by C. N. Faust
“Aye, but I can do a job of it, to be sure!” Remphan accepted the plum wine gladly. “And that is all he needs, is someone to do the job. I don’t think he could come up with anyone else. It seems you have slim pickings as far as lords go, down here in your little province.”
“I am sad for you, to have gotten caught up in this war,” Ezbon sighed.
“I would have gotten tied into it anyway, one way or another,” Remphan shrugged. “But of course, I didn’t just come here to talk about positions and positioning. You know what I’ve come to discuss.”
Ezbon nodded. “The draft,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Remphan agreed. “We’ll need one, you know.”
“My guess is that Ivan has already issued one, and the rest of us have to go along with it,” Ezbon replied, snorting.
“Pretty much,” Remphan sipped his plum wine. “He’s expects it to be enforced in the next couple of days. I was hoping,” he added, something of an afterthought. “That we could get it done today, and have that all nice and squared away.”
“Not today,” Ezbon said. “Tomorrow.”
Remphan sighed, but consented. “I saw you had that bit of rough-and-tumble to break up out there. I don’t think I’ve heard your voice ever rise that loud. Are you ill?”
“I’m very well, indeed,” Ezbon replied, and tucked his gray hair behind his ears. “I’m just tired, mostly. This war is running me thin, but I will survive.”
Remphan nodded again, and leaned forward, his naturally boisterous voice going to what he considered a whisper, what most people considered to be normal. “I heard about Nicholas, and I’m sorry.”
Ezbon shrugged. “It was bound to happen.”
“I wanted to truss him up and send him to Sitharus on a plate for you, but Ivan wouldn’t let me.” He settled back into his chair, and crossed his legs. “But just for the record, I did suggest it.”
“What would I do without you,” a grudging smile tugged at the corner of Ezbon’s lips. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. “I am over Nicholas, now. There is nothing to be done.”
“Right, right. I’ll believe you, until I am led to believe otherwise. But, really, Ezbon, a servant boy?” Remphan stood up, taking the liberty to refill his own glass with wine.
“I asked that question myself, numerous times,” Ezbon sighed. “I never found an answer.”
“I’ll beat one out of him, for you.”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you all the same.”
“I think it is necessary,” Remphan swirled the contents of his glass, watching the dark purple liquid lap at the sides.
“What about you?” Ezbon asked. “Did you ever marry, like you threatened?”
“Aye, I did. I have a wife and two boys at home. A daughter, too, the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. She is going to be quite devastating when she’s a woman. And I’m going to have to beat boys away with a stick.” Remphan smiled sentimentally and placed his glass to his lips. “My wife – Muriel – didn’t want me to take the position Clieous offered. She told me it wasn’t our war.”
“She was correct,” Ezbon said softly.
“Are you kidding!” Remphan snorted in surprise. “I have heard my father boast of wars all my life! He, his brother, and my grandfather were all great warriors! I’m thirty-six now; I’m already over halfway to my grave. Did you think I was going to pass up a chance like this?”
“No,” Ezbon admitted. “And I don’t think Clieous thought you would, either. I think he was counting on just that.”
“And he was right,” Remphan said. “I’ve never been comfortable placing my ass on purple cushions and letting other people do my work for me. I’ve wanted a chance to prove that I’m worth my salt – well, this is it.”
Ezbon shook his head. “When your lungs fill up with blood and your heart explodes beneath the weight of steel, just remember that you were counseled against it all.”
“I will forgive you that, considering your scholarly background,” Remphan sighed. “Your father made a mistake, dear boy; you should have been a priest.”
“My father,” Ezbon said slowly, “didn’t have a choice. You’ve known me long enough to know that.”
“Aye,” Remphan nodded with the memory. “You and Alemnec were just short little things running around and whacking sticks against each other when I first met your father.”
“Your family was over for a feast day,” Ezbon replied, though he barely remembered the event at all.
“Erocorum,” Remphan said. “I remember. It’s where I met Muriel.” A smile played at his lips. “But marriage was the farthest thing from my mind at that time.”
