To the left and right of the flagstones that led to Merculo’s throne, orange gaslamps hissed and windows stretched from floor to ceiling doubled their glare. Servants in the king’s blue and orange livery decanted wine, brandy, water, and tea to refresh the gathered nobility.
One of the cases involved the accomplished and renowned Chef Pythnor. Everyone who was anyone had dined at his remarkable establishment. The aroma of the chef’s kitchen was a divine incense ascending to whatever god had forgotten the Five Worlds, and the entrees were works of art that delectably inscribed the canvas of memory with their appetizing texture. Even the plates presented a visual feast that approached a liturgy, so that the décor evoked a temple as much as a restaurant. As he remembered a sumptuous plate of well-seasoned roasted small fowl served in Pythnor’s, Khyte became famished from nostalgia, but his hunger faded when he learned the charges against the famous chef: He had poisoned some traveling merchants. Their crime?
They were swinish enough to ask for salt.
Their home city, Kheire, demanded justice, or Kreona might do without the coal and milled flour that were that land’s chief exports.
“What do I do with this one, Khyte of Hwarn?” asked the goblin king.
“Why not simply cast him into prison?” asked Eurilda when Khyte demurred, adding “your Majesty” as an afterthought.
“No, my dear,” said the king. “Goblins revere the culinary arts, and I cannot allow this man to erode the trust that exists between diner and restaurateur. While I esteem this chef, who has served me fine meals that I’ve relished more than many milestones of my reign, the only punishment that fits poisoning is death.”
“Would it not be possible, majesty,” said Khyte slowly, “to make him your food taster?”
“Cousin, I like the way your mind thinks. Not only will it inspire my chefs, who will fear to insult his famous palette, it is also a tonic for his pride, since he must conform to my tastes, not his own. And after raising the quality of my kitchens, and having his turned-up nose forced into every meal, regardless whether it is beneath him or worthy, someday he might savor poison, save his King, and thereby atone.”
“This assumes he cannot concoct poisons in your larder,” said Eurilda, “and endanger your royal person.”
“Very true,” murmured the king. “So I must impose a more severe stricture, and bar access to the kitchen. To deny an artist his art is cruel, and will satisfy my most draconian political opponents as well as the Kheireans.” When the king passed sentence, Pythnor blanched, fell to his knees, and wept, having to be dragged from the court.
Left of the king’s throne, a row of nobles were accoutered in bright blue robes. Their gold-fringed hems masked tall stools, which allowed the courtiers rest during the lengthy proceedings while preserving the illusion of decorum as they half-sat and half-leaned. Lord Ryggion would never have allowed this at his war-meets, Khyte thought, remembering his Drydanan liege saying “slouching leads to insolence; gluttony leads to greed; forgiveness leads to rebellion” just before giving his headsman Khyte the orders to whip, cut, or behead lawbreakers appropriately.
One of the courtiers stood from his perch to face the king.
“Count Kirqqa,” said the king, “you were given leave neither to approach nor to address the throne.”
“Grant permission then,” Count Kirqqa retorted, “for these words burn in my mouth, your Majesty.”
“I’ll permit it. Be quick.”
“Your Majesty, could you not pardon this great artist, whose skill makes him kin to all goblins? Would it not be klaknoz not to pardon him?”
The court chattered with laughter.
Khyte needed several explanations of klaknoz from Huiln. Klaknoz was the unforgivable crime, the murder of one’s bloodline, and it made killing any kin, no matter how far removed, taboo once your blood ancestry was recognized. This made studying ancestry expedient for politicians, as it made the staunchest adversaries your allies. Since klaknoz was as firmly ingrained a taboo in goblin culture as incest was in human culture, and only the depraved would cross that sacrosanct line, Count Kirqqa’s appeal was bold—if not outright offensive.
“Sit down, Kirqqa,” said the king, turning to Khyte. “I indulge him, as he is my stepmother’s nephew, but if there was ever cause to rewrite the House Laws, it is Kirqqa.”
Khyte nodded and laughed politely, hoping his hollow cheer pleased Merculo.
