by Sam Sykes
“Then,” Mocca said, “stand aside.”
Lenk glanced up and he was gone. And despite the rising light of dawn, the world seemed a darker place.
NINE
VIPERS FOR BEDFELLOWS
Wizardry was, above all else, an art of preservation.
Common barknecks failed to appreciate this about wizards—unsurprising, as they tended to care only about the parts that involved making things explode—but then, the process of Harvesting was not something typically shared with people outside the Venarium.
Those with but meager flesh and bone to lose could be content to bury or burn their dead. A wizard was made of sterner stuff that just couldn’t be wasted when he died.
His hair was woven into coats that could become wings in an instant. His skin would be taken to be made parchment for spellbooks. His bones would be wands, his teeth charms, his blood ink.
A wizard’s body was not a perfect society, though; not all body parts were equal. There were often leftovers: livers, tongues, genitalia, other body parts that did not possess enough of a magical charge to be used in much.
But wizardry was, above all else, an art of preservation.
Hence the Charnel Hound.
“If I look up,” Dreadaeleon spoke, voice echoing into the emptiness of his cell, “and you’re still looking at me, I’m going to be upset.”
From the stone bench upon which he lay, he looked up. And, true to his word, he was upset.
Few would blame him, he suspected. Who would not be upset by the amalgamation of flesh and paper sitting at the doorway of his cell? Up close, while the beast was still, he could make out the individual parts of the people’s anatomy that made up its own: here a severed scrotum, there a knot of tongues, a few grafts of hairy flesh unsuitable for parchment. And all of it was wrapped up neatly, held together by paper inscribed with magical writ.
It had four legs and a snout, and though it had no eyes—at least in the traditional sense—he was certain it was looking at him.
He didn’t blame it. That was its job, after all.
“I should think,” Dreadaeleon insisted, “that something like yourself”—he made a vague gesture at the creature—“what with all the exposed cocks, would appreciate the concept of privacy.”
He looked meaningfully at the chamber pot in the corner—the chamber pot that had yet to be emptied since his incarceration—and back to the Hound. And while it had no face—though it did have bits of people’s faces—Dreadaeleon strongly suspected that Admiral Tibbles was not sympathetic.
He’d named it Admiral Tibbles.
Admiral Tibbles was poor company.
It wasn’t that he was mad, goodness no. Three days of isolation was not enough to afford him the luxury of insanity. But three days of isolation, three days of no books to read, three days of meals delivered through a slot in an iron door without a sound, three days of no one to talk to but Admiral Tibbles…
Or… or had it been three days?
It was hard to tell down here—they had taken him down, hadn’t they? Or had it been up? There were no windows, the sole source of light being a single glass globe dangling from the ceiling from which a static glow beamed incessantly, moment to moment.
What were they doing up there—or down there, depending? Making funeral arrangements pending his execution? Arranging another trial? Or were they just going to leave him down here with Admiral Tibbles as punishment?
Punishment. He sneered at the word. Punishment for what? For using your power for purposes other than hiding in a tower and doing paperwork? For making a difference out there in the world where things matter? What could they possibly have to punish you for?
He paused.
Well, aside from the fact that you violated your chief oath as a member of the Venarium by using your powers on fellow concomitants. But aside from treason and murder, they’ve got nothing.
He got up from his bench, started pacing. Admiral Tibbles’s sightless gaze followed him as he moved from one end of the room to the other. As it sensed no magic from his franticness, the creature’s directive to intervene was not activated.
That was fine; Dreadaeleon had no more thought to spare for the Hound or even his own life. His waking moments were devoted to Liaja.
What had they done to her? She had been accomplice to his crimes—no, not crimes, he corrected himself; activism—and the Venarium typically were not inclined to treat accomplices any better than the accused. But she had done nothing wrong! They couldn’t just punish her, could they? She was a citizen of Cier’Djaal and was not subject to Venarium law. Doing so would violate the Sovereignty Pact.
