by Tom Toner
Lycaste was stunned. He’d thought financial transactions were supposed to be sacred, despite having never really taken part in any until he’d met these people. “I gave you …!” He grabbed her wrist roughly, but she kept her fist tightly closed. He tried to prise open her fingers.
She pulled back her hand. “I’ll scream! Hand over that money or you’ll regret it, you nasty, lying, hideous Cherry!”
He slapped her. It felt superb. Silene gasped, pressing her hand to her reddening cheek.
Lycaste sat back on the bed, watching her warily. For a moment they both said nothing. Silene took her trembling hand away from her face and looked at it.
“If you don’t do what I ask then I’ll tell them all,” she said, rubbing her cheek again. “I’ll shout it from the highest window.”
“Tell them what?”
She climbed and straddled him. “I’ll tell them what you did to me, and tomorrow you’ll find yourself swinging from Hamamelis’s gallows.”
“But I didn’t do anything to you!”
She took his hands and placed them on her fat thighs. “You’re going to fuck me, Cherry.”
He hadn’t heard the simple curse used in that way before; it shocked him like it would an old lady. He looked up at Silene’s grim face. She kept her hands firmly clamped over his, squeezed now into the hefty meat of her hips. His body, whether from her weight on top of him or simple panic, began to betray him, stiffening under her. She felt it, grinning a wicked grin.
“Last chance. Do it.”
And so she had her way. It was grim and fast and bloody, Silene’s inexperience evident in her troubled, pain-stricken expression.
Afterwards she left, dropping the silk ribbons she’d kept coiled in her fist throughout as if they were suddenly useless to her. He heard her footsteps and a door squealing shut. After a while he reached under the sheets and pulled out the large ring book that had troubled him so much, leafing through to the end.
The broadening physical dissimilarities between noble First-ling families and their southerly relatives led to the spread of what was known as Shameplague, an incurable ague of the blood that regularly affected the aristocracy before its cause could be properly identified. Characterised by excessive sanguineous weeping and facial lesions, it was—in all documented studies—the result of banned intercourse between Melius and Excultus, the symptoms appearing within a day of transmission of humours. Crucially, only the more refined Excultus blood was susceptible to the illness, the offending Melius constitution too coarse for it to penetrate and thrive. By 14,050, for reasons unknown, it had disappeared almost entirely from the Westerly Provinces, even among those known to have degraded themselves with slaves or soldiers. The moleculets responsible for this inevitably fatal dis-ease are now thought to be dangerous only to those of the highest Firstling and Secondling lineage, perversely according a sense of pride among some at the knowledge that such things were once present in their family.
*
Silene refused to attend her lesson the next day, shutting herself in her chamber without explanation. Jasione looked relieved, glad at the prospect of a morning to herself. She took Lycaste into the garden once more, lending him her sun hat and basket.
She showed him a flower as they walked, stopping to admire it.
“What is it?” He bent to have a closer look.
“It’s my flower—Jasione laevis.”
“That’s your smaller name? Laevis?”
Jasione nodded, flashing the colour of the spindly flower, a washed-out blue. Lycaste thought she looked more beautiful than ever.
She pushed a stray hair away from her face shyly. “Would you like one?”
“A Jasione laevis?”
“To take with you, when you decide to leave here.”
He coloured a formal gratitude blend, over the yellow. “It would be a shame to leave.”
She studied him carefully, hopefully. “Yes. We’re getting very used to you—we like having you here very much, Onosma. You know …” Jasione’s eyes looked faraway as she ordered her thoughts, finally opening her mouth again. “Silene is especially taken with you. Did you notice?”
“Not really.”
She struggled more with her next words. “I’d be lying if I said that I, too, didn’t like you. I like you very much indeed. And I want you to know that …” She cleared her throat. “That it doesn’t matter, what you may or may not be. That doesn’t matter to me at all, not one bit.”
He was allowed only a glimpse of her hopeful smile as they were interrupted by a man peering over the garden wall at them.