Next was Dame Iuera, who ordered her carriage driver to trample her commoner lover. The Kreonan Court had already passed judgment on the driver, who was thrown from a roof until dead; while other cultures throw their condemned from a cliff, in goblin culture, this sentence is peculiarly cruel, as goblin buildings are but a single story, and a death sentence might require a half dozen throws. As a dutiful headsman, Khyte slew many, and while he found this manner of death inhumane, being inured to death by executions and battles, he could not stop snickering when he heard the pathetic fate of the driver, who after breaking his arms and ribs, had collaborated with his executioners by swanning into his last, fatal fall, to land on his head.
The driver’s death was a great metaphor for duty. In Khyte’s experience, doing what you must, rather than what you wanted, rarely paid well. Serving Dame Iuera was his death sentence, and even the revenge the self-serving goblin lady served herself would end in a monstrously inventive punishment, though it was less than she deserved. Khyte thought often of what Frellyx said—the spider-god’s fateful threads link every path, and so-called duty was merely the crawling echo of Lyspera’s trip-webs. Was it better not to serve his pleasure than do the things he ought, if all paths moved to the deathly appetite?
“I’m curious to know what you think of my solution, Khyte,” spoke Merculo softly. Khyte realized he had not been listening to the goblin monarch. “Her father and uncle provide force of arms to my troops,” the king continued. “Moreover, she is popular with the peerage, while the common folk cry for her death. I must show both I neither fear nor wish to offend. Her punishment must be cruel enough to satisfy the people, and both forgiving and stern enough to intimidate the nobility. If she had only denied the charge, I could have let her go free, but she owned the crime brazenly.”
The King turned to the accused. “Dame Iuera,” he said, “you may be happy to know your time in court will be brief. Since you confessed to your hand in the death of Cuultaryn the baker, we will render judgment as expediently. Thank you for not wasting the court’s time.”
“Thank you,” she said, curtsying. “You are too kind, your Majesty.”
“Before I render my verdict, have you anything for the record? Your words may be historic.”
Dame Iuera trembled and stammered, “Your majesty, what do you mean?” Then she composed herself. “Have mercy!”
“You think I mean to execute you? No, I will not have your uncle and father grieve your death by my hands.”
“Thank you, your majesty.” Her ingratiating smile was wetter than her tears.
“That said, I consulted them regarding the punishment, and they approved.” The king beckoned to four guardsmen, one of whom held a wooden box.
“Hold her,” he said, and two guards seized her arms. The box bearer withdrew an odd piece of mailed leather fringing a metal pipe, which he belted over Dame Iuera’s mouth. The fourth man wielded a peculiar iron tool to stud and clamp the belted area, until her mouth was invincibly armored.
“You’ll take your liquids through the tube, Dame Iuera; regrettably, this includes liquid meals. I must be absolutely certain that you can’t give orders for the duration of your sentence, as the murder weapon was your tongue. If the court learns that you turn to rude gestures to communicate ill will, I’ll amend your sentence to restrain your hands. I wanted you to clean and wipe yourself, to spare your attending servants. Don’t make me regret that decision.”
When Dame Iuera screa
med under the metal gag and flailed her arms, she was seized by the guards, and as she was dragged from the court, Merculo stopped them with a gesture. “There is something you should know. I wanted to cut out your sharp tongue, and destroy it like any murder weapon, but your husband pleaded on your behalf. As he numbered among those you betrayed, I took his request to heart. While it’s a travesty to muzzle your lovely singing voice and deny your gourmet passions, I feel more for your young victim, whose adultery I forgave when his parents reported you were his first love.”
When courtroom murmurs were fanned to a tumult, the king addressed them: “Does anyone disagree with the king’s justice?” Waiting only a moment, he turned to his clerk: “Record it thus: Dame Iuera’s silence will last not less than eighteen months, and Cuultaryn’s family may choose an unrelated representative to administer her daily liquids, and to satisfy them that she serves her sentence in good faith. Neither Dame Iuera nor anyone in her House shall appeal to a blacksmith for relief on pain of death. To allay temptation, she will serve her first three months here, where we can accustom her to these strictures.”
