Guess what my girl did this morning!”

  “Good morning. What did she do?”

  “Took her first walk!”

  “And my boy said his first word!” said Engrattur.

  “What was it?”

  “ ‘No,’ “ said Engrattur proudly.

  “Congratulations.”

  Madam Balnshik wishes to confer with Master concerning the duty roster at his earliest convenience, Thrang advised him. And the spoils from the last raid have been brought into the lower courtyard for Master’s inspection. I have an itemized list here; I thought Master might be particularly interested in the crates of ceramic plumbing pipes.

  “Pipes? That was a lucky score,” said Gard, pulling his tunic on over his head. “Hardcoal can finish the nursery plumbing.”

  I thought so, sir. I took the liberty of opening one of the crates and sending it down to the job site.

  “Thank you.”

  Will Master be dining in the officers’ mess?

  “Yes.”

  Straj, sausages, toast, figs, and tea are available this morning.

  “Oh, good.”

  Dressed and groomed, Gard dined with Balnshik while going over duty rosters, discussing household security and intelligence reports, and planning the next raid. It took most of an hour before he emerged from a side gate in the inner wall and walked out into the garden.

  And clearly it was a garden now, with an orchard and reflecting pool and rows of herbs, though the trees were small and shielded from the wind by woven screens. A few white-robed figures moved along the rows, with urns of water. Gard grunted in satisfaction. He picked up a shovel and strode out to join them.

  “Where do you need the next hole dug?” he inquired of Kdwyr.

  The Saint, having risen late, sat frowning at her writing table. She reread the letter.

  … and while we of course rejoice in your triumph over evil, it falls to me to tell you that there are those among our people who do not accept your letter as authentic. There are some too who accept that you wrote it, but under duress, or under ensorcellment. This of course has caused tremendous disputation among the trevanion, with the final agreement that you, being the Promised, cannot by your very nature be subject to enchantments or force, though some reserved judgment on the second point until you can yourself explain more clearly the circumstances of your departure from us.

  I regret to inform you that the Mowers in no wise accept that you wrote the letter of your own free will, nor that you would willingly submit to bearing Cursed Gard’s offspring. This will distress you, without doubt, but it is the natural consequence of what has befallen us.

  I am doing as much as I can to see that your intentions go forward with respect to ministering to the Children of the Sun, though of course my success must be limited, for I have neither your skill nor perfect knowledge. And while we rejoice to hear that Kdwyr and the others who have joined you there are not lost as we feared, uncounted others long for the blessing of your regard once more.

  I urge you, Mother and Daughter, to return to us, that you may yourself satisfy us as to the truth of your condition and intentions. The Mowers stand ready at any time to escort you in honor to the meeting place you shall appoint.

  I strongly recommend you give my words serious consideration.

  With all respect,

  Lendreth

  She set the letter aside and had reached for her pen before noticing the young disciple Dnuill standing, hesitant, in the doorway.

  “Mother? There is another letter here for you, from the trevani Jish.”

  “Where is the bearer? Is it Seni?”

  “No, Mother. It’s Nelume. She’s Jish’s student.”

  The Saint rose, a little wearily, and received Nelume.

  “Mother.” Nelume knelt down for blessing, staring up at her. “It’s true, then! You are to bear another Child!”

  “I am to bear my husband’s child. A little boy. There’s nothing extraordinary about him, so far as I know.”

  “They are saying, Mother, that now that you have gone, the Star will come back to us. Do you think it’s true?”

  I wish it were, thought the Saint. Aloud she said, “But I haven’t gone. I have simply married and live here now. Nothing else has changed.”

  “But people say you’re under a spell!”

  “Do I look as though I’m under a spell?”

  “No—but—then, perhaps it wouldn’t show,” said Nelume breathlessly. “And people say this is all a plot of Cursed Gard’s to destroy us.”

  “People are wrong,” said the Saint, as mildly as she might. “And his name is only Gard. Have you brought me a letter?”

  “Oh! Yes, Mother, it’s here.”

  The girl presented the leaf roll. The Saint took it. “I’ll read this at once. Dnuill will bring you water and show you a place
to rest.”

  To the young Mother, greetings.

