The House of the Stag

by Kage Baker

  “So,” he said, “when did you start calling yourself duke of Port Blackrock? I heard you were afraid of the Steelhands.”

  “Not now I have this,” said Duke Salting, patting the barrel of the device. The captain of the rear guard winced, and some of his men put their fingers in their ears. “Getting rid of greenie bastards like you is only the first thing I’ll do with it. The Steelhands are next!”

  “Really?” said Gard. “Seems a little cowardly, to me, using a magic weapon to conquer. Yes, I think you’re a coward. I think your father was a coward, and his father before him, and all their fathers before them. I’ll bet you’re even too much of a coward to accept a challenge to single combat. Are you?

  “What do you say, Mr. Salting? You and me, one to one, blade to blade, to see who wins here today? You lose, you die, but I’ll let your army go home alive. I lose, you can help yourself to my store of treasure. What do you say?”

  “That’s Duke Salting! And what kind of an idiot do you think I am?” shouted Salting. “Single combat! I’m not one of your la-di-da, inbred dueling aristocrats! I’ve got brains! You think I got where I am today by taking foolish risks? You think I’d be so stupid I’d come up here unless I knew I could grind you into powder? Well, think again, Mr. Dark Lord!” He reached out and turned the red switch.

  Nothing happened.

  Duke Salting turned and frowned down at the device. He flipped the switch back, then forward again. Still nothing happened. He gave the near red-and-gold wheel a kick, and though the men closest dove away from it in terror, the device merely sat there like the plain cylinder of highly polished iron that it was.

  Gard tossed the flag of parley over his shoulder. “Kill him.”

  “Ladies,” said Balnshik. “Gentlemen. Fire, please.”

  The air hummed with the release of bowstrings, the air dimmed with the flight of arrows. The duke was nailed to the ground where he stood and pierced through as he fell. Panic among his unfortunate men, and roars of laughter from the battlements, as Gard’s men hurled down stones, and Gard’s archers drew for another volley.

  And yet the throb of magic was still in the air. Gard turned his head, frowning. Its source was not with the duke, who lay dying. The device sat inert, unspelled, harmless. The duke’s men were trampling one another in their haste to retreat down the passage cut through the Death Zone. Where was Pirihine? Why hadn’t she, or whatever presence she commanded, been there at the front to gloat over his death?

  But she wouldn’t have wanted him killed there, would she? She’d have wanted him taken prisoner. You twisted up old Magister Porlilon’s spell, so that now it can only be untwisted by your blood, before they can escape.

  “It’s a feint!” cried Gard, but in all the roar of triumph from the battlements, only Balnshik heard him. Their eyes met.

  “Oh, that bitch,” she said. Then she was gone, running fast as a shadow, down into the house. Behind him, Gard heard a roar as Redeye and his men came boiling out through the postern door, eager for easy slaughter.

  “No!” Gard ran to the parapet and leaned down. “No! Back inside! The enemy’s inside!”

  “We must be under the house by now,” said Quickfire, panting. He lowered the model and looked around. “But it’s not going as quickly.”

  “I’m a little tired,” said the simulacrum, in a wobbly voice. The glow of witchlight it cast about it was growing dim. It held up one hand and tapped its four fingers against the thumb, clink clink clink clink. “Perhaps …”

  Quicksilver nodded almost imperceptibly. He set down the model. “You men! I think we’re nearly at the hidden door. Come here and set your shoulders to the wall, and push.” The chair-bearers came forward and did as they had been told. They strained and sweated against rock and stone; but nothing moved.

  “Set both hands against the wall and shove, then,” said Quickfire. They obeyed him. He drew his sword and, smiling, killed three of them in three heartbeats. One man only was able to turn and run, and Quickfire raced after him and cut him down before he had gone a third of the way out.

  “Ooooh,” murmured the simulacrum, shuddering voluptuously. “Oh, yes! Delicious! Oh, they were strong!” Its witchlight brightened to brilliance, illuminating the dead faces of its sacrifices where they sprawled. “Now, dear Quickfire! Again! We’re dreadfully close!”

  “You must be very quiet,” said the Saint, as Engrattur scooped up Bero and Bisha. “Quiet little mice. Can you be quiet little mice?”

