Nonetheless, Hattim appeared gripped by a spiritual cold that transcended any pleasure he felt at returning home and set him, isolated, apart from those with him.
His barge was larger than the Vashti on which King Dan- traveled, and considerably slower, a wide-bellied craft of shallow draft that he had had portaged past the cascades dividing Idre from Ust-Idre, more suitable to the gentler waters of Ust-Galich than the swift cunents of the upper waterway. Sixty oarsmen manned the scoops thrusting from the sides and ten deckhands serviced the double masts. A cabin rose above the stem thwarts to shelter the boatmaster as he sat at the tiller and amidships there were quarters, small but opulently appointed, for the Lord of Ust-Galich and whatever traveling companions he chose to bring with him. These were more shelter from sun or rain than real sleeping chambers, for the vessel docked at night to afford Hattim the comfort of landbound bed and cuisine, prepared by the cook he included among his retainers. There were, also, a handful of courtiers, five in number and the most favored. Like the captain, they spent a large part of the journey in dread of Hattim’s anger.
He had retired to his cabin as soon as the barge, the Vargalla, cast off, and had not emerged until they docked that night. The next morning he had loosened three of his barber’s teeth for some imagined discomfort and shut himself away again with only wine for company. As he descended the gangplank the following evening, he had pitched a deckhand into the river when the man crossed his path to secure a mooring line and ordered him flogged when he was dragged, near-drowned, from the water. When he boarded again he had instructed the drum-master to beat double time, the Vargalla leaving the accompanying retinue of smaller craft behind. Over the nervously voiced warnings of the boatmaster he had held the pace until the oarsmen flagged, their rhythm growing ragged as fatigue numbed their muscles, and only when exhaustion threatened to make their progress erratic did he permit a return to more normal speed. By then the Vargalla rode several leagues ahead of the vessels bearing those officers traveling by water, and the Galichian Sisters, without chance of them catching up.
That night the exhausted crew brought the barge wearily into the harborage of Nyrwan, and Hattim’s courtiers hurried ahead to warn the owner of the fishing village’s sole tavern that the Lord of Ust-Galich was about to favor his humble inn.
It was a modest hostelry, more suited—and far more accustomed—to the entertainment of fishermen and river traders than the patronage of High Blood, and the tavern keeper grew alarmed at the prospect of quartering, let alone feeding and wining, the Lord Hattim Sethiyan. His wife readily allowed the Galichian cook to take over her kitchen and the innkeeper permitted the courtiers to arrange his best room with stuff brought from the Vargalla. Disgruntled fishermen were cast out into the night by the barge’s crew as the place became overrun by Galichians, their fear of Hattim’s temper outweighing the consideration that they were on Tamurin soil and had no right to usurp the regular clientele.
Hattim entered the low-ceilinged room that occupied most of the ground floor with an expression of disdain on his handsome face, paused, sniffed ostentatiously, and remarked too loudly that the stink of fish pervaded the air. His courtiers laughed dutifully and ushered their lord to a bench by the hearth. Hattim shed his cloak and sprawled in gold-edged tunic and green breeks, his booted feet close to the flames, refusing the plain earthenware mug the innkeeper offered him in favor of his own chased silver goblet.
“You will try my wine, Lord?” the innkeeper asked, thinking that this Galichian fop had no right to scorn honest Tamurin ware, but simultaneously conscious of the gold his visitors might leave in his purse, and of their numbers.
“I will,” Hattim announced, smiling at his fawning courtiers as he added for their benefit, “We had best conserve our good Galichian vintages for the journey. ”
The innkeeper filled the goblet and waited for Hattim’s approval.
“It will do,” the Lord of Ust-Galich declared. “You may leave the jug.”
Maintaining a blandly smiling expression only with difficulty, the innkeeper retired behind his serving counter, happier in the company of the barge’s crew than with the nobles. At least the oarsmen and deckhands traded honest coin for the ale and evshan they consumed.
