It was hard to say just how it began, or what the first step was. One moment, stillness. The next, a reeling, chromatic gavotte. As the Harlequins moved they left blurred after-images in their wake, ghostly echoes of each twist and turn in their grand coordination. Each step and gesture established characters whose arcs were completed by the next pirouette, a self-contained universe of transitory events bestriding an ever-shifting array of worlds. Slowly, surely, the crowd fell silent.
Malys pressed her fan to her chest and tried to ignore the sudden thump of her heart as the rhythm of the dance sped up. It was hard to follow all of the nuances of the performers’ body language – she suspected the meaning was different depending on where you were standing. The one she saw was familiar – a mythic saga, the journey of a young prince exiled and become king of exiles. Appropriate, perhaps, given their host.
As the dance reached a crescendo of frenetic motion, there was a low, deep tolling, as of some great bell. The toll shuddered out, causing the glass in her hand to quiver in sympathy. Trays rattled and slaves quailed, sinking to their knees. The Harlequins broke apart, dispersing swiftly like a flock of startled birds.
Sliscus made his entrance in grand style. Clad in shimmering raiment made from the glistening hide of some alien beast, he descended from on high. His Sslyth bodyguards undulated after him, their progress slow. The steps had not been designed with serpentine bodies in mind. Sliscus quickly outpaced them, moving with light-footed grace.
‘They say the Harlequins taught him to dance,’ Thyndrak murmured, watching him. ‘And that he has done so under a grinning mask for the unknowing entertainment of the highest of the high.’ She glanced at Malys. ‘Have we seen him, I wonder?’
‘I feel certain we would know. Traevelliath has never been one to conceal his light, even for a joke.’ Malys studied the corsair. Sliscus had not changed much since their last encounter. He was still the same Serpent. Tall and regal, as only a scion of the semi-extinct noble houses could be, with sharp, high-planed features. His hair had been bound into hundreds of thin plaits, each wrapped in gold wire. The plaits splayed out across his shoulders and cascaded down his back and across his bare chest.
A pair of swords hung from the stacked half-sheaths of the ornate gem-studded harness he wore over his shimmering coat. The weapons were old and cruel-looking, their pale blades curved and hooked like talons, and they rasped against one another. The gems in the harness flickered strangely as the light struck them. With a start, Malys realised that they were spirit stones. She laughed softly in delight, wondering if the stones were occupied. If so, she hoped the souls within were enjoying the view.
Holstered opposite the swords was a heavy liquifier pistol with ivory framework and a gilded barrel. The pistol, like the swords, was old, and radiated the malice of ages. Fingers heavy with rings tapped against the pistol’s grip, and Sliscus’ other hand rested atop the pommel of the uppermost sword.
‘I have arrived,’ he said, his voice a soothing purr. ‘Now, let the revelries begin.’
Duke Sliscus took in the crowd at a glance, savouring their adulation and envy. The barely restrained rage of jealous Commorrites was like a palate cleanser after the unsubtle emotions he had been forced to subsist on. So many different permutations of desire and resentment. And all for him.
‘My friends,’ he said, spreading his arms. ‘Be welcome. All that I have is yours. Enjoy yourselves to the fullest. I ask only that you leave behind a little of the happiness that you bring.’ A smattering of applause greeted his words, as he had known it would. As he studied the crowd, noting the familiar faces, he wondered which of them would be lost to the pleasure gardens. He hoped it was someone interesting this time.
Before he could continue, a voice cried out, ‘Death to the Serpent!’ A moment later, a splinter pistol crackled. The shot struck the force shield surrounding him, and the thin shards of crystal scattered across an unseen curve. He chuckled.
‘Oh, are we getting this out of the way early? How thoughtful.’
Several guests laughed. Others drew back, eager to witness the confrontation. It wasn’t a real party until someone tried to kill the host. There was a disturbance at the back of the crowd as his attackers forced their way towards him. An archon and his retinue – three kabalite warriors, likely favoured – if not trusted – dracons. Sliscus recognised the burgundy armour and flowing azure silks of the warriors instantly.
