Crown of Silence

by Constantine, Storm

  A week or so later, a group of the young blades of his regiment approached him. It was clear they felt sorry for him. By that time, information had filtered down from Prince Gastern’s office concerning the death of Ellony Palindrake. An accident had occurred. Valraven’s wife had drowned on the wild beach beneath the family castle.

  The officers said to Khaster: ‘We’re going to The Soak later. Come with us. Drown your sorrows.’

  Khaster, whose mood was so black he felt as if he himself had become an incarnation of evil, said, ‘Yes. I will.’

  Previously, he had avoided jaunts into this area of the city with his colleagues. The officers of the Magravandian army were highborn young men, and The Soak was where the lowest scum of the city floated upon the many putrid canals, hid beneath the rotting walkways, cackled in the dim lit taverns. Highbreds went there because they wanted to be daring. They wanted to sample a Soak urchin, on a stinking tarpaulin under the awning of a barge.

  Khaster knew his friends were surprised he’d agreed to go with them, and that amused him. They’d always thought him to be prim and prudish, but had forgiven him these sins for his generosity, his good humour, and, because that was the way of Magravandian bravos, his beauty. But he was someone else now. A man had left Magrast, a naïve foolish idiot, and a crawling demon had returned, bile dripping from its heart. Valraven would be proud of him.

  He’d seen nothing of Valraven since leaving Caradore. Khaster had ridden back to Magrast alone, on a fast horse, which had been virtually dead on its feet by the time he’d spurred it through the vast black gates of the city, where colossi of the god Madragore snarled down upon any who approached his sacred centre. Blood had stained Khaster’s boots. His horse had wheezed and frothed and shivered as he leapt from its back in the stable-yard. The grooms had looked at him askance. What had happened? Khaster was a mild, polite man, who cared for his horses. The grooms had glanced at one another. Something terrible had occurred.

  Khaster had never experienced such enduring rage before. He was consumed by it. He had become it. Alcohol dulled it, and sensation, crude sensation. The Soak now seemed his natural environment. He had never been there before, but when the carriage drew to a halt at the Penthion Bridge, and his companions tumbled out laughing raucously, Khaster felt, with a masochistic satisfaction, that he was coming home. His condition confused him, because in his heart, he knew he had done nothing himself to create it. His wife had, the harlot Pharinet. Valraven himself had, and his repulsive catamite, Prince Bayard. They were the evil cabal. It was they who had caused the death of Khaster’s sister, who had plotted together, drunk on power and lust. He despised them. Hated them. Hated himself, for his weakness, because inside his heart was bleeding. He wanted things to be different.

  Rufus Lorca, Khaster’s closest companion, if any Magravandian could own such a distinction, draped an arm around his shoulders. ‘Buck up, Khas,’ he said. ‘Forget your troubles. The Soak awaits us with its vile pleasures.’ He laughed, gesturing widely at the darkness ahead of them, the labyrinth of streets and canals lit by a thousand sick yellow lamps.

  Khaster could smell it, the age, the dissolution. At one time, it had been a fashionable district, being the docks of the Leonid Canal that curved from the city, through a couple of foreign lands to the sea. Magravandias was land-locked, but earlier emperors had expanded upon the existing canal network. The main flow was as wide as the great river of Mewt. The present emperor’s father had commissioned a new docks area on the outskirts of the city. Magrast had grown over the centuries and it was considered both savoury and convenient that the docks should be far away from the residential districts. The old docks were too small a warren in any case. Some of the larger ships couldn’t squeeze between the spongy jetties. The Soak was earmarked for redevelopment, but so far it hadn’t happened. The emperor had other things to squander his resources on, such as war and conquest. Now, it was home to the low-life of the city. Past glories mouldered in the shadows. Any illegal commerce took place there. It was in The Soak that the lethal drink, harm, was brewed, known as the Red Witch, the Blood Stealer. Harm was one of the primary reasons the highbreds went to The Soak. It could be purchased easily enough from the back cupboards of fashionable city taverns, but somehow consuming the stuff in the cradle of its creation was more decadent, more dangerous. Under its consciousness-altering effects, any young bravo could be robbed or even murdered by a sly Soak whore.

  ‘So will you talk of your troubles?’ Rufus asked Khaster, who had squirmed away from the friendly embrace. ‘Come on, now, we’ve known each other a time. Tell me.’

