by John Marco
All around Goth, green smoke exploded, its emerald fingers crawling through the streets. The strange bombardment had the city looking skyward. Men screamed, tearing at their eyes as the relentless vapors engulfed them. On the wind came the sweet smell of something evil. Kareena sniffed at the air, too late to know the poison she was breathing. Fire climbed into her nostrils, burning out the membranes. Her throat constricted and a flood of tears rushed from her eyes. She staggered from the wall, reeling backward into Larius. Desperately she grabbed for him. The old man's eyes were filled with blood. Horrified, unable to breathe or scream, Duchess Kareena looked down at her stained dress and realized that her tears were crimson.
TWO
The Golden Count
He was called the Mind Bender. The name had been given to him by his former master, Arkus of Nar, and Savros bore it proudly, and referred to himself as such even in the presence of good imperial ladies. He handled his tools as a painter would a brush, delicately and with the flair of genius. Some said he was mad, but all agreed that he was peerless in his work, one of Nar's rare artisans. Soldiers envied his deftness with a knife, and women fainted when he told his dark tales. He had known his true vocation since his boyhood.
Simon watched the Mind Bender work, aghast at the love he had for his craft. His spidery fingers crawled over his victim's flesh, his arsenal of narrow scalpels twirling between his digits like sharp batons. Simon knew he was watching a master, and despite the howls of the thing hanging in chains from the ceiling, it was wholly fascinating to witness.
"It's so easy," whispered the torturer. His tongue darted out to lick the man's ear. "So easy to die . . ."
The voice was honey, sickly sweet and cloying. It rose from the Mind Bender's throat like a song, teasing the man and compelling him to talk. But the man was almost past coherence. Only Triin gibberish trickled from his lips now, but Savros the Mind Bender wasn't finished. He produced another blade from his white vest and made his victim behold it, turning it slowly in the dungeon's feeble light so the flicker of the torch glowed orange on its edge. Simon stood motionless in the corner of the cell, awaiting the prisoner's end.
Like all Triin, this one was perfectly white. Savros had been delighted when he'd seen him. For him the white skin was a canvas to be stretched out with chains. Promptly he had set to work, using his knives to carve out screaming figures on the man's naked back. There were almost twenty of them now, forming a twisting, living mural. Blood dripped relentlessly onto the floor, and little bits of Triin flesh clung to the Mind Bender's boots. But Savros seemed not to notice them at all, and Simon wondered as he watched the spectacle if this was what Hell was like.
"Beautiful," remarked the torturer as he regarded his prized scalpel. He put it up to the Triin's gray eyeball, now hazed with fatigue and pain. "There is a smith in the Black City who works for days to make just one of these for me. He is the finest blade-maker in Nar." Savros tested the edge with his fingertip and grinned. "Oooh; sharp."
Savros no longer bothered speaking Triin. His victim was past comprehension, and he knew it. But this was the best part. Disgusted, Simon fought to keep focused. He was Roshann, and if he looked away Biagio would surely hear about it. So he steeled himself and watched while Savros caressed a tear-stained cheek with the thin blade and crooned his song, and the Triin man in chains trembled against the coming death.
"Just do it," Simon growled, his patience snapping. Savros turned his laughing eyes to the dark corner where Simon was lurking. A ripe web sack filled with newborn arachnids clung defiantly to the ceiling overhead, but Simon didn't stir from his spot.
"Shhh," urged Savros, putting a slender finger to his lips. The air was thick and smelled of treacle; too close for Simon's liking. The Mind Bender's voice rang in his brain. He had been hearing it for hours and his feet ached from standing. Outside in the real world, the sun was probably up. If he could have, Simon would have run from the place and vomited, but there was dirty business still to do.
"If you have your information, kill him," ordered Simon. "He's still a man. Treat him like one."
Savros seemed shocked. "You brought him here for me," he reminded Simon. "Now let me do my work."
"Your work is done, Mind Bender. Get yourself a goat from the farm if you need something to butcher. He was a Triin warrior. Leave him some honor."
"Why so squeamish?" taunted Savros. The thin blade rolled between his fingertips. "Don't they teach interrogation in the Roshann?"