  The children nodded, putting their hands over their mouths. Kdwyr lifted Fyll in his arms, and Dnuill took the hand of Mish, the most recent foundling. “The rest of you, bring blankets and linen,” said the Saint. “As much as you can carry. Move quickly, please.”

  She picked up Eyrdway, who had been sleeping. He stretched in her arms and pouted drowsily. He opened his eyes and she nearly dropped him, for they stretched forth from his head on stalks, like a snail’s; but as soon as he recognized her, they retracted back into his face and he smiled. “Mumma! Way-way mumma.”

  “Yes, it’s Eyrdway’s mummy,” she said, wrapping him in a blanket. “Come with Mummy now. Be quiet and good.” She lifted him to her shoulder and he put his arms around her neck. “Engrattur, lead us.”

  They moved up out of the nursery and up the corridor, which was deserted now, though the noise of conflict came echoing along the walls from somewhere without. The Saint found herself falling behind, borne down by the weight of two babies, unable to catch her breath. When they came to a turn, Kdwyr stopped and looked back at her.

  “Go!” she told him. “Take the others ahead, and then come back for us.”

  He nodded and turned down the passage. She paused a moment, gulping for breath, shifting Eyrdway to her other shoulder.

  Fifteen paces in front of her, there was a sparkle against the wall, like reflected light. A hole appeared there, as the plaster and stone fell away like sand, and a man stepped through. It was a Child of the Sun, carrying what looked like a weapon. He walked out into the corridor and peered around, and saw her.

  He grinned. “Well! We’re not in the nursery, but I don’t think it matters.” The Saint took a step backward, feeling her heart beat painfully. “Here they are! Or I miss my guess.”

  “What?” Someone else—no, something came through the hole, a thing like a jointed doll of brass, the size and likeness of a woman.

  Quickfire gestured with the model. “That would be the mother and child.”

  “Oh!” The simulacrum leaned forward at the waist, seeming to peer at them. “Yes, how lucky. Just what we’d hoped for! Gard’s blood, in a convenient portable container. But you can kill the wife.”

  The Saint turned and ran back in the direction of the nursery. Fear lent her speed. She reached the door and slammed it, throwing the bolt just as Quickfire struck the other side with a crash. She heard him pounding at it and cursing.

  “Eyrdway.” She set him in his crib. “Play a game with Mummy. See your toys?” Eyrdway smiled wide and gurgled, pointing at the shelf above his crib.

  “We’re coming through,” sang the male voice on the other side of the door. After a moment’s silence, he said something in disgust.

  “It doesn’t work on wood, you idiot,” said the other voice, the woman’s voice, sweet and sharp as a sugared razor. “Aim it around the door.”

  “Good baby!” said the Saint. “Be a toy, Eyrdway. Be a toy, for Mummy.”

  “Ah! Here we go,” said Quickfire in satisfaction, as the wall above the lintel dropped away. He trained the model along one side of the frame and then the other, and at last the door fell outward with a crash. Powdered plaster flew up in a cloud; when it dissipated, the Saint could be seen against the far wall of the nursery, staring at them.

  “Finally,” said Quickfire, setting down the model. He drew his sword and stepped into the room, with the simulacrum floating after him.

  The simulacrum clucked in disgust. “Oh, she’s hidden the baby. What have you
done with the baby, Gard’s wife?”

  “Gods, she’s a beauty. You’re sure she’s his wife, and not just the nurse?” Quickfire’s eyes lit. “I can’t pass up the chance to fuck his wife!”

  “Yes, you can! I want the child. Where is he?”

  “To hell with you and the child,” said Quickfire, laughing as he started toward the Saint. She raised her eyes and looked him full in the face. He staggered back and screamed, his hands to his eyes. “Fucking god of the abyss!”

  “Serves you right,” said the simulacrum primly. “Search the room. Open the chests and cupboards. There’s an antechamber there; see if he’s in one of those hampers. Do it, or I’ll hurt you worse than she did.”

  “Bitches,” said Quickfire, groaning, but he groped and found his sword again and staggered into the antechamber. The Saint could hear him flailing around in there, kicking over furniture as he searched. The simulacrum floated nearer to her. She looked into its eyes with all the white rage of her heart, but the inlaid optics never reacted.

