Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  * * * * *

  Chapter 7

  Again to war -- the bravest and the best.

  Again to war -- in metal armor dressed.

  Again to war -- upon his lips, a jest.

  Again to war -- a spear, his heart to nest?

  Again to war -- my trembling lips he pressed.

  Again to war -- his fate, by death to test.

  Again to war -- lay out -- lay out his burial vest.

  Wearing a glorious, blue silk vest lavishly embroidered with twin hunting hawks, King Yarro sat on the dais. Torchlight flashed from thumb sized sapphires thick set in the gold chain around his corded neck. Torchlight also reflected from the facets of his flat, blue eyes.

  Standing at attention around the buttressed walls were soldier-guards.

  This was the central room of the Palace, the hall built to withstand siege. In addition, the Palace was flanked by triple walls of close fit stone, the walls' saw-toothed parapets guarded by the night watch. The stronghold was further shielded by the insularity of the island on which it stood, the island outriggered by the strongest navy in the world.

  Thinking these thoughts, the king felt safe.

  Magnifying his authority (sitting to either side along the ruling table) were his Heads. To his right, Etexin, Head of the army, Niem, Head of Guards, then the Heads of revenue, agriculture, and commerce -- to his left, Vancu, Head of the navy, then Heads of cities and industry. And finally Bachur, the palace plenipotentiary.

  Before and below the king were the most highly regarded of the lower class, sated with food and drink.

  Yarro belched contentedly, taking a final sip of chilled wine from his tall, hawk shaped chalice, swishing the vintage through his teeth to clear his palate before turning his head to spit the mouthful on the floor.

  It had been the king's pleasure to see these others gorge themselves at his expense, to see their spellbound faces caught up by the singer's clever words. Tomorrow, these "representatives" of his people would be permitted to submit petitions of grievance to their king -- all of which he would ignore. After which, humbled by the king's magnanimity in inviting them to his own banquet hall, overwhelmed by his magnificence, they would gratefully pay the higher taxes he would levy. All in all, a good night's work.

  Even the minstrel had matched his reputation. What was that joke about the Malachite and Cinnabarian? Quite amusing. And, as magician, the bold fellow had performed most cleverly. Now strumming his hand held harp, the entertainer was singing of the tragedies of Stil-de-grain and of her inevitable triumph.

  Often, the thud of the warring drum,

  Pounded the rhythm for marching men,

  Hollowly echoed across some plain,

  Arms! To arms, for Stil-de-grain!

  Leaning to his left, the king rasped a question to the navy Head. "What is that fellow's name, again?" An elegant flick of the king's finger indicated the jester.

  "I believe it is Golden, your majesty," the old man whispered through his beard.

  "Yes." By this time, all the Heads had turned toward the king; all listening to Yarro's every word. "I want that fellow rewarded," the king whispered to the Head of revenue, the Head nodding eagerly, the movement rippling down his shirt to undulate the golden sash across his chest. "Not too much, though," the king cautioned with a knowing smirk. "It is good to keep a peasant hungry."

  "You can trust me, your majesty," murmured the finance Head behind his fat, cupped hand. "Twenty silvers?" The Head had the look of a man desperate to please. The king nodded, the finance man's face erupting in a smile.

  All was well.

  The only cloud on Yarro's day had been the unexpected and unwelcome visit by his Mage. A nervous happening!

  Though, ultimately, the Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain was King Yarro's creature, no Mage was to be trusted. No matter how polite -- and the Mage had been elaborately polite. Itself, cause for suspicion!

  Other agents of the king were more reliable, if only because Yarro could, at his pleasure, have them thrown into the dungeon, have their noses slit or ears cut off, or have them branded through the cheeks with red hot irons. Blinded. Burned. The breasts of their women ripped off with iron clawed pincers! But Mages had enough magic to be troublesome.

  Which was why, with smiling teeth, King Yarro had feigned pleasure at the surprise visit of Melcor, Crystal-Mage.

