Bane and Shadow

by Jon Skovron

  “Your Highness, I have come, once again, to save you from your habitual melancholy brooding!” Red declared as he stepped out onto the gardens.

  The prince had been slouched on a stone bench, staring down at the city, a lock of his carefully curled hair dangling in front of his solemn face. But he brightened when he heard Red’s voice, and laughed when he saw him.

  “My Lord Pastinas, without your jacket and cravat you look like a brigand!”

  Red bowed low, then sauntered over and dropped down next to him on the bench. “Did I ever tell you about the time I sailed under Captain Sadie the Pirate Queen, plundering the northern coasts of New Laven?”

  The prince shook his head. “How on earth did you have the time amidst all your cons, thievery, and rebellion?”

  “Oh, this was long before then, when I was only a boy of eight.”

  “Eight years and already a terror,” said Leston. “No wonder being a scoundrel comes so naturally to you.”

  “I’m not sure what His Highness is referring to,” Red said loftily.

  “I am referring to that damned shell game you were playing in the sitting room last night.”

  Red gave him a hurt look. “Really, Your Highness, it’s the oldest con there is. I thought surely they had all heard of it.”

  Leston shook his head, still smiling. “I don’t mind friendly wagers of a few coins among gentlemen. But did you have to let them bet their shoes?”

  Red stretched out his feet, admiring his new soft, black leather boots. “You have to admit, Archlord Tramasta’s boots suit me far better than him.”

  “You’re impossible, Rixidenteron,” said Leston. “I hope you realize that.”

  “Not nearly as impossible as you, Leston, my wag. How long have you been ignoring those two sotted mollies over there?” Red nodded his head toward the two women who stood at a respectful distance. Their orange-powdered skin and iridescent gowns sparkled in the early afternoon sun.

  “I assume you are referring to Archlady Bashim and Lady Hempist?” Leston asked without much interest.

  “How long have they been standing there waiting for you to come talk to them?”

  “Half an hour, perhaps?” Leston didn’t look too sure, which probably meant it was longer.

  Of all the bizarre lacy rules of palace life, Red found the ones for mollies hardest to understand. Near as he could tell, unmarried ladies weren’t allowed to just walk up to any tom they fancied. Unless they had been formally introduced by an older male family member, they had to wait for the tom to make the first move. As far as Red was concerned, this meant the people at the palace were missing out on about half the tossing they could have had. It made no sense.

  “You let those poor lovely mollies stand over there in hopeful expectation that long?” asked Red. They were lovely, in that twittering, fragile way all the lacy mollies had. And standing in those pointy shoes and tight gowns for the better part of an hour, they had to be near passing out.

  “You’re going to drag me over to talk to them, aren’t you?” asked Leston.

  “Of course I am. Firstly, it’s common human decency. And second, all those lordly gafs are pissed and peppered because you have shown little interest in chasing mollies, and they want an heir to keep your God-chosen line going. In other words, imperial babies, my wag.” He nudged Leston in the side with his elbow and was rewarded with a blush. Whenever Red started talking about bending cocks and stretching cunts, Leston fell all askew.

  “Must you talk about me like I am a breeding stud?”

  “Listen, old pot. The job’s got to be done. But if the trouble is that you fancy the toms instead, I’m sure we can find—”

  “That’s not it,” the prince said quickly.

  “No?” Red had noticed that at the palace, there was some objection to toms tossing toms and mollies tossing mollies. He’d tried to ask people why, but they all got red-faced and quiet.

  “I am attracted to women,” Leston said firmly. “But the ones at the palace are all so dull. Nothing to talk about except fashion, palace gossip, and the weather. I want to talk to exciting women. Like the ones you’ve told me about.”

  “And I promise you will meet them, somehow, someday. But for right now, I think you’re missing the point here, Your Highness. The talking is only the first step toward other entertainments. The kind that could lead to producing that heir. It’s a remarkably simple process, really. Alls you do is—”

  “If I agree to meet these ladies, will you stop talking about sex?”

