He came to a sudden halt, sloshing the contents of the many chamber pots in his cart, and attempted to make sense of what he saw. A carriage drawn by two black horses was in front of his employer’s shop. The shady fellow was being arrested for some misdeed, no doubt. He was ever trying to cheat him or one of the other boys out of their pay. Self-preservation begged him to return to the abandoned leaking structure he called home to avoid any guilt by association, but his curiosity would not allow it. He entered the back of the building to empty his pots into the piss wagon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the activity inside.
He was not the only curious boy letting the contents of his pots slowly drain while craning neck in an attempt to spy on the goings-on in their employer’s office. Someone of importance was paying him a visit, but to what end he could only guess.
“Who’s in there?” he asked the others standing around the wagon.
Strig, the oldest boy sneered. “The Shitlord.”
“Who’s that?”
Strig just shook his head, laughing to himself. The older ones loved to know something the others did not, and enjoyed making them grovel for answers. Aside from kicking rats, it was about the only modicum of power they were able to wield in this place, and they were not about to give it up.
He thought he had already identified the richest man in the area, the owner of the bar and brothel. The man was often seen strolling the town with one or more of his strongmen in tow, taking what he pleased from vendors who were either afraid of getting their teeth knocked out or of having him send their favorite whore to their wife with a bastard baby in her arms. At any rate, the lack of filth on the man’s clothing was impressive, and the boy had made a conscious note to learn all he could about him—a difficult task requiring the suspension of contempt; the very man had been responsible for some of the boy’s mother’s better beatings. To know there was another far more powerful man in the area—even if just for a visit—made his chest grow hollow with anticipation.
He never saw the Shitlord, which only added to the intrigue, but he later learned that this man who could afford the luxury of massive horses and a leather-lined carriage was indeed the Lord of Shit. It had not occurred to the boy that his employer might have himself been employed by another, let alone that that person could possibly be of any worth. Granted there were like to be several links in the chain of command separating the Shitlord from the boy’s toothless boss, the fact remained that the Shitlord was by all accounts exceedingly rich. Far wealthier than the brothel owner, far wealthier than anyone he had ever hoped to see pay a visit to the Armpit. And the man was in charge of transporting, of all things, piss and shit.
Being the clever boy that he was, he eventually came to the realization that the filthier the service, the more profitable it could be, and he resolved never to pass up an opportunity to use that knowledge to better his station in life.
CASSEN
Cassen inhaled deeply the bouquet of excrement, sweat, and blood—not to savor the stench that spoke of his childhood, but to remind himself of how far he had come. How ironic it was that he was on his way to meet a young man not unlike himself in his ambitions, but due to utter stupidity and obliviousness, had managed to descend within the social hierarchy just as rapidly as Cassen had risen.
Cassen was no stranger to the dungeons. He had many contacts within them—among the gaolers as well as the inhabitants. It took far less than lady servants to buy the trust, fleeting that it may be, of these lowborn wardens and malefactors, and it was always worth the cost. He had certainly never promised a prisoner so much as he intended to tonight, but this was no ordinary prisoner.
“Good evening, Vidar,” Cassen said with familiarity.
“Ah, the Duchess. Come to rape some of my boys again? Or is it the other way around? I never could tell.” Vidar’s smile was more disgusting than the smell. “You’ve turned me into quite the whoremonger.”
Cassen wondered how the man managed to amuse himself with the same joke each and every time he came to visit. Believe whatever you like, so long as you keep your mouth shut as I pay you to.
“Oh, but you know me so well, my good Vidar. Perhaps you can guess my taste for the night?”
“Well,” said the gaoler, stroking his misshapen chin as if truly considering. “I would have to guess you would be in the mood for some choice meat tonight. Perhaps something a bit princely?”
“Whoremonger you may be, but you are good at what you do. I will need an hour with the prince, undisturbed.” Cassen handed Vidar a golden coin worth fifty marks with a downward wrist and raised pinky.
“I would think a prince might fetch a more handsome sum,” said Vidar with a bit of humor. He was at least wise enough not to sound resentful.
