After a few days, Langashin grew tired of his birth city and decided to return to what he now considered to be “home.” He passed through the gates of Basingham four weeks after having left and was greeted by grim news. Caleb had met with an unfortunate accident a few days after his departure. Accounts varied, but the merchant had apparently lost his balance while wandering around on a rooftop one evening and had tumbled over the side, landing head down on a cobbled porch some twenty feet below. No one could explain what he had been doing on the rooftop in the first place but, in the end, it didn’t really matter. His empire had been dismantled and divided within days and Langashin was quite unexpectedly without a job.
He sometimes wondered why he made the choice that he did for his next employer. His services were in demand; he could have commanded an exorbitant salary and lived a life of luxury. Instead, he answered a summons to the palace for a meeting with King Durth. He recognized beforehand that the Crown wouldn’t be able to match the richest merchants coin-for-coin but he hoped there might be… fringe benefits… to sweeten the deal.
The king, a middle-aged man with a full beard and a false smile, greeted him warmly in an audience chamber where he was surrounded by a dozen armed guards. Langashin considered that an honor although he never would have been stupid enough to make a move against a sitting ruler. He wasn’t an assassin nor would this have been an opportune time to become one. His skills required patience not lightning quick reflexes.
Durth acknowledged what Langashin expected. “If it’s just money you’re after, I can’t pay what Goodman Lykle or Earl Spoonford can. The treasury is healthy but they seem to mint their own coins. But I can offer something they can’t: a royal commission for every activity you engage in. No fear of arrest. Access to the palace dungeon. As many assistants as you require. The ability to command the Watch to capture miscreants. Master Langashin, I have spies aplenty but my intelligence network needs someone like you who can loosen stalwart, stubborn tongues. I have enemies inside and outside of the city and I must know their plans to keep my family safe and Basingham secure. Currently, my… procurer of information…”
Langashin interrupted him. “Let’s not play with words, Your Majesty. Torturer. That’s what he is. That’s what I am. I don’t pretend to be anything else.” Caleb hadn’t liked that word, either. Langashin had always found it amusing that the merchant had liked the information but had been squeamish about how it had been obtained.
Durth nodded. “As you wish… torturer. The man currently holding that position is a butcher. Most of his victims die long before they give up any useful information. He’s an able soldier on the battlefield but a bad choice for extracting information. I need an expert. I need you.”
Langashin pretended to consider the offer when, in fact, he had made his decision before agreeing to the meeting. “I have only one precondition, Your Majesty: a Writ of Universal Pardon.”
Durth raised an eyebrow at this. Few documents were more prized than Writs of Universal Pardon. Only the six kings could pen them and it was rare that one would agree to do so. The Writs were acknowledged across the continent and effectively wiped clean a man’s past, expunging his sins no matter how heinous or in which city they had been committed.
“What you ask for…”
“… is well within your power to grant,” said Langashin. He had made it his business to find out before making the request.
“You could earn a fortune by selling one of those.”
Langashin nodded. Such things weren’t unheard of although, considering the scarcity of the Writs, black-market sales were rare. And the price wasn’t typically in gold. “I could but that ain’t the reason. It’s an assurance that if I practice my skills on someone powerful, I won’t go to the hangman’s noose for my actions.”
“In such a case, I would pardon you.”
Langashin smiled inwardly. How did the saying go about the promises of kings? “I’m sure you would try, Your Majesty, but unforeseen circumstances occur and a posthumous pardon wouldn’t be of much benefit to me.” And there was always the possibility that Durth could die suddenly and his successor might not be kindly disposed toward the Royal Torturer. Suggesting that, however, might sound to Durth like a veiled threat.