“Hello there!” he called. He was a very thin, vulture-faced creature with shadowed hollows to either side of his mouth. “And who might you be?”
Jasione flinched, glancing between Lycaste and the man. “Hamamelis! Good morning. How are you?”
“As well as could be expected, thank you, Jasione.” He looked saddened as he spoke, and yet the inquisitive gleam remained.
“Yes, of course. I think Eremurus is indoors if you’d like to see him.”
“Attending to the garden, I see?” He cracked a smile and she laughed nervously back.
“Yes, fine morning for it.”
“Indeed.” He regarded Lycaste once more. “And who is this? I’ve not met you, sir.”
“Oh …” Jasione paused, searching for an answer.
“You’re a tall fellow!” Hamamelis hopped lithely over the wall, exposing his shrivelled yellow body.
Lycaste forced a smile, extending his hand.
Hamamelis ignored it and reached up to clap Lycaste on the shoulder, observing his full height with a look of wonder. “A handsome fellow, too! I heard about you from my little nephew, Ulmus. It was a great shame you couldn’t come to my dinner. Onosma, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And I hear you’re a Second equerry, is that right?”
“Correct.”
He glanced between Lycaste and Jasione. “Ulmus tells me you’ve lost your master.”
“A few weeks ago.”
Hamamelis tutted with polite concern. “Most irregular, and concerning.” He looked at them both, bobbing his head, affirming the resemblance to a bird of prey. “Who is your Plenipotentiary? I might be familiar with him—I presented my sons to the Second a few years ago for consideration.”
“Callistemon.” The name was out of his mouth before he could think of another.
“Callistemon!” Hamamelis exclaimed with a leer. “I was sure it would be! He has dined here at Koyulhizar before. We stayed with his brother Xanthostemon at their estate when my boys were presented. And you say he’s gone missing? Unthinkable!”
“That is why I’m here, to wait for him.”
“Of course, of course. I hope they’re looking after you here.”
“They’ve been very kind.”
He pointed at Lycaste’s basket. “You’re making him work for his keep, Jasione?”
She laughed. “Oh yes, he wasn’t going to get a free stay with us.”
Hamamelis frowned, his slim features lengthening almost to a beak. “I’m sure it is not my place to bring up such things, but my little spy mentioned that you have a great deal of money with you, Onosma. Did I hear correctly?”
Lycaste looked quickly at Jasione, but her face was expressionless.
“I have some.”
“I see.” Hamamelis did not smile, looking suddenly rather bored with the conversation, as if there were places he’d rather be. He toyed with a branch, glancing back to them. “Well, then, where is Eremurus? I’ve come to sample this new wine of his.” He cracked a smile at last. “You might well find me on the floor this afternoon!”
Jasione smiled. “We’ll join you later—there’s still a little more to do here.”
“Very well!” The vulture stared Lycaste up and down again, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s very good to meet you, Onosma. Any friend of these two is surely a friend of mine.” He extended his han
d at last and Lycaste took it. “I should very much like to help you find Callistemon. He is as fine a man as any I know.”
“Thank you, he is.”
Hamamelis grinned at them both and ambled off down the path.
They watched until he had entered the house.
“How did I do?” he asked Jasione.
She clamped her mouth shut, thinking, for what seemed to Lycaste like a very long time. “I—we heard only yesterday that his youngest son had been found dead.” She stared at Lycaste. “His name was Leonotis.”
Lycaste opened his mouth but she held her hand up. “I don’t want to know anything. Anything. Leonotis was not a good man. I wasn’t sorry to hear of what had happened to him.”
Good man. Lycaste glanced over his shoulder and around the garden. “How did Hamamelis find out?”
Jasione shook her head, her eyes looking sore. Her words were almost inaudible. “You should not have let him go.”
“Let who go?”