Just as you did? he asked himself.
No, it was different when I did it, he replied. I was trying to protect people. I protected them from the Karnerians and Sainites.
The law’s the law, old man, he told himself. If you get excuses as to when it is and is not applicable, it kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?
Yes, but a law that applies rigidly would assume that all people, places and circumstances are exactly the same, at all times, and—He paused, embarked on a brief flailing fit. Whose side are you on, anyway?
He looked down at his hands, saw them thick with sweat. His clothes—the threadbare tunic and breeches they had given him when he arrived—clung to his body with perspiration. His body was too thin, the suggestion of his ribs visible even through the damp cloth as it clung to him. They weren’t feeding him enough. He was wasting away.
“See?” He turned to Admiral Tibbles and held out his arm. “Look. Thin as a bone, thin as a—”
He fell silent. The skin of his arm began to bubble and twitch. Something long and thin began to move beneath the flesh, pressing up against it and drawing thick, tuberous veins across his arm. He watched on in horror as the skin began to split, warm blood trickling down his arm and pattering on the floor. Worms, great purple things the size of fingers, began to snake out, gnashing little tooth-ringed circles for mouths as they writhed and coiled across his arm.
He didn’t scream. Not anymore.
He closed his eyes, counted to ten. When he opened them again, his arm was once more whole. He could still feel the warmth of the blood, the pain of his flesh splitting apart, the scent of his own meat exposed to air, but there was no evidence of its having ever happened.
Broodvine hallucinations were even more powerful when they were involuntary.
It was too hard to think without the seed. Any amount of time longer than a few breaths spent in his own head invited the walls to start moving and the air to start whispering to him.
He glanced over to the door. Admiral Tibbles stood tense, eyeless gaze directed intently at Dreadaeleon. It could sense the magical nature of his hallucinations, but not the source. They had done this a thousand times in the hours he’d been here. In a few more moments, it would sense no more threat and return to its sitting position.
That’s what it usually did, anyway.
This time, though, the Hound gingerly turned and stepped away from the door, settling down by its side.
“Well, well,” Dreadaeleon muttered. “Seems I’m feeling important today.”
There was only one reason the Hound ever did that.
And an instant later, it came through the door.
Or rather, they did.
Four of them: two women, two men, each one clad in a concomitant’s brown coat and wearing a spellbook at their hip. They filed into his cell carefully, never fewer than six eyes on him at any time as they moved to form a semicircle around him. Admiral Tibbles watched from the edge, impassive.
“Concomitant Dreadaeleon Arethenes,” one of the women suddenly spoke, stepping forward, “Member in Poor Standing, you are—”
“Member?” he interrupted her. “I’ve not been disbarred yet? Are we that desperate for fees?”
She flinched. “You are hereby commanded to attend a council regarding probationary release.”
That caused him some pause. “Release?�
�
“Probationary release,” the woman replied. “A council has been called by Lector Shinka and tentatively approved by all remaining”—she spoke the word with a sneer—“Lectors regarding outside developments involving your case. Your attendance is mandatory.”
“Shinka?” he chuckled. “Well, it would have to be her, wouldn’t it? Lector Annis and I aren’t on the best of terms and Lector Palanis must still be dreadfully cross at me.” He smirked. “Assuming he’s been able to emerge from his rooms in the past week?”
The woman’s hands coiled into fists. “Lector Palanis is indisposed,” she said. Her poise broke for just a moment, enough to let a scowl form on her face. “As you damn well know, you heretic fuck. You did it to him.”
“Did what to him?” Dreadaeleon’s laugh was short, bitter, and mean. “I heard only rumors as I was dragged down here. Some say he hasn’t eaten in days, some say he never leaves his rooms, and some say the concomitants who don’t do their chores get the privilege of cleaning up after him when he shits the bed. Which is it? The first? The second?” At her trembling rage, his grin grew broader. “All three?”