Simon stepped out of the shadows. In the center of the cell was a small table set with the Mind Bender's implements, a curious collection of metal objects with points and pincers, all arranged neatly on a silver tray. Beside the gruesome platter stood a pitcher of rose water. It was a strange habit of Savros' to dapple his victim's lips with the cool liquid and make them agonize for more. Simon pushed the torturer aside and lifted the pitcher to the Triin's mouth, pouring the water over his lips and tongue. The man let out a thankful whimper.
"What are you doing?" asked Savros.
Simon ignored him, lifting another blade from the table even as he continued to pour. This one was less beautiful than the others. It was wide and heavy, with a toothy edge like a butcher's saw. Simon grasped it tightly, leaning forward so that his lips almost brushed the captive's ear.
"Good death, warrior," he said simply, then plunged the jagged blade into the Triin's heart. There was a quick rattle from the prisoner's throat. The hands spasmed into fists, shaking the manacles and the long, stout chains. The eyes widened, focused on Simon for a moment, then swiftly dimmed. Simon put down the pitcher, then the knife, and calmly stared at Savros. The Mind Bender's jaw dropped.
"You've killed him," Savros sputtered.
"You're like a cat playing with a bird," said Simon sharply. "I won't watch such nonsense."
"I wasn't done with him!" Savros wailed. He rushed over to the limp body and searched for a pulse. "I'm going to tell Biagio about this!"
"I'll tell him myself. Now what did he say? I heard you mention Vantran. Is he in Falindar?"
Savros wasn't listening. He ran his long fingers over his victim's back, admiring his artwork and feeling the waning heat of the corpse on his face. Simon shifted impatiently. In the days when Savros served the emperor he had been one of Arkus' favorites, a member of his privileged "Iron Circle." Now he was in exile like the rest of Biagio's loyalists, stuck here on Crote. None of them liked being here, but Savros seemed to be faring the worst. The Mind Bender had spent his entire life in the Black City plying his dark trade. He was accustomed to the belching smokestacks of war labs and the dankness of dungeons; the clean ocean air of the island seemed to depress him. But Biagio still cared for him, and that meant he had sway with the count. Simon knew not to push him too far.
"Savros," urged Simon. "What did he say? Is Vantran in Falindar?"
"He was so beautiful," replied Savros absently. "I want another."
"Vantran--"
"Yes, yes!" flared the torturer. Savros released the dead man and turned toward the table, pulling bloodied implements out of his vest and placing them on the silver tray with a petulant frown. "It's as you suspected, spy." He spit out the word like a curse. "Vantran is in Falindar with his wife."
"What else?" pressed Simon.
"Oh, learn the damned language! Or weren't you listening?"
Simon bristled but said nothing. Of all the people who had fled with Biagio to Crote, only Savros understood the clicking language of the Triin. It was, he had explained once, "necessary to know the tongue of his subjects." And Savros had a genius for language Simon could only marvel at. This had been Simon's first mission to Lucel-Lor, and he hoped his last. He had tried to learn at least a few Triin phrases, but Savros was a poor teacher and Simon an unwilling student. The animosity between them had only grown from there.
Simon regarded Savros carefully, watching him turn a white towel red with the gore from his hands. He caught a glimmer in the Mind Bender's preternat
ural eyes, a spark of something hiding in the blazing blue irises. There was something more.
"What else?" said Simon. "There is something, I can tell."
"Can you?" taunted Savros. "You are Roshann, Simon Darquis. You are supposed to be observant. What have I learned? Can you guess?"
"Stop fooling," ordered Simon.
Savros surrendered with an evil smile. "There is a child," he said with satisfaction. "Vantran has a daughter."
Simon's heart sank. "A daughter? How old?"
"Very young; a baby really. Maybe a year. Maybe older, I don't know. But she lives with them in the citadel." Savros put down the soiled cloth. "Looks like you'll be going back, eh?"
Simon grimaced. That was the last thing he wanted.
"Vantran still expects something," Savros added. "You should tell the Master that. Tell him to stop bothering with this vendetta and get us off this bloody island."
