by Mark Smylie
“Oh, you must, must you?” Leigh asked icily. He drew himself up to his full height, which was not very high, but nonetheless was taller than the shorter older man. “Do you have any idea who I am?” Leigh practically screamed.
The old man looked at him puzzled and a bit frightened. “No, sir, I do not,” he said faintly.
Leigh was about to scream at him again, when he suddenly realized that this was a good thing. So he barked a laugh instead. “Of course you don’t!” he said with a giggle. “No reason at all you would know me. I don’t even look like me. In fact I’m not me at all.” The old baker seemed to just get more confused. “Not to worry, however. I am in fact a customer, and I wish to buy some of your most excellent pastries. Two dozen, in fact!”
At first Leigh thought the old man might refuse him entry into the shop, but apparently the prospect of a fast sale of two dozen pastries was enough to sway him. Leigh followed him inside, and he ooh’d and aah’d as they picked out the best looking of the glistening pastelles de nata from the displays, and carefully wrapped them up in a small cloth-lined woven basket. For the whole presentation it cost five shillings, more than most people spent on food for an entire week, but to Leigh it was well worth it, particularly as the silver coins he paid them with had once been basest lead; the ritual application of a single dose of the Alkahest from the Opus Magus and a simple Incantation of Making to shape the once-lead in the imitation of coins had been enough to fill his coffers with a year’s wages. He smiled and chatted politely and inconsequently with the shopkeepers as they worked, their relief palpable as they counted up their sale.
“I’m terribly sorry about earlier, what with the mention of the Watch and all, sir,” the old man said apologetically as he placed the once-lead coins into his strong box. “You did give us a bit of a fright, I’m sorry to say.”
“No need to apologize,” Leigh said with a wave of his hand. “The fault is entirely mine. I’ve only just arrived in the city after a long journey from far away, and I am not myself this morn. Fatigued from all my travels. The pastries are for a party I am having to celebrate my return!”
As he left the shop, he smiled politely at the old man and his assistants, before reaching deep inside himself to pull up the hate, the bile, the anger that seethed within him and wrapping it up into a hex. “May your bowels run free until you die,” he said to the old man with a sudden snarl. He slammed the door shut as he left, barely bothering to take satisfaction at the startled look on the face of the old man as the binding seized him, making him wince and double over in sudden cramps.
He sat on a low carved stone bench in a corner of White Horse Square, savoring the bites of his beloved pastelles de nata, and smiled in contentment at the world. The small, quiet plaza was tucked just off of Baker Street right where the street passed under the aqueduct arches that brought clean upland water all the way to the Old Baths. Several dogwoods planted in the plaza had begun their spring flowering; bees hummed in the air, and white petals skittered softly in the wind over the cobblestones and collected in the corners of the square. A small stone fountain with the bronze statue of a rearing horse adorned the square’s center. It was a lovely part of the city.
As he savored each bite of flaky pastry and caramelized custard, he looked out over the pedestrians and other plaza-goers that shared the square with him. He chuckled and giggled in delight, his mind filled with the visions of the fates that awaited them in his plans of triumphant return. A pretty young Aurian couple, seated nearby on another stone bench, gazed chastely into each other’s eyes, dressed in merchant class finery: he shall be cut open and his intestines fed to ravenous dogs; she shall watch his disembowelment while being raped and disfigured by a line of vicious brutes. An Aurian woman of middle years walked past him, flanked by two plump children and trailed by a servant girl, a serf who was a slave in all but name; the matron shall be flogged to death by her slave, while her children shall be impaled on stakes, their blood and bile draining into a vat; and when the slave is done, her head shall be held down in that same vat until she has drowned. A Danian man walking briskly across the plaza, a long loaf of bread sticking out of a leather bag slung over his shoulder; he shall be hung upside down from meat hooks driven through his heels, and be beaten until all of his bones are broken. Leigh could see these visions playing out in his mind’s eye as though they were happening right in front of him, and he rejoiced in this glorious glimpse of his grand revenge upon the city completed.
