by Kage Baker
She glanced down at his body with only fleeting regret. “Oh, what a fortunate day. I will have you, Icicle, but not like this; I won’t waste such a gift. Go to the door; tell Grattur to send for Lord Vergoin. Draw me a bath, and see it’s well scented.”
So Gard spent the night of his victory in the narrow bed of the slave who had cleaned boots, listening as Vergoin and Lady Pirihine coupled in the next room.
When he was allowed to lie with her at last, it was not at all as he had thought it would be. There was no singing. No soft talk, no gentle touches either, and not even the gorgeous bed of black silk.
He was led, naked, into the chamber he had seen in his meditation, the high room with arcane designs set into its polished floor. Lady Pirihine bid him lie down in the circle at its center, flat on his back, and reach his arms and legs out to its edge. He felt his hands and feet gripped by something unseen. He fought back terror, thinking that he would be slain.
Lady Pirihine only smiled, and cast handfuls of incense on a brazier and chanted something in her sweet high voice. She moved around the edges of the room, lighting torches; only then did he see the robed and hooded figures massed in the shadows.
She knelt to anoint him with something that burned. Then she did what could not be described as love, not by any stretch of the truth.
It did not hurt him. It was rather wonderful, in respect to his long-pent-up desires. But when he looked up, in the throes of his fulfillment, he saw the masters all watching, with faces no less avid than when he had fought for his life in the arena.
Gard closed his eyes to shut them out. He tried, desperately, to summon the memory of the dancing green of his childhood, the tender couples kissing and murmuring together under the flowering trees. Here, again, he saw the couple at the edge: the man who resembled Ran, but was not, and the woman he did not know….
The image stayed before him, even as the brazier exploded with green fire, even as the walls and floor ran with green and silver fire, so that the masters backed hurriedly away, and Lady Pirihine’s triumphant laughter faltered as she drank in the power his initiation had generated.
He was weary and sore when he returned, at last, to his narrow bed in the antechamber. Lady Pirihine had summoned Vergoin once more, and Gard could hear them deep in conversation in the other room.
Something was on his pillow. He sat down and picked it up. A rose, perhaps from the masters’ cavern gardens, dark red and sweetly perfumed. A small square of parchment was folded around its stem. Gard opened it and recognized Balnshik’s handwriting.
My dear, I wish it had been me.
His service to the Narcissus of the Void was not, in most respects, unpleasant. Gard must wear her livery and sleep in her apartments on the narrow bed, though he was also bid to service her lusts when her lover Vergoin was otherwise occupied. His duties included tending to her wardrobe, locking away her jewels each night, and waiting her pleasure at table. He learned to carve and to pour without spilling, and how to fold napery into amusing shapes.
But he must also serve as her bodyguard, walking before her when she ventured forth to councils or amusements, with Grattur and Engrattur walking behind. They all three wore her livery of black and green, though Gard was also decked with a green-and-gold baldric, to remind all who saw him that Lady Pirihine’s slave was an undefeated champion. He was given his two blades to wear, to underline the point.
Now Gard saw more of the masters’ world, the Upper Tunnels and the great central cavern where they promenaded daily, in their finest robes, attended by other liveried slaves. Anyone seeing the Upper Tunnels might indeed think their builders were magnificent, for the floors were set with intricate mosaics, polished smooth, and the ceilings set with tiny glowing lamps to emulate stars. Opening off the tunnels were chambers cut into the living rock. Here were libraries, concert rooms, places where loot from the outside world was displayed for sale: jewelry, fine fabrics, carpets, wines and sweetmeats, musical instruments. These places were brilliantly lit, with a glamour of need sparkling on each least bauble.
Gard was struck with wonder at first, stopping to stare so often that Lady Pirihine took to carrying a small switch of braided leather, and with this she would strike him smartly to make him move on. As the weeks and months went by, however, and he learned Lady Pirihine’s favorite progresses well enough to walk them blindfolded, Gard wearied of the place. Now he longed to seize the switch and goad on the Narcissus of the Void when she would stop in the great central cavern to gossip, or flirt with admirers, or listen to the petitions of those begging favors.
