The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The night air filtered in through the curtains and brought with it the scent of moon flowers in bloom as Audsley swayed back and forth inside his palanquin. Huddled at the heart of his layered cocoon of sumptuous robes and expensive perfume, he had ample time to bitterly regret a nocturnal assignation; Aletheia's altitude made of its night a bitter time to explore romantic pursuits. He sighed and rested his chin on his palm. Such were the sacrifices he was willing to make for Ascension.

  At his insistence, the demon had outlined the events that were to unfold: the overseer of the Red Rowan would even now be examining his palanquin as it slowed, gauging its finery and deliberating whether or not it was sufficiently distinguished to allow onto the widow's property.

  The world of nocturnal romance was governed by the moon, the demon had explained, a time when the strictures of the sun could be allowed to slip and the rules of propriety bent if not broken by hands sufficiently wise and bold. Men in search of distraction, love, amusement, or heartbreak would take to the streets, their palanquins passing each other like dreams in search of their own particular dreamer; for an overseer to question, to arrest, to interrogate such a visitor would be to shatter the illusion that made of the lunar realm such a magical and exciting place.

  Audsley's bearers were well-trained in such matters and knew just how much to slow down as they passed before the overseer, how to be respectful of his or her station while remaining true to the dignity of their passenger. When the palanquin began to move more quickly, Audsley smiled with relief; the Red Rowan's overseer had approved. They were now on the imperial widow's estate.

  None of this would have been possible without her tacit permission and expectation of his arrival, framed artfully through a beguiling and enigmatic response to his own poetic overture. Audsley removed her letter from the inner pocket of his third or fourth robe and opened it to read once more. The penmanship, the demon had assured him, was exquisite, yet also dissembling; there were hints in the angularity of the pictogram, in the bold thickness of certain lines that hinted at a stronger personality than the widow was trying to convey. The demon had spent nearly half an hour trying to determine the order in which the slashes and curves of the pictogram had been drawn, teasing out the author's approach to the missive, her sense of priorities, and through that her true state of mind.

  His one-word assessment had frozen Audsley's smile on his face: dangerous.

  Gravel crunched underfoot. The palanquin turned and was lowered so gently that Audsley barely felt a bump. His nerves tangled into a tighter skein, and he slipped the letter back into one of his pockets. This is it, my good man! Time to enact a seduction. He mopped at his brow with a silk handkerchief, then picked up his kot with damp hands. The three-stringed instrument looked like nothing so much as a spindly stick insect's neck.

  Audsley realized the palanquin bearers were waiting for him to emerge. He stuck his head out through the curtains and blinked, smiling hesitantly at the men who were standing by the shoulder poles.

  Should I thank them?

  Ignore them utterly. And stop simpering. The demon's tone was brusque.

  Audsley immediately scowled and levered himself out of the palanquin, pausing only to smooth down his many robes. By the White Gate, it was smothering to wear so many layers, but in this chill, he felt grateful for their warmth.

  The Red Rowan's estate was carved out of the side of the stonecloud in a charming series of descending tiers, each crisscrossed by small streams that plashed their way over white rocks to fall into pools the next tier down. Cypress trees rose like forbidding guardians here and there, while marble statues on raised plinths appeared like figures frozen in horror, entombed for all time within casements of stone.

  The tenor of your thoughts is not suitable, said the demon. You must project a languorous, amorous attitude.

  Audsley nodded, allowed his body to sag, and slouched forward, kot held by the neck in one hand.

  Don't drag your feet. You are a prince amongst men, not a louche returning home from a night spent in his cups.

  Audsley hesitated, then pushed his right shoulder back and attempted to glide forward, imagining himself spearing nobly through a series of waves.

  The house was imposing, surrounded on all sides by a deep verandah which was accessed at different points by broad, shallow steps. The pillars that supported the overhanging eaves were painted a deep crimson, and lanterns were ensconced here and there behind worked screens of bronze and silver so that they cast intriguing patterns of light across the walls and floor.