She rounded on him, bringing her face very close to his until he thought she would kiss him, as her daughter had. “Don’t you dare pretend—not with me! Don’t you dare!” Her voice choked and she turned away again, gazing restlessly out at the wooded slopes beyond the citadel walls. “Don’t even think of trying to insult my intelligence.” Jasione’s hands gripped the wall, as if she meant to push herself up and over. “If he decides you are what you are … It isn’t safe for you here. Didn’t you notice that on the Artery? Or are you all as stupid as they say?”
Lycaste didn’t reply. They heard the gate, both looking to see Eremurus coming up the path. He glanced gravely at Jasione.
“Did he say anything?”
“Not a lot. He didn’t touch the wine I gave him.”
“What shall we do?”
Lycaste had the feeling that any suggestions he made would not be well received. He put down his basket, spying Silene observing them from the top window. His room.
“He’s definitely gone?”
“I waved farewell to him.”
“You saw him leave, then.”
Eremurus looked back. “I saw him walk down the lane.”
“Go and check.”
He nodded with a sigh and walked towards the house.
“You’ve got to fetch your things and go,” she said to Lycaste coldly. “And we’ll need more money before you leave.”
Jasione waited until there was no sign of Eremurus among the droning shrubs and suddenly hugged Lycaste fiercely. He watched the top window over her shoulder, but Silene’s round face was gone.
She looked up. “Did you hear what I said? You can’t stay here any more.”
“How much money do you want?”
She hesitated. “All of it. It’s only fair.”
He pulled away. “What?”
“We aren’t safe any more, either. Hamamelis has the favour of the Second.”
Lycaste strode for the tower, the peace of the garden at odds with his thoughts; he’d already made his plans the night before, following Silene’s departure. He took the steps three at a time to his chamber, a feat he’d never have managed in his old life, and slammed the wooden door behind him, wobbling it on its hinges.
He hoisted the pack, sensing simultaneously its massively reduced weight and the muffled arrival of men in the garden below, Hamamelis’s harsh voice among them. He didn’t look out, instead feeling quickly inside the bag. All she’d left him was the children’s book Elcholtzia had packed, his wandering hand rattling roughly past it.
“You brat!” he bellowed, hearing Silene piling things against her own chamber door along the hallway. Her swift footsteps pounded to the tower window.
“He’s up here! Quick! In the top room!”
Lycaste beat furiously at the wall, knowing that he would be trapped before he made it to the bottom of the stair. Feet drummed on the first floor, three, maybe four men. He threw a final punch at the blue door, something in his hand snapping. The girl in the next room shrieked at his roar of pain as he dropped to the floor, the tears welling in his eyes. He looked up at the prism of hot daylight blurring from his window, seeing a flange of old metal guttering hanging down outside the ledge.
“He went past you? Don’t look at him, answer me. He must have done.”
“I don’t know. I had my door tight shut in case he … I heard him in there until you came upstairs!”
“You heard him in his room?”
“Yes, screaming at me.”
“Why? Why was he screaming at you?”
“I don’t know. Because I’d taken his things.”
“What things?”
“No, I mean … he thought I’d taken his things, that’s what he thought. He’s a brainless Cherry.”
“So you don’t have his possessions in here?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Silene? You know I don’t like liars.”
“No, no—never.”
“Get her outside.”
“He forced us! He said he’d kill us if we told.”
“That’s what he said?”
“He tried to do things to me!”
“Take her outside.”
Silence then, in the room below. Lycaste laid his head on the tapering, wind-chiselled roof that was part of the shell of the tower above Silene’s chamber and listened to her retreating cries, suddenly louder again as she was marched outside and into the front garden.
“Cladrastis, go back and help your brother check.”
A grunt of assent.
“Well, Eremurus,” Hamamelis’s voice said after a pause, “here we are. It looks like he’s got away, hasn’t he?”
They must have all been down there, in the front garden. Lycaste wondered what had happened to the servants.
Hamamelis laughed caustically. “An equerry! How could you both be so easily taken in?”