And all the while, below the elaborate artifice, the stifling warmth and glittering lamps, were the black passageways where half-bodied slaves toiled, and the sick and the dying lay in darkness. Gard remembered them well.
He was grateful to be released from the perfumed world a few hours each day, to the sanctuary of the training hall. Lady Pirihine desired her slave should not lose his fighting edge, and so he had the freedom of violence. Duke Silverpoint welcomed him back, with a courteous nod.
“You were one of Lady Pirihine’s men?” Gard asked him.
“No. I merely kept silent about what I knew. And lent my hand in the final hour, of course.”
“Why?”
Silverpoint gave one of his infrequent smiles. “There are now seven empty seats in the council chamber. With every quarrel, our masters diminish in numbers and strength. One must do what one can to help the process along.”
Occasionally, now, Silverpoint did Gard the honor of sparring with him. By the third or fourth match, Gard realized that Silverpoint was still training him, though much more subtly. It was possible to strike Silverpoint; it was possible to defeat him. But Gard found that oftener than not blows did not connect, for the duke was inexplicably not where he had been when Gard had calculated the stroke and begun his follow-through; and yet Silverpoint had not dodged.
After one such match, Gard stepped back and lowered the point of his blade. “You’re not using a spell. I’d see it, if you were. What are you doing?”
“It is a spell, if you like. But it involves no magic. What is the greatest danger to an accomplished fighter?”
“Overconfidence.”
“And force of habit. You watch a particular opening and assume you know what I will do next. You have now fought so long, and so often, that your assumptions aren’t even conscious; they’re instinctive. I am tricking your instincts.”
“How?”
“I refer you to Prince Firebow,” said the duke, setting his blade back on the wall. “His last work, The Fighting Mind. He left it uncompleted at his death; I have the only copy and paid dearly for it. You may borrow it, however.”
Gard pored over the manuscript in such late hours as he could keep a candle burning in his alcove. While magic was not involved in the techniques discussed, still a demon’s power of sight was needed to make the most use of them; for an even greater degree of minute observation was called for, and swifter reflexes, and manipulation of the opponent. Methodically, Gard learned the mental tricks. Soon, in the training hall, he had mastered them.
It was a pity, he thought, that he would have no chance to use them in his new career.
“I shall attend a dinner party tonight,” said the Narcissus of the Void, regarding her reflection in her mirror. “You will attend me, and taste each dish I am offered.”
“Thank you, lady,” said Gard.
She knit her brows in annoyance. “You big fool, you’ll taste my food to see whether it’s been poisoned. Really, sometimes I wonder whether we’ll ever be able to wash the stink of the forest off you.”
“Who would poison you, lady?”
“Nearly anyone on the council,” she said with a sigh. “It is good to win the highest seat, but after that, it’s nothing but a struggle to stay there. Now, I’ll be dining with Magister Naryath, and I wish to impress him. Gatta’s has a bottle of Sulemian wine in its window, just one; go down and buy it, and have
it ready when I come back this afternoon. Have my black gown with the pearls laid out, and the green slippers. And a bath drawn; I like a bath when I’ve been to Blood Entertainments.”
“I will not be required to escort you, lady?”
“No. Lord Vergoin’s taking me. We’ll use Grattur and Engrattur. I can’t send them for the wine, of course. Imbecile demons. You do have that much in your favor, Icicle, you aren’t quite as stupid as the others. Something to do with being a hybrid, no doubt. Ah! There’s Vergoin.”
They heard Grattur and Engrattur roaring forth the ceremonial challenge, with a great clashing of blades, and Vergoin’s easy reply. A moment later he entered the bedchamber, smiling.
“Dread beauty, I have arrived,” he said. “You won’t want to miss the first match; Agoleth is going up against three fighters from the Convent.”
“No!” exclaimed Lady Pirihine. “Icicle, fasten this clasp. Agoleth? Oh, they’ll cut him to ribbons! We must see. The Sulemian wine, Icicle; forget it at your peril.”
She departed with Vergoin, and Grattur and Engrattur marched proudly behind them.