While many murmured, not even Count Kirqqa spoke to her defense.
After the guards took Dame Iuera away, the proceedings continued another two hours, with the king more confident with his pronouncements. Convinced the king’s disarming friendliness was an act, Khyte began to plan his escape.
When court concluded, the king said, “For my final motion, I order refreshments for our noble court and beloved guests.” No sooner than it was said that the courtiers crowded out of the court room to a lengthy dining hall, where a feast of many flavors and aromas was tabled before them in the goblin fashion, with many pots concealing sauced entrees, soups, stews, and other potted meals. The sumptuousness did not stop there, as servants dished fruits and greens into crystal bowls with silver-inlaid jade ladles. Since this king liked to flaunt his wealth, Khyte would not be surprised if Merculo paraded the captive dryad before the end of the evening.
Three steaming bowls were placed before Khyte. He had never eaten this well on Nahure, where even the House of Hwarn could not entice a chef into their service when restaurateurs were often richer than lords; only the king could offer such a salary. Though nervous about nearing his objective, Khyte devoured the thick—and nearly gelatinous—stew, the meat drenched in a ginger nut sauce, and the thick bread pudding, moments after they were served.
Eurilda had to kick Khyte to get his attention. “Khyte,” she whispered, “make some pretext for acquainting ourselves with Count Kirqqa.”
“Should we continue with our plan? The king is sharp as a pin, and the count is a knave.”
“Will you abandon our scheme,” said Kuilea, “while Huiln seeks the map and key?”
“Our plot was scuttled when Merculo embraced me,” Khyte said. “Not to say that our goal has changed, but he seems to have intentions for his long-lost kin. It depends on the grace of our host.”
As if summoned by his name, the king, having made a round of his noble guests, came to enjoy his new kinsmen, but Eurilda barred his path. “Good King, we have not been properly introduced.”
“My herald introduced you,” the king said, a little brusquely.
“But to know me, good King” she said, “you should know that I am Khyte’s old and dear friend, and we have often journeyed together from Hravak.” While this was not strictly a falsehood, it concealed her point of origin.
“The correct mode of address is ‘Your Majesty,’ my dear. ‘Good King’ is a little presumptuous, as some days I might feel like a good king, and other days I might not,” the king said, then turned to Khyte. “Cousin, allow me to indulge your pleasure in my exciting new pastime.”
“I’m honored, your majesty,” said Khyte, who stood from his feast.
When Kuilea and Eurilda looked as if they would follow, Merculo said, “Kinsman and honored friend though you may be, this is gentlemen’s entertainment. But I’ve provided accommodations for the night if you so choose.”
The king then laid his flabby hand on Khyte’s arm and guided him through the court room until they met Count Kirqqa and four other stylishly dressed nobles, the most flamboyant of which was a long-haired goblin with gold buttons and belt buckle, violet hip boots, and a voluminous blue hat so tall that it might give the most acrophobic goblins a fright.
“Well met, good friends,” said the king. “And Baron Klugile, too. How did things go on Ielnarona?”
“I have a missive, which I will read to you presently,” said the overdressed Baron, nodding his head pleasantly as if he had not heard the slight.
Two guards escorted them through the castle to a corridor scented like an odious potpourri: a mélange of acrid sweat, floral scents, and musks. Tinny and ambiguous shrieks echoed off the damp stones. Khyte couldn’t tell if they arose from the pit of suffering or the zenith of delight. The thick, oppressive scent, the clamor of far-off fright or bliss, and the labyrinthine halls gave such credence to the rumors of Merculo’s sadistic pursuits that Khyte panicked. The scent shrieked “cut, pierce, kill” until his muscles seemed to grow into action as if they were fast-moving vines. Khyte knew he was frightened before his pulse raced, and since his ancestors condemned fright, blood must spill in consequence. Goosebumps swelled on the back of his arms and the hackles on his neck rose when fear somersaulted to fury, his lips curled into a feral grin.