  We scarcely know what to believe, following your departure. If you are indeed happy and well, then we must accept the truth of your letter and wish you may be blessed of a fair child. And if we can believe that you have subdued he who was Cursed Gard to your will, then we must praise your power and wisdom. I can myself well believe it; for I remember you slew demons when you were but a child.

  But you should know, young Mother, that there are those among us whose faith is imperfect and who do not believe.

  Lendreth has taken it upon himself to usurp your place, in your absence. He resides on your garden island and has sent your disciples away, and called the Mowers to attend him. He has sent out orders that all our people are to organize themselves into villages once more. He requests that boys from all families be sent to swell the Mowers’ ranks. I need hardly tell you that our people murmur at this and do not obey, though many have joined the Mowers, out of a desire to avenge your abduction.

  I cannot think this is good. The Star himself would have protested it.

  And this is another thing you should know, that after years of diminishing our Star’s light by referring to him as the Beloved Imperfect, Lendreth now speaks of him as having possessed wisdom and strength beyond your own and encourages those who say that the Star will come back to us again, to lead us in new and better ways.

  Which only shows that Lendreth never understood him. I myself did not understand him, then, to my regret. The eyes of the young are often blinded by distractions.

  You will wish to amend this lamentable state of affairs, I know. I urge you to speak out and condemn Lendreth’s behavior. A firm letter would be useful but not as effective as your own presence condemning him out of your own mouth. He would wither in the sight of your eyes.

  Why could you not return to us, if only to deal with this matter? Your presence would deprive him of his authority. I assure you that we, by whom I mean all we trevanion of the eastern forests, would fully support any measures you took to resolve the situation.

  With love and duty,

  Jish

  The Saint leaned her head on her hand. She thought of the disciples as they had once been, as Seni was forever describing them, young and innocent and united in love. How had it come to this backbiting, rancorous mess?

  She felt the hard throb in her lower back and sat upright, easing it, breathing deep. She reached once more for the pen and dipped it in the inkwell.

  To my disciples, to all trevanion and students, to any who claim to accept my authority, this general epistle is directed.

  I am grieved to see such dissension among you in my absence. Must I believe that

  The pain came again, urgent. She dropped the pen and looked down at herself, in surprise.

  “Sir!” Redeye emerged from the gate in the wall and looked around. “Sir! Your lady wife’s gone to her bed!”

  Heads rose all over the garden, from where they had been bent over their labor. Gard threw down his shovel and ran. “Is she all right?”

  “Likely; it’s just the baby coming,” said Redeye, and jogged along after, but Gard soon outdistanced him. So did the disciples, coming swiftly from behind and passing him in the corridor. Redeye gave it up at last and went down to the officers’ mess for an early celebratory drink, but was bowled over at the door by Balnshik, emerging at a dead run.

  “I don’t care for the skulls,” said the Saint.

  “What?” Gard stared at her. She drew a deep breath, waiting for the contraction to pass, controlling the pain.

  “The skulls. I don’t want my child born in a bed watched by emblems of death.”

  Gard drew a sword from the weapons rack on the wall and hacked the silver finials from the bedposts, one after another. He gathered them up and handed them to Thrang, who hovered at the door. “Have them melted down and recast as stars,” Gard said, then returned to his seat by the bed.

  “Thank you,” said the Saint. “It was a silly request. Oh—”

  “They’re only decoration,” said Gard.

  “The nursery isn’t ready—”

  It will be, Thrang assured her. Captain Balnshik herself has gone through the house and collected the Children of the Sun, and given them personal assurances of reward if they will finish the nursery before the sun sets on this fortunate day.

  “See? It’ll be all right,” said Gard. “And anyway, I lived in a hole under some roots when I was young, and it didn’t do me any harm.”

  “I know,” said the Saint. “Oh—Husband, I received two letters today, and they trouble me greatly—”

  “Letters? Who from?”

  “The trevanion—”

  “They’re a bunch of idiots. I don’t want you thinking about them now.”

  “I don’t want to think about them now,” she said, glaring at him, “but they demand my attention. I need to meet with them.”

  Gard scowled. “You can’t travel. Not with the—”

  “Oh!”

  “Oh! Again, again, I can see the head!”

  “Oh!”

  “At least—” Gard stared down, looking dubious. His face cleared. “Yes! It’s a head!”