Gard, a little sullenly, took gold from her household store and went down through the tunnels to the wine merchant’s stall. There he purchased the bottle of Sulemian wine, with its lead seals and golden lettering. He wondered whether the wine had come from any land the scholar Copperlimb had visited, and whether he might taste the sunlight of a long-ago autumn, if he were to drink it.
Useless to wonder; useless to look thoughtfully at the mouths of certain tunnels as he passed them. He had learned enough to know that they led upward, and opened in sunlight on a trail that wound down between glaciers. But they were guarded at their far ends by bound demons, who suffered none to pass save those who were equally bound and so trusted to come back. Some three or four times each year a caravan went out, to return with luxuries for the masters.
It was by no means useless to plan, however. Gard had begun to compile a list in his head, of needful things he might acquire without arousing suspicion: thick boots proof against the snows, and warm clothing. Weapons he had in plenty, but he lacked knowledge. He meant, in time, to get acquainted with the caravan leaders and learn what paths led down to the lands below, where cities were. He meant, in time, to strike up a friendship with the demons who guarded the tunnels, and to see if he might make them unconscious with gifts of drugs or drink. If I ever get out of here….
Just now there was nothing to do but return to Lady Pirihine’s apartments and do his best to get the jam spots out of her morning gown, and lay out the dinner gown she had requested, with her pearls and her green slippers.
He sat and meditated afterward. In his deep concentration Gard saw again the stag, leading him through the deep wood, and across the dancing green. The music had fallen silent. It seemed to Gard that this time, as he passed the couple on the edge, that the woman turned her face to him, seeming to see him.
He had not been long in the place of soaring lights when there came a flash, red light broken and shattered, and a sense of alarm. His attention was drawn down to a knot of darkness, where a white thing sped; a worm, screaming and spitting fire as it came, trailing a long ribbon of bloodstained silk. It was closely pursued by a second worm, and by a pair of blue lights moaning and lamenting….
Coming back to himself, Gard heard the door flung open. He jumped to his feet and looked into the bedchamber as the Narcissus of the Void entered, and her afternoon gown had indeed been splattered with blood. Vergoin followed her, his face dark with anger.
“I don’t care!” Lady Pirihine was saying. “This was a brand-new gown! Look where the lace is stained! Those stains will never come out.”
“There will be talk, madam,” said Vergoin. “It will be wondered whether one so unable to govern her temper is worthy of governing at all. He was a useful slave!”
“A slave is a slave,” said Lady Pirihine. “How dare you! Icicle! What do you think you’re doing, lurking there? You’d better have got me that wine!”
“I did, lady. Shall I draw the bath, now?”
“Do it!”
He attended her in her bath, marveling how the ugly look in her eyes was able to render quite charmless the beauty of her little pointed breasts and lush flanks. He helped her from the tub and into her black gown, clasped the pearls about her throat, and eased the green slippers on her feet, as Vergoin paced to and fro muttering.
They were still in a foul temper when, carefully bearing the Sulemian wine, he followed them out into the corridor. Grattur and Engrattur stood to attention to either side of the door. Gard was amazed to see their silver eyes streamed with tears.
There was little time to wonder about this, for Lady Pirihine minced away down the hall, refusing Vergoin’s arm. He strode after her angrily. Gard must hurry after them, an awkward third to their party. Everyone was out of breath, and Lady Pirihine somewhat red-faced, when they arrived at last at the apartments of Magister Naryath.
Magister Naryath was tall, and portly, and affected a golden mask and the tone of an indulgent father.
“Little Pirihine! You are adorable, as always, but never more so than when you wear your hair in that charming fashion. Lord Vergoin, you are well met. I trust my poor table will not too gravely disappoint you.”
“You must be joking,” said Lady Pirihine. “Vergoin’s been a slave, after all. I should imagine he’s grateful for any scrap he gets.”
Vergoin looked at her with venom.
Magister Naryath fluttered his hands. “Sweet Pirihine, we are all your slaves. Come now, children, don’t quarrel. See where my table is set in your honor, with lilies of gold! Pray be seated.”
“As you wish. I have brought a gift, dear Uncle Naryath,” said Lady Pirihine.