Hattim drank prodigiously, and by the time the meal was ready his face was flushed and his humor morose. His cook produced a vast bowl of river clams, seethed in wine, with herbs adding a delicate piquancy. It was met with the same scorn Hattim bestowed on the trout that followed and the cheeses that formed the final course. The cook blamed the paucity of the kitchen, but in private—and with much admonishment to secrecy—he informed the landlord’s wife that her ingredients were as fine as any he had used and that if Hattim failed to appreciate them, he had no understanding of the culinary arts.
All about him were glad when the Lord of Ust-Galich rose unsteadily to his feet and announced that he would retire, though had they known what would happen that night their relief would have become terror.
Hattim climbed the narrow stairs to the upper level and paused by the door of his chamber. The incense burned to cleanse the room filled the corridor with aromatic scent and the Galichian nodded in approval, clutching at the jamb to steady himself.
“This Lady-forsaken hovel has doxies?”
His voice was slurred, thick with wine and the fiercer evshan, his eyes as they studied his hangers-on reddened. When the landlord, who stood nervously at the rear of the group, nodded, Hattim said, “Then have one cleaned and bring her to me.”
“My Lord,” murmured Mejas Celeruna, who was a little braver than his fellow sycophants, “is that wise? There is the danger of disease. And,” he coughed, discreetly lowering his voice, “you are betokened to the Princess Ashrivelle.”
Hattim’s face twisted in a scowl and his eyes seemed to bum a harsher red, as though anger fueled the glow put there by the alcohol. “Will any here carry tales?” he demanded ominously. “Darr is no longer present to cast that disapproving eye, and I have been too long faithful to that icy virgin. Bring me a woman, damn you!”
Celeruna nodded dutifully and turned to the innkeeper. “Your doxies are clean?”
“Of course.” The landlord was offended. “Clean as the Idre herself. ”
“I will examine them,” announced the courtier.
“Not too closely,” Hattim said, his voice lewd. “You may take your pick of what’s left, but bring me the best.”
“Of course, my Lord.” Celeruna joined the landlord in finding offense in his liege’s manner.
Hattim, still sniggering, stumbled into the room and kicked the door closed on the watching faces. He crossed to the bed and threw himself down, groaning as his head spun to transform the beamed ceiling to a whirligig of revolving woodwork and torchlit plaster. He sat up, splashing his face with water from the pitcher set beside the bed, and glanced around. The room was not quite small, the bed, the table beside it, and a cupboard built partly into the wall occupying most of the floor space. There was a window that, when he threw it open and thrust his head out into the chill night air, he saw looked toward the Idre, the masts of the Vargalla tossing in the frail light of a new-risen moon. From the streets of the village a cat yowled. Hattim withdrew his head and fastened the shutters. The room was warm, heated by the chimney that ran up from the hall below, and he plucked clumsily at the lacings of his tunic. The jerkin fell to the floor and Hattim began to work at the fastenings of his shirt. He opened that and put a hand to his throat, rubbing. The flea bites had seemed more virulent since his departure from High Fort and when he found a mirror and held it to his neck, he saw a collar of angry flesh. Cursing, he hurled his shirt aside and tugged off his boots. His breeks and underclothing followed, and then, naked, he clambered beneath the sheets, waiting for the doxy.
Ellebriga was nervous. Her usual clientele was comprised of the more successful fishermen of Nyrwan and occasional river captains, and while she prided herself on her nocturnal accomplishments the he
ight of her ambition so far had been to find a captain—or even a mate—willing to carry her to Andurel, where she was sure she could do well in her chosen profession. She had never thought to find herself chosen by a richly dressed nobleman to service the Lord of Ust-Galich, and the opportunity raised her hopes and her sights.
Surrounded by her giggling sisters-in-trade, she scrubbed herself vigorously in the tub old Emvar provided—together with the admonishment that she perform her best and offer no complaint, whatever the Lord Hattim might require of her—and applied liberal quantities of her most costly perfume. Her favorite robe, a flimsy confection of silk bought with payment in kind from a passing boatmaster, was drawn over her lissome frame and her thick auburn hair dressed by her friends. She took as much time as she dared applying cosmetics to lips and eyes, and set rings on her fingers, a golden necklace about her throat, and the silver chains that denoted her calling about her ankles. Finally she put little slippers of a crimson that matched her robe on her feet and went out to suffer the inspection of the portly courtier.