After a little more wrangling, Durth capitulated. Langashin began work within a week. Those who toiled in the dungeons initially regarded him with a mixture of suspicion and skepticism but that changed after they witnessed firsthand the effectiveness of his methods. The first prisoner Langashin operated on was a hardened bandit captured after robbing and killing two farmers in a nearby settlement. The Watch believed him to be in possession of valuable information about the location of a nearby band that had been staging raids on Basingham’s satellite villages for several seasons. After nearly two weeks of methodical cutting, burning, gouging, and piercing, the bandit revealed everything before slipping into unconsciousness and dying. The Watch, acting on the intelligence, was able to surprise and decimate the bandit group. Langashin’s value was thus confirmed. Durth offered him a night of wine and women. He accepted the former and passed the latter to his fellow dungeon-keepers - an act that earned him their undying devotion.
For nearly five years, Langashin reveled in his position as Basingham’s premiere torturer. King Durth, well pleased with his results, often gifted him with coins, spirits, and other items of value. Both in the city and across the continent, his reputation grew. His rapid ascent came at the expense of the standings of others and, as a result, he made some influential enemies. Technically, all nobles in Basingham were outranked by the king. As a practical matter, however, the dukes with the largest land holdings and deepest pockets took orders from no one. And, after a distant relative to one of those families met his end in Langashin’s dungeon, the torturer became a target.
Looking back on it, Langashin rued the day he put the man on the rack. He should have ordered his release and sent him home. At the time, however, he had believed his position to be unassailable. Not only was he feared in every quarter of Basingham but he possessed Durth’s Writ of Universal Pardon. But the members of Family Sangura weren’t intimidated by Langashin and they began a campaign to bring him down. Had he been more politically savvy, he would have recognized the precariousness of his situation immediately and might have been able to take steps to counteract it. However, by the time he learned that forces were being mobilized against him, there was nothing he could do except flee. Leaving in disgrace hurt his ego but it was a better alternative than dying with his dignity intact.
What bothered him the most about losing his post as Basingham’s “Procurer of Information” was that he no longer had a legitimate outlet for his prodigious talents. To him, torture was an art. His victims weren’t just unfortunate people - they were the canvasses upon which he practiced. Serving Durth had allowed to him to rise every morning with the promise of being able to try something new. Screams were his music, blood his paint. When he lost his post, he lost his patron. As a renegade, there was little opportunity for torture. The merchants who had once clamored to employ him now recoiled from a potential association. The Family Sangura was thorough in smearing of Langashin’s name and ensuring that he became a pariah in Basingham. And, since their influence was strong in the other Southern cities of Vantok and Earlford, Langashin found himself unwelcome seemingly everywhere.
Running away didn’t sit well with Langashin. This was the second time circumstances had forced him to do it. It was the way of the coward, but he wasn’t stupid enough to court his own death. In the end, life was what mattered - anything else, once lost, could be regained through time and patience. Duke Sangura had the best trained private militia in all of Basingham, numbering 200 strong. He had reached a deal with the king that the royal troops would step aside to allow his men to “do what must be done.” The plan was for Langashin to die by “accident” since he couldn’t intentionally be killed because of the Writ. Durth wouldn’t act directly against his tor
turer, but all Sangura required was that he not act. Had Langashin not been tipped off by one of his underlings, he would have fallen into the trap. As it was, by the time Duke Sangura made his move, Langashin was 12 hours east of Basingham on a fast horse.
Necessity took him north to the part of the continent feared by every poorly educated child of the South. He had always imagined the cities beyond Widow’s Pass as places of ice and ogres. Upon arriving in Obis in the middle of Summer, he decided things weren’t that different after all. There were fewer farms in evidence, the walls were taller and mightier, and the people were rougher but men had cocks, women had tits, and babies came about from fucking. Langashin wondered whether the Iron King, Rangarak, might be in need of a new torturer.
The Writ of Universal Pardon earned Langashin an audience with Rangarak. He came before the Crown in a cold, cavernous throne room before a sparse crowd of curious onlookers.
Rangarak skimmed the Writ while Langashin waited on bended knee in front of him. The guards - ten armored, sword-bearing men flanking the king and an equal number of archers on a balcony - watched Langashin with infinite caution. He wondered if they were so attentive to every supplicant or whether his reputation had preceded him to Obis’ court.