  And what had the Mage wanted? That was the most disturbing thing of all. Yarro did not know. Oh, to be sure, the old man had prattled on about white animals invading neighboring Malachite, slaughtering it's civilians. Nonsense. Stories to frighten children. And if true, so much the better! Death to all Malachites!

  No. King Yarro was not deceived. Melcor had not descended on the palace for any benefit that might accrue to the king. .... Leaving the unanswered question, why did he come?

  And then when the Mage had turned down an invitation to attend the banquet ... in itself an insult!... what was Yarro to think? Since when did any Mage fail to grasp, with both hands, more than the king's largess? And that fabrication about Melcor wanting to be alone to fast for the kingdom's well being ...? Thinking back, Yarro could still hear the bleat of the old man's, unctuous voice!

  Lies! All lies!

  Too bad Yarro could not have Melcor's tongue twisted with pliers until the truth was tortured from him!

  Yarro had been relieved when he had gotten the report that the Mage and the Mage's slavey had left the palace.

  King Yarro forced his mind to the present, thinking that a man of royalty could only despise those fat merchants before him; their gaudy women, flounced beside them, no better. Not one of those pasty faces was fit to share the king's bed tonight!

  No matter. Yarro would pick one of the lovely dancers who had woven their bodies into such titillating contours. One or more would be suitable. With the Etherial's help ... quite suitable!

  As had become his habit, the king slid a hand within his brocaded tunic and through the slit in the red-royal shirt to touch the hidden Crystal on its thin, iron chain. .... No quickening force. No surge of power. The Crystal still inert, the king's temper soured, his thick lips sagging at the corners. Would Pfnaravin never die!? Yarro calmed himself with the certainty that the Mage of Malachite (who's apprentice had stupidly brought Pfnaravin's crystal to Yarro, the boy not having the wit to put the Crystal on) would succumb ... in time. And then, Pfnaravin's magic would transfer to the king! At this happy thought, the king gave a gap toothed smile, his mood lightening at the imagined power he would soon possess. His own, green Crystal to command! Giving him new leverage over Melcor.

  Yarro frowned again. Had Melcor come because the Mage had discovered that business with the priests? Surely not. Still, Mages were a tricky breed, this Melcor no exception. Did the Sorcerer hope to catch the king in an admission of the act? If so, Melcor had gone away discomforted.

  The king's teeth smiled again.

  Sudden applause brought Yarro's thoughts back to the room. The minstrel had finished a song. Had begun another.

  In youth, I dreamed a maiden bold,

  With eyes of blue and hair of gold,

  but then, awake, like dreams all fade,

  Her vision dimmed within your shade.

  Fell earthward, like an arrowed lark,

  Before your warm, cool, warm, moist dark.

  A love song. Good. This would soon be over.

  Had the Mage been seeking the Etherial? Not possible ... except ... that Mages seemed to know what others only guessed. On the remote possibility that Melcor might sense the Etherial, Yarro had hidden her.

  From the very first, of course, Yarro had disguised the Etherial as his personal slavey, a deception made difficult by the girl's youth and beauty. How could the priests have tortured her without damaging that silken skin? In the fine art of flesh rending, Kings had much to learn from priests.

  The Etherial made him feel ... acutely! Yarro had never known such lust as when lying with her! When he was loving his other
women, for that matter, with the Etherial looking on. Stubborn, though. Would not admit that she had the power until he'd dislocated both her shoulders on the rack. Willful. In the end, however, even with his cruder methods, he had convinced her to be reasonable. (Nor was the sexual pleasure he'd gotten from stretching her on the rack, to be discounted. Truly, inflicting pain on women was its own reward.)

  After Yarro had persuaded the Etherial to use her power in his behalf, she even made his food taste better. Colors were richer when she was by his side. Music, sweeter. So radiant was her power that Yarro had been afraid the Mage, coming close, would intuit it, Yarro sending the Etherial to join the scullery staff. That far away, even Pfnaravin himself could not have detected her!