  “It’s just that the idea you’ve never tossed in your life fills my heart with sorrow. It’s a splendid thing, being naked and leaky.”

  Leston stood up abruptly. “I’m going over to them.”

  “I still remember my first time, crystal as anything. I’ve told you about Nettles, right? Well, she would do this thing with her hips…”

  The prince was now hurrying toward the ladies. They watched him approach with a mixture of delight and panic. Red followed casually behind the prince, ready to divert whichever one the prince seemed less interested in. Filler had done it for him all those years, but he’d never fully appreciated it until he began helping Leston.

  “Archlady Bashim, I trust you are enjoying this remarkable view of our fair city.” Leston gestured out to the thick mass of buildings far below.

  Red hadn’t figured out if it was conscious or ingrained, but Leston always went for the higher rank. Frankly, Red found Archlady Bashim to be a bit of a sourface, so he was only too happy to keep Lady Hempist entertained instead.

  “Your Highness is so kind to grace us with his presence,” said Archlady Bashim in that careful way everyone at the palace (except Red) spoke to him. “Your company makes the view even more remarkable.”

  “You are too kind, my lady,” said Leston, already beginning to look bored.

  “Your Highness,” said Red. “I’d imagine the ladies don’t get into the city too often. It might amuse them to hear about our recent adventure on Artisan Way.”

  “Oh, would you favor us with the story, Your Highness?” asked Archlady Bashim, flashing Red a grateful look.

  “Are you fond of the arts, my lady?” asked Leston.

  “I adore them!” she said with so much sincerity that Red almost believed her.

  “Really?” Leston began to warm up a little as he pointed down at the city in the general direction of Artisan Way. “Have you perused some of the fine works our citizens are creating down there?”

  “Sadly, it is just as Lord Pastinas says. We so rarely get the opportunity to venture into the city. So I would be most appreciative if you could describe some of them to me.”

  “I am always pleased to talk of fine art,” said Leston. As he began to tell her of some of the pieces they’d seen and how they’d discovered the odd genius craftsman in the furniture shop, Archlady Bashim slowly, gently maneuvered him away from Red and Lady Hempist. She was good, Red had to admit. Although he was fairly certain that even her skills were no match for the prince’s indifference.

  “She hasn’t the slightest interest in the arts, of course,” said Lady Hempist quietly.

  “Naturally,” agreed Red.

  Lady Hempist walked slowly over to the waist-high stone barrier at the edge of the cliff gardens. She gazed out, not down at the city, but up at the bright blue sky. “His Highness’s passion for the arts is a somewhat new development, and has all the ladies scrambling in an attempt to educate themselves. At least, to the point where they would not appear completely at a loss, should they be lucky enough to speak to him.”

  “Very industrious of them,” said Red, joining her at the stone wall.

  “People say that you speak to him quite frequently.”

  Red leaned forward so that his elbows rested on the top of the wall. “He finds me amusing.”

  “So does the entire palace.”

  Red grinned. “Do they?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know, my lord.”
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  It was such a bold statement from a lacy molly that Red looked at her with new appreciation. Lady Hempist had an inviting lushness to her. Her thick black curls were piled up on her head, showing off the graceful curve of her neck and bare shoulders. Her orange-powdered bosom made him think of ripe citrus fruit. She was also one of the few mollies who seemed confident enough to meet his gaze directly. Most of them pretended to look at him, but actually seemed to be looking at a spot just below his chin. He hadn’t realized until that moment just how much it bothered him. He wondered if he might find another friend in Lady Hempist.

  “They’ll all tire of me soon enough, my lady.”

  She gave him a speculative look. “Not soon, I think, my lord. After all, you are His Majesty’s first and only real friend.”

  “The prince is twenty-four years old. Surely he’s had a wag or two before me.”

  “Not so, my lord. His Highness has never spent as much time with another soul. Not by half, even. I don’t see that changing anytime soon. This puts you in a very attractive position.” She laid her hand on his arm. “One which many ladies of the court are already pondering.”