  ‘Do you want me, Rufus?’ Khaster asked coldly. ‘If so, forget it. You needn’t bother showing concern for my well-being.’

  Rufus laughed uneasily. ‘Someone has burned you, haven’t they? You should tell me. I will help you plot revenge.’

  Khaster broke away from the group, staggering backwards, arms spread wide. ‘This is my revenge,’ he cried. ‘The Soak and her filthy guises. I will sample them all.’ He released a hysterical laugh and began to run, but because he was stumbling dangerously close to the poisonous waters of the Eel Stream, a minor tributary of the Leonid, his companions dragged him back into their midst.

  ‘Has the Red Witch warmed his belly already?’ someone asked, only half in amusement.

  Rufus shook his head. ‘No, only my father’s good merlac. We had a snifter or five before we joined you.’

  ‘He’s left his head in Caradore,’ another said.

  ‘Or his heart,’ Rufus added.

  ‘Don’t break yours,’ someone said. ‘He’s a strict mother’s boy.’ Such was the term Magravandian bravos used for men who sampled only the carnal delights of women.

  The group meandered along the narrow alleys, where the commerce of the night was already in progress. Khaster had to pause to throw up into a stream. Rufus made worried noises, glancing over his shoulder because the rest of their group had been diverted into an inn by the imprecations of harlots on the street outside.

  ‘Stand up, Khas. They’ve gone inside. It’s not safe out here.’

  ‘Who cares?’ said Khaster, wiping his mouth. ‘Your father’s merlac was bad. Look what it’s done to me.’

  ‘It was the three bottles of wine you had before the merlac,’ Rufus said dryly. ‘Come on, Khas. Do you want to get us robbed and flayed?’

  ‘The Old Drake’ was an establishment typical of its kind. Once across the threshhold, patrons were engulfed by a damp, hot smoke of cooking meat, steam from the wine cauldrons and the effluent from smokers’ pipes. Bodies heaved and milled among the tables. At the back of the room, two thin girls danced to a jig performed by five musicians with fiddles. The floor was wet with vomit and liquor, but on the walls shiny brass lamps spilled a mellow light. Velvet drapes looped across the ceiling, dangling tassels that were sticky and blackened. The smell was sweet, perfume cast over rot. Khaster slumped onto a chair and rested his elbows on a table, his head between his hands. Through his fingers, he could see the ‘Drake’ was full of soldiers and the sons of city lords. The only locals were the servers, the whores and the entertainers. After some moments, Rufus came to the table. ‘There’s a private room free, though it cost us a wallet. Come on, Khas, you can’t stay out here.’ Already, some of the whores were sidling close, like predators, their fingers itching. They could smell easy prey.

  Khaster staggered to his feet and let Rufus drag him through the crowds. People called out greetings to them, and spangled girls with dirty fingernails pawed their coats, but then they were through and a glass-panelled door was open before them. Rufus pushed Khaster through it. Beyond, their companions were already seated around a table, in the ghoulish light of a lamp with a green glass globe from which a gilded fringe depended. The matron of the inn, Dame Sally, stood dressed in red satin beside the table. In her hands, she held the tools with which she would conjure delights for her customers. She grinned at the new arrivals. ‘He looks done for already
, sir. Are you sure you’ll risk the Witch on him?’

  Rufus deposited Khaster in a chair, from which he nearly fell. ‘Perhaps a measure of Waters of Life to clear his senses.’

  ‘No,’ snarled Khaster. ‘Give me the Witch.’

  ‘Khasc’

  ‘I’m all right. Give it to me.’

  ‘After one, he’ll be on the floor,’ someone said. ‘Let him have it, Rufe.’

  Sally removed the glass globe from the lamp, using a thick velvet cloth to protect her hands from the heat. Once the wan flame was revealed, she poured the harm into a shallow silver dish. This she held over the flame with tongs. Presently a steam arose from the liquor and a tart reek. Sally threw crystals of dark resin into the bowl and the steam took on a more aromatic note. ‘Ah, she’s hungry for you, my bold lads,’ Sally said. ‘When she perfumes herself so swiftly, it’s a good sign.’ She poured the liquor into five silver cuplets. These were downed, one after the other, in quick succession.