Gard bowed and offered the Sulemian wine. Magister Naryath waved a hand and his demoness, a lithe creature who communicated by signing, came forth in silence. She received the bottle, gestured her thanks, and took it to the sideboard.
“How very kind of you, my child,” said Magister Naryath.
“Oh, it’s only a bottle of Sulemian,” said Lady Pirihine, as Gard seated her. “Perhaps we’ll just drink it ourselves, you and I, and not let Vergoin have any. Shall we? He’s been so rude and cross with me, he really doesn’t deserve better.”
“So is good counsel rewarded,” said Vergoin.
“I’m certain good fare will restore your customary affability,” said Magister Naryath, as the demoness set the first of the dishes on the table. “Do try these, both of you! The eggs of sea dragons, gathered from the cliffs in far Salesh and pickled in wine of Dalith. I have found the flavor exquisite.”
The Narcissus of the Void clapped her hands. She dipped up a spoonful. “How delightful! Where’s my big faithful Icicle? He shall have some. He never gets cross with me, do you, Icicle?”
Gard bent and allowed her to feed him from her spoon. The seadragon eggs looked like grapes. They tasted like fish, which startled him, but did not seem poisoned. Magister Naryath gestured with his little finger, and the demoness brought another spoon and carried away the one from which Gard had tasted.
“Let Uncle Naryath make peace between you, my dears,” said the mage. “What causes little Pirihine to frown so?”
“A stupid slave got blood on my dress,” said Lady Pirihine, pouting in what she imagined was an enchanting manner. “We had been to the Blood Entertainments, you know, and we had just the loveliest time—it was Agoleth the Unlucky, and he was pitted against three of the deadliest bitches from the Convent.”
“Oh, how amusing that must have been!” said Magister Naryath.
“It was. They killed him by inches and then tossed his head back and forth like a ball. We laughed and laughed. I really was having the best time,” said Lady Pirihine, allowing a little tremble into her voice, at the unfairness of it all. “And after it was over, of course I wanted to go down and claim his testicles. That’s traditional, after all.”
�
��An old and honored custom,” agreed Magister Naryath.
“And we went down to that pit under the arena, and Vergoin should have held my train up off the sand, but he didn’t, not that it mattered much because the stupid slave carrying away Agoleth’s arms and legs tripped in the sand and all the parts went flying, and Agoleth’s nasty old hand struck me right in the face, and his nasty old stumps got blood all over my best afternoon gown!”
“And so she had the slave killed on the spot,” said Vergoin sourly.
“Well, I would have too,” said Magister Naryath, leaning forward to pat Lady Pirihine’s hand.
“He was a useful slave,” said Vergoin, raising his voice. “He was Magister Hoptriot’s assistant. Hoptriot will be offended, and, by the way, do you think he’s going to lower himself to stitch up the fighters now? Triphammer won’t be easy to replace.”
“Oh, who cares?” said Lady Pirihine, with a toss of her head. “Nobody but you. Let’s have some wine. Icicle, open the bottle.”
Gard looked at her blankly. Triphammer had been killed?
Not such a bad life. Best thing, really. Food and a bed, just as well, not so bad. What’s so terrible, really, about being a slave?
“Slave, your mistress has given you a command!” said Magister Naryath, and, hoping to distract his guests from their quarrel, rose in his seat and struck Gard in the face.
He could not strike back, he could not roar his wrath and sorrow; Gard only looked at Magister Naryath and wished him dead.
Magister Naryath gasped and shrank back; sweat boiled and ran from under his golden mask. A wine goblet shattered on the table. The Sulemian wine burst its seals, spurted like blood on the cloth. Pirihine’s eyes were round with astonishment.
Vergoin was on his feet at once. “Peace! Gard, this is sad news for you, I know. Go into the kitchen, calm your mind a moment.”
Gard turned from the table and went. The kitchen was small and dark, with Magister Naryath’s demoness finding her way principally by touch. She was readying the main course as he entered, and looked at him in wonder. She pointed at him, ran her fingers down her cheeks as though following tear tracks, then turned her palms out in inquiry. Why do you weep? No Translator appeared for her, strangely.