I will, thought Simon darkly. He took a final look at the dead man dangling from the ceiling. The lifeless eyes were open and staring at him blankly. An invisible breeze made the corpse sway and the chains rattle. Simon felt unclean. It had been a long and miserable journey back from Lucel-Lor, and this warrior had borne his indignity proudly. Trussed up like a pig in the ship's stinking cargo hold, he had hardly said a word or eaten a crumb. Simon looked at the man's emaciated body, ruined by the Mind Bender's insane artwork. Only Savros had been able to break the Triin's iron will, and he had done it in mere hours.
"What was his name?" asked Simon quietly.
Savros looked at him incredulously. "What?"
"His name. What was it?"
"I taught you that phrase," Savros reminded him. "Didn't you ask him yourself?"
Simon shook his head. He hadn't wanted to know the man's name before.
"Hakan," said Savros. The torturer sighed. "What a waste. He could have lived so much longer."
"Hakan," Simon repeated. Then he glanced at Savros and said with venom, "I'm glad I killed him."
Without another word Simon hurried out of the cell. He slipped through the iron gate separating the dungeon from the rest of the catacombs and passed by the count's wine cellars, where a thousand barrels of priceless vintages slumbered and sweetened the air. Most were from Biagio's own vineyards, a nectar sought after throughout the Empire. The count had an army of servants tending his grapes, and here in the cellars collared slaves toiled with the heavy barrels and tasted the wines for their perfection. The slaves did not acknowledge Simon as he passed them. They knew he was a favorite of the count's, but he was not a Naren lord. He was Roshann, and that meant he was Biagio's servant, hardly different from themselves.
Past the wine cellars was a monolithic staircase of carved granite, its steps worn smooth by centuries of traffic. Simon ascended quickly, anxious for some fresh air. He pushed open the door at the top of the steps and was soon in the servants' section at the back of the count's sprawling home. It was indeed morning. Fine strands of sunlight splashed through the crystal windows and onto the red tile floor. Simon could hear the rattle of iron pots in the nearby kitchen as the slaves set to work on breakfast. He went to a window and glanced outside. The count's mansion was set on a hill, and from here Simon could see the rolling vineyards to the west and the sparkling ocean far in the distance. He drew a breath of the sweet air and closed his eyes. The Triin's dead face still haunted him. Worse, he was exhausted. He longed for sleep--or even to pull off his boots and rest his blistered feet--but he knew his master was waiting for him. The thought made Simon shudder. He had only spoken to the count briefly when they had arrived the night before, then had followed Savros into the dungeon.
Biagio had been correct about the Mind Bender's thoroughness.
"God," hissed Simon, closing his eyes. He still smelled of blood. Eris would smell it too. A little moan passed his lips. She would be worried about him. But she would have to wait, just a little while longer.
A kitchen girl passed by him. Simon grabbed hold of her elbow, startling her. "The count," he said. "Where is he?"
"The Master?" the girl stammered. There was a basket of eggs in her hands that she barely managed to hold still. "In the baths, I think, sir."
He let her go with an apologetic smile, realizing what a sight he must be with the spray of blood staining his tunic. They were still not used to their guests from the Black City, these servants of the count, and though Simon had lived in the mansion on and off for years, he was still treated like an outsider.
He proceeded through the mansion and out a covered walkway of red brick trimmed with flowers and magnificent statues. The pungent scents of the gardens wafted over him. He brushed at the wrinkles in his clothes self-consciously. Biagio abhorred untidyness. And in this part of the castle, even the slaves were better dressed than Simon. This was the east wing, the count's own sanctuary, where very few people were welcome. Simon doubted that Savros or the other Naren lords had even been invited here. So as he approached the white building--an artisan's dream of stone and gold--Simon instinctively slowed his pace, quieting his footfalls. In Biagio's garden, only the birds were allowed to speak. Already, industrious gardeners had begun their morning work, shaping giant rose bushes and plucking out weeds. A thrush nesting in a peach tree whistled disapprovingly when it sighted Simon. Simon glared back at it, wishing for a rock.