“I’m impressed you got that sack of shit Durth to give you one of these although I’m sure you realize by now this ain’t worth the parchment it’s written on. A Writ of Universal Pardon sounds good but, even as rare as they are, they’re routinely ignored. Still, I’m willing to take it at face value if you’re willing to abide by a few conditions.” As was his reputation, Rangarak didn’t bother with fancy talk or royal etiquette. Obis was a warrior city and its kings typically had little patience for such things.
“Begging Your Majesty’s pardon, but King Durth provided me with that document when I entered his employment. I worked as his…”
“I know who you are, Langashin. I’d wager pretty much every high ranking official in all the six cities knows your name and reputation. Notoriety of that sort has its curses and benefits. You’ve experienced the latter, now you’re getting to know the former. No king would outright defy a Writ of Universal Pardon, but it’s easy enough to contrive an ‘accident’ with little accountability. I know about your situation. My spymaster gave me a briefing when I saw your name on the audience list. Apparently, you angered some noble with enough influence to persuade Durth the Spineless to turn a blind eye to your assassination. Not the first time something like that’s happened. Won’t be the last either, I’d wager.
“When I issue a Writ of Universal Pardon, I adhere not only to the document but to the spirit in which it was written. Otherwise, it doesn’t mean shit. Know how many I’ve given out in my two decades on the throne?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“One. And those were peculiar circumstances. But I digress. My point is that I’ll honor this Writ provided you surrender it to me and seek legitimate employment in Obis. You start with a clean slate but you no longer have Durth’s fake scroll to protect your ass. I’d suggest joining the militia but the choice is yours. I wouldn’t recommend seeking an occupation in your former line of work. I ain’t got no need of a torturer and there’s a law against privately engaging in those practices. If you want to torture, go somewhere else. In this city, it’s a hanging offense.”
That audience led to the beginning of Langashin’s military career. Taken as a whole, it was undistinguished. He spent three years rising through the ranks but his heart wasn’t in it. Being a soldier involved doling out death, but it wasn’t the sort of killing he was familiar with. There was no art to it. It was pure brutality - the faster, the better. He feared that his skills, honed over the long period he had spent in Basingham, were eroding from disuse.
Eventually, despairing of what he had become, he left Rangarak’s service - an act that led him to his current position. What a winding road it had been - working as a mercenary for hire, joining the poorly ordered army of a Man Who Would Be King, then returning to the South to a new post. Lost Havenham. Now, for the first time since his last mission for King Durth, he was going to be given an opportunity to return to his first love. There was money involved, to be sure. And, having left all his wealth behind in Basingham four years ago, he needed the gold. But it was more than that. He was excited about the prospect of renewing his acquaintanceship with the nasty little tool he had taken from Slither. He had waited for this, wanted it for so long... His skin tingled with the prospect of creating the special bond that only torturer and victim shared.
Smiling, Langashin took a moment to compose himself. Now was the time. The long years of waiting were over. Screams and whimpers, then stench of blood and charred flesh… how he loved it all! And, if only in this one instance, it had been given back to him. The gods were dead, but to Langashin, this felt like a gift from above, and he wasn’t about to squander it.
The Serving Wench
“The Serving Wench” is the third of three short stories (following “The Virgin” and “The Warrior”) to form a direct lead-in to “The Last Whisper of the Gods.” These stories, read in that order, established the background for several of the secondary characters (Warburm, Vagrum, Annie, Kara) who were important in the first book as well as (briefly) introducing the leads: Alicia (in “The Warrior”) and Sorial (in “The Serving Wench”). This story also allowed me to expand on Annie’s background. We learn some of this in “The Last Whisper of the Gods” but there are hopefully some new tidbits and surprises here.
