A King's Caution

by Brennan C. Adams

  They’d do.

  Raimie rubbed a thumb against one, relishing the feel of wood grain beneath his finger. He missed Kheled. The Eselan made for an excellent sparring partner, always adjusting his skill level to match his opponent. Raimie wondered if he and his friend’s new façade, Keltheryl, could spar as they had in the past. Either way, the Eselan wasn’t here, which was disappointing because Raimie wasn’t sure he’d find a challenge in sparsely populated yard. That was what he wanted, a fight with an evenly matched opponent, but if he couldn't have his heart’s desire, he’d take what was offered.

  A hand landed on Raimie’s shoulder, and he jumped.

  “I didn’t mean to shtartle you,” Eledis said. “I heard Kaedesa made you a tempting offer, and I’ve come in the hopesh I can pershuade you to reject it.”

  Was Eledis drunk?

  “You’re too late. It’s already accepted.”

  Pulling the staff he’d caressed from the barrel, Raimie winced. The ends might be smoothly polished, but the center was extremely rough. He’d get splinters in no time while handling it, so the staff was quickly returned to its brethren.

  “Marrying her ish a supremely terrible idea, grandson,” Eledis grumbled. “I’ve shome facts about her you don’t know, facts which might change your mind. Come with me, and let’sh discuss them.”

  Sighing, Raimie rounded on the old man, hands on hips. “Thank you, but I’m certain I know the relevant facts, Eledis. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to blow off steam.”

  Eledis’ entire face bloomed red. “Insholent child,” he whispered. “I’ve given you everything, and you shpit my generosity in my face. Well, don’t come crying to me when you learn the great Queen of Ada’ir’s secretsh.”

  He stalked off, and Raimie boiled. When had the old man ever sacrificed for his family?

  Eledis had known about the bruises Raimie had hidden beneath his clothes, had watched when Daira citizens had beaten him bloody because of his primeancy. The old man had forced Raimie to participate in the violent quelling of a rebellion which had cropped up when he was six. He’d been an accomplice in Nylion’s banishment and the fracturing of Raimie’s memories. Even after they’d moved to the farm, Eledis had only ever stayed in his damned cottage, emerging solely for forays into Fissid where he’d drink the night away. How often had he screamed at Raimie’s father when he thought his grandson wasn’t listening?

  By the time these indignities had finished traversing his mind, Raimie had already crossed the distance opening between them, Nylion at his side, and look! Daevetch coated his hand.

  “Eledis!” he shouted.

  The old man turned, and Raimie packed the full force of his body’s weight into his swing. Eledis flew across the yard, crashing through the supports of several training dummies before colliding with the fence. Wood splintered, and breath whooshed from the old man.

  Righting his tumble from the force of his swing, Raimie rubbed his hand. When his grandfather peeled his body from the fence, he threw a Daevetch bolt within inches of the white-clouded head, finishing the break in the fence’s wood. Eledis whipped toward the snapping sound.

  “A small gift from me!” Raimie called before heading for the yard’s exit. “I know. I said I wouldn’t use primeancy,” he commented to the shocked master, “but it was warranted. I’ll make sure you’re recompensed.”

  The dazed man nodded, and Raimie departed, whistling a jaunty tune. Funny how a single, well-deserved punch could lighten your mood.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nudging his companion, the plate-mail clad Kiraak jerked his chin in Pointer’s direction.

  “Look! Another crazy incoming. Shall I dispatch him, or do I leave the honor to you?” he muttered.

  The monster probably meant for the comment to stay between him and his companion, but Pointer had perfect ears. He had perfect everything. It was one of the reasons he was the best at what he did.

  He couldn’t blame the Kiraak’s incredulity. Not many voluntarily approached the pits, and of those who did, only the big and burly, crazy or immensely stupid composed the group. Ones Doldimar disdained to watch fight.