The walkway ended near a bronze arch crowned with thorny vines. Here a giant eunuch with a spiked halberd guarded the way. The soldier stepped aside when he noticed Simon, and Simon passed under the arch and into a narrow courtyard. Skirting the courtyard, he headed for the baths. In moments he saw the cedar door to the steam house, its tiny window dappled with condensation. The tubular chimney spouted moist smoke into the morning. A pair of lavender slippers had been left at the foot of the door. A single matching robe hung from a wooden peg.
Good, thought Simon as he approached. He's alone.
He knocked gently. The wood felt warm under his knuckles. After a brief silence, he heard his master's yawning reply.
"Come," commanded Biagio's velvet voice. Simon cracked open the door. A rush of steam struck his face. Another man might have been shocked by the temperature, but Simon knew his master's affectations and had expected the scalding. He blinked against the perfumed vapor, peering into the steam house. The room was dark, lit only by the glow of a brazier used to heat the rocks. In the corner of the room, stretched out like a lounging cat, sat Count Renato Biagio, naked save for a modest towel draped over his groin. Sweat glistened on his golden skin, and his amber hair hung long and wet around his shoulders. His impossibly blue eyes snapped open when he heard Simon enter, and a welcoming smile played across his beautiful face.
"Hello, my friend," said Biagio. The voice was alien, inhuman, with the timbre of an expensive instrument. Simon heard it over the hiss of steam, a hypnotic melody bidding him forward. Even after all these years, that voice sometimes made him tremble.
"Good morning, Master," replied Simon. "Am I disturbing you?"
"You never disturb me, Simon," said Biagio. "Come in. Let me see you."
"I'm sorry, Master. I'm filthy. I'll come back when I have dressed for you."
Biagio seemed to love this. "Let me see you," he said again. "Open the door."
Reluctantly, Simon opened the door and stepped into the heated chamber. All at once the steam engulfed him. Biagio's blue eyes widened.
"Indeed! You've gotten too close to the Mind Bender, I see. You look hideous, Simon."
"Forgive me, Master. I was anxious to give you news. I will return shortly."
He turned to go, but Biagio stopped him.
"Nonsense," said the count. "This is a bath, after all. Strip off those things and join me." He patted the place on the bench beside him. "Here."
Simon stifled a curse. He could already feel Biagio's hungry eyes tracing him. "I couldn't, my lord. I would only offend you."
"Stop playing the tart, Simon," said the count. "I insist you join me. Now undres
s. There's a towel behind you."
There was indeed another towel. Simon removed his clothes and lunged for the scrap of cloth, wrapping it tightly around his waist. The steam was unbearable. Simon felt its heat bite into his skin. He watched as Biagio lifted the dipper from the bowl and poured more liquid over the burning rocks. A plume of watery smoke gushed from the stones. Biagio sighed and closed his eyes, drawing in a breath. Like all of Arkus' former associates, the count had a disdain for cold. It was an odd side-effect of the drug they used to sustain themselves. Even in the longest days of summer, Biagio's skin was winter cold. The same alchemy that had turned his eyes blue had converted his blood to ice water. It had also made him immortal, or very near. Simon supposed the count was at least fifty, but he looked no more than half that age. Here in the baths, with his body fully exposed, Biagio seemed a mythical creature. He was not a big man, but his muscles were hard and corded and flexed fluidly beneath his skin. The count was proud of his body and liked to show it off, especially to Simon.
Simon sat down beside his master, the hot wood of the bench scalding his backside. He shifted his towel so that Biagio would see as little of him as possible. Biagio opened a single eye and smiled at him, slipping a frigid hand over Simon's.
"I'm glad you're home, my friend," said the count. "I've missed you."
"It is good to be back," replied Simon. Already the heat was working on him, making his eyelids droop. "Crote was never such a beautiful sight. When we saw it from the ship I thought I'd weep. You know how little I like the water."
"And Lucel-Lor? How was that foul place?"
"Distant," joked Simon. "And different. They are a strange breed, Master. You should have seen the one I brought back for Savros. His skin was like milk. His hair, too. They are more than just fair. They are . . . freakish."
"He is dead now, the one you captured?"
Simon nodded. "I killed him myself. Savros has a disgusting way about him. I couldn't watch him any longer. But the Triin had given up all he had. I made sure of that before I killed him."