Annie was a child of the streets. “Urchin” was the word she often heard and, at one time, she thought it was her name. Her mother, a whore, died of influenza was she was three. Her father, a member of The Watch, sent her a pouch with a month’s wages shortly after her mother’s death then was never heard from again. She didn’t know his name and, if she had, it wouldn’t have mattered. His coins were well-intended but she didn’t have them for long. Coins and possessions, like virginity, were rarities among girls of the streets.
When she was very young, she was cared for by older orphan girls. She was told she had spent nearly a year in the Temple but didn’t have any memories of that time. As she grew older, she became suitable for employment by noblewomen for housework and a maid’s duties. Those years were happy ones and, although she didn’t make much coin, she was allowed to sleep in a dormitory room with other household servants. Unfortunately, the approach of maturity found her again on the streets. Her comely face and well-developed figure became a detriment. Mistresses, seeing their husbands’ eyes wandering in her direction, dismissed her. She was left with little choice beyond using those assets to keep from starving.
Another girl with a similar story convinced her it was better than ending up begging with the pox-ridden children who had no other choice. “You’re a pretty one,” she said with a trace of envy. “They’ll line up for you. Not that you can be picky. Not that any of us can. We’s gotta take ’em all. Coins don’t know whether their owner’s fat or skinny, old or young, ugly or hansom.”
The life of a whore wasn’t as arduous or unpleasant as she feared it would be. The first few times were painful but, after a while, she got used to it. Once in a long while, there were even hints of pleasure, although those were fleeting. She would never forget a conversation she had with one of her first clients, a grizzled farmer three times her age. After they finished and he was lacing up his breeches, she commented that she was sore.
His laugh surprised her. “Is that all? Lass, I work my ass off from dawn to dusk in the fields. Some days, I get home in so much pain I can hardly move. Everything hurts - hands, feet, arms, legs. And I’m so damn tired I can hardly stay awake for supper. Work ain’t supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be unpleasant. Be glad you can do your job on your back or knees rather than pulling a plow behind you. If’n the gods hadn’t made menfolk and womenfolk so different in their ways, I’d trade places with you in a moment.”
Since then, she had never felt badly abou
t her profession. Most of the men who paid for her services did so after long, hard days. They weren’t gentle but they weren’t violent either. They had little stamina and didn’t last long. She found it strange that they didn’t seem to enjoy the act any more than she did. It was as if they did it out of a compulsion. She guessed it wasn’t much different for people than it was for the stallions and mares she sometimes glimpsed coupling in barns and stables. After a time, she started thinking it as just another necessity of life, not much different from eating, drinking, or shitting. Sex was another urge that people needed satiated. That was her function and she was good at it. Or at least good enough that many of her customers sought her out repeatedly. She earned more in a day on her back than she had in a week working as a maid.
She made enough to pay for food but not shelter. During the warm months, life without a home in Vantok wasn’t difficult. She could lie in the fields or by the river. Winter was harsh, however. Sometimes an unmarried client would let her spend the night on his floor. More often, the best she could hope for was to curl up a barn loft or stable. Snowy days were the worst. Her flimsy shoes were quickly soaked through and her feet were as cold as ice after being outside for only a few minutes. She hadn’t lost any toes yet but some of the older women assured her it would come. “Don’t need your feet to please a man, but have a care for your fingers,” they warned.
Although prostitution wasn’t the revered institution in Vantok it was in the northern city of Syre, whoring was one of the most popular forms of work for unmarried (and sometimes married) women of a certain age. Annie lacked the refinement to secure employment in a brothel so she worked the streets. She quickly became known as “the pretty one” - her natural beauty, youth, and newness to the profession worked in concert to ensure men came looking for her. She rarely suffered abuse at the hands of a client, although it happened from time to time. She was once gifted with a broken arm, and bruises and black eyes were part of the risk girls like her took. She learned to avoid men who smelled strongly of spirits. It was rare that anything good came of such an encounter. Many of those clients turned violent and those that didn’t often passed out before paying.
The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia Page 10