  The cruel bitterness of the drink drew claws down Khaster’s throat. He craved that feeling. It was as if a creature was captive in his brain, punching his skull, trying to get out. But he did not fall as his companion had suggested. The Red Witch cleared his sight. Every sense felt honed, alert, precise. Perhaps the witch, with her magical spirit, was preparing him for what would happen that night. He would need his senses, his strength.

  Even as Sally was preparing the second draught, the door to the room flew open. Everyone looked round in annoyance. Some got to their feet, about to remonstrate. Then they sat down again, ducking their heads, muttering respectful greetings. Another group of men had come to the door, led by Prince Bayard himself. Bayard was feared above all others. He was capable of anything. He had the Dragon Lord in his bed – or used to have. There had been rumours of an estrangement, but Bayard would not speak about it. Valraven too held his silence, but had barely been seen since he’d returned from Caradore. What had taken place in that wild country? And what would happen now, with Khaster Leckery and the prince together in one small room?

  ‘Ah, a party,’ drawled Bayard. He was like the light of the sun itself, so beautiful and golden. But, like the sun, his heat was fierce and merciless. He was powerful enough to give life, but could take it too.

  Khaster had not looked round. He only became aware of Bayard’s presence when he heard the voice. Now, he froze. His first instinct was to attack. The witch suggested he should do it, but he knew that would be foolish. The others would have him off within seconds. He clasped his hands together on the table, staring at the white knuckles.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Bayard sauntering across the room. ‘The cuckold is here. How are you, Khaster? Well, I trust?’

  The witch clenched her claws in his brain. Be cool, he told her. He smiled and turned. ‘Very well, your highness. And you?’

  Bayard glared at him through narrowed eyes. ‘In top form.’ He rubbed his hands together and beamed at the proprietress. ‘We’ve come to sample your naughty Red Lady, Sal. Have we enough chairs?’

  ‘I’ll see to it, your highness,’ Dame Sally said, curtseying low. ‘At once.’

  While this was being attended to, Bayard sat down on the remaining available chair and his cronies began to chat with Khaster’s friends. Khaster could feel the blood beating in every inch of his veins. He could see its red bubbling behind his eyes.

  ‘Khaster,’ said Bayard, and his voice was low, confiding, without the usual barbed edge.

  Khaster feared that tone very much. He looked up, said nothing.

  Bayard was stuffing a pipe with zeg weed, a narcotic imported from Mewt. ‘It is not my wish for us to be enemies.’

  ‘Nor mine,’ said Khaster, thinking: why? Bayard had never really spoken to him before, other than on that night in the officers’ lodge. Then, Bayard had only made contact to inform Khaster that his wife, Pharinet, was guilty of infidelity. ‘She is making a fool of you,’ Bayard had said coldly. ‘You should know about it. She and Val have been lovers since before you were married to her.’

  The fact that Pharinet’s secret lover was her own brother was disgusting enough, but Bayard had also taken obvious pleasure in telling Khaster he’d bedded Pharinet himself. He’d made it clear he despised the Leckery breed. Was this unexpected approach now an indication of the estrangement with Valraven? Was Bayard seeking information or, Madragore forbid, an ally?

  ‘I was not responsible for what happened,’ Bayard said, lighting his pipe. ‘It was the Palindrakes. They are tainted.’ He raised a hand. Perhaps some fire had come into Khaster’s eyes he could not feel. ‘I do not wish to insult your wife, of course, butc’

  ‘Why not?’ Khaster said. ‘I don’t care about it. Say what you like.’

  Bayard eyed him speculatively, perhaps thinking that here was a new creature to snare, to use. Bayard always needed plenty of creatures to deal with the intrigues at court.

  ‘The Palindrakes are inconstant. We cannot rely upon their loyalty. This we have learned in a hard manner. Perhaps we have both been foolish.’

  Do not include me in your ranks, Khaster thought. You are scum, as bad as they are. He smiled. ‘I would prefer to forget the whole incident.’

  ‘I have been thinking of sending something to your mother, for condolence over poor Ellony,’ Bayard said.

  Khaster was surprised the prince remembered his sister’s name. ‘That is a kind thought.’

  ‘Not much comfort, really, of course, but I feel a gesture should be made. Your family has long served the empire. I am so sorry thatc’

  ‘Please,’ Khaster said, ‘there is no need.’ He could not bear to talk about it, could not stand hearing his sister’s name upon this monster’s lips.

