by Chris Turner
IV
In the quiet hours after midnight all were asleep—except Baus. He awoke beaded in a sweat. He slipped out of his night covers and wrapped his limbs leanly about his chest, sensing an unusual thumping of his heart. The awareness of Delizra so nearby, and for easy pickings, was almost too much to bear.
Moving carefully, he wrapped himself in his doublet and took pains not to awaken Valere, who snored like a hound two arms’ lengths away. Unlatching the door, he slipped out into the hallway, surprising himself at his daring. Was it a fool’s errand? Puerile desire could get one skewered . . .
Baus looked left and right. Not a soul in the hallway. The incidence was not irregular at this hour. A single lamp only glowered from the wall sconces.
Crouching at the landing, Baus saw the fire’s rich embers burned below, casting a navigable glow.
He tiptoed down the oaken stairs and felt his feet padding like cats’ paws on the wood. He advanced through the parlour.
A sound had him freezing . . .
He caught a glimpse of an armed manservant slipping into the scullery. He ducked back into the parlour, cursing his miserable luck. Obviously the Vulde was taking no chances with house security after the fiasco of last night.
Baus poised breathlessly for several moments hidden between the settee and tabouret.
There came no subsequent intrusions; cognizing no further hindrances, he resumed his journey. In the hall of the two sisters, he contemplated several gambits of approaching Delizra—then he caught another flash of movement. Atop the stairs crouched a figure—one garbed in an outlandish grey cloak and baggy breeches. He ducked awkwardly back into the shadows.
Cedrek! Baus’s mind worked in a whirl. His enemy knew he was here. How had he known?—unless, he was contemplating a similar deed as himself?
Baus softly cursed. He was about to turn back and feign passage back to the pantry when a shrewder idea gripped him. Perhaps it was not so crazy to include Cedrek in his scheme—better than claiming midnight hunger as a weak excuse.
Pretending not to have noticed Cedrek, he sidled over to Griselda’s door and made a clumsy attempt of trying to will himself to open the door. At last he could not go through with the deed, so he playacted, and knocked softly once, twice, and called out Delizra’s name. He put an ear to the wood and hearing a muted murmur, withdrew while Cedrek slunk furtively down the steps with lusty curiosity. He heard a flutter of sheets. He riveted his eyes to the portal while Cedrek watched him with jealous interest. Baus wrenched Griselda’s door handle just as Cedrek wilfully advanced, cocking his head. The butcher’s son crouched low, peered at Baus now from the edge of the common room and Baus, dramatizing caution, closed the door and ducked back, slipping down the hall toward the parlour, pretending to have lost interest in the affair.
Cedrek quivered with delight. He advanced to plant himself at Griselda’s door. Quickly he seized the knob and pushed the door ajar. Between the rungs of the balustrade, Baus saw a pair of swift arms reach out and pull him inside. The door clicked shut.
Baus tilted brows in interest.
Seconds passed. There came sounds of dismay, a struggle, whimpers, a crash. A minute later Cedrek still had not appeared. A wide grin split Baus’s face. Griselda, living up to her reputation, would exhort Cedrek to various ‘provocative’ activities.
Baus congratulated himself on his artifice. A most profitable outcome had occurred as a result of applied spontaneity!
With increased confidence Baus slipped down the hall. He advanced to Delizra’s door, and knocked softly. He heard a stir of motion within. He deigned to enter. A tiny lamp flickered to life. In a trice he was over to her bedside.
The Vulde’s daughter stirred, stretched arms languorously over her head, arching her back over her pillow with a small sigh. “I should have known!” she murmured languorously. “I thought you would never come! In fact, when I heard that tap-tapping on the door at so late an hour, I was given to despair, believing a robber had come to invade my home.”
“A horrid thought, my dove!” Baus crooned. Her inviting ease was pleasant enough, perhaps too sublime to believe. Perhaps too many sips of brandy had made her lose all pretence of inhibition. ’Twas not worth the effort of analyzing. “Lady Delizra, it would be clearly impossible for me to avoid your illustrious presence!”
“I sense a pandering in your words! Are you tipsy or something? Let me guess. You are wishing to listen to my inane girlish stories for hours on end? What would my future husband think if he were to learn of you being here at my bedside like a gypsy with a head full of strange ideas?”
Baus feigned injury. “Would I be that crass?” He opened palms, staring deeply at the luxurious spread of Delizra’s voluptuous figure. He wondered if luck were yet teasing him another time with an unobtainable trophy.
No, the timing was right. He kissed her arm, her fingers, her cheek. His wandering eyes, hot with desire, ran over her delectable body barely hid under the diaphanous satin nightwear.
The noblewoman cast him a coy look and pulled back her arm. “What of my fiancée? Surely you know we are to be married in a few weeks under the mistletoe at Banwar’s estate?”
“Is that so?” inquired Baus carelessly. “No trouble. I shall marry some day too.” He surprised himself at the notion.
“But in twelve days it shall be I who is married!” she moaned. “How deplorable! Now I feel a guilt that you are here—wooing me with your sweet talk, but I feel an incessant drumming in my bosom. It is all very queer!”
“Not really,” Baus assured. “’Tis simply the ardent drum of affection.”
“And Hysgode? Would he ponder this phenomenon as philosophically as you?”