‘Is that you, Xomyll? I thought I recognised your distinctive squeal. Still angry about the tesseract, I take it?’ Sliscus waved Sleg and his coil-kin back as he descended the final steps. ‘I can’t blame you – it is very nice.’ He gestured about him for emphasis, and an appreciative titter ran through his guests.
‘Thief,’ Xomyll spat. He was a pinch-faced trueborn, haughty and arrogant. He and his cluster of warriors bore the sigil of the Kabal of the Black Heart proudly, as if their allegiance to the Supreme Overlord of Commorragh was all the protection they needed. And in most cases, it was. But not here. Vect had no power here, whatever a fool like Xomyll might think. The archon spat on the floor and gestured with his smoking pistol. ‘I name you thief and traitor, Traevelliath Sliscus. I name you coward.’ He holstered his weapon and let his hand fall to the sword sheathed on his hip. ‘Asdrubael Vect sends his regards, corsair. Will you answer his challenge?’
A murmur swept through the crowd. Sliscus smiled. ‘Asdrubael sent you? How considerate.’ He let his hands drift towards the swords on his hip. ‘Come, then. Let us commence, before the roasted haemovore cutlets grow cold.’
Xomyll snarled an order, and his warriors drew their blades and surged forward. There was another murmur at this. It was bad form to involve others in a direct challenge. But neither Xomyll nor his master were known for caring much about form, and in the end, results were all that really mattered.
Sliscus sprang to meet them, drawing his swords. The blades were light in his hand, and the pale steel was lined with thin filaments of red. The psycho-vampiric circuitry woven into the metal could leach the vitality from anything the blades bit into. He spun the swords, indulging his sense of melodrama. But as the first of his assailants reached him, he was already moving. Not to kill, but simply to incapacitate. He twisted away from a lunge and chopped through the back of the warrior’s legs. His blade easily bit through armour and flesh, and the crippled warrior collapsed with a gasp of pain. Sliscus tore his blade free as he used its mate to parry a blow. Without slowing, he dealt his second attacker a deceptively gentle blow on the shoulder.
As the second reeled, the third pounced. Sliscus caught her blow on his crossed blades. He jerked his swords apart, chopping through her own. She stumbled back, and he pursued. His blades licked out – knees, elbows, thighs, shoulders – and she fell with a wail. The second warrior cursed and sprang at his back. Sliscus reversed his blades and thrust them to meet him. The weight of the dying fighter crashed against him, and Sliscus shuddered as he drank in his opponent’s death agonies. He tore his blades free as Xomyll tried to capitalise on the momentary distraction.
Invigorated by the pain of the warriors he had wounded, Sliscus easily avoided the thrust. Xomyll was not quite the swordsman he fancied himself. He was a better bootlick by far. Sliscus wondered what had given him the courage to attempt so bold a murder. Maybe it wasn’t courage so much as stupidity.
‘How he must dislike you, Xomyll,’ he said as he stepped around the archon. His blade licked out lazily, and Xomyll parried it with desperate speed. ‘Sending you here like this. I did wonder, you know. The last time I invited him to a party, he sent Mandrakes. They made quite the mess. But this – you – this is more in the way of an apology.’
Xomyll bared his teeth and attacked. Sliscus ducked and twisted, evading the darting blade in a swirl of robes. ‘I wonder, is this punishment, perhaps, for losing the tesseract in the first place? It was a gift, after all. Bad form, to lose a gift
from the Tyrant.’
‘You stole it,’ Xomyll snarled.
‘Yes. From you. So whose fault is it, truly? Whom does he hold responsible, hmm?’ Sliscus parried a clumsy blow and stepped past Xomyll, slicing through his calf. Xomyll sank to one knee with a groan. Sliscus turned and swept the tip of a blade across Xomyll’s wrist, cutting tendons. Xomyll dropped his blade. The archon threw himself forward, clawing for his splinter pistol. Sliscus didn’t give him a chance to fire. He leapt and pinned Xomyll’s hand to the floor. He kicked the pistol away and smiled down at his would-be assassin. ‘I think we both know the answer to that.’
Xomyll gaped up at him. Sliscus waited for him to curse, to protest, something. Instead, Xomyll whimpered as the psycho-vampiric circuitry did its work. Sliscus frowned, suddenly bored of the whole affair. He sighed and thrust his other blade through the wounded archon’s eye, ending the game abruptly.