  After Melcor's departure, Yarro had not summoned the girl again, however. Because ... Yarro still felt uneasy about the motives of the Mage. Since the Etherial was apt to strengthen every passion, you did not want her near you if you were in a temper. In the same manner, if he was sad, she could make his sadness turn to grief. Depressed, and he would spiral to despair. Angry and, in her presence, he became enraged!

  She was still in the cook room.

  Rousing himself to find the singer still enthralling the others, the king's thoughts, like shreds of restless mist, returned to snake about the Mage. Did Melcor know of the priests? Impossible! There was no way that meddling fool could have learned about Temple Fulgur, located as the temple was, in little traveled country close to the Realgar border.

  The shocking news that Realgar raiders had slaughtered Fulgur's priests had not yet been reported to the king.

  When the dreadful truth was revealed, of course, King Yarro, in righteous wrath, would attack Realgar! How dare those triple-god believers kill the sacred priests of Stil-de-grain!? Realgar, of course, would battle back. Strike and counter strike, each side claiming to be defending itself from the other's aggression. Atrocities would mount. Hostages taken ... abused ... hacked to bits; all in the name of forcing peace upon a recalcitrant foe. Native brigands, posing as enemy soldiers, would loot and pillage their own people.

  More to the point, King Yarro, in his palace, on his island -- would be safe. Safe and cheered at every widening of the war. (As Yarro imagined the future, though, he concluded it was not too soon to hire more tasters to test the king's food for poison.

  And after the final, grudging peace? In defeat, Yarro would share his people's grief -- for which he would gain their praise. Taxes would go up to repair the damages of the war. In victory, Yarro would share his peoples' exaltation. Taxes would go up to build enough force to keep the enemy down forever. Win or lose, wars always served the needs of kings.

  I have an arrow in my heart,

  A lovely wound that will not heal.

  Cool, cool, the fever of love's dart,

  Slake, slake, the passion that I feel.

  The king could not keep his mind on the singing. Too much was at stake! He'd taken elaborate care to see that no one knew his part in the Fulgur affair. First, because the guards he'd sent on that mission did not learn their purpose until opening sealed orders as they neared the temple. Yarro was further buffered because, after the attack, the guards' mute cook had poisoned the lot of them. Still following orders, the tongueless man had stripped off every guard's uniform, bringing the uniforms, with the Etherial, to the king. (No one could link naked, putrefying corpses to the King of Stil-de-grain!) And finally, the illiterate dupe had been paid off with the promised office of Head of kennels, the man sent to feed the dogs -- dogs raised on human flesh so that he would seem their natural food. The king couldn't help but chuckle at having played that final joke.

  No, King Yarro had planned well! No one could trace the massacre of the priests to him!

  A frown clouded the king's heavy face -- but quickly cleared. The Etherial knew, of course. But he had taken care of that. (He had even imitated the priest's example by making certain no scars resulted from her "instruction.") After finishing with her, she could not fail to remember ... to forget.

  The king had another pleasant thought. Since he was now in a jovial mood, there was no longer any reason to keep the Etherial from his presence. In fact, were she near him, the happiness he now felt would be amplified! After the love songs of the minstrel ended this affair ... Yarro would take the Etherial to bed. Take several of the dancing girls as well -- the small one with red hair, the silver maned one, and perhaps another. This would be a night of pleasure like no other! For a moment, to strengthen his anticipation, King Yarro listened to the lyrics of the song.

  My love, like torches in the night,

  My love, like water in the waste,

  My love, the sight, the touch, the taste

  Of you, fires every dark alight.

  The king raised his hand and beckoned over his shoulder with a flash of jeweled rings, a uniformed slavey instantly at the king's side, bending low to hear Yarro's whisper.

  The king's instructions received, the steward glided off to disappear through the portal leading to the cook room.

  When up-light comes, I think of you,

  When full-light nears, you are the day,

  When singing songs, you are my lay,

  My light, my dark, forever new.

  For future worry, there was Yarro's son: that sniveling boy. For a moment, Yarro had doubts about killing the boy's mother. Still, it had been interesting to have the queen's arms and legs hacked off, then sewed on the reverse sides of her body. What a humorous look that had given her in her coffin.