There was no answer that Lycaste could hear, and he began to think that perhaps the man was talking to himself.
“Of all people—of all my friends …” He cleared his throat and spat, his last word echoing from the rampart. “Your daughter has accused the Cherry of some truly awful things,” said the vulture, composing himself. “Were you aware?”
“What has she said?” growled Jasione.
“Tell them, Silene.”
“He took advantage of me!” she cried shrilly. “He called me into his room and … I couldn’t get away. That’s why I didn’t come to my lesson.”
Hamamelis had a smile in his voice. “She says the Cherry forced you to shelter him.”
Again his question was met with silence.
“There. She tried. Never mind, I wouldn’t have believed you anyway. In fact, I don’t believe any of it. We all know what type of girl Silene is. Perhaps the Cherry refused you? Eh, Silene? I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Lycaste tired from lifting his head clear of the roof’s grainy white surface, seeing nothing but the far hills, and settled his cheek down again. He coloured his purest white, splaying flatter on the sweltering slab. From Silene’s room came the sounds of swift, orderly rifling. Lycaste remembered the layout of her large, brightly painted chamber from his own searches of the house, the boxes of secret things and trinkets. He knew exactly where he would have hidden the money had it been his room: the stage.
The huge model was the most remarkable thing in the spoiled girl’s toy-piled chamber; a thing that had made him stop and crouch during his explorations, tentatively reaching into it and tinkering. It was certainly better-made, if not so grand, as his dear, burned palace back at home. Inserted into its gaily painted wooden frame were two-dozen layers of scenery that slid in and out from long slots cut into the side. They formed a backdrop for the girl’s set of expensive plastic actors: men, women and animals whose swivelling heads could turn—as he’d found out after a few minutes’ experimentation—to display one of four skilfully drawn emotions. But he had soon lost interest in them, his attention turning to th
e wonderful scenery, beautifully rendered in thick paint across each of the twenty-four boards. Upon one, a landscape of tumultuous clouds frothed and piled like nothing he had seen since the storm, while the next was a glowing blue day dappled with evening stars. Further slats were partial interiors, confusing Lycaste until he found that he could overlay them with another to create yet more scenarios. Between the stored landscapes lay enough empty space to hide the wealth he’d brought with him, the interior gaps hidden from chance discovery by a broad wooden lid. Engrossed, he’d slid them all back to look at each in detail, noticing too late that the girl must not have played with her stage for a long time and his fat fingermarks in the dust were obvious for anyone to see.
He lay baking on the roof, hearing the search draw closer to the as-yet-unnoticed stage. The searcher began to rummage directly beneath where Lycaste was sprawled, his hesitation evident as he regarded the intricate toy. There was a thump and Cladrastis entered the room.
“Look at this.”
“What is it?”
“One of her toys. A theatre. Look, she has all the actors.”
Cladrastis’s silence was unimpressed. “There are fingerprints. Check inside those holes.”
“These? Ah.”
There was nothing. She hadn’t hidden the money there. He should have known from the dust—Silene would never have thought of using it.
They moved on without replacing the slides. Lycaste wished he didn’t know the admiring voice so well. The bed creaked and one of them uttered a gasp.
“That’s more like it! Look at all that. Did you know Chaemerion had this much?” A pause as it was sifted through. “Is that the weapon he used?”
“That’s the one,” the new voice said.
“Good. Take half. We can come back for the rest later when Pap’s gone to bed. Put it in that, the theatre.”
As the footfalls thumped out of the room, Lycaste stretched, edging towards the parapet for a glimpse of the people in the front garden. Little by little he saw the tops of their heads, then their faces, their feet. Hamamelis was glancing at the house, ignoring his three neighbours, who sat dejectedly on the side of the path just outside the garden wall. Jasione glared sullenly at the dust while her daughter’s shoulders heaved and bobbed. Cladrastis, less weedy and misshapen than his father, appeared from under the shadow of the tower, tossing Hamamelis the ring, followed by his brother.