He watched as City Watchmen hurried past the plaza, their whistles shrill in the air, undoubtedly summoned to the House of Gailbas to investigate a case of suspected witchcraft. Let them come for me, he thought. They know not where even to look. He caught himself in his hubris and chided himself. No, no; careful, careful; there’s too much at stake, far, far, far too much at stake. He slapped himself in the face and laughed.
He looked out over the square, humming and chortling to himself as he ate every last pastry in the basket, licking his fingers until they were clean.
The city of Therapoli had two bathhouses, the older and first being the Great Baths in the main part of the old city, right off the Grand Promenade. The newer and smaller could be found in the Foreign Quarter, also off the Grand Promenade but outside the Inner Walls in the new parts of the city, which had been built as an expansion of the original walls to accommodate the growing population of the most important urban metropolis in the Middle Kingdoms. The Great Baths were certainly historic, having been built soon after the city’s founding, but that also meant they were in need of repair, and a bit dingy, and as the Aurian overlords of the capital did not much care for the baths, there was no serious effort in maintaining them.
Even though he usually stayed near the University Quarter in the old city, Stjepan much preferred the New Baths in the Foreign Quarter. Palatian engineers had built them, shipped in just for the purpose, and so the heat and steam in the building were much better handled than in the Great Baths, and the Bath Association, made up of local merchants from the Foreign Quarter, paid for its upkeep and maintenance. The Great Baths were usually filled with the Danian men of the old city, along with a few Aurians willing to brave the waters. A problem with prostitution and complaints about the improprieties of the sexes mingling together when naked had led to the banning of women from the Great Baths, except for one day a week when women were allowed and not men. At the New Baths women at least had their own section for daily use, though the sexes were separated in deference to the Divine King’s modesty. Being an Athairi and of the Old Religion, Stjepan found such customs odd, but he at least found the New Baths close enough in culture and comfort to his own to enjoy their use. A wider variety of clientele used the New Baths, and Stjepan felt more at ease rubbing shoulders with the more worldly men and women of different nations from across the Known World that lived in the Foreign Quarter, listening to the babble of their different tongues and voices. It was almost enough to make him forget that he was in Therapoli, and not some other distant city.
After stabling his horse—a Danian half-bred courser named Cúlain-mal that was the brother to Erim’s horse—he had left his weapons and clothes in the changing rooms under the watchful eyes of the Bath Association’s attendants, who were well known for their honesty and vigilance and thus were yet another reason to patronize the New Baths, and not the Great Baths, where theft could occasionally be a problem. After washing the road dirt and sweat from his body in the main men’s baths, and performing a discreet ritual of purification, whispering the words under his breath, he had slipped a long towel low slung around his hips and walked toward the rear steam rooms. Like many Athairi men, his lean, muscular chest was smooth and hairless, and his nipples were pierced with small silver rings, and he caught the eye of some of the other men that he passed, particularly when they saw where he was headed. But there was something in his gaze that stopped them from following him.
The three steam rooms that were the furthest back had a reputa
tion, of course, as might be expected in a bathhouse. Sexual contact between members of the same sex was forbidden under the laws and customs of the Divine King, and considered one of the perversions of Ligrid, though amongst the Athairi and others of the Old Religion they were more properly placed as amongst Dieva’s many pleasures. From Stjepan’s perspective, it often seemed that the cult of the Divine King was intent on outlawing Dieva altogether, and making her and Ligrid into one and the same, and he found that odd and sad. And so in the old city, the pleasures of life were driven underground, and brothels and prostitutes thrived, and Forbidden Cults gained sway, and the Great Baths were well patrolled by Watchmen and even Templars; another good reason to avoid them, as far as Stjepan was concerned.
But in the New Baths, the Bath Association looked the other way, and paid the Watch to do so as well, and the three rooms in the back could gain a reputation.