It was poor form to boast about one’s own victory, even in the Venarium. It was decidedly cruel to revel in the outcome that had left Lector Palanis an emotional wreck. And taunting men and women who had the power to kill on the spot, at their discretion? That was downright foolish.
Perhaps he was just feeling frisky.
The woman seethed visibly, the dim light of Venarie roiling to life behind her eyes as she summoned countless spells to kill him in countless ways. He stood at the center of the room, hands folded behind him, smile unflinching.
One of her compatriots moved beside her, laid a hand on her shoulder. She drew in a breath, held it. The light faded from her eyes and she regarded him once more through frigid poise.
“Come with us, concomitant,” she said. “The council awaits at the forty-second floor.”
“The top? Excellent.” He stepped past her, noting with some satisfaction how the remaining concomitants tensed. “There’s a window on the thirty-third floor I should like to go by on our way. It has a lovely view of the courtyard grounds and I’ve not seen daylight in some time.”
“That is not our approved route,” the woman said.
“We can afford to take the time,” Dreadaeleon replied. “The council is about my release, isn’t it? It’s not like they’ll do much without me. Now, let’s step lively, dear.”
“And just what the fuck makes you think you can speak to me that way?” she growled after him.
He paused in the doorway, cast a cold smile over his shoulder.
“The fact that they sent four of you.”
It was a valuable skill for a man to know, upon entering a room, how many people wanted him dead.
While it was by no means an exact science, upon entering the vast circle that made up the main room of the forty-second floor of Tower Resolute, Dreadaeleon had at least a pretty good idea.
The concomitants who had escorted him immediately filed away to join the twenty or so others of their rank at the far wall. Stationed before them in another circle stood five Librarians, the Venarium’s elite, with their black mantles, and Lector Annis was at the very center.
It was likely that they all wanted him dead, with two or three wanting him dead, burnt to ashes, the ashes fed to sharks, and then the sharks also dead.
At a guess, anyway.
Lector Annis looked up through rigid visage, made a gesture. The door closed at his bidding behind Dreadaeleon. Two concomitants stepped before it.
Dreadfully poor taste, he thought to himself as he glanced over the thirty or so wizards with murder in their eyes. It’s not as though he needs to demonstrate his power here.
He glanced down at his side. Admiral Tibbles looked up over a snout made of various chunks.
“Shall we?” he muttered.
It was easier to keep his head high and his stride bold than he’d thought it would be, considering company and circumstance.
And he considered both. Very carefully.
No matter how much they hid it behind protocol and law, power was still everything to wizards. To them he was still dangerous enough to warrant four concomitants and a Charnel Hound. To them he was powerful enough to warrant five Librarians. To them he was strong.
And he was well on his way to demonstrating that.
Right up until Lector Annis stepped aside and revealed an unexpected attendant.
It had been days—weeks, maybe—since he had seen her. She looked more tired, less well fed, but no less strong now than she had looked when she had straddled him and smashed her fists into his face, again and again. And her smile was no less sincere now than it had been.
But he did not return it.
He never would.
Not after what Asper had done to him.
“I’m finished.” Dreadaeleon spun on his heel.
“Dread, wait,” Asper began, reaching out for him.
“I have no desire to be here,” Dreadaeleon said to the nearest concomitant. “Take me back to my cell. Apologies for the inconvenience.”
“Concomitant Arethenes.”
Annis’s words speared through the air to land directly between Dreadaeleon’s shoulder blades and pin him where he stood. Every concomitant and Librarian leveled their gaze at him, their eyes suddenly alight with the red flame of Venarie.
“Every member in good standing in this tower is fully authorized to use lethal force to detain you.” His body trembled with the ire his voice sought to contain. “And if there were a record of this meeting being kept, I would demand it be noted that I consider that authorization a gross underestimation of the sort of prejudice with which a criminal like you should be treated.”