  Audsley reached the first step that led up to the main entrance and hesitated. There was nobody in sight.

  Is this home abandoned?

  No. Your poem has created an opening, however, for you to present yourself in privacy. Do not step up to the veranda; rather, seat yourself there on those cushions.

  Audsley looked around and saw that, to one side on the grass, a small area had been prepared to receive a visitor. An elegant square mat had been furnished with sumptuous cushions and was lit by small candles cupped within bowls of bronze.

  He cast a worried glance at the shuttered windows, then picked his way over and carefully lowered himself onto the cushions. They were quite comfortable, actually, and he adjusted himself so that he was quite at ease.

  All of the demon's instructions had quite fled his mind. Audsley gulped as he looked around the dark gardens. His palanquin had been withdrawn to the edge of his vision. He felt, for the first time in crowded Aletheia, quite alone.

  Will she be coming out to join me?

  Hardly. She is waiting, listening, attempting to discern whether the caliber of your soul is truly aligned with the qualities you displayed in your letter. You must play the kot and impress her with your depth of feeling.

  Ah, thought Audsley, examining the slender instrument. I am not quite as adept at the kot as might have been wished.

  I know. Which is why you have to give me control of your arms and hands so that I may play through you.

  Audsley bolted upright. This, the demon had not mentioned. Sweat immediately beaded on his temples. Give you control? Of my arms? Never!

  Come, Magister. You can take back control at any point. How else did you think to impress such an elevated widow? It will be only for perhaps forty-five minutes; if you wish to pry open this exalted door into the world of the First, Second, and Third Levels, you must allow me to help.

  Audsley gulped. He flexed his hands. Only my arms.

  Yes.

  And how do I do that?

  Simply allow me to flow into them. Like so.

  Audsley felt the demon's presence expand, flowing through his shoulders into his arms and hands, which immediately became numb. In a panic, Audsley snatched control back, causing his hands to play a discordant twang on the kot's strings. He flinched, ducking his head, and shot a glance at the house.

  If you intend to ruin everything, let us simply return to the Miliaka estate. The demon's tone was short, barely concealing its fury.

  Ah, no. Just a reflex, just – you know. A little terror for my immortal soul.

  Let us proceed. You have set the odds against me with your buffoonery.

  Once more, Audsley's hands became numb, but this time they moved with new confidence. They took up the kot and set to tuning it, doing so with smooth, practiced adjustments and quiet plucks of the strings that almost sounded like a form of music in and of themselves.

  Finally, his hands settled, kot held in the left, right raised like an eagle at the apex of its flight, poised to descend upon its prey. Audsley bit his lower lip, and then felt his heart leap as his hands played the first note.

  And, oh, what a desolate sound. It was high-pitched, a faint cry that was allowed to fade away into silence, aching and throbbing with emotion. It was followed by a pause, then a second note, and a third. There was no rush, no need for rhythm or anything approaching music as Audsley knew it. Instead, the
demon drew forth a series of plangent tones, each playing off the last, a medley of melancholy and world-weariness that spoke of grief, resignation, and solitude, all of which were somehow underscored by a crystalline beauty that memorialized that pain.

  Audsley listened, entranced and bemused, as his fingers moved with skill over the strings. Soon he began to add vibrato to each pluck, and the tone moved from despair to a more haunting beauty, slightly quicker, a medley of drawn-out notes followed by rapid arpeggios and descending chords.

  The music stilled the night. It rose and fell, and Audsley was fascinated by the pathos and depth of feeling he sensed rising from the kot. Three simple strings, but they might as well have been attached to his heart for how they tugged at his emotions.

  Tears brimmed in Audsley's eyes, and he found himself thinking of Aedelbert, the emotions of the song celebrating and mourning his loss. He thought of his cindercat alone in the depths of Starkadr, in the company of centuries-old corpses, bereft and heartbroken. Then his thoughts moved to Iskra, for her sacrifices, and to Tiron, for his anguish. He thought of Kethe, lying waxen and dying in his arms.