  Bayard nodded. ‘I understand.’ He took a draw off his pipe. ‘My brother, Almorante, tells me you are up for promotion. That is swift ascension. You are well thought of.’

  And could be more so, Khaster thought. But what will be the price? He shrugged. ‘I do my duty.’

  Servers had brought chairs and Dame Sally was brewing more harm. The company was convivial and conversation flowed freely around the table. Laughter became louder. Khaster writhed in his seat. Bayard’s presence scorched him. He hated the false intimacy, the insincere concern.

  The prince’s group had a teenage boy with them, a girlish creature, clearly a carnal toy. He was a pretty thing with long white blond hair and the eager, willing manner of a puppy. He smiled, laughed, pushed back his hair flirtatiously. Khaster stared at him in disgust, imagining him old and withered, burdened with a thousand regrets.

  ‘Sing for us,’ someone said. ‘Sing a love song.’

  ‘Sing a lust song,’ Bayard said. ‘Sing it for me.’

  Khaster noticed the boy hesitated, just a brief moment, and an expression came over his features that was much like fear. But it was quickly smothered. He knew his part and opened his mouth to sing a sweet song, of love and of lust also. The men started to sing along with him, then Bayard’s arms snaked out and dragged the boy onto his lap. Khaster saw the panic in the boy’s eyes, the urge to struggle, to escape, hampered by the knowledge it was a prince who held him. If Bayard wanted him, he must comply. That was his function. Khaster swallowed hard. He did not want to see this. It sickened him.

  ‘Come now, Tay, don’t be coy,’ Bayard said. ‘I’ve always coveted you. You know that, don’t you, hiding as you do behind Almorante’s bed curtains? He’s not here now. Give me a kiss.’

  The boy glanced at one of the prince’s companions, and Khaster divined this must be the person responsible for his presence there that night. He saw the man shrug slightly. He would not interfere. How could he?

  ‘Your highness,’ the boy said, his hands flat against the prince’s chest, pushing himself away. ‘I cannotc’

  ‘Oh, you can,’ Bayard drawled. ‘A little kiss. Almorante won’t know, will he, lads?’

  The company all assured him he wouldn’t.

  ‘There. We are effec
tively alone. We can do anything and no one will see. They are blind to us.’ His hand dived between the boy’s legs, squeezed hard, conjuring a pained yelp. Bayard laughed.

  Khaster found he was on his feet. What was he doing? This was madness. ‘Let him go,’ he said.

  Bayard looked up, grinning. ‘Why? Do you want him?’

  The witch cackled in Khaster’s brain. Now he was standing, he realised how drunk he was. He couldn’t take Bayard on. ‘Maybe I do,’ Khaster said.

  Bayard expelled an immense laugh. ‘You? I don’t think so.’ He eyed Khaster for a moment longer, then took the boy’s chin in his hand and kissed him savagely.

  Khaster rubbed his hands over his face. He could not bear the sounds, which were like the cries of a puppy alone, afraid, in pain. ‘Stop it!’ he said. ‘Are you so depraved?’

  ‘No,’ said Bayard. ‘This is Almorante’s rutting cushion. He’s used to it.’

  The boy broke away from Bayard’s kiss and appealed to Khaster with his eyes. ‘Help me.’ The words were barely spoken, a silently-mouthed plea.

  ‘Valraven has broken your heart,’ Khaster said. ‘But that is no reason to hurt another. If you must inflict pain, find your Dragon Lord, do it to him.’ The witch controlled his tongue. He was too drunk to speak so clearly, so eloquently.

  Bayard’s beautiful face had become hard. ‘You know nothing of my affairs.’

  ‘I know he’s shut the door on you,’ Khaster said. ‘You are right. We are both fools, but perhaps you more than me. Val is like me. He’s Caradorean. However you seduced him, the glamour’s gone now. You’ll never have him back. He’ll be repulsed by you, mourning for his wife, who but for you would still be alive. Val is devastated about her. Your perversity could never replace a wife’s love. I know this. I know him better than you do.’ It wasn’t true, of course. Khaster suspected Valraven had never loved Ellony, and Bayard himself must think that too, but Khaster knew his words would still hit the mark.