It felt almost disrespectful, out of that admittedly very verbose and eloquent threat, to pick out just a few words.
“There’s no record of this meeting?” Dreadaeleon asked, turning around.
“Lector Annis was, regrettably, not informed of this meeting until quite recently.”
The voice was crystalline to Annis’s metallic. It sounded right, coming as it did from a soft smile set within a pretty face framed by elegant curls. A woman, dressed in a Lector’s robes, emerged from the ring of concomitants, neatly closing a book in her hands.
“As indicated in the bylaws regarding External Non-Sovereign Affairs, we are permitted limited session without adhering to normal council law,” Lector Shinka said, smiling. She gestured to Asper. “Affairs such as the one proposed by this young lady.”
Asper smiled meekly, offered a wave. “Hi.” She awkwardly turned to take in the unresponsive circle around her. “Hello. Asper. Is my name.”
“Such a bylaw can only be invoked if the external party is deemed to have merit enough to stand in Venarium council.” Lector Annis cast a sneer over Asper’s dirty robes, settling on the phoenix pendant around her neck. “A priestess? What is your relation to the criminal?”
“Dreadaeleon and I were colleagues,” Asper said. “Adventurers in each other’s company.”
“Were,” Annis noted coolly.
“There were some… disagreements.”
“Disagreements?” Dreadaeleon snarled and stormed forward, kept in check only by Admiral Tibbles’s moving in front of him. “You leapt atop me, called me a worthless boy, and damn near broke my nose!”
Asper’s face twisted in anger, but she said nothing. Annis’s eyebrows rose appreciatively at her.
“This is true?” he asked.
“There’s more to it than that,” Asper replied through a heated breath. “But it’s true.”
Annis nodded slowly, turned, and made a gesture. “Merit of the external party has been approved by the Primary Lector.”
“Oh, you smug son of a—” Dreadaeleon began to spit.
“The Secondary Lector concurs.” Shinka flashed a warning glare at Dreadaeleon before her expression softened to a smile once more.
“I trust we may proceed informally now? The external party—”
“My name is Asper,” the priestess interrupted.
“Of course it is.” Shinka’s laughter was more than a little condescending. “Asper approached the doors to Tower Resolute late last night. Despite the unorthodoxy of her arrival, I agreed to see her. We spoke at length regarding the circumstances surrounding Cier’Djaal’s recent…” She waved a hand, searching for a word. “Upheaval.”
Asper flinched at the word, doubtlessly forming a lengthy rant on the inhumanity of deeming Cier’Djaal’s hundreds dead a mere “upheaval.”
Always like that, Dreadaeleon hissed inwardly. Always thinking of the poor and the persecuted, yet all too glad to tread on those closest to her. He narrowed his eyes. “Boy,” she called you. “Useless, worthless, selfish, cruel, little.” We won’t be playing her game, old man, will we?
“None of which is our concern,” Annis replied. His hands folded behind him, he strode to the center of the circle. “The disagreement between the Karnerians and the Sainites is a military matter, intervention on our part would be explicitly prohibited by the Sovereignty Pact. Two gangs of rock-headed thugs killing each other are not our concern.”
“Normally I’d agree,” Shinka offered, following him into the middle of the circle. “But the priestess makes a logical case for our intervention.”
“The words priestess and logical do not belong in the same train of thought, let alone in the same sentence as an idea like that. However persuasive you might find her, we are expressly forbidden from—”
“You don’t get to sit out a war like this.”
Annis fixed Asper with a glower that suggested he was very surprised that she had spoken at all, let alone interrupted him. The sentiment was echoed through the circle of concomitants, a collective tension settling over the room. Asper, though, remained insufferably steely as she approached the Lector.
“With all respect, sir,” she continued, “if you were to look outside your tower, you’d see people suffering. They are trampled underfoot, burned from their houses, caught in the midst of melees and made prey by the scavengers that follow. They had every intention of remaining neutral, as well.”