“You would be wrong,” Cassen replied as he strode passed Vidar dismissively, having snatched the key from his desk. Show an ounce of weakness to one, and all will take from you a pound. It was an old Adeltian saying that Cassen thought especially fitting in his current surroundings.
“Interrogators of The Guard already did a number on him,” Vidar hollered to Cassen’s back. “You may not find him as entertaining as you like.”
Cassen needed no escort; he knew where the prince would be. There was a special cell for holding and interrogating nobility, designed to be less physically torturous in exchange for being more mentally so. Vidar had explained to him long ago how they found that those accustomed to the comforts of royalty would crack “too far,” as he put it, when placed under the normal methods of deprivation. Once stripped of the belief that they would ever retain their former glory, they lost the will to live and the care to comply. This had become apparent after Lyell had taken over Adeltia. The attempts on his life implicated many an Adeltian highborn, and Vidar had been present for it all. But in spite of his advanced age, his spindly limbs, and near complete lack of hair, he had the spryness of a far younger man—almost as if he was somehow draining these prisoners of more than just their secrets.
A flutter of excitement passed through Cassen as he imagined for a moment that he was headed to Crella’s cell rather than to Stephon’s. What an enthralling time that will be, if and when it comes. But it was not a realistic goal for the time being. Crella was held in the former queen’s chambers at the top of the Throne. Members of The Guard were abundant in that area. It was the most heavily fortified section of the main castle, housing the king himself. Protectors could be difficult and dangerous to bribe, as a small minority of them actually took their vows to heart. It simply was not worth the risk at this time.
Cassen had passed countless empty cells on his way to his final destination. Each was the typical hold, containing no more than a bucket. Stone made the walls and floor, and the bars were of thick rusted iron. In time he reached a massive door not unlike one that would be found on most frames in the castle. He knocked three times and waited a few moments for reply.
“Enter.” The voice did not sound as though it belonged to one confined.
After unlocking the door, Cassen entered and found the cell quite decent indeed. A nobleman would retain some form of dignity after having passed so many horrid cells to finally be placed in such clean, albeit modest, quarters. It would let him know that he was receiving special treatment, giving him the hope of one day being freed. Why else would your gaoler go through the trouble of providing such amenities? In addition to the simple bed and chamber seat, there were luxuries such as books, a bucket of clean water, a bar of soap, a comb, and a tiny razor, too small to easily end one’s life with but certainly capable of shaving given enough time—something that would be had in abundance. Stephon’s half-eaten supper sat by the door, which appeared to have been a fair plate of food. Cassen made out the remnants of roast chicken, gravy, green beans, and a mug of some frothy beverage that was now empty.
“They told me you would come.”
Cassen knew the interrogators would be attempting to goad Stephon into revealing as many names and as much informa
tion as possible, but Cassen had nothing to fear. Though he had known about the heavy-handed plot, Cassen had nothing to do with its invention or execution. And it had no chance of success—Cassen had seen to that by implicating some of the conspirators himself. The fact that Stephon had been drawn into it was proof enough that the boy would work well for what Cassen now had in mind. And I will have little worry of him speaking my name after today, with the banquet so near at hand.
“And here I am,” Cassen said. “I do apologize for the delay.”
Stephon lay on his back with a large vellum binding propped upon a pillow on his chest. The Intricacies of War and Tactics was a beast of a book, one that Cassen was not himself familiar with, but nobles loved to memorize and quote excerpts from it when arguing about battle tactics and formations with other highborn who had also never seen a battlefield.
Cassen gave a moment’s pause to attempt to unravel the mystery of how Stephon knew it was he who had entered the room, but decided the boy likely had no idea, and that with so much time at his disposal, he was able to come up with plenty of cryptic greetings for his few guests and interrogators. Stephon had always had a flair for the dramatic, and Cassen certainly could not fault him for that.
“They said you would free me,” said Stephon, his head still completely hidden by the massive book.
“I am sure they said a good many things, most of which, if having struck upon truth, only did so by coincidence. They are toying with you in the hopes that you will tell them everything you know.”
