The Barrow

by Mark Smylie

They passed through the back of the hall and up a broad set of stone stairs to the ground floor of the building. After purchasing the compound soon after his graduation from the University, Gilgwyr had bricked up all the entrances into the building on the ground floor so that entry could only be gained by going down into and through the great vaulted cellar, though Erim was sure that Gilgwyr probably had some secret means of egress. All the windows facing out onto public streets and alleys had been bricked off, as well, and the only windows unobstructed were up in the bedchambers of the first floor that faced the inner courtyard, where the women of the brothel would take their customers. At the top of the stairs was a large hall where Gilgwyr’s customers would pick from amongst his girls, if they had not found one on the prowl in the main brothel hall below. A few scantily clad women lolled on padded benches and ornate couches, taking breaks from their busy night. She spotted the house’s enchanter slowly making his way toward the stairs carrying a small box, and Gilgwyr shouted out to him, “Better hurry, the show’s about to start!” Sequintus grimaced and waved a hand in response but his pace didn’t seem to change.

  Gilgwyr grabbed up a lantern and led Stjepan and Erim back through dark corridors and empty halls into a chamber packed with casks and barrels and boxes under a low vaulted ceiling. This wing of the compound clearly wasn’t used much, and the room was dark, lit only by the flickering light of several small braziers. Erim could barely make out an old man sitting behind a table by himself; he was solemnly preparing a Book of Dooms, shuffling the deck of cards ritualistically. His hair and bushy eyebrows and beard were still dark, almost the same blue-black as his robes, and Erim immediately thought that he must dye his hair, because the lines in his face seemed to mark him as a man whose hair should be gray or white, if he still had any hair at all. Deep lines were visible at the edges of his mouth, creased into his cheeks, under the bags of his crow-footed eyes. He was dressed in dark blue-black robes, the hood thrown back from his head, with flashes of gold jewelry and amulets at his wrists and around his collar, and gold rings were woven into his beard.

  This, Erim thought, must be the enchanter Leigh that I’ve heard so little about.

  Leigh placed a card down on the table in front of him; it was The Sphinx, the card numbered with an XV. It showed a winged sphinx—a chimera with the body of a lion, the upper torso and head of a beautiful woman, and the wings of a vulture—perched upon an anvil and holding the chains of a bound and naked couple. “The Sphinx . . . the catalyst of desire, the voice of deceit and influence. Hello, old friend,” Leigh said quietly as if to himself, and then raised his voice to a bizarre loud singsong in greeting to them as they approached. “I . . . have . . . been . . . wait . . . ing!” Stjepan started to explain but Leigh held his hand up. “Spare me,” the enchanter snorted. “I’ve had a long journey and, well, as you know I’m really not supposed to be in the city, so I shouldn’t show my face, at least not where I might be recognized. Or so Gilgwyr keeps telling me. I’m quite convinced the city wouldn’t care if I walked down the street naked. But as it is, I’m stuck hiding back here by myself.”

  “Then apologies, Magister,” said Stjepan with a short bow. “I hope your journey will prove worth it. It is good to see you outside of your tower, if you do not mind me saying so.”

  “I do mind, but it was always kind of you to visit, so I won’t hold it against you, Black-Heart,” said Leigh with a smile, but for some reason Erim didn’t believe him.

  Stjepan gave a short bow. He turned to Gilgwyr. “So we have the map, and the enchanter. Now we need a new crew. Any word on someone to replace Guilford and his lot?”

  “No,” Gilgwyr sighed. “You say you’re going after a wizard’s barrow and that tends to dry up the available talent.”

  “I would imagine all but the greedy and the desperate,” said Stjepan. “Or the insane.”

  “The criminally insane,” corrected Leigh.

  “Or just the flat-out stupid, who don’t know any better,” said Erim quietly. She felt a pang of guilt, remembering the sudden eagerness in Guilford when he had realized what Stjepan and Harvald were after. And which was poor Guilford? she wondered. Which are we?

  “Yes, well . . . add to that the fact that news that you are on the Guild’s blacklist has spread far and wide throughout the city, and replacing Guilford here in Therapoli has become, I’m afraid, an impossible task,” said Gilgwyr.

  “Did you ask Jonas and his boys?” Stjepan asked.