“You will do,” Mejas Celeruna proclaimed, thinking that with those enormous eyes and lush mouth, she was, indeed, a passable night’s entertainment. Youth still bloomed on her skin and her figure, which was largely visible through the fine material of her cheap robe, was engaging, if a fraction underendowed about the bosom. “Remember to address him as my Lord, unless he instructs you otherwise. And do whatever he asks—you will be well rewarded.”
It was on the tip of Ellebriga’s tongue to ask that she be allowed to go with them downriver, but she thought better of it: better to satisfy the Lord Hattim first and ask then, when he would doubtless be so pleased with her that he would instantly grant her wish. Optimism overcame her nervousness and she turned to the stairway, hips swaying as she began to climb.
She paused at the door, smoothing her robe and patting at her hair, then knocked. A hoarse voice called for her to enter and she constructed a seductive smile as she went in.
The man on the bed favored her with an appraising stare and she did her best to curtsy formally as she, in turn, appraised him. He was younger than she had expected, and pleasing to the eye. His tousled hair was yellow as the gold about her neck and although he clearly suffered the effects of excess wine, he was rather handsome, albeit softer-looking than her usual customers and suffering some unsightly infection that set a ring of ugly marks about his throat. She hoped he had no disease.
“Come here,” he ordered, “and take off that doxy’s gown.”
Ellebriga stilled the pout that threatened to sour her smile at this insult and did as she was bade.
Hattim circled a finger and she turned slowly, raising her arms to unclasp her hair and allow it to tumble loose about her shoulders, pleased by the grunt of approval she heard.
“You will do,” he said, his voice husky now rather than hoarse.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Ellebriga murmured. “I am glad that I please you.”
“You are honored,” Hattim corrected, “and if you please me in other ways I will honor you further. ”
“My Lord,” she simpered, and moved with deliberate languor toward the bed.
Hattim threw back the covers and she saw that his body was smooth and white, with the same hint of softness that robbed his features of firm character. No matter, he was the Lord of Ust-Galich and this night would shape her future. She settled herself beside him, reaching for him with expert hands, sighing ardently as she applied her skillful mouth.
Hattim found himself pleased with Celeruna’s choice.
So pleased that before long, lulled by her ministrations and the liquor he had consumed, he slept.
Ellebriga lay awake beside him, listening to his snores as she stroked the bruises he left on her and thought of the morrow. He was a vigorous lover, with a taste for pain and, she suspected, a fierce appetite: she did not want him to find her asleep should he awake and require her again. She wanted to please him in every way, that come dawn she might voice her request to sail south, either to Andurel or, if he chose it, on to Ust-Galich. She had heard that his city, Tessoril, was a place of opulence and splendor and she wondered if the lords of the southern kingdom kept seraglios.
She was occupied with these pleasant musings, close to drowsing but sufficiently alert she would respond should Hattim awake, when a movement in the comer of the room caught her eye.
It came from the clothes tossed carelessly against the angle of floor and wall, and when she turned her head she realized that it was less a movement than some strange alteration in the light. A rubescent glow hung about the piled clothing, shimmering as might the flames of a fire, or a fresh-lit torch. The chamber was dark, the lanterns doused, and the shutters denied the wan moonlight entry, yet from the comer came a distinct glow that strengthened even as she watched. Shadows elongated across the floor, creeping to the bed as if possessed of independent life, and Ellebriga turned to see if Hattim sensed them. He remained soundly asleep and she wondered what she should do. Had his clothes taken fire? How could they? Perhaps he had inadvertently tossed them onto a flambeau that had smoldered through their lovemaking and now caught flame. She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nostrils as the reek of sulfur pervaded her senses, suddenly sharp and foul as the stench of a midden. Naked save for her jewelry she lifted the covers and set her feet to the floor. Hattim slept on as she moved silently to the weirdly glowing clothing, the sulfurous stink causing her to gag, her bare skin prickling with apprehension. Tentatively she thrust a hand toward the discarded garments.