  “Well”—Red gently lifted her hand and placed it next to him on the wall—“I’m afraid all their pondering and scheming is pointless, because my heart belongs to another. Even though we’re hundreds of miles apart, she’s the only one who will ever be for me.”

  Lady Hempist laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “But my Lord Pastinas, clearly you do not know the tastes of the ladies of this court. Tragically separated love only adds to your allure. When I spread this bit of gossip around, every unwed bosom, and a few others besides, will be burning for a glimpse of your rakish smile.”

  Red hoped she was joking, but there was something about the steely glint in her eyes that suggested she wasn’t.

  “Have no fear, my lord.” She put her hand firmly back on his arm. “I will protect you.”

  Life at the palace wasn’t all just chatting up princes and fending off the amorous advances of buxom ladies, of course. Each day, Red was required to spend a few hours with one of the biomancers from the council. That was the agreement which allowed him to roam freely through the palace and Hope to roam freely on the sea.

  That afternoon, he was to meet Progul Bon in the palace library. The biomancers made a point of keeping their connection to Red quiet—which he was just fine with. So it surprised him the first time Bon told him to meet at the library. After all, the library was theoretically open to anyone in the empire of noble birth. But he quickly realized it might as well have been a secret chamber, because no one else ever came. It baffled him. Here was an entire group of people who all knew how to read, and had the largest library in the empire at their disposal. Yet none of them showed any interest. For Red, who had spent his childhood stealing whatever books he could get his hands on, it was incomprehensible.

  The library was a large, open chamber that stretched up three levels, books lining the walls on all four sides, all the way to the ceiling. At each level was a narrow walkway with an ornately carved railing accessible by ladder from the level beneath. In the center of the chamber were large, thick tables, all of them gathering dust except the one Progul Bon favored in the back. That was where Red found him when he entered the library.

  “Another day of fighting through the crowds to gain the knowledge of the empire, eh, Bon?” Red asked. Of the three biomancers who trained him, Red minded Progul Bon the least. Mostly because at least the gaf had a sense of humor, even if it was a very bookish one.

  Progul Bon’s fleshy lips curled up into a smile beneath his hood. The rest of his face was mostly hidden. Red still hadn’t gotten a good, clear look at it yet. At first, he thought the biomancers were trying to hide their identities. But when he’d gotten a look at Ammon Set, he realized that it was more to conceal the strange deformities brought on by their biomancery. Each one seemed different. From what he could see of Bon’s face, for instance, it was strangely droopy. Not like old wrink skin, but more like melted wax.

  “It is to our advantage that the masses remain complacent in their ignorance, Rixidenteron.” Progul Bon’s voice matched his looks, sounding low and oozing, like thick oil.

  “Still makes me a bit sad,” said Red as he sat across the table from the biomancer.

  “That is because you retain some fondness for the idiots. I am confident that time and knowledge will cure you of that.” Bon always said things like that. Red didn’t even bother to respond anymore.

  “What’s on the lesson plan for today, then?” he asked.

  “The strategies of Emperor Bastelinus.”

  “Still?” asked Red. “We’ve been reading about that gaf for weeks now. Why can’t we get to something more tasty? Like the reign of the Dark Mage. I bet that’s a tale worth learning.”

  “We are not here for your entertainment,” said Progul Bon. “We are here for your education, which, until I took a hand in it, seems to have been comprised almost exclusively of espionage fiction and folktales. Bastelinus was instrumental in shaping the empire as we know it today, second only to Emperor Cremalton himself. It is essential that you understand both his political and economic strategies.”

  “But why?” asked Red.

  “When you are in the field, circumstances may arise that the Council of Biomancery had not predicted. When those situations present themselves, you must make independent decisions, and you cannot do that without an understanding of the larger picture and how that decision could potentially affect the empire.”

  “You still haven’t told me what I’m supposed to do in the field.”