  “I did, but they were already committed to another job. Or so they said,” Gilgwyr replied with a rueful smile.

  Stjepan shrugged. “Jonas’s a smart man,” he said. “How about Tyrius and his Hooded Men?”

  “Broke up last month. You were out of town,” Gilgwyr said apologetically.

  “The Temple Street Irregulars?”

  “In jail, the lot of them,” said Gilgwyr. “Please believe me, I asked any independent crew of sufficient quality, and some of insufficient. Pellas the Quick, Mother Silva, Jon Deering, Rob Asprin, the Bastards of Baker Street, Rafaelas Huelas, Jon Galbroke, Fulric Fingers, the East End Promenaders, Myrad’s Mad Dogs, Corbin of Melos . . .” As Gilgwyr reeled off his names, Leigh flipped over several more cards, almost casually: the Knave of Swords, but reversed, depicting a dangerous looking man in armor wearing a mask and bearing a sword; the Knight of Swords, depicting a gallant knight in shining armor raising his sword; the Knave of Coins, depicting a masked man wielding a dagger and holding a coin in the palm of one hand; the Knave of Cups, reversed, depicting a masked priest holding a dagger in one hand and a chalice in the other. That last card he tried to hide before anyone could see it, but Erim saw it disappear up his sleeve, and she frowned, wondering what the card meant.

  Finally Stjepan held up his hand and sourly waved off the recital.

  “. . . yes, well, anyway, everyone’s either said no or they’re not available,” Gilgwyr said, finishing with a sigh.

  “Yeah,” Stjepan said sourly.

  “Knaves, knights, and more knaves . . . don’t worry, we’ll have a crew,” Leigh breathed, looking at the cards dealt onto the table in front of him.

  “The predictions of the Book of Dooms aside, I might have to come with you this time,” Gilgwyr said. “We’ll have to find a crew on the road somewhere.”

  “And leave this cozy place? That’s a surprise, but I get it; this is a big one, if the map is real,” Stjepan said with a sharp laugh.

  “If? I came a long way because of this map. It’s not translated yet?” Leigh asked.

  Stjepan stared at him for a long moment. “Harvald specifically asked me not to translate the map until you were present. All I got was a glimpse of it in the shrine. Looked real enough. Harvald has it; I let him keep it,” Stjepan said, his frown deepening.

  Gilgwyr looked a bit surprised and worried. “He was supposed to be here two hours ago, Stjepan,” said Gilgwyr. “He sent a message saying that he was going to try to get here early to talk to Leigh, but I hadn’t really worried about it; I mean, you know Harvald, he’s always late . . .”

  They all looked at each other.

  “What if he’s ditching the lot of us? What if he’s trying to translate it all by himself?” Erim finally asked.

  Stjepan suddenly looked alarmed. “Shit. I think I know where he is,” he said, and an instant later he was grabbing up a lantern and rushing out of the room, Erim following closely behind. Gilgwyr stood there for a moment, looking after them bemusedly.

  Leigh returned to staring at his cards, tsking to himself. “So much for honor among thieves,” he said.

  Gilgwyr shouted after them: “Don’t worry. Harvald won’t let us down. We’re partners. A veritable band of brothers!”

  Leigh placed another card down; it was The Hanged Man, reversed, numbered XII. The card showed a man suspended by one foot by a rope from a crossbar, which rested upon two leafless trees. His free leg was crossed behind him, and he wore red and white clothes; a golden halo shown about his
head, and from his coin purse came a shower of golden coins. Harvald looked at the card and did a double take. “Shit, I’m missing the show!” he groaned with a sudden start, and then he hurried from the room.

  Leigh smiled to himself, alone again in the semi-dark. “A magician seeking answers . . .” he whispered, softly stroking the cards on the table before him.

  Harvald muttered to himself, trying to voice the incomprehensible language of the old Mael Kings as his finger underlined an arcane symbol. He flipped through the pages of the Libra di historum Manonesian almost randomly, and then through On the Languages of the Mael Kings, and stopped on a cryptic reference. Someone is breathing heavily, he thought idly, and then he realized it was himself. He felt tired, so unbelievably tired, like the fatigue had set into his very bones, as he sat looking at pages of indecipherable text, his vision blurring, his eyes tearing up. The panic and fear was eating through him now, making it almost impossible to think. His hands traced the arcane symbols of the map spread out across the desktop before him. So close. So close.