“I have already told them everything. Why would they continue to lie?” asked Stephon.
“Perhaps because they have no way of knowing that you have indeed told them everything.”
“But I have.”
Cassen was beginning to worry that Stephon’s mind might be too far gone for what he had planned, but there was no harm in continuing his efforts. He had come this far.
“My prince, I have not come to free you, not yet at least. I have come to offer you the greatest gift I can think to give.”
Stephon turned the page in his book as if not listening.
“And I do not expect you to believe my offer to be true,” Cassen continued. “I will not need from you any promises or trust. I would be a fool to expect them at this point. I only ask that when I bring you proof that my gift is genuine, that you accept it, and remember that it was I who acquired it for you.”
Stephon shoved the two sides of the book together, closing it with a solid thud, and hefted it to the side. He sat up in his bed, looking directly at Cassen. He did not look much different than Cassen remembered. He bore no marks or bruises from interrogation, though Cassen had not truly expected to see any. Stephon was the same cleanly shaven, handsome, and arrogant urchin he had always been, and he looked rather annoyed to have been kept down here for so long.
“And what could a lowborn duchess acquire that a prince and heir to the throne could not?”
A key to your cell for one. Cassen had not expected Stephon to have become even more brazen with his time spent in the dungeons, but it was often said that confinement, much like alcohol, allows one’s true self to emerge. It was somewhat discomforting to realize Stephon had actually been tempering himself until now.
“There are two men and a fair amount of castle stone that lay between you and the throne, are there not?”
“The king and his son have no claim to the throne. I am the true heir. And I will not be in here forever. I will take what is mine.”
What favor can you curry from springing a man from a trap he does not truly believe himself to be within? “Nonetheless, I assume you would be grateful to whomever was able to expedite the process of seeing you from prison and into your rightful throne?”
“That I would. I would reward such a person with a position of high esteem—greater, of course, than that of duke or duchess.”
“That is good—”
“But let me be very clear,” interrupted Stephon. “As of right now, it is not the king’s throne I wish to have. It is his head.”
Cassen nearly laughed. He’d heard that Stephon had gone quickly from apologetic to acrimonious as his stay continued, but to hear it firsthand was rather amusing. “Do you speak so boldly with those who question you?”
“Are you not one who is questioning me? I see no difference between you and any of the other fool members of The Guard, and I speak no differently. I have told you already of my plans to destroy the false king and his accomplices, and I tell you again that my plans have not changed. He is a disease upon this great Adeltian Kingdom, and he must be dealt with as such. His taint must be eradicated so that pure Adeltian blood can once again rule. Only then will this kingdom be returned to glory.”
Cassen saw no need to point out that Stephon himself was not of pure Adeltian blood, nor that when he was first dragged into this cell, kicking and screaming, he claimed to have only colluded with the Adeltians to such a degree as to thwart them.
“Your Grace, it sounds as if you have given this much thought. I will serve to aid you in every way I can. I realize pleading patience is of no comfort to you. All I can do is beg that you forgive me for the lethargy with which it must seem I perform these tasks. As you know, there are many among even the Adeltians who cower to the false king, and they too seek to hinder me.”
“You have wasted enough breath. Go and do as you have promised, and I will see you justly rewarded.” With that Stephon propped the heavy book back upon his chest, opened it to a seemingly random page, and looked as if he was again reading.
Cassen eyed the text with amusement. And to think I did not even get a quote. “As you command, Your Grace.” Cassen curtseyed and exited, shutting and locking the door behind him.
KEETHRO
“This river travel has turned a bit tedious without the risk of collision.”
Keethro had to agree with his friend on that account. The pace of life aboard the raft had slowed greatly after paddling to the other shore, unaccosted by leviathans or whirlpools. It had become difficult to remember that they were in a faraway land, surrounded by foreigners who might wish to do them harm. Passing ships on the far shore were too distant to be of interest, and the occasional boat that skimmed ahead of them, pulled by the early morning breeze caught in its sails, did so without incident.
