Fallen Victors

by Jonathan Lenahan

  In the middle of the floor was a table, upon which sat a small, grey bell, its exterior peppered with pockmarks. Linken rang it and the sound echoed up the hole, faint. A face poked over the rim, and then disappeared. The lift began to ascend, a grating, shuddering ride made worse by Linken’s horribly imaginative mind.

  To keep his thoughts off the ground’s growing distance, he glanced at his rescuee. “We’re going to visit a man, you and I. Well, mostly you. I expect you to be on your best behavior, though I needn’t think that will be much of a problem.” The prisoner nodded, eyes to the ground.

  “Like I said, don’t instigate anything. You’re a free man now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t put you back. However, if you perform a small task, then you’ll be granted a full pardon; you have my word on that.” The prisoner’s expression didn’t change, not one iota. It didn’t even look as if Linken’s words had registered. Maybe they hadn’t, but he didn’t care. His part of the job was near its end. As such, it was time for celebration, and his imagination carried him off, his reward already spent, fine cigars just waiting to be smoked laid across his desk.

  The lift ground to a halt and Isaac followed the clean-shaven man past the shadow of a poplar tree, staying a few steps to the back and side. A small task?

  As they stepped into the sun, Isaac felt his body become lighter, the sun activating something within him that had long lain dormant. He smiled and spread his arms wide, Linken looking at him askance.

  Isaac’s mind raced back to his boyhood, up through his days as a teenager, and then through his adult years until he arrived back in the present. Nope, there was no question about it. He’d only been good at one thing in his life.

  Crymson

  Don’t scream. She balled her fists. Don’t scream. Crymson stood before the manor’s front door, one of finished alder, dark knots on its face. She’d had time to study its beauty because she’d knocked upon it three times in her fifteen minutes on the front stoop. Her shadow cleaved in two the bright reflection of the door’s window, allowing Crymson a glimpse of the manor’s brilliantly polished alabaster floor – marble, maybe. A light blue rug with evenly combed tassels lay across the floor’s center, daring visitors to muss it. Behind the rug was a set of two-toned stairs, steps alternating between shades of light and dark, a smooth banister guiding the way.

  She looked down at her buckskin slippers, caked with dirt and less wholesome materials from the morning’s walk. Hope brown and light blue look good together.

  Crymson grasped the door’s handle, shaped in the form of a peacock, and pushed, but the door didn’t budge. Color in her cheeks, she made a show of examining her face while discreetly checking the window’s reflective surface to see if anybody had noticed. Nobody watching, she pulled open the door, its hinges soundless.

  To her left, just beyond the view provided by the door’s front window, stood an older man, his head a wreath of grey, thick-framed glasses threatening to bend and break his neck. He bowed, a very small crease of his hips. “You’re tardy. If you would follow me.”

  Crymson remained in the doorway. “Tolver.”

  The servant partly turned, still presenting his back to her. “Yes?”

  “How would the Count like it if I told him that his beloved servant refused to even open the door for a Priestess of the Cao Fen?” Crymson’s voice held a soft edge.

  Tolver completed the turn and faced her. “He needn’t know anything of the sort.”

  “Then perhaps in the future, it would be wise to have your hand on its handle the moment you see me enter the gate.”

  He bowed, incrementally lower this time. “If you would follow me,” he repeated.

  They walked through an open archway, decorated with runes depicting an ancient battle, its figures wielding swords and flailing at some monstrous beast. Crymson followed the old servant at a goodly distance, making sure to scrape her feet on the previously spotless rug. They passed hallway after hallway, paintings sprinkled liberally throughout, all with the same person: a plump, grey-haired man in heroic poses, atop a mountain of slain rivals, others contemplative, the man’s eyes fixed on distant, unseen objects, and still another with the grey-haired man spinning across a crowded dance hall, a faceless woman in his arms.

  Warrior, philosopher, wooer of all things beautiful. How modest.