“So I remember,”
A silence descended, but it was a comfortable one, as a floodgate to memories had been unleashed and the half-remembered events of years past crashed into their minds like a fearsome tidal wave.
“I saw a boy in the courtyard, too,” Remphan said, breaking the silence. “Pretty thing, he seems to be quite taken with you. Is he Nicholas’ replacement?” there was a world of insinuation behind his delicate wording.
“No,” Ezbon’s words were like steel. “No, I haven’t taken up anyone since then.”
“Pity, he seems like your type. Devastatingly good looking, and all of that. He probably has the brain of a hare. You seem to like them stupid.”
Ezbon shot him a look. “I think I remember this Muriel of yours. Tall, blonde, thin as a wisp?”
“Yes…” Remphan glanced at him suspiciously.
“The one who was jumping Sir Renault?” Ezbon asked innocently.
Remphan gritted his teeth. “Perhaps-“
“The same Muriel who also pulled Duke Maelbruk into the garden several nights that week –?”
“I love my wife,” Remphan growled. “I won’t hear any more about her!”
Ezbon shrugged. “Don’t speak about Nicholas.”
“Fine, fine,” Remphan wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and set his wine glass down.
“Do tell me you’re staying for dinner,” Ezbon said demurely as Remphan stood.
“Of course,” Remphan said, glancing down his nose at the baron. “But I have to check into the Dragon’s Belly, or I’ll lose a servant. Giles is just ready to drop dead off his horse.”
“You could have stayed with me, you know,” Ezbon pointed out. “It is not as if there isn’t room.”
“Supporting the locals, and all that,” Remphan waved his hand. “I’ll get on your nerves less, if I am out of the way.”
“How true,” Ezbon stood, and hugged his friend again. Remphan returned the hug tightly, and plopped his feathered hat back onto his head.
“Have no bitterness over what I said,” Ezbon said. “I was only baiting you.”
“I know,” Remphan replied, and bowed again. “Don’t worry, Ezbon, I brought it up. There is no rancor in my nature – I can’t hold a grudge against you!”
“Isn’t that a comforting thing to know,” Ezbon shook his head. “Go on – get out of here.”
“I will, and I’ll see you this evening. And for the love of Azrael, I hope you’re replaced your father’s bard!” with that, Remphan laughed, and took his leave.
Charon glanced into the mirror, adjusting the pearl button that closed the collar around his neck and completed his outfit for the evening. Never in his life could he remember owning anything so fine, even before his father had thrown him out of the house. His tunic was made of soft green velvet, with a gold brocade surcoat that hit his knee in a cascade of pleats. He wore hose, which were a lighter, mint green to compliment the outfit, and his shoes were simple brown leather ankle boots. He winced as the elderly round maid yanked a comb through his hair, doing her best to sort through the mass of tangles that had managed to clump at the back of his scalp. The curse of fine curls, she kept muttering and over again, was that they never did what you wanted them to do. Her fleshy face went cherry red with the effort of pulling the comb through one particula
rly stubborn knot – jerking so hard that his head was pulled back and he cried out in pain. He didn’t even want to think about how late he was for dinner. Not that anyone would notice him. He was just a dirty orphan boy in brocade.
“There,” the maid said, finally releasing him. “You’re finished.”
“Thanks be to the gods!” he muttered, and grabbed his matching capelet. It was green velvet to match his tunic, and was trimmed with black ermine to finish it off. He threw it over one should and dragged the gold chain across his collarbone to clip it in place. Finally, he was ready.
Charon took off down the hall at lightning speed, slipping and sliding as the slick bottoms of his new boots decided to skid across the smooth stone flooring. The staircase wasn’t far away, now. He could hear voices and laughter downstairs. Maybe it wasn’t too late, maybe-
He skidded to a halt. The expensive carpet beneath him bunched up and tripped him, so that he fell flat on his face. His arms flew out to break his fall, and he landed on his palms. Winded, Charon glanced up, and saw one of the faces – the pale moon faces that had haunted him his dreams for a solid month, standing over him.
“You are needed,” a papery voice, like the rustling of dried leaves.