“Fail,” he said, and when the startled king, counts, and barons turned their heads, Khyte’s bright sword cut down both guards. When the six frumpy goblins in court dress saw one fit swordsman, most fled the way they had come. Khyte lunged, stabbed, and slashed, then turned from the corpses to the king cowering against a door. In Merculo’s haste to back away, the resplendent crown impacted the wall, which sheared the spider’s soft gold legs and sent the silver abdomen to clatter to the floor, where half its gilded stripes flattened.
“Where are the other two?” Khyte demanded.
Dead-eyed, and with quavering lip, the king said, “s-s-servants’ passage.”
It couldn’t be helped, thought Khyte. Now he must succeed or die. “Open the door, your Majesty.”
The goblin king pressed against the door as if he could ooze through the jamb. “I was going to share. There was no cause for this, and now someone must answer for these deaths.”
“Open it. Or give me the key.”
“Kirqqa had the key,” he said, pointing at the Count’s riven body. When Khyte stooped to retrieve it, Merculo lurched to his feet, and Khyte cut his hamstring.
Now the alarm was most certainly raised, as the king’s mewling was so shrill the walls sang. Khyte cracked the goblin in the head with his sword hilt. While it didn’t do him any good, Khyte couldn’t bear the screeching. He packed the silver abdomen of Merculo’s spider-crown and left the fragments where they lay.
When Khyte opened the door to scarlet, gold, azure, and emerald green woven into brocaded tapestries that covered the room with likenesses of naked goblins in every conjugation, at first Khyte didn’t see the occupants, until disheveled goblins, caught in flagrante delicto, tumbled from velvet divans also embroidered with lewd acts, which had blended into the obscene backdrop. While some of the debauched clutched furry throws, most were as nature made them. All stared at Khyte’s bloody sword, then streaked through the opposing doors. Two clambered down stairs, and the others stampeded through a branching passage.
What was this? Khyte expected a dryad in a cell or flowering in a greenhouse, not an underground bordello. Thinking she would be more likely downstairs than not, Khyte abandoned caution and went three stairs at a time, for until guards arrived, Khyte was a lion in a love nest.
At the bottom, Khyte almost ran into an outflung door. Three rooms were opened, and two were shut, with ascending steps visible through the window of the furthest closed door. When the shut doors proved locked, Khyte stamped in and ou
t of the open ones, finding only the same mixture of unpleasant and alluring scents, scattered sheets and clothes, and one goblin either too drunk or too sleepy to flee his bed.
Though Khyte pushed, then charged, the windowless locked door, it rattled in the jamb but did not budge. With a two-handed grip, he thrust his sword above the lock plate, and the blade bit two inches into the wood. He pushed with all his might until the steel was a third of the way buried, then ground down with all his weight, dragging the blade through splintering wood until the lock wobbled, when he twisted it free by brute strength. Even after this, the door clattered in the jamb, but when he shouldered it this time, the door burst.
Neither sleazy boudoir nor squalid cell, this locked room spoke of affluence, indulgence, and sunlight. On a lacquered wicker shelf, a candle burned, its lighted wick a shadowy smolder that radiated not light but summer heat, while on the shelf above, a glass orb blazed with the light of day. While the smell of sex had followed him into the room from Merculo’s bordello, it was extinguished by the melting wax, which mingled with sweet, musky cinnamon and a scent both pungent and fresh, not unlike green onions.
The walls might have been crusty stone, or they might have been pure ruby; he couldn’t tell, for they were smothered with strangely seamless tapestries of such a mind-bogglingly tiny weave that Khyte would more likely believe them spun by worms than woven by hand. One depicted dryads cavorting with naked goblins pricked by a cartoonish lust, their eyes inflated even more bulbously than in nature and their grins distorted into caricatures. While the goblins were all male, the dryads were women, men, and a curious fusion of male and female that the stitched goblins seemed to prefer from the way they ogled and capered around the buxom dryad women but groped the hermaphrodites.
A Spell Takes Root Page 9