  “No, that won’t work on me,” said the simulacrum, sounding amused. “I am not truly here, you see? My will is here, my senses and hunger are here; but my own body is a thousand miles away, quite immune to spiritual attack.”

  “Or you have no soul,” said the Saint.

  “Perhaps,” said the simulacrum, shrugging. “Look harder, Quickfire! What a fool he is. Listen to me, Gard’s wife: I give you my word I will walk from this place with Gard’s boy alive in my arms. Show me where you’ve hidden the wee one and I’ll even let you live, which means your other child will live too. How can you refuse me?”

  The Saint shook her head. “I know why you want him alive.”

  “Do you? Ah, well. I suppose you won’t tell me, then. Let’s see …” The simulacrum turned its mask, as though looking thoughtfully around the room. “You’re clearly a woman with a few talents, yourself. Any ordinary baby would have made some noise to give himself away by this time, so … I’m guessing you’ve put a disguising spell on him. Am I right?”

  The simulacrum’s blank gaze lingered on the toys ranged along the shelf above the crib. “Hmm … you hadn’t a lot of time before we came through the door. I don’t think he’s in the other room at all. I think …” It reached up and pulled down a stuffed toy, a fat little creature with button eyes. “Maybe this one?”

  The Saint did not answer. Watching her face, the simulacrum took one of the button eyes between thumb and forefinger and plucked it off.

  “No? No.” It tossed the toy aside and reached for another stuffed toy, one with a ribbon around its neck. “What about this one?” It took the two ends of the ribbon and pulled them tight. “Shall I pull tighter still?”

  O Beloved, thought the Saint, wherever you’ve gone, wake from your silence and please, please help me. My child is innocent of any wrong. In mercy, in compassion, send spirits to my aid—

  A low growl came from the doorway, and the sound of steel being drawn.

  The simulacrum swung around, dropping the toy. “Balnshik! You wicked creature. How dare you run away from us?” it said, in tones of sincere outrage.

  “Lady, has she harmed the child?” asked Balnshik, moving closer.

  “Not yet,” said the Saint, ready to weep with relief.

  “Quickfire, you coward! Get in here and deal with this,” said the simulacrum.

  Balnshik smiled, and her face became fearful to behold. “Why, Quickfire! It’s been a long time. Do come and play with me, little man.”

  “Gods below.”

  Quickfire had no time to say anything else, for Balnshik attacked then like a great cat springing, and his arm was nearly broken blocking her blow. The Saint drew back into the corner of the room, pulling a nursery chair before her to protect herself. Her gaze traveled fearfully to the remaining toys above the crib. The simulacrum noticed.

  “So he is up there,” it said, over the clash of live steel. “I thought as much.” It floated a little sideways to avoid Quickfire’s counterattack. Balnshik dodged and swung, and Quickfire fell and rolled; he was on his feet again in an instant, but Balnshik lunged and he was barely able to get his arm up in time to beat her blade back.

  “Ah!” exclaimed the simulacrum. The Saint looked up and saw with horror that it had at last noticed that there were two little wolf cubs of wood, side by side on the shelf.

  “Which one would it be, I wonder?” said the simulacrum. “… I’m going to say it’s not the one with the teeth marks. Shall I toss them both on the nursery fire and see?”

  But it was unable to get close enough to reach the shelf. Balnshik sprang before the crib, locked in struggle with Quickfire, who was sobbing for breath.

  “You’ve grown old, Quickfire,” said Balnshik in disdain. “You were such a lithe boy in the Training Hall. Slow and old, now.” She flung him back against the wall once more and came on, and once more he nearly failed to get his arm up in time. Blade screeched on blade and the hilts locked; they hung there a second, staring into each other’s faces, and Balnshik bared her teeth.

  Quickfire dropped his free hand to his belt and drew out a knife and plunged it up beneath the mail shirt, into her side.

  “You cheating little prick,” said Balnshik. She broke free and cut him down, her blade cleaving through his shoulder and into his neck. He fell and died. She stepped back, staggering a little, and drew the knife from her side and looked at it. “How typical,” she said, looking at the discolored blade. “Poisoned.”