  So much pain. So much loss.

  Finally, the song drew to a close. The notes were allowed to hang longer in the air, were followed by greater pauses, until Audsley realized that no more were forthcoming.

  The demon withdrew from his arms of its own accord, and immediately Audsley's fingertips blistered with pain. He wanted to shake them out, stick them in his armpits or suck on them, but forced himself to remain still.

  Gently, almost reverently, he set the kot down on a cushion at his side. Ah, what a life. What a world, that he might sit on cushions outside the home of a widow of the Third Level, surrounded by such beauty, haunted by such pain. He felt tears brim, but also felt a strange, nostalgic pleasure in his own tender sadness. Somehow, the evocation of loss had served to make him feel all the more alive.

  A shutter slid up with the gentlest of scrapes, allowing a series of layered curtains as thin as gauze to undulate outward in the breeze.

  We have accomplished our goal, said the demon quietly. He sounded morose, almost reserved. Had playing that kind of music touched even his own damned soul? We are invited to approach. Sit before the curtains.

  Audsley grunted as he rose, his knees aching, and fought to glide elegantly up the steps onto the veranda while the boards creaked beneath his feet. He lowered himself cross-legged onto a cushion set diagonally across from the tall window.

  He could not see inside the room. The curtains – four layers, he noted – completely obscured his view. A hint of a straight-backed form? Feminine, to be sure. At times, when the breeze blew the curtains almost aside, he could make out her silhouette.

  His heart raced. How was her shadowy outline so alluring?

  "You play the kot with rare feeling." Her voice took on a different lilt. "So lovely is the music that penetrates my home that I almost believe it could catch the moon and stay its wandering path."

  And so we begin, whispered the demon. Respond: If my music could twine a net to capture that errant moon, then I would play forevermore in the hope of making this night eternal while it lasts.

  Audsley did as he was bid. Silence followed his words, but not, he thought, a disapproving one.

  "What net could seek to bind the moon, whose ever-changing face presents a challenge to even the most adept of fishermen?"

  She questions your identity. Let us respond with boldness and depth. Speak thusly: Each night shall the moon slip free of the Ultuan Woods, taking on whatever guise is necessary so that it may visit the heavens wherein the Eighth Cloud is said to dwell.

  Audsley heard the fluttering of a fan. The silence seemed to become more intimate.

  He and the Red Rowan exchanged several more lines of poetry, and Audsley contented himself with simply repeating whatever the demon bid, allowing his attention to wander and focus on the quality of the woman's voice itself.

  She spoke Aletheian with distinction, her voice husky and mature. Could she be in her forties? Perhaps. There was a poise and clarity to her words that made him think she wasn't yet in her fifties or sixties. Thank the White Gate! And more... her tone reminded him of Maeve. Of a certain arch confidence, amused and interested and toying all at once. Audsley started to imagine the Red Rowan as a great cindercat, beautiful and lethal, unsure whether to sever his spine with a nip of her teeth or allow him to run free.

  Dangerous, the demon had warned. Dangerous how?

  Arise, said the demon. We are finished.

  We are? Audsley blinked, trying to remember what he'd just said. He climbed to his feet, brushing off his knees, and somehow sensed that the Imperial widow had retreated from the window. He was alone. And yet he'd only been sitting here for a brief span of time.

  That was all?

  The first visit is always brief. Both sides seek to intrigue and avoid satiation. One must strive to arouse ever-greater curiosity and desire. Now, we must return to the Miliaka estate and pen our morning-after note. She will be looking forward to it with some eagerness, I believe.

  "I see," said Audsley, descending the steps. His palanquin bearers were already marching toward him. He climbed in without even glancing at them, playing the encounter over in his mind. How did we do?

  Very well. She is sufficiently educated to pick up on my more refined allusions; the wordplay was amusing. If all goes well, she should invite you back soon, and then you will be given the opportunity to consummate your relationship.