  A drop of blood fell onto the table, and then another, and then a piece of flesh dropped on a symbol on the map. Harvald stared at it blankly, wondering what it was.

  His hand moved upon his erect member as he pressed his eye to the hole in the floor, hunching his hips, his teeth biting down on his lip to prevent himself from groaning. He did not think that she could be as beautiful as he remembered her in his dreams, and yet there she was, even more beautiful than ever.

  Annwyn lay in a tub of steaming water, her body partly obscured by flower petals, as some of her handmaidens moved about the room, tidying and talking softly. She had never been as afraid of water as some of her kin, and she found that lying in the hot bath was often the only thing that could get her body to relax. Being in that house the whole day was like being trapped in amber, and her body would feel stiff and rusted by the end of the day, as though the slightest pressure would make her break. Without the bath to help her relax, sleep was almost impossible.

  Annwyn appeared lost in thought but her eyes drifted up to the ceiling, and then almost deliberately toward a small hole that had been cut there, and then—

  He pulled back from the peephole with a sudden start and slid the cover closed, wincing in the dark and praying that he hadn’t made any noise. Had he imagined it? Did she know about the peephole? He could have sworn she had looked right at him . . .

  A guttering lantern flickered in Stjepan’s hand as he crossed the Lower Quad of the University, flanked by Erim on one side and a confused looking gate guard on the other.

  “. . . I understand that you’re a member of the Chancery, Master Stjepan, with special privileges here, but this really is most unusual,” said the guard, who held a lantern with one hand and a ceremonial spear with the other. He hurried to match his strides to theirs, but Stjepan and Erim were moving very quickly.

  “I don’t have a lot of time to explain,” Stjepan said as they crossed into the center wing and turned toward the Library entrance. “You can call the City Watch to arrest me afterwards if you feel you have to.”

  The Library was often open throughout the night for the use of students and Magisters, and luckily they arrived at the entry hall to find the doors open and the front desk occupied by two librarians. Stjepan walked right up to the front desk and around it, to the protests of the librarians and the guard. He grabbed one of the two librarians and hauled the surprised man to his feet.

  “Find Magister Clodarius, wake him up if you have to,” Stjepan said to the man in a voice that did not brook an argument. “Tell him that Stjepan Black-Heart is here and insisting upon seeing him.” The startled librarian paused for a second, saw the look in Stjepan’s eyes, and immediately gulped and ran into the library. The second librarian scrambled out of the way as Stjepan pulled out the ledgers that recorded the names of the users of the Rare Books rooms. He scanned the pages, and cursed under his breath.

  “His name’s not on the lists. But he wouldn’t just use one of the main halls, it’s too open, he’d need some privacy. You!” he said, turning to the other librarian. “Are there any keys to the Rare Book rooms unaccounted for? Well, come on, man, are they all here?”

  Harvald worked feverishly at his books and papers, his hands starting to shake. The sound of his pained breathing grew louder, and he tried to speak the words on the map in front of him. He was so tired, so confused, nothing made any sense.

  He thought he heard something. Was someone calling his name? Harvald raised his head, his vision swimming, and listened, frozen for a moment and holding his breath, then turned back to the map. He stared blankly at the decaying flesh on his hands.

  Leigh placed another card down on the table, The Hermit, numbered VII and depicting a cloaked and hooded man bearing a staff in one hand and a lantern held aloft in the other; he stood upon a mountaintop, and rather than looking up and out at the vista before him, his gaze was instead cast down, intent upon the long drop at his feet. But the card was reversed, upside down, and Leigh immediately frowned.

  “The Hermit, reversed; the seeker after knowledge finding doubt . . .” Leigh said, his bushy eyebrows hunching over troubled eyes. Not a card I would have looked for, with so much at stake. Far, far, far too much at stake for doubt to enter into it . . . His hand lingered over the deck, as though trying to feel the direction the next card would take. He felt a sudden panic rising in his chest. Not now, not now . . .