  “Protect the interests of the empire.”

  “By killing people.”

  “Mostly,” conceded Progul Bon.

  “I’m not an assassin.”

  “We are what we believe ourselves to be.”

  “You know what Ammon Set told me? He said that when you gafs are through with me, I won’t even be a person anymore. I’ll be a shadow of death, whatever that pissing means.”

  Progul Bon was silent for a moment. “Ammon Set talks too much.”

  That evening, Red attempted to teach Leston how to play stones. They sat at a table in the prince’s apartments, which took up the entire forty-ninth floor. The fiftieth floor, the top floor, was of course the apartments for the emperor himself. Red hadn’t seen those yet, but Leston said the emperor also had an outdoor parlor for entertaining guests. Leston said that wine had a stronger effect that high up, something Red really wanted to test out.

  Right now, though, his focus was on making a decent stones player of the prince. It wasn’t going well.

  “No, Your Highness.” Red’s patient tone was starting to sink toward despair. “You can’t put forty-three there because seven times six is forty-two.”

  “Oh, right.” Leston frowned thoughtfully. “I knew it was something like that. And we can’t just say that’s close enough? I mean, what’s the difference, really?”

  Red restrained himself from leaning across the table and strangling the future ruler of the empire. The prince’s grand indifference to precision in general and numbers in particular was one of the few things Red truly disliked about him. “Because, Your Highness”—He wished he could use some other words instead—“when it comes to math, there’s no such thing as close enough.”

  “All right, all right. Calm down.” The prince held up his hands placatingly. “I’m afraid fire is about to shoot from your eyes. I’ve never known anyone who cared for arithmetic as passionately as you do.”

  “It’s gotten me out of more than a few scrapes,” said Red.

  “Tell me about one.” Leston set down his stones and leaned forward.

  Red gave him a wry smile. “You’re not interested in learning this game, are you?”

  “I tried, Rixidenteron. I really did. But all those numbers make my head ache. I have a man for that sort of thing. I’d rather just hear one of your stories.”

 
Red sighed. “Well, thanks for trying, at least. Now, let’s see which time I should tell you about…”

  While Red considered which high-risk stones encounter to dramatize for the prince, there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” said Leston.

  The door opened slowly and Hume stepped into the room.

  “Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness, but there is a commoner who delivered a parcel for you earlier today. He said you were expecting something from him.”

  “Oh? Did he give a name?” asked Leston.

  “A Mr. Blagely, I believe,” said Hume.

  “The gaf who owns that furniture shop you commissioned,” said Red.

  “The falcon!” Leston eagerly held out his hand. “Let’s see it!”

  But Hume only held out a small bag of coins and a folded sheet of paper.

  “This doesn’t look promising.” Leston took the paper and opened it. He quickly scanned the short, crimped handwriting and his expression grew increasingly disappointed.

  “What is it, Your Highness?” asked Red.

  “That poor young artist has been murdered.”

  “Does it say how?”

  “Apparently, last night he and five other men were meeting in a cellar beneath a tavern and they were all stabbed to death.” He frowned at the note. “What a strange place for them to be meeting. I wonder if he was mixed up in something nasty. Perhaps a criminal element. What do you think?”

  Red gave him a skeptical look. “As someone who spent most of his life among the ‘criminal element,’ he didn’t seem the type.”

  “I suppose not,” said Leston. “Poor boy. He was odd, but quite talented. What a shame.”

  It was clear that Leston was ready to leave the matter at that, but it didn’t quite sit with Red somehow. What was that artist doing, hiding out in a cellar with a bunch of other gafs?

  “Maybe it was some kind of seditionist movement,” he suggested.

  “Political dissidents?” Leston frowned thoughtfully. “I have heard some rumors about small groups around the city. But they seem harmless, mostly just distributing pamphlets and manifestos. Frankly, I quite agree with them on one point, at least. My father has let the biomancers run roughshod over all other concerned parties in the empire. I’ve even heard complaints from the nobility.”