  “Is he all right?” Frantic, the Saint rose on her elbows. But Gard was laughing, bending down with hands wide, and the boy slid into his hands and was deftly caught and hoisted up into the light shrieking.

  “It’s my son! Look at my son! Look at this boy!” roared Gard. Laughing, he leaned down to kiss the Saint and put the child in her outstretched hands. “He’s the most beautiful baby in the world!”

  She cradled him and studied him closely. The little boy was perfect, tiny and fair, no tail, no scales, no claws. “We need to cut the cord—”

  “I can do that,” said Gard proudly. “It’s just like putting on a tourniquet.” He tied off the cord and grabbed up a dagger, sliced it through. “There!”

  There was so much noise she thought the roof might come down: crying and song out in the hall, and Thrang’s deep-throated baying as he ran down through the house with the news, and the cheering that rose now from all quarters. Gard let in her disciples, who instantly clustered around the bed with cries of adoration.

  The baby was taken from her arms, washed in sweet water, wrapped in fine silk trimmed with pearls, and returned to her. She scarcely noticed their ministrations to herself, as she peered into the little face. The baby had clamped firmly onto her breast and nuzzled there greedily, with his eyes crossing.

  She looked into his eyes. Try as she might, she could not see his soul.

  Duke Skalkin Salting was displeased with his spoils.

  He sat in the front row at Tinwick’s Theater, surrounded by bodyguards, and watched the sweating actors perform Mage’s Gambit, or The Black Dungeon of F’narh. He’d never cared for this kind of thing, himself; the declamatory style seemed stilted and old-fashioned. He much preferred the witty urban comedies of Tourmaline.

  Not only was the theater small and a bit grubby, there was only one really wealthy street in the whole of Deliantiba, and one really nice district of mansions. Its quarries were all right, in their way; he thought he might get them turning a profit again, in another year or so. The pottery industry, likewise. And it was useful to have a river down which to ship stone and pots to more civilized places.

  If he’d known how little return he’d get on the expense of taking the place, however, he’d have let old Chrysantine keep his miserable little city.

  Provincial miserable little city. There, two rows over to the side, sat a veiled woman without the slightest idea of how to behave at a play, even a stinker like this one. She chatted constantly with her gentleman companion about the plot, ignoring the dirty looks she was getting from her fellow theatergoers. She munched from a paper sack of sweetmeats, rustling the paper, smacking her lips when she bit into a good one, or exclaiming in annoyance when she got one she disliked and tossing it at the actors.

  She watched attenti
vely when Kendon the Hero was being tortured and applauded afterward; but during the comic business between Elti and Jibbi, she announced she was bored. She got up and left, seeming to sway a little drunkenly as she made her way out, with her companion hurrying after her.

  The play ended at last. The Dark Lord died in a blaze of blue and green flames; that was pleasant to watch, at least. The duke had had enough of Dark Lords, these days. He arose and applauded dutifully, and had one of his men toss a bag of coins to the actors. One of them caught the bag and they bowed, without as much enthusiasm as he felt they might have shown him.

  “Now, for gods’ sake let’s get out of here,” he muttered to his sergeant. “I want a drink.”

  Not soon enough, he was at the ducal table in the Chalice, sipping his wine alone, but in peace; for a frozen silence had descended on the other diners as soon as he had entered with his men. One by one they rose and left the restaurant, some of them leaving their meals unfinished.

  “Should have burned the whole place to the ground,” said the duke, quite loud enough to be heard. “See what I get for being a merciful conqueror?”

  A waiter rushed to refill his wine. He was just raising it to his lips when a couple entered the Chalice. It was the absurd veiled woman from the theater, with her companion. To Salting’s astonishment, she walked straight up to his table.

  “Greetings, Duke Salting. I wish to discuss something with you. You will find it to your advantage.”

  Her voice was sweet, but the foreign accent made him suspicious. His bodyguards turned and stood regarding her, knives drawn.

  Her companion, a harried-looking man in early middle age, smiled at them. “No, she’s not one of us. I’d suggest you let her speak, all the same.”

  The duke raised his eyebrows and had another sip of wine. “You wish to sell me information?”

  “Sell? Oh, no, dear sir. I want nothing from you. I wish to make you a present of something. We have an enemy in common, you see.”