‘Well, that was disappointing. Still, no reason to let it ruin the party.’ He nudged the body out of the way with his foot and looked around. ‘Eat, my friends. Drink! Make merry. For tomorrow, you might wind up like poor Xomyll there.’ Laughter swept the gardens as his guests set to enjoying themselves.
He cleaned his blades on his raiment as slaves came to drag the bodies away – both the living and the dead. The survivors might yet find a place in his fleet if they lasted the night. Or he would toss them into the depths of the gardens to live out the rest of their days as hunted beasts. It would depend on his mood.
As he sheathed his swords, Myrta came forward, holding a new robe for him. This one had been made from the soft flesh of Morralian younglings, and its folds were dark and supple. He dropped his blood-spattered raiment to the floor and slipped on the new robe. Slaves squabbled over the discarded one, though whether to clean it or claim it, he couldn’t say. Either was acceptable. He rarely wore the same thing twice, and even then only under protest. He tapped the hilts of his swords, feeling the last ergs of stolen vitality seeping away. The spirit stones that encrusted the sheath pulsed despairingly, and he smiled.
‘Pleased with yourself, then?’
He turned, his smile widening. ‘Aurelia, you came. Oh, how delightful.’ He held out his hands to Lady Malys and she took them, looking him up and down. Malys looked as regal as ever, clad as she was in ornate ceremonial armour and a flowing dress of archaic style. A bustle draped with streamers of ur-ghul hide completed the ensemble. He ignored a flicker of jealousy. She had always known how to dress for a party.
‘How could I miss this? Your parties are legend, Traevelliath.’
‘Not everyone agrees, sadly.’ He glanced meaningfully at the new bloodstains on the floor. ‘Asdrubael always did know how to hold a grudge.’
‘Or maybe it was a gift. Xomyll has been agitating to send a fleet after you. To punish you for crimes against the Eternal City. He has – had – something of a following.’
Sliscus laughed. ‘And if he had succeeded?’
‘Then Vect would have been rid of an admittedly charismatic annoyance.’
‘Aurelia, your mind is as crooked as ever. It has always been the whetstone against which I sharpen my own not-inconsiderable intellect.’ He rubbed her cheek, leaving shallow scratches.
Malys snorted. ‘Flatterer.’ She frowned suddenly and touched her cheek. He wondered if she had detected the harsh taste at the back of her throat already. She licked her lips. ‘Poison?’ she asked.
‘Nothing dangerous. Not for such as we, my lady.’
She slapped him, hard enough to draw blood. ‘Ask first.’ She licked the taste of him from her fingers. ‘As sweet as ever, I see.’
He rubbed his cheek and smiled. ‘I’m delighted you came.’ A slave passed by bearing a tray of drinks, and he took one.
‘I was surprised to receive your invitation, I admit,’ Malys said, sipping from her own drink. ‘Especially after I put those Groevian assassins on your trail.’
‘I wondered who was behind that. It was a disappointingly sloppy attempt, Aurelia.’
Malys cocked an eyebrow. ‘They came highly recommended. However did you escape them, Traevelliath?’
‘Oh, I might possibly have caused their navigational system to malfunction. The last I saw, they were plunging into the heart of their homeworld’s star. Bit of a joke, there.’
‘Was it?’
‘Well, you had to be there.’ Sliscus smiled at her over the rim of his goblet. ‘I thank you for the diversion, however momentary.’
‘I thought you might find it entertaining,’ Malys said. His smile widened a fraction.
‘As I hope you will find this modest celebration entertaining.’ Sliscus bowed slightly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, we must mingle before I make my grand announcement, lest I be accused of monopolising your time.’ He took her hand and brushed his lips across the gilded steel barbs that covered her knuckles before moving to greet his other guests.
For the most part, they were a tedious lot. They reeked of ambition, and their desperate politicking offended his sensibilities. Even here, among such splendour, they could not break free of the cage Vect had thrust them into all those millennia ago. The Tyrant had trapped them all behind bars of fear and paranoia. All save himself. Like his namesake, he had slithered free. He lived for himself, not for some artificial purpose bestowed by a domineering paranoiac.