  Audsley coughed violently, face burning with shock and embarrassment. Consummate? As in – ? Me? And her? Already! We only spoke for fifteen minutes!

  The demon laughed dryly, and Audsley was dismayed to hear the other two demons join him in his mirth. Such is the way romance is played amongst the Perfecti of Aletheia, Magister. You have surpassed her expectations in every way thus far, conveying yourself to her as a man of rare distinction and élan. She is no blushing maid seeking to ensnare you in hopes of marriage; she is a confident woman who has already drunk deep of the cup of life and now thirsts for another sip. If we continue to play our hand correctly, she will welcome you into her bedchamber soon, and then shall begin our true game.

  "Oh," said Audsley queasily. "And. Ah. The, um, bedchamber 'activities'. Is there a, shall we say, method to how they must be, um, executed?"

  Oh, yes. You will not ravage her like a warthog rooting for truffles. I will guide you through the expected steps so that you will convince her you are a lover of rare gifts.

  "Oh, dear," moaned Audsley, covering his face. "Oh, my. I can't. I couldn't possibly."

  If you wish her to escort you to the festivals and events where you may come into close contact with the Minister of the Moon, then you must. Do not worry. I have heard it said that most humans look forward to coitus. Indeed, some are said to seek it out above all other pursuits.

  Audsley slumped down in his seat, then had to sit back up as his many robes began to choke him. But I haven't even see her yet! She hasn't even seen me!

  Irrelevant. Have you learned nothing? Your appearance is almost beside the point, as is hers. What matters is your appreciation for the refinement of each other's souls.

  "Well, that may be," said Audsley sulkily, "but when it comes to rooting for truffles, I find an attractive face and figure to be of great import."

  I have seen into your memories, Magister. There is no need for lies. We both know you have never rooted for truffles in your life.

  "Silence!"

  Audsley clamped his hands over his mouth. His bearers must have heard him. Did it matter? Probably not. Maybe they were used to carrying rich, eccentric nobles around in the middle of the night who randomly yelled out curses and orders.

  Enough! I will not have you pawing through my – my most sacred of memories. And, for your information, I – but why am I defending myself? I have done or not done precisely what I have wished over the course of my life. And if I happened to be saving
myself for precisely the right set of truffles to – ah – go rooting after – then – then –

  Audsley sighed and let it go. He slumped down, chin on his palm again, and pulled aside the curtain to gaze out into the street. They'd already entered the stonecloud and now were traversing one of the radial streets that connected with the Third Circum. The memory of the music from before returned to him and mingled with his current sense of outrage, leaving him in a state of dejection.

  Oh, grow up, Audsley, he said to himself. Did you think to penetrate – oh, wait. That's the word the widow used in her first poem. Did she mean -? Was she inviting -? Oh, dear.

  He felt suddenly and completely naïve and out of his depth. Could he go through with this? How awkward, how terribly humiliating! To be talked through his first time by a demon, with an older woman he hadn't even seen yet!

  Audsley jutted out his lower lip. Do it for Ascension, he told himself sternly. All sacrifices are noble when made for the right cause. And – well. Perhaps it won't be all bad? He squirmed in his seat. Maybe it will be – enjoyable? The Red Rowan possessed an exceedingly alluring voice, husky and confident and wry. Perhaps – perhaps -?

  Audsley blushed furiously once more and covered his face with his hands. Oh, by the White Gate and the Seven Virtues. What a world.

  He rode in silence back to Iarenna's estate. When his palanquin emerged from the stonecloud on the Seventh Level, he heard a gentle patter on the palanquin roof. It was raining. The curtains grew dappled with dark spots that spread, merged, and soon led them to hang heavily, the cold, mineralized air blowing in whenever they swayed aside. Audsley took pleasure in the sweet melancholy of the rain; perhaps, he reflected, all the poetry was starting to get to him.

  They entered the Miliaka estate, and to Audsley's surprise he saw that Iarenna's wing was still illuminated despite the atrocious hour. Was she entertaining suitors? Or was she awaiting his return?