Even the insects had decided their raft was safe enough for harbor, as spiders had begun weaving webs in the gaps between the timbers. Keethro watched as a small frog hopped from log to log, and wondered if the webs would have the strength to hold him.
“These southern men do not look so different from you or me,” Keethro said. “Save perhaps for their lack of beards.”
“You call that a beard?” snorted Titon.
Without the aid of Kilandra’s silvered glass and shears, Keethro had found cropping his beard a rather difficult task. He did his best with his knife, but he could only assume he’d formed a haphazard mess when compared to the close trim he preferred. The water’s distorted reflection did little to confirm or deny his hunch, and there was certainly no chance of him asking Titon—not unless laughter and a loss of respect was the response he desired.
Keethro could see he would have no problem blending in among these new people, but that was thanks mainly to how he stood out among Galatai. Titon, on the other hand, still appeared to be very much the foreigner. Oddly enough, in spite of the warm weather, these southern boatmen wore enough fur to look as though they were in the cold of the North. And it would seem the South had its fair share of giant men, seen on passing boats, but none had the massive beard of the archetypal Northlunder who lived among the ice and snow. Thank the gods Titon was never one to braid his beard, Keethro thought, annoyed again by his godly reference. And to hell with the gods, for I know he will not part with the thing.
“Perhaps it would be wise for you to shear that goat you have upon your face so we can better walk among these Southmen unnoticed.”
Titon stroked his priz
ed beard and smiled. “What good would it do me to awaken my wife from her slumber only to have her stab me through the eye and go in search for her real husband?”
As I thought. “Well, you can at least get it cleaned up some.” As Keethro spoke, the frog he’d been watching jumped, overshooting what would have been a safe place to land and arriving between two logs with an awaiting web. Keethro found he was satisfied to see his question answered. The web had been damaged, but the frog had not broken through.
“It would feel good to have a woman’s hands tending to some grooming…among other things,” Keethro added. It was not the proper remark to get the ever-faithful Titon to comply, but it was the best he could do. “And honestly, it is an insult to the Mighty Three for me to be hiding this perfect jaw that they created behind such a mess.”
“Bah. A perfect jaw would not yap so much like a woman about grooming and the like.” Titon stood and moved to the rear of the boat. “I’m going to have a nap. Wake me if there’s trouble.”
Keethro meant to respond but was transfixed on the battle before him. A spider far smaller than its prey emerged from where it hid. He had seen instances like these play out where the spider would pluck the creature free, fearing too much damage to its web to be worth the trouble. That was not to be, however. The black spider approached with caution, then began to wrap the frog with silk using its long skeletal legs. The frog, in its helplessness, looked not unlike the Dogmen they slaughtered, but with a burst of strength it struggled, twisting and turning and sending its attacker into retreat. That effort was ultimately without reward. Having only further cocooned itself without managing to break free, the frog lay in wait as the eight-legged assailant returned to finish the task of securing its meal.
Something inside Keethro stirred. He could not help but see the spider as evil, its ensnaring the larger, stronger animal by way of patient insidiousness a method of combat without honor, and Keethro was not without the power to intervene. He picked at the web with a finger, causing the spider to withdraw, and plucked the frog from certain death. He then spent the next hour meticulously pulling and cutting the sticky silk from its skin, each action threatening to cause more harm than good. With its head free from entanglement, the frog ungraciously clamped down on Keethro’s finger with surprising force, causing him to laugh. The humor was lost, however, as he worked to free the frog’s fragile arms and legs, just managing to do so without dislocating any joints, or so he hoped. Then came the toes and fingers. His neck aching from having been bent over his tiny patient for so long, Keethro fought his discomfort and continued. The rear feet took time, but they were freed with only some minor damage done to the webbing between the toes. The frog’s hands were composed of such tiny-boned fingers that there seemed no way to remove the silk without mangling them. The web had more strength than bone, and every pull caused the creature to struggle, biting at Keethro as if he were worse than the spider. And he felt worse, as he tugged in frustration, his own fingers tired and simply too large for such delicate work, removing two of the frog’s fingers along with the silk.
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 33