At this hour, Stjepan knew they would mostly be quiet, though in the first room he passed he could see several pairs of naked men moving softly and wetly in the steam and the heat, watching and performing for each other. In the second, there were only three men, but one of them was young and slim, and bent over between the other two much larger, more muscular men, and they were vigorously using him to their mutual delight. He stopped and observed for a moment, watching the two large, erect cocks as they slipped in and out of each end of the slim young man. The Baths were a veritable cornucopia of cocks, and Stjepan had often idly noted the differences, or lack of differences, between men of various nations. The primary difference to note, at first glance, tended to be circumcision, which was practiced mostly by adherents to the Old Religion; though that was not universally true, as in recent centuries the practice had become more widespread for reasons of perceived cleanliness and hygiene. One of the muscular men was a tall Northman, blond and bearded, and probably a sailor fresh into port; they tended to be on the larger side, and Stjepan hazarded a guess that he was circumcised, based on what he saw sliding in and out of the youth’s stretched lips. The young man clearly already had a great deal of experience, as he was taking the length of it into his throat, almost to the root. The other, behind the youth’s spread and upraised ass, was a black-skinned Amoran, and clearly descended of the Sun Bull, with an impressive member made all the more swollen by an iron cock ring slipped over shaft and scrotum. A Divine King man, as most of the Amorans were, but many of them held the Old Religion in their hearts as well, and so they were often circumcised, as this man was. Stjepan couldn’t really see the younger man’s cock as he was bent over between the two larger men, but he’d guess he was Danian, and therefore likely uncircumcised.
If this is what he’s into, and he certainly seems to be, then this is his lucky day, Stjepan thought. Though he may be getting more than he bargained for, particularly with that cock ring. Most Amorans seemed to be of average size, but the blood of the Bull ran strong amongst them, Stjepan knew, and also amongst the local Aurians, as Heth, in addition to being the God of the Sea, was also the god of the aurochs, the wide-horned northern bulls. Amongst most other cultures and nations it was the luck of the draw, depending on whatever the gifts of lineage had happened to provide. Though amongst his own fae-blooded people, the Athairi, many of them had the blood of satyrs or, even luckier still, centaurs in their lineage, and so would prove quite popular in bathhouses such as these.
The Amoran spotted Stjepan watching, and called out to him. “Black-Heart, join us,” he grunted. “This one’s tight and eager.” The Amoran grinned. “Unless you’d rather take his place? We have eaten of the lamba root today, and are only getting started!” He gave a big laugh, his muscles shaking. Lamba root, imported from beyond the Ulik Desert, was highly sought after, but most of the potents sold in the city were almost certainly fakes.
“Perhaps later, Nannos,” Stjepan smiled, and watched for a moment longer before walking on to the third room.
The third room was empty, and Stjepan took a seat on the first level of marble benches. He undid his towel, opening his knees, and leaned his elbows back on the next level of marble seats behind him, relaxing in the heat and steam.
He waited for a while, listening to the muffled sounds echoing from the other room, until Jonas walked in and settled down next to him. Jonas the Grey was a short, hawk-nosed Danian, with a goatee and long straggly black hair that came to his shoulders. He was wiry and well muscled, with black hair on his chests and arms. He did not remove the towel wrapped around his waist, either out of modesty and deference to the Divine King, or perhaps out of some sense of embarrassment about the size or shape of his member, Stjepan wasn’t sure. He couldn’t recall ever having seen Jonas naked. But Stjepan didn’t pin him for a religious man. He sat down next to Stjepan and they were silent for a few moments before Jonas glanced at him.
“Black-Heart,” he said with a half-smirk. Jonas was always smirking, or close to it. “Good to have you back in the city.”
“Grey,” said Stjepan. “Good to be back. And how has this fair city fared in my absence?”
“You might be surprised to know it’s survived without you just fine,” laughed Jonas. “Lord Orrigard still thinks you’re out surveying the Dentyn Mire, so you probably have a few more weeks before he starts to wonder why he hasn’t seen your face.”
“Yeah, it’s easy to get lost in the moors,” said Stjepan with a shrug.