  Her skin had gone the color of ashes. She turned to lurch toward the simulacrum, but her legs folded under her and she fell.

  “That’s what happens to bad slaves who run away,” said the simulacrum. “Damn you! I needed Quickfire to get home. No matter.” It swung around to confront the Saint. “I can sacrifice you instead. Now, shall I burn your baby, or will you save him that much pain, at least?”

  The Saint said nothing, staring steadily into its face.

  “The fire it is, then,” said the simulacrum sulkily, and reached for the shelf.

  A point of steel emerged from where its waist joined its hips. It looked down and laughed disdainfully. “Stupid demon bitch. Haven’t I just explained I’m not—”

  Gard pulled out his sword, and blood spurted from an unseen source. The simulacrum looked down and gave a little cry. “You brute,” it said, as the blood flowed steadily and began to spatter the floor. “You big stinking beast! Don’t you know who I am?”

  Gard raised his sword and smote off the simulacrum’s head. With an explosion of blood in midair, the mask and empty helmet dropped. Then the rest of it came apart and fell to the floor with a clatter of metal limbs, and there was no more blood.

  He stepped over the pieces and kicked the chair away. The Saint fell into his arms, before pulling free and grabbing one of the toy wolves from the shelf. “Good boy,” she said in a weak voice, as the toy expanded and its shape changed. Eyrdway laughed in her arms. “Mummy’s good boy!”

  Gard went down on one knee beside Balnshik, who lay on her side with her gloved hand pressed to the wound. Her fearful pallor had intensified, as though heat lightning flickered just under her skin. Her lips drew back from her long teeth. She leaned up to Gard, with difficulty; he leaned down and put his ear to her mouth. She whispered something. Then she closed her eyes and fell. Gard watched a light the color of morning glories flare forth from her body, and fade.

  “What did she say to you?” asked the Saint, beginning to weep at last.

  “She told me her true name.”

  I Was the Dark Lord’s Passion Slave is carefully edited, painstakingly typeset, for typographic errors can cause so much unintentional hilarity in books of this nature. Suitably lurid cover art is engraved, hand-tinted, and pasted on the cover of the finished product. Copperplate & Sons’ jobbers load it into carts and send it off to better booksellers everywhere.

  One crate containing twenty-five copies is delivered to a vendor in Gabekria. He offers ligh
t reading matter for sale, along with sweetmeats, sun lotion, and other sundries likely to be wanted by persons intent on a relaxing day at the seaside.

  The vendor ranges the copies of I Was the Dark Lord’s Passion Slave on a kiosk, admiring the effect, before his attention is drawn by a small crowd of people coming down over the dunes to the beach.

  Watching them he perceives, as he is meant to, a wealthy businessman of his own race, with family and servants. The servants arrange the sun pavilion, as the husband and father busies himself setting up a folding chair for his wife. Though she is veiled against the sun, nothing can obscure her remarkable beauty. The vendor murmurs an oath and indulges in a brief fantasy.

  His imaginings shrink, however, as he contemplates the husband, who is big, black-bearded, and looks as though he occasionally sacks cities. Now the vendor notices that the liveried retainers are large, exceptionally ugly, and heavily armed. He shivers and turns his attention back to his wares.

  But out on the beach, the black-a-vised man bows his wife into her chair and settles into his own. A nurse—tall, raven-haired, and shapely, but also heavily armed—releases the two little boys, who run down to the edge of the sun-glittering tide and dance back, screaming happily, as it advances. The nurse sets the little girl down and presents her with a bucket and sand spade, growling gently to dissuade the child from eating a fistful of sand. From his basket the nurse lifts the tiny newborn, bringing him to the veiled beauty.

  “Little Ermenwyr, Lady.”

  The beauty receives him in her arms. The infant’s feeble shrieks stop abruptly. The beauty smiles down at him, stroking back his limp curls as he snuffles at her breast.

  One of the armed retainers goes to the kiosk and, looking over the cheap novels offered there, grabs down a few copies of I Was the Dark Lord’s Passion Slave. He pays the vendor, unintentionally one silver piece short, but the vendor says nothing. This is surely, he thinks, some gang lord from Mount Flame and his family, on holiday. Best not to complain.