“Who are you?” he asked, licking his lips. He wanted to scream, but his voice wouldn’t rise above a hoarse whisper. “What do you want?”
“…Amnas…” the voice hissed, and its face contorted as if it had been wounded. It reached out for Charon, long bony fingers grasping his tunic, dragging him forward, whispering things he didn’t understand.
Charon struggled in the thing’s grip. It felt too real, this time, all too real. Surely it was a dream again, just like all the others had been! Just a dream. He would wake up any time now, and it would be gone, just a dream.
Not there… he kept whispering to himself, twisting to get free of the creature’s grip.
The other face was waiting for him at the end of the hallway, completely shrouded in its black cloak. Another voice joined the papery one. This one was like gravel, or nails getting dragged over his eardrums.
“…Malachi…”
The two voices blended together in one, horrific chorus.
“Amnas…Malachi…Amnas…Malachi… we need you boy, we need you. The king wants you...”
Charon’s heart felt like it had stopped dead in his chest. He struggled again, but they did not release him. The face at the end of the hallway was getting closer and closer. He cried out and made one last vain attempt to break free before he felt freezing hands grab both his wrists, and he felt his arms being twisted painfully behind his back. He screamed, but his sounds were muffled by an oily cloth that was shoved into his mouth. He felt rather than saw the soft black hood descend over his face, and then darkness ruled his sight.
And then it was gone, as if it had never been.
He was lying face-down on the floor, a throbbing in his temple warning him of a headache yet to come. Charon groaned and rolled over onto his side. Terrified, for an instant, that the face might be loomed over him yet, ready to claim him for real.
But the face wasn’t there. He was late for dinner.
Gathering himself up, checking to make certain that there were no minor injuries aside from the pounding impending headache, Charon ran.
The hall was shorter than he thought, the grand staircase was upon him quicker than he knew, and he almost fell down the smooth steps when he made the sharp turn. He raced down the grand, twisting staircase, praying under his breath that he wasn’t too late, that he could just slip in and-
“Good show!” a loud, roaring voice called out. Charon froze in place and winced. After almost a month of growing accustomed to Ezbon’s soft demeanor, such a voice seemed obnoxious and out of place. Before he knew what was happening, a heavy hand slammed good-naturedly into his back. The poor boy went toppling, landing face-first into the noble standing in front of him and receiving a winded “oof” in return.
“Did you see that?” the loud voice laughed. “Azrael’s eyes, boy! Dinner hasn’t even started yet! Did you see that, Ezbon? He was coming so fast down that hall you would have thought that the demons of the hells were on his heels! Don’t worry, lad, the food will still be there when you get there – late or not!” it laughed.
Ezbon didn’t reply, but he took the boy by the shoulders and gently pushed him away. Charon looked up and stole a glance at the powerful baron. The mute candlelight of evening helped smooth over some of the baron’s rougher features, leaving him a flawless, almost ethereal being. His iron gray hair had been pulled back away from his face, tied with a simple ribbon in a fashion that had gone out years ago. His clothes were of the same basic idea as Charon’s, except the cut was different, also out of style. His tunic was black velvet, and his surcoat was silver brocade. A black belt encircled his waist to pull it all together, the diamond buckle sparkling in the candlelight. Where the surcoat fell into pleats, his hose were midnight black, and his boots ran halfway up his calf, also black. His capelet was black velvet, the silver embroidery of a lion’s head blossoming across its length. It fastened with a silver chain and hung over his shoulder as if it were just a natural extension of his beauty.
For just an instant, his pale blue eyes met Charon’s, and Charon felt his breath getting caught in his throat. He was certain that for the second time that evening, his heart was no longer beating.
“My lord,” his voice was barely heard, but his expression was enough.
“See what I told you?” Remphan grinned and winked over Charon’s shoulder. “He’s quite-“
“That is enough, Remphan.” Ezbon replied in even, neutral tones. He looked down at Charon, and then back up at his friend. “Charon, this is Lord of State Remphan Orchellio, but do not let the presumptuous title fool you. He is as much of a ruffian as you are.”