  Pointer, on the other hand, looked not at all imposing. He was slender and fragile with a constantly distant distraction in his eyes. How many times had he been told he must be a scholar or otherwise learned man, that his actual profession was an impossibility? No one saw him coming until a knife flash ended their lives.

  “Hello, good sirs,” he greeted the Kiraak guards as pleasantly as his ruined voice would allow. “I’ve been told this is where one goes when one wishes to participate in the fights. Have I come to the right place?”

  The words scraped on their way from his mouth, but proper decorum required he give these quasi-men at least the minimum degree of respect. They turned around and spat it in his face.

  “Are you mentally handicapped?” one gasped around laughter. “Someone like you doesn’t volunteer for the pits, not here in Uduli nor in any other cities.”

  Pointer hated to waste more words, but the assertion called for a response. “Nevertheless, that is what I intend.”

  “We won’t stop you from committing suicide, worm. Your death should be mildly entertaining at least. Enjoy your last hours of life.”

  They lifted the hatch for him, and Pointer jumped into the holding pens. In the week he’d lived in Auden’s capital city, this was one of the few places where his attempts to infiltrate had been less than successful.

  A week in the seat of Doldimar’s power. The time had been more surprising than anything else.

  It seemed contradictory that Uduli, center point of the Dark Lord’s reign of chaos, terror, and death, should be one of the most peaceful cities Pointer had ever visited. Its citizens lived anything but long, ordinary lives, but even here, rules existed to shepherd people into safety. Auden was a civilization, and despite Doldimar and Daevetch’s insistence otherwise, society had rules.

  Rule One: avoid Kiraak whenever possible.

  At first, the reasoning behind this directive seemed simple enough. The Kiraak composed the vast majority of Doldimar’s army. Who wouldn’t avoid representatives of a powerful, oppressive force? Upon closer inspection, however, the actual impetus became abundantly clear.

  Kiraak were chaotically brutal. They took almost climactic pleasure from inflicting and observing suffering in any who were not them. The ones with rampant vines crawling under their skin were the most powerful of their fellows, and they’d learned exactly what type of torture best fit their fancy over the years. The Kiraak to truly fear, however, were the newly born, those who could almost pass for human.

  These Kiraak had not yet learned to control the alien wants and desires Corruption prompted in them, and so, they were prone to wanton slaughter immediately followed by wailing and tearing of hair. Their morality lived alongside Corruption, and it couldn't stomach the horrors they committed. So it befell each Kiraak that Corruption’s ever-growing weight smothered the seed of conscience the philosophers called ‘humanity’ until only a husk remained.

  Sometimes, an exceptionally strong Kiraak managed to retain shards of their conscience during their growth to power. Doldimar awarded these Kiraak, these Overseers, day to day governance of the subjects who endured in his domain, everything their Enforcers didn’t deign to manage. They received these posts because the Dark Lord only trusted someone he controlled in such powerful positions, but if weak Kiraak were allowed to oversee the average citizenry, they’d have massacred the norms ages ago. Best to leave it to those both infected with his Vice and able to manage their brutality. Which raised the second rule.

  Rule Two: obey your Overseer in all things.

  Because the alternative was always worse than whatever inanely horrid task they might command. Much better to drag bodies from the pits than to be thrown into one yourself.

  But of all the unspoken rules which reigned over Uduli, one superseded all, to be followed even in the direst of circums
tances.

  Rule Three: never, ever help your fellow humans when their time comes.

  Everyone who lived in the capital eventually attracted someone’s lethal attention, be that the newborn Kiraak or the Dark Lord himself, and when that happened, Alouin help you because your fellow man certainly wouldn’t. To attempt to assist in such circumstances was to bring a death sentence upon oneself as well.

  So, when a bordering district was relegated to Harvest, its neighbors tried to ignore the sounds of combat. Became resolutely deaf to mothers screaming for babies. Never recognized the high-pitched keen of terror and pain which quickly cut off, indicating a child’s death.