But he was polite. He traded barbs with clever Thyndrak and gifted Xerathis with the recipe for a more potent form of hallucinogen. Borrowing a pair of matched blades from a leering wych, he met another eager gladiatrix in a dance of thorns, though only briefly. A few shallow cuts and a round of applause later, he was climbing the stairs, beckoning for silence. It came in fits and starts. They all wanted to hear.
He drew the silence out, savouring it for a few moments. Then, hands clasped before him, he began. ‘Midwinter is a special time, or so the old stories say. When the seasons bleed into one another – back when we had seasons – and the line between the living and the dead grows thin and weak. It is a time when hunters seek great prey grown sluggish and torpid. How fitting, then, that we see this time as one to celebrate – for are we not hunters, kinsmen? Are we not the most deadly things in all creation?’
He gestured flamboyantly, and there were a few cheers as some of his guests grew overexcited. He nodded indulgently. ‘When the gods made us, they cast aside their tools and wept. For we are perfect in our lethality and unrivalled in the arts of death. We are the sword that made existence itself bleed, and the wounds we opened in reality will never heal. They stand as memorials to our power.’
Murmurs now, among the cheers. Sly looks passed between rivals. He had them, and he could taste their eagerness. They knew what was coming. It was tradition. Other archons had hosted similar hunts in their time, but this would be the greatest of them all.
‘Midwinter has always been our most sacred of times. A joyful indulgence amid the bleakness of death’s season. A reminder of what makes life worth living. And so I have invited you all here not simply to partake of my stores, but to indulge in that which sustains us. A hunt, kinsmen. A great and savage hunt, such as few have ever enjoyed.’ He lifted his goblet high, and his guests lifted theirs in celebration. It had gone beyond anticipation and into expectation.
‘We shall tell great lies in the days to come, my friends. Even now, coordinates to our hunting grounds are being sent to your vessels. A heavily defended world of savage beasts and even more savage inhabitants. A world of tempests and turbulent seas.’
He clapped his hands and descended, his robes trailing behind him. At his gesture, a vast photonic image blurred to life above the pleasure garden. A world of greys and blues. A murmur ran through his guests, and he grinned, displaying fashionably sharp teeth. He tossed his half-empty goblet over his shoulder and spread his hands, as if to receive the world.
‘They call it Fenris. A hearthworld
for a legion of those crude augmented warriors that the slave races seem to birth by the million.’
He gestured, and the holo-image began to turn. ‘It is currently caught in the grip of seasonal upheaval. They are blind, deaf and dumb. They who fancy themselves predators are now nothing more than prey, and we shall treat them accordingly. We, who at our height once hunted the gods themselves. Shall we lower ourselves, brothers and sisters? Shall we deliver unto them a lesson as to their place in the vastitude of all known space?’
A raucous cheer went up at his words. It never failed. The easiest way to win over the average Commorrite was to appeal to their vanity. He smiled and reached out, as if to embrace them all. ‘It will be great fun. But for now, eat, drink and make merry, my kin. Make a joyful noise, such that those who refused my invitation hear and gnaw their vitals in darkest envy.’
As the crowd broke apart, Sliscus caught sight of Malys sidling closer and smiled indulgently. Aurelia Malys had a mind as sharp as a blade, coated in poison besides. Even Vect was wary of her, and with good reason, for all they had once supposedly been paramours. Malys was one of the few things Sliscus missed about Commorragh.
Of course, Vect had tired of her, as he did all his favourites. He had ejected her from his confidences and left her isolated on the fringes of Commorrite society. Sliscus could almost smell the desire for revenge radiating from her. Like many of his guests, she had come hoping to rope him into some scheme or other. Just as he had hoped. Among so many plotters, there was bound to be something that might cure him of his ennui.
‘What did you think of my speech, Aurelia?’ he asked, taking her hands.
‘Magnificent. But then, you have always been a superb orator, Traevelliath.’ She glanced over her shoulder, and he spotted a colourful figure loitering nearby. He raised a plucked eyebrow as Malys continued. ‘I wish for you to meet someone. Or rather, they wish to meet you.’
‘I don’t recall inviting any of your sort,’ he said mildly to the figure.
Lukas the Trickster Page 10