  Finally, the interconnected hallways opened into a room, its lush carpet a deep red that Prolifia’s craftsmen hadn’t produced in generations. Intricate tapestries covered grey walls, each a variation of red and depicting fantastical creatures of fire: dragons, phoenixes, salamanders, even a chimera. Chairs cut from relatives of the front door, with blue and white striped cushions, were arranged in a square, a small, similarly squared table at their center. The only sign of life was a lonely, broad-leaved plant to the right of the room’s other archway.

  Tolver, whose balding skull she was tempted to paint and use for target practice, hadn’t bothered to face Crymson since her unseemly entrance. “Would the Priestess care for refreshments while she waits?”

  Your blood in a wine glass, please. “No, thank you.”

  “As you will. The Count will be down soon enough.” The old servant bowed, pushed his glasses up his nose, and left. Crymson made a conscious effort to relax the lines wrinkling her brow, but the result felt less than satisfactory.

  This wasn’t the first time that Crymson had dealt with the Count. His introversion was infamous amongst the noble class and his pet pastime was snubbing invitations to the various balls and dinners hosted by Dradenhurst’s favored. The more illustrious the invitation, the more the Count delighted in his absenteeism. Crymson counted herself among the few that had met him, for he, in all his oddity, always requested her name from among the many other Cao Fen representatives.

  The quiet sliding of slippers on a thick carpet caught her attention, and Crymson straightened her shoulders. A face leaned around the corner of the second archway, followed by a short, plump body and hands that moved up and down, left and right, never a moment’s pause as the Count’s feet carried him to the center of the room. “Crymson! It’s been too long.” He seated himself in her armchair’s twin and snapped a finger, “One moment, my dear. Tolver. Tolver!”

  “Yes, m’lord?” The bespectacled mummy stood in the archway through which he had earlier disappeared.

  “Some refreshments, if you would. I know you forget sometimes, but really now, this is too much. We cannot speak with parched throats any more than you can see without those lenses of yours.”

  “Of course, sir.” Tolver bowed, perfectly parallel. His faded blue eyes, magnified by his glasses, seemed to smirk at Crymson.

  “So,” said the Count, strumming the chair, “What brings you to my humble home?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me, perhaps when your man gets back with the wine.”

  “Wine? No no no. That will not do at all. What is it with you people and wines? Wine this, wine that. No. Wine isn’t the only drink in the world. We have ales, cognacs – the works! Wines. Humph. No imagination. Now – ahh, thank you, Torvel.”

  On the tray was a cut crystal decanter, its oblong body filled with brown liquid. Torvel reached to pull the stopper from the bottle, but the Count shooed him away and lifted the decanter with a hand featuring a single golden ring. “Off with you. The Priestess and I have matters to discuss.”

  The Count poured a generous finger of the brown liquid into one of the crystal brandy glasses, its bowl clear and delicate. “Torvel has been in the family for generations. Invaluable, really, not that I’d ever tell him that.”

  “He certainly seems to be the model servant.” Except when you’re not looking. Crymson poured herself a smaller finger of the brown liquid, using the movement to cover her pursed lips.

  She took a sniff of the drink and instantly wanted to dilute it with a bucket of water. The Count’s eyes watched her. She took a swallow. Liquid fire raced down her throat and turned to volcanic lava in her stoma
ch; the temptation to hack almost overwhelmed her. Once the tears had cleared from her eyes, she said, “Charming. What’s it called?”

  The Count blessed her with a small smile, eyes disappearing in his cherub’s face. “Kreshnian brandy. Mass produced and less than twenty pennies a bottle. I cannot tell you how amusing it is to watch fools simper over it on the rare occasions I am forced to entertain.” He took another sip.

  “I have always liked you, Crymson, hard though that may be to believe. You have spunk, and though you have done decently by yourself up until recent months, you have . . . talents . . . that others might want to employ. Talents that might, if given the proper incentive and opportunity, allow you to climb far higher than any paltry dreams you have entertained up to this point. And, correct me if I am wrong, but that has always been a goal of yours, has it not? Power? You can admit it to me, if you would. Honesty is one of your more endearing traits.”