“Best assignment in the world,” laughed Jonas. “No wonder we don’t have any good maps of it, none of our cartographers ever actually go there.” He paused, his face slightly more serious. “Half the knights in the city have lit out early with the Grand Duke, he’s eager to stretch his legs, and they’re all sporting it up on the Plain of Gavant. Coogan and Cynyr are up there, attached to the Grand Duke’s headquarters company. Looks like he’s going to try for Porloss again this summer, and it’s going to be big. He’s been steaming about it all winter, and by all reports the Erid King is champing at the bit for a second shot as well; the Duke of Enlos is joining in this time, same with the King of Huelt, even the eastern Watchtowers. Everyone with a grudge against the blood of the Wyvern King. They want to go in and burn them all out. The biggest army in decades. It’s going to be an epic disaster. So word is you can expect to be summoned for that one at some point.”
“Fantastic,” said Stjepan, shaking his head. “Back into those fucking hills. Goddess, what a nightmare.” He breathed deep for a moment. “Where’s Duram, then, he’s not with them?”
“Duram’s been dispatched to Warwark, bearing letters and maps for King Derrek.”
“Any word about Austin?” Stjepan asked.
“No, still no word about Austin,” said Jonas, the smirk disappearing entirely for a moment. “Duram is supposed to look while he’s over there at the Wall, but even the Readings are coming back vague. Never seen such puzzled looks on a fortuneteller’s face before. It’s like Lost Uthedmael just swallowed him up.”
“So Austin may have joined Fionne in the Underworld,” Stjepan said. “And another Lord of Book and Street is laid low.”
“Maybe,” said Jonas with a shrug. “Austin’s a clever man, though, and at least the Readings aren’t coming back filled with death and blood and disaster.” Jonas paused a moment. “Speaking of which, I was sorry to hear about Guilford.”
“Aye,” said Stjepan softly. “He was a good man, for one of the Marked, and will be missed. He would have been a stalwart companion to have beside us again, if we’re to go after the Earl once more this summer.”
“I heard old Jon Pastle was amongst his crew?” asked Jonas.
“Aye,” said Stjepan. “Took a spear right through the belly from a naked Nameless berserk.”
“I didn’t think anything would ever kill that man, not after the fight at Cael Maras,” said Jonas, shaking his head. “Bad way to go.”
“No, his was a clean death,” said Stjepan. “He was one of the lucky ones.” Jonas looked at him, but Stjepan was staring into space through narrowed ey
es. “The priestess of the temple managed to summon a minor Baalhazor to aid her,” he said finally. “If she’d managed to summon the Bharab Dzerek itself, I probably wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Islik’s balls,” cursed Jonas, a bit wide-eyed. “An actual fucking Rahabi demon?”
“Aye,” said Stjepan. “Islik’s giant bloated balls, indeed.”
They sat in silence for a little while, soaking up the heat and the steam.
Finally Jonas stirred. “Word’s out, you’ve been blacklisted by the Guild,” he said.
“Aye; nothing that can be done about that now,” Stjepan replied with a shrug. “That was a certainty the moment that Guilford, son of Guy, died in front of me.”
“So what’s the call now?” asked Jonas.
“I’ll see what Gilgwyr comes up with,” Stjepan said. “If he reaches out to you on this one, say no.”
“No need to worry on that account, I have no interest in going where you’re about to go,” said Jonas with a smirk. Stjepan half-smirked back. “Some games are more dangerous than others, and I for one actually want to live to see my old age. Besides, I’ve already got my marching orders.”
“May Yhera Fortuna and the Fates smile upon you, then, Jonas the Grey,” said Stjepan.
“And on you, as well, Stjepan Black-Heart,” said Jonas as he stood. “I’ll tell everyone you said hello.”
After Jonas left, Stjepan sat alone for a long while, soaking up the heat and steam. He listened to the muffled sounds of grunting and the slap of wet, slippery flesh from nearby. Slowly he stood up, exited the third room and walked back over to the second steam room in the rear of the New Baths, leaving his towel behind.