Then sprang back, her mouth opening in a scream as fire erupted against the wall, splashing over her so that she felt her eyebrows singe and breathed in malodorous heat that stifled her cry stillborn.
The muscles of her jaw and throat locked; her eyes bulged. Her hands lifted before her face and froze there as, despite the wash of fire, a cold that penetrated to her bones pierced her even as the sweat of pure terror beaded her forehead.
There was no glow now, and the stench was fading, but what she saw was infinitely worse for it had no right to be there. Could not be there. Yet was, emanating an aura of malice that threatened to unlatch her bowels, her reason.
It was a man in delineament only, for the shape was oddly wrong, somehow warped so that the image formed in her dumbstruck brain was that of some gigantic predatory insect. The shoulders humped, thrusting curiously angled arms, which ended in taloned hands, toward her. The torso descended, a hollowed triangle, to an overly narrow waist, reinforcing the impression of insectility. The skull was maned with hair the color of snow, or ash. and the features that she saw were less human than those of a mantis, the forehead wide and crenellated above deep-sunk eyes that glowed with hellish fire, as if the sockets opened on to craters of burning coal. The nostrils were slits in a protrusion of bone, and the mouth was a gash that smiled at her with a hideous intent.
Terror paralyzed Ellebriga and she stood in trembling silence as elongated legs brought the shape toward her, shifting, changing even as she watched so that she did not know whether she saw a man or an insect or a demon.
That knowledge came as the taloned fingers cupped her chin and tilted her head back so that she looked directly into the pits of the eyes. All will to scream left her then and she could do nothing as the face descended toward her, save think that she would never see Andurel now. Do nothing as the mouth came toward hers and the fleshless lips touched her in obscene parody of a kiss. Make no movement or sound as the embrace drained her life, sucked out her very soul, and the creature let her fall, limp, to the floor as it smiled horribly and said in a voice that carried the susurrating malevolence of a serpent’s hiss, “I am Taws.”
The mage stood over the drained body of the luckless doxy, savoring the sweet, strengthening essence he had taken, feeling his power return in full measure. There was no protective magic here, no glamours set to ward against such as he, nor any of the blue-robed women that he could sense in the vicinity. There was onl
y his chosen servant, snoring in drunken sleep on the crumpled bed.
He crossed the chamber in a single stride and hovered above Hattim Sethiyan, peering down at the supine man. It was good to once more possess binocular vision and he stared long at Hattim’s slack features, the gash of his mouth twisted in parody of a smile.
Then he bent, knees resting against the bed, and clapped a hand over Hattim’s mouth.
The Lord of Ust-Galich grunted and turned onto his back. Against Taws’s palm he mumbled, “Not yet, girl. 1 will tell you when I am ready again.”
“My Lord,” Taws mocked, his voice soft, colder than the snow to the north, “I am ready for you now.”
“Damn you,” Hattim grunted, struggling to free his face. “Leave me be.”
The pressure on his mouth refused to go away and he forced his eyes open. They cleared rapidly of sleep as they focused on the features hanging above him, filling with loathing and a stark terror. He tried to shout, but Taws’s grip tightened, stifling breath, and he began to choke, clutching at the wrist of the apparition.
Taws chuckled, a rasping, grating sound more akin to the rattle of dry bones than laughter, and Hattim began to struggle in earnest.
He was a strong man but helpless against the thing that clutched him, the tendons along his forearms bulging as he fought to free the grasp that threatened to suffocate him: uselessly. He tried to kick the monster away, but his legs tangled in the bedding and he succeeded only in arching his back, the blows he directed at the triangular visage deflected casually by a hand that he saw bore only scant resemblance to human digits.
“Be still,” Taws commanded, and Hattim felt his gaze locked by the glowing red orbs, the will to struggle departing, his limbs giving in to a strengthless lassitude.
“What are you?” he gasped when the creature released its grip. “Do I dream?”
Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 Page 14