  Crymson studied the threads of blue on her cushion. Bastard. Used his advantage to make me squirm and then wedged me under his foppish heel. “I want something more than what I have now, but whether it’s power or another thing entirely, I can’t tell. Are any of us ever sure of our desires?” She tossed back the Kreshnian brandy.

  “Delightful, and an entirely appropriate response, but I suppose you already knew that.”

  She wiped more tears from her eyes. Lucky guess, actually. “I did, but if I may be so bold, is this honesty a two-way street or need I walk on it as its sole purveyor?”

  The Count waved his glass at her, its contents spilling over and onto the floor before he regained control. “You know as well as anybody my reputation for a certain, ah, strangeness. I confess that at one point it was entirely perpetuated without any real sincerity on my part. I used it for years as a façade to build things behind the scenes, and it worked well.”

  Too well, thought Crymson as the Count’s free hand fluttered about like a sparrow caught in the kitchen.

  He tipped the decanter at her, but she shook her head. “The thing is, once I realized what I had become, I found myself unwilling to let the charade fall apart. Being strange, it turns out, is infinitely enjoyable. And, as a consequence of being strange, combined with my position in our society, I began to catch the eyes of other strange people in similar and sometimes higher positions.”

  Crymson ignored his searching eyes, choosing to watch his hands as he said, “I say that to say this: at one of these strange people’s meetings some time ago, I was approached by one of the more rather, ah, reclusive inhabitants. After kindly introducing himself to me, we became engaged in a talk of politics within the borders of our little country.”

  He seemed to be waiting for a response, so she said, “Go on.”

  The Count beckoned her closer, as if to share a secret, though the room was empty, Tolver out of sight. “For a long time, really since the advent of King Olen’s coronation thirty years ago, Prolifia has grown increasingly isolated, and up to this point, it has worked well. I know you probably do not pay much attention to the economy, but you should know that we are very resource oriented – everything we need, we have. Farmers by the score and metal enough to last us the next three centuries and more, but our livelihood has and always will be trade. We lack only one thing: fighting men, an obvious fact, considering the amount of mercenaries we are forced to employ.”

  “I’m a Priestess, not a hermit, Count.” She smiled, sure he’d notice her patronizing tone if she continued. Just get to the point, you narcissistic prick.

  “Yes, well, I am going somewhere with this, if you will allow me a second.” He poured another drink.

  “This part isn’t common knowledge: the mercenaries are bleeding us dry, monetarily speaking, and this recluse – the one I spoke of earlier – isn’t going to tolerate it any longer. Something, and I’m not sure what it is yet, to be quite honest, is going to happen soon, and I’m offering you a pivotal role in whatever it turns out to be. Normally, I’d be hesitant to do so, but this group I’m with, well, they have enough money and power to make this happen, and time is a factor.”

  Crymson emptied a finger of the Kreshian brandy into her glass, and then, after a second’s thought, another. “I’m listening.”

  The Count leaned forward in his chair. “This is a chance for you to gain everything. I can’t go into detail right now, but this recluse is one of the country’s most powerful people, and I assure you, he graciously awards those who please him. In our last conversation, he asked for a trustworthy person in the Cao Fen. I admit, I laughed at him, for there is no such thing as a trustworthy traitor, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “But then I thought of you. Do you know why?” the Count asked.

  “Not a clue.” This can’t be good.

  The Count reclined on his cushion. “Do you appreciate that I know your past? I know from where you came, and you know what? I don’t think you’re loyal to the Cao Fen at all. I think they’re just convenient; they allow you to get what you want out of life, so you use them.”

  Crymson opened her mouth to object, but the Count leaned forward again, his face serious. “I’m not asking you to be a hero, Crymson, at least not a people’s hero, to be admired and beloved. Those are just make-believe, and we all know that underneath, they’re no more heroic than the rest of us. What I’m asking you to be is beyond that, to be the kind of hero that may die hated.”