  As soon as a new queen could be found and made pregnant, the boy could be done away with ....

  It was then that the servant, half-running, came back to the king. Bent to whisper in his sovereign's ear.

  "What!?" roared the king, his eyes gone apoplectic.

  At Yarro's shout, the minstrel's song was cut, the king's cry stunning all the guests to silence. "Gone!?" So maddened was King Yarro that he seemed incapable of uttering two words at once, his lips sputtering, drool seeping from the corners of his mouth, collecting on his chin to string down his vest.

  * * * * *

  Still sprawled in his banquet chair, the king came to himself under the ministrations of Madiar. "You must calm yourself, your majesty," said the royal physician, applying a wet cloth to the king's forehead. "A fit of such passion will, someday, be your death."

  "Or yours," gasped Yarro, the king still struggling to gain his breath.

  Recovered, brushing Madiar back, King Yarro lurched to his feet to shout commands. "Seal the palace! Search every room!"

  Yarro turned to Niem who sat as though stupefied with dread. "Search for my slavey! On your head if she escapes!"

  The spell broken with that order, the Head jumped to his feet, gold braid flying, his legs catching in the tablecloth, the empty dishes on the table clattering to the floor.

  A single, frightened look at the raging king, and the Head of guards was running along the table, shouting orders of his own.

  "First guard, rouse the watch! Secure every door to the palace! Second and third to follow me! The rest block the exits! No one leaves this room!"

  And the Head was through the exit at the back, guards thumping after him, smartly, shouldering their spears, the remaining troops leaping to the doorways, lowering their lances at the shocked guests, daring anyone to pass.

  So began a long, late night, all guests held in the banquet hall at spear point, the palace guards ransacking every recess for Yarro's missing slavey.

  With no success. All they learned was that the girl had been absent from the kitchen for some time. A man had come for her, the Head cook remembered; insisted he have this girl to carry off his pack. An old man, was her thought.

  Even on the rack, she could remember nothing else before she died.

  Almost up-light, the banquet room still the center of command, the king recalled his tired soldiers, the men dragging in to form along the back.

  At last the king stood, his glittering ey
es on each guest's face ... in ... turn. Given his choice, Yarro would have relieved the night's tension by impaling them all, so that his highways would be bordered with their twitching bodies! .... Not practical. He could not risk the revolt this act might cause. Not with a Realgar war looming on the orange horizon. Still, someone must pay, if only to restore the honor of the king! If he could not find the guilty, punishing an innocent would have to do.

  Not one of his leading merchants. Nor was it politic to persecute his fawning Heads ....

  If not these, then who! Someone ... clever. Someone who might, under a ruse, have gained entrance to the palace to ....

  Thinking these thoughts, the king's eye fell upon the minstrel, the man seated to one side, the singer's harp leaning against the wall.

  A likely choice.

  "Arrest him!" the king commanded, pointing an accusing finger at the entertainer.

  And in a frantic moment, a swarm of burly guards had knocked the Jester from his chair and pinned him to the floor.

  The king not bothering to waste his breath, the slightest movement of his finger was enough to have the struggling songster jerked to his feet and dragged away.

  After this, sitting grandly, Yarro was well pleased with himself for his decisiveness. So -- judging by the relieved whisperings of his guests -- were those on whom the king's trap had not been sprung. Only a moment passed before shouts rang out in praise of Yarro! Wild applause!

  The king could do nothing but smile graciously and order up more wine.

  Still, as he sat back, seemingly no longer with a care, Yarro pondered the problem of how to track down his escaped Etherial. Escaped by posing as an old man's slavey.

  Escaped! ... More likely, stolen! ......

  Of course!

  That was the answer ... to so many questions ...

  It had been the Mage.

  Could the king send a messenger bird; have Melcor stopped before he arrived at Hero castle? .... No. .... It would take too long. The Mage would reach the castle. Nothing could be done at all until up-light ......