  Although the rules seemed harsh, they granted Uduli’s residents a modicum of safety, more so than the rest of the kingdom if what Pointer had learned over the last week was true. They also provided a precarious peace which lurked behind the haphazard destruction and disorder the Kiraak never ceased to dole out.

  Pointer had been busy during his week in this strange city with its strange rules. He’d walked among the people, his unassuming face working its usual magic. He’d pried secrets from the honest Udulians. He’d observed troop movement and assessed defenses, and a number of prominent officials had ended up dead. He’d dispensed his duty to King and spymaster. Now, it was time for a personal task.

  He remembered when the report had arrived. He’d finished scouting some backwater town and had awaited Middle to make an in-person report. The assignment had proved a quick foray. The village had been near Tiro and, per the information provided by Riadur, had no real significance for their purposes. Riadur’s assumptions had overplayed the town’s importance, and Pointer had left it more than a little frustrated.

  When he’d returned, Middle had been out, protecting the King from his youthful, headstrong stupidity, so Pointer had lounged in the chair behind the spymaster’s desk, waiting. He’d wanted to make a point to the younger spymaster. He was infinitely more skilled and prepared for the role Middle played, and sometimes, such as when he was shooed away on a meaningless mission, he wanted to ensure the spymaster knew it.

  An Eselan woman had glided into the office to relinquish a message in a bottle to him, probably assuming if Pointer sat where he did, he must be reliable. Such trust! Pointer had made a mental note to mention her behavior to Middle as he’d unstopped the bottle, unrolled the paper, and ran his eyes down its length.

  His hands had clenched, and he’d carefully replaced the message, set it on Middle’s desk, and switched to the guest chair.

  Before long, Middle had made an appearance. He’d looked exhausted, but then again, the spymaster always looked tired. Serving as bodyguard to an extremely willful charge and spymaster for said charge’s Hand would drain even the most resilient of men.

  Flinging his body into his chair, Middle had tiredly rubbed his face before taking Pointer’s report.

  “One tiny village down, who knows how many to go,” he’d mumbled to himself once Pointer had finished.

  “Please tell me you’re not sending me on another pointless mission,” Pointer had ground out.

  He’d left off the obvious point that, while important, assessing every major and minor town in this increasingly vast kingdom was a waste of his specialized skill set.

  “No, your next assignment should be more to your liking.” Middle had smirked. “We need more information on Uduli, Doldimar’s base of power, and I’ve chosen you to infiltrate.”

  Finally. A challenge.

  Middle had reached for the report, and Pointer had pointedly not watched his spymaster open it.

  “You’re free to do what you like in the city,” Middle had muttered, “but don’t draw attention…”

  He’d trailed off as he reached the portion of the report which had caused Pointer to fold it away. Leaving it halfway finished, he’d lowered the paper to the desk.

  “You’ve read this,” he’d stated.

  Pointer had shrugged. The question had been mostly rhetorical. The spymaster had pinched the bridge of his nose, and to add to his exasperation, a knock had sounded at that exact moment.

  “Come in,” he’d growled.

  Raimie had stuck his head inside. “You ready to-?” he’d begun to ask before noticing Pointer. “Oh, am I interrupting something?”

  Both men had reflexively risen to their feet.

  “Nothing of consequence, sir,” Middle had answered, frustrated eyes burning into Pointer. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  “All right, but try not to take too long, Oswin,” Raimie had replied. “The Birthing Grounds await us.”

  He’d left, and Middle had carefully rolled the report into the bottle.

  “Do not try to rescue him. He’s made his bed, and now, he’ll either escape it or lie in it.”

  Pointer had said nothing, only lazily blinked at his spymaster.

  “I mean it, Pointer,” Middle had said through clenched teeth. “Don’t force me to make it an order! And take this missive to Eledis!”

  He should have made it an order. Not that such an arbitrary thing would have stopped Pointer. Then again, Middle had probably known exactly what his Pointer would try when he’d read the news Thumb had gotten himself captured. The idiot.