  Blacklist us, will you? Well, this is one wake none of you will forget, Gilgwyr thought in a black mood as the crowd pressed in to see the spectacle. Men were standing on chairs and tabletops to get a glimpse. He could see Petterwin Grim standing on a table with some of his crew, and Long Nose Ludwyn doing the same on another, his hand squeezing his crotch as he barked in anticipation; Jon Dhee pushing for space in the crowd, angry that he couldn’t get a good angle; the Gilded Lady with her ladies-in-waiting standing in the front row next to real lords and ladies from the High Quarter, fanning herself furiously with a black lace fan. Gilgwyr watched lasciviously as the priestess of Ligrid walked in a slow circle around the suspended body of Ariadesma, helping the dancer wrap her silks around her thighs and arms so that her body was horizontal to the ground, face and breasts up to the ceiling, and her legs were open in a wide split, exposing her wet vulva to the room. She looked like she was floating on a bed of air, waiting for her lover to take her.

  But the Palatian dancer had a slight look of consternation on her face, her eyes tracking the priestess’ rolling hips, and the unicorn horn that bounced and swayed in front of the masked woman. The priestess had removed the horn from around her neck, and had fastened the gold chain it hung from around her hips, and now she held it to her groin as though it were a long, stiff cock. The crowd was roaring its obscene approval, pressing in and around to see what was going to happen next.

  Sequintus stepped forward and the aging enchanter poured an amber-colored oil into his gnarled, shaking hand, which he then proceeded to spread over Ariadesma’s full breasts and flat stomach and smooth hips, rubbing it into her taut, firm flesh. It tingled a bit as it was absorbed into her skin. “Que’st’a?” she asked him, blinking up at him.

  “Just something to help you, my dear,” Sequintus said with a kindly smile. “To turn pain into pleasure.” She gasped in surprise and the crowd roared when the old man pinched her clit and slid two fingers into her cunt, pressing some of the oil into her. She could feel her body becoming warmer, instantly aroused by a fire kindled deep within her loins, her nipples hardening and popping out from her breasts, and her hips undulated softly in the air of their own accord as she strained against the silks.

  The priestess stepped between Ariadesma’s spread legs and positioned herself in front of her blossoming cunt. The crowd roared as she started to line up the tip of the long unicorn horn with the dancer’s puckered slit. Ariadesma couldn’t really tell from her vantage point, straining her neck to look down her floating, spread-eag
led body, but to her it almost looked as though the unicorn horn was now sprouting from the priestess’ crotch as though it were rooted there like a real cock. She’s real, the Palatian thought in a sudden panic. She’s the real thing, a priestess of the Goddess of Perversion. “Dieva, aidé’me!” she gasped.

  “Dieva cannot help you now, little bird,” the priestess purred in a voice of honey, fixing her with black eyes, and she reached forward to stroke the dancer’s breasts and flanks with her long fingernails. “Only making me happy can save you.” Wherever the long fingernails stroked her skin, bleeding razor-thin lines appeared, and Ariadesma gasped at the sensation of mixed pain and pleasure, writhing her pelvis up toward the priestess.

  The priestess grasped Ariadesma’s hips with strong hands, her nails clawing into the dancer’s muscular flesh. The priestess opened her mouth and bared her teeth in a leering grin, her tongue flickering out like a snake’s, and she pulled the dancer toward her as she thrust her hips forward, sending the tip of the unicorn horn deep into the cunt before her. Ariadesma’s head snapped back and her body went rigid and she gasped, eyes wide, skewered helplessly in the air, as the crowd roared and roared.

  He scrambled quietly in the dark, then calmed his breathing. That was too close, he thought. But he couldn’t resist another look. He covered the lantern and bent for the peephole cover.

  Annwyn returned to her armoire and retrieved the book she had been reading as Malia prepared her bedding.

  “My Lady, it is already very late,” Malia said disapprovingly.

  “I know, but just a little more,” Annwyn said with a small smile. “I am not yet ready for dreams. Go on to bed, I will be fine.” Malia curtsied, and then departed quietly into the dark. Annwyn heard the door to the chamber close, and then sunk down onto her bed. She stared absently at the cover of the book, tracing the debossed letters with her fingers, then slowly opened it and found her place again. She started whispering as she read, the shadows growing deep in the candlelit gloom.