“If not more, hm?” Remphan winked. “It is an honor to meet you, sir, a tremendous honor.” He clapped Charon heartily on the back again, and Charon was lost for words.
“Remphan is our dinner guest tonight,” Ezbon explained, releasing his hold on the boy’s shoulders.
“Yes, I would stay the night, but I fear I cannot. Not for lack of grace on Ezbon’s part!” Remphan quickly amended. “I know that he would let me stay, but I’ve made arrangements further down the city, at one of your local inns. I figure your economy needs all of the help it can get to fund what Ezbon has deemed this ‘fool’s quest’, eh?”
Charon was greatly relieved to hear that this man wasn’t staying the night, even though he felt a little silly for such feelings. He wasn’t certain he could take an entire night’s peace being shattered by this loud and colorful character.
“We will be late for our own dinner, if we do not go in now,” Ezbon muttered. He gave a wordless cue to a pair of waiting servants, who bowed and walked towards the grand double-doors. They both grasped a brass handle and pulled with all of their strength. The heavy doors slowly pulled open, sliding smoothly on well oiled hinges, and the mouth-watering aromas that filled the banquet hall poured into the hallway. Charon felt the moisture gather in his mouth at the very scent. He could smell spices and roasted meat, fresh-baked bread and the flat, almost yeasty scent of beer. There was the smell of new mead, thick and sweet and honey. There was chocolate, there was roasted quail in sauce and mushrooms, there were strawberries and cream. An immense peacock sat at the center of the table, its buttered skin crisp and golden, a plume of its brilliant feathers spread out as if the bird were still alive. It was the hardest thing in the world for Charon to restrain himself from rushing in head-first. But he dizzily remembered his manners, and allowed Ezbon to enter first, followed by Remphan. And he trotted in on their heels.
It was a comfortable atmosphere. The Cavalla family was small enough to only require one long table that stretched almost from one end of the dining hall to another. Ezbon sat at the head, and the first few chairs were occupied by his closest family members and his guests. The rest mingled
down the table as they pleased, and the servants ate in the kitchen. Tonight, the dining hall was cozier than ever. It was very quiet, for Ezbon had so little family, and none of them lived with him in the castle at the time. His mother and father were both dead, his brother had died, and his sister had gone to live with her husband some hundreds of miles away in Madrigal – on the enemy side. To break the silence, Ezbon’s favorite bard strummed a few songs from his lute. He had the voice of an angel and the face of a minor god, but Charon found him very hard not to look at. Occasionally, the bard would clear his golden throat and ask if there were any particular piece that they would like him to play. Requests were made, but they were more half-hearted than anything else. Eventually, the bard was dismissed, much to Charon’s disappointment.
The hall was immense, made to accommodate more people than was necessary. A large hearth that was almost as tall as the room itself and as wide as five men standing beside each other blazed with flames as high as Charon’s head. Several large, shaggy gray dogs spread out on the stone and scant rushes, basking in the glow of the fireplace and begging scraps from the table. Remphan not so inconspicuously dropped a few large hunks of meet onto the floor. If Ezbon noticed this or discouraged it, he ignored it. He might have slipped a few meet chunks under the table himself.
One of the big gray dogs came up to Charon, and pushed its wet nose into his knee. Charon glanced down, startled and delighted, and petting the dog’s massive head. It was easily as tall as he was, just sitting there. He couldn’t imagine how tall it would be up on its hind legs. The dog looked up at him with mournful black eyes. Charon tried to go back to his dinner, but the dog’s long, flat pink tongue shot out and ran across the back of his hand. Charon bit back a laugh and grabbed a hunk of salted roast pork off of his plate. Glancing up to make sure that Remphan and Ezbon were still buried deep in their conversation, he placed the meat in his palm and offered it to the dog.
The dog didn’t hesitate a moment. It closed its jaws over the meat, and chewed on it briefly before swallowing it in one gulp. Charon grinned, and pulled another hunk of meat from his plate. He didn’t look up again until he realized that his plate had been picked clean, and both baron and lord were giving him amused looks from across the table.