  “You still haven’t made mention of what you want from me.” Crymson affected a relaxed pose, reclining her head.

  “Nothing too sinister. We just need a person in the Cao Fen willing to . . . help us, if ever the time calls for it.”

  “And this requires what from me, precisely?” she pushed.

  The Count sighed. “Must I explain everything?”

  “Fine. Don’t explain. It might be better that I don’t know, now that I think of it. But let me see if I can sound it out: you’re asking me to possibly die and, if I’m reading what you’re not saying correctly, anything you ask me to do might involve me betraying the Cao Fen, the only organization I can rely upon to protect and advance me. Seems like a lot of risk.” She thumped her half-full glass onto the table and leaned forward. “What’s in it for me?”

  His hands stilled. “A reward, you say? How’s this then: when my contact pulls off his plan, it will leave the Cao Fen decidedly . . . lacking in positions of authority, positions he’d be keen to fill at his discretion. They’ll need a strong hand to guide them, and who stronger than you?”

  And there’s the bait. Crymson picked up her glass and looked into it, like the cheap brandy could provide answers. Betray all I know. Is it worth it? She believed in God, but she was also of the opinion that He loved those who looked out for the spirit He’d given them. And she had seen for herself, hell, had even been part of the corruption that was the Cao Fen’s current state. Would it not be proper, even required of her, to take the risk if it meant that she could clean the Cao Fen from the inside?

  “How trustworthy is this recluse of yours?”

  The Count smiled, all his teeth on display. He drained the rest of his Kreshnian brandy and set it down on the table. “Follow me.”

  Crymson shrugged. She threw the rest of the liquor in the broad-leaved plant as she walked out and let the glass shatter behind her. Enjoy, Torvel.

  Slate and Teacher

  “Bartender, bless my friend and I with your finest liquor. Allow me to bathe in its delicious waters like that cousin you watched from the woods when you were a lad.” The bartender scowled but slid over a pair of the Queen’s Ransom’s finest mugs, thin beer frothing over their dented rims to puddle and compliment the bar’s numerous scratches and stains, mopped up by what Slate could only assume was meant to be a cleaning rag. Unlike the finely crafted works of art you’d find in more patrician establishments, these tin-coated mugs were more akin to a rite of passage than anything resembling pleasure.

  “As always, I thank you, my illustrious servant.”
Slate pushed a few pennies toward the bartender and slid one of the ancient mugs to Teacher, whose mitt promptly engulfed it. He watched Teacher’s throat move in rhythm as Teacher emptied the mug’s contents in three gulps – six for a normal man; Teacher was a connoisseur of swilling, and when one looked at his frame, it took little imagination to think it would take more than a sad excuse for a beer or two to muddle him.

  With a sigh, Slate held out two fingers to the bartender and then turned to survey the rapidly crowding room.

  The unvarnished walls of the bar were covered in holes, some the size of a man’s head and likely caused by the same, while others were smaller, fist-sized. A random assortment of boards covered a few of them, but many were left open, a bevy of impromptu windows for down-on-their-luck spies and convenient murder holes for spited lovers, whose men often came here to drink away their manifold sins.

  There were two matching dinner tables in the back, each capable of sitting six men per side and one on the ends. The middle of the room held three circular tables, the card games at their centers prompting full-throated cheers and periodic groans. Scattered around the circular tables were a number of smaller ones, each boasting mismatched chairs and stools, with one man sitting on what looked suspiciously like an overturned bucket.

  A medley of people occupied the bar’s furniture. Men made up most of the crowd, though Slate saw a hard-mouthed girl near the dinner tables, brushing off one man’s pawing hands and then slapping the head of another who said something to her in passing. Most of the men wore blades, complete with rough beards that hadn’t seen razors in months. Near the front, at one of the square tables, a man with a plumed hat stroked a crossbow, and on a chair to the crossbowman’s right, a woman with a plunging décolletage sat on the lap of a bearded fellow whose hands were hidden beneath her voluminous skirt.