  For Pointer had only one rule he followed. One overriding stricture which carried through the assassinations of the guilty and the innocent, the atrocities he’d committed over many, many years in service to one crown or another.

  Pointer never endangered his loved ones or abandoned them to death.

  He occupied his time on the carriage ride from the pleasure house with the most recent letter from Count Erinburgh. The man’s incessant pleas to join his little coup were beginning to grate on his nerves, but decorum demanded he at least open and read the silly thing.

  As he’d suspected, it was another appeal to his pathos, a long regaling of the infractions the King had committed against the nobility beginning with his marriage to a foreigner. He understood why the Count, as the latest rebellion’s unspoken leader, so heavily lobbied for his support. As head of the nation’s most powerful family after the royals, his backing would sway the uneasy balance between rebels and loyalists. If the King lost him, it might spell the end of Ada’ir’s ruling family. Fortunately for the King, he’d no intention of abandoning his sworn loyalties.

  The weeks spent coming to this decision had been agonizing, for Count Erinburgh put forth some few valid complaints. Several of the King’s newest policies threatened to beggar the nobility, and he didn’t appreciate the threat such a prospect placed on his family. In the end, however, he knew these new laws would eventually see Ada’ir to greater heights of wealth and power. He also couldn’t see the danger in allowing the common man to stand on equal footing with the nobles, another of the Count’s grievances.

  During his contemplation, his fingers had finished shredding the letter, and he held his hand out the window, allowing wind to tug scraps from it. The carriage pulled to a stop as the last bit of paper caught in the breeze, and he closed his eyes. Time to don the mask again.

  He paid the driver well for his silence, not that he was under any illusion as to the status of his ‘secret’. He possessed the money to indulge in the pretense it was solely his, however, so why shouldn't he?

  “I’m home!” he called when he stepped inside.

  Removing his coat, he stored it in the closet himself, the servants dismissed for the evening hours earlier, but when no one answered his greeting, a frown pulled at his mouth.

  “Madeleine? Are you awake, my dear?”

  Silence and he fumed. Yes, his predilections hadn’t exactly led to the married life his wife had desired, but she’d known about them for a long time now. He’d thought she’d learned to accept them, and besides, he’d already provided the one thing she’d demanded of him, a child. He thought it only proper Madeleine possess the manners to stay up until her husband came home. At such a late hour, it was to be expected their young daughter was asleep, but
his wife…

  He took the stairs two at a time, fully intending to make as much noise as possible while preparing for bed, when the glow of firelight from the parlor made him pause. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Madeleine had fallen asleep waiting for him rather than going to bed by herself. Was it possible she was finally learning to love him for who he was?

  “Maddy?” he whispered as he rounded the corner.

  An invisible wall stopped his progress into the parlor. His fingers twitched as he numbly stared at the image which would forever etch into his brain.

  Madeleine and Lulani, their baby girl, lay on the floor near the fireplace, curled around one another as if asleep, but the peaceful scene contrasted with their skin’s bleached state, the rope burns on their ankles, and the jagged scars along their necks. Above the fireplace and splashed across a recent family portrait, a message in coagulated, dripping blood blazed much brighter than the fire beneath, Maddy and Luli’s happy faces mockingly gazing through it.

  ‘The King’s eyes are upon you.’

  One time. Pointer had broken the rule once, and look what had happened. He’d never do so again.

  The holding pens were filthier than he’d imagined, and the smell was horrendous, a mixture of unwashed bodies, excrement, and urine left to fester for years.

  The people weren’t much better. They tended to clump into three groups.

  First came the crazies. They wandered the pen with their broad, insane grins, barking, screeching, staring, and otherwise doing whatever they could to frighten and intimidate those caged with them. One approached Pointer, gnashing her teeth at him, and he coldly glared back until she scampered away, whimpering like a dog.

  Then came the living corpses. These unfortunate souls had given up on life. They stood or sat wherever they’d last been placed and gazed at nothing, at the void which had eaten them whole. No spark of what had made them unique lived within their eyes.