“Perhaps. What difference does it make? Twelve days to marry—twelve weeks—what does it matter?”
Delizra curled her arm about Baus’s waist, prompting him to lie suggestively on the bed beside her. He stroked her neck and kissed her lips with gentle affection.
Delizra chuckled, a thrill in her voice. Baus had wasted no time in arranging himself in a more convenient position, the quickness which seemed to amuse Lady Delizra. She was already half naked, a fact which didn’t seem to bother her. With a shrug and a bow, Baus started to peel off the rest of her garments as well as his own. The cloak and trousers seemed cumbersome right now.
Delizra cried out in shock: “Wait—what is that noise?”
“I heard nothing.”
“It strikes again. Silly! A kind of dull moaning, as if coming from across the hall.”
Baus maintained a bland expression. “It could be any number of things.”
Delizra frowned. “Like what? It sounds like a man’s voice now—feverish and gruff, as if forced. There now, a shrill cry!—Griselda’s, I think!”
“She is most notably having a bad dream.”
“She suffers nightmares, true, but not with men’s voices in them.” Her voice cracked with concern.
Baus proffered a cool glance. “I must confess that I cognized Cedrek sneaking earlier into her room.”
“Cedrek?” Delizra jerked up in alarm. “What business would that lout have skulking about her room—” She gave a sudden cry. “Well, I never would—! The two of them—Griselda and Cedrek? ’Tis better to have the butcher’s son than none, I suppose. Bully for her!—she has found a mate—at last.” Secretly she confided to him: “As plain as Griselda is, she hasn’t had any luck with a man that I know. She is terribly jealous of me, every moment of the day, in fact.”
“I can’t begin to guess why.”
Delizra twisted his wrist playfully.
In order to arrest further chatter, Baus applied an enduring kiss and Delizra’s warm thighs loosened. The gesture was well-timed. Soon they were entwined in each other’s arms in the throes of a very deep and interesting passion, when a sudden rap came at the door.
Delizra froze in her loose-hipped pose. There was no lock on the door . . . the knob began to slowly turn. Delizra shut her eyes
as if painfully bracing herself for a scandal.
A figure strode in.
Baus sprang alert, wondering what new surprise was in store for the evening.
Hysgode!—his eyes were cold, as insensitive as an eel’s. Eyes adjusting to the blackness, the nobleman stared in dumb fascination at the philanderer who was slowly unwrapping himself from his fiancé’s body. He cognized the full extent of the twosome’s engagement and his jaw hung slack for several amazed seconds.
Hysgode’s cry came late, gurgling from the throat of a broken man. “You! You conniving little worm—you filthy, licentious cur!”
Baus broke the silence. “Nasty words for this time of night, and a surprise, indeed, Hysgode . . . nothing like our game of ‘Spooks’, I daresay, but so good of you to check in. In fact, Delizra and I were just discussing—or rather, philosophizing about your wedding.”
Hysgode’s teeth ground to the bone. “Shut it, you weasel!” His beet red face was horrendous to witness. “Now prepare to die! A dead man you are!”
“Tut, tut,” admonished Baus.
From his side, Hysgode drew a jewelled dagger—richly embossed with curled designs. The nobleman wasted no time in leaping up on the bed and slashing a downward strike. Baus twisted, barely avoiding a bludgeoning to his chest. The blade nicked his thigh, drawing blood.
Baus cried out. Delizra screamed. She thrust her plush blanket in Hysgode’s face and rolled off the bed and began snatching the covers to cover her naked breasts. Baus dove for his own clothes that lay limp in a pile at the bedpost. He searched frantically for anything that could deter his opponent, spare him a demise. There seemed little time to grab anything. In berserk fury, Hysgode drew back the dagger to jab again, but Baus kneed him in the groin and managed to ram the ganglestick up into his face. Hysgode crouched there in the bed for half a second, with a look of bewildered horror crawling across his powdered visage.
Baus calmly snatched up his garments while Delizra stood trembling in the shadows.
“I trust, my lady,” he whispered, “that you understand that I must leave.”
Recovering her composure, she fumbled for words. “What have you done?” She clenched her pale fists, drawing her nightgown tight. “Hysgode looks . . . dead.”
“He’s never been better—”
Scudding across the bed, she made a grab for her fiancée’s arm, but Baus caught the quivering wrist. “I caution you against that, Lady. Hysgode will waken from his reverie in small time and I think it better that we are not here. ’Tis better in fact that we be well away before that unhappy moment comes to pass. I’d say in about ten minutes.”
Regaining a bit of her demeanour, Delizra snapped, “I don’t give a toss for your forecasts or that fussy little hare. But I warn you, trickster, if you leave this room without telling me what is going on, I shall scream!” Her hands were clasped imperially on her lovely hips.
Baus shrugged, feigning a macabre grin. He spied the Vulde’s daughter begin fitting a few pieces together and made a sound of regret. He reached out with the ganglestick and tapped her on the throat.
Transfixed like some sea seraph from another world, Delizra gazed sightlessly, like a tragic figure.
Critically Baus appraised the two figures hunched on the bed. ’Twas not a placid scene—bloody sheets, strewn covers, naked Delizra and her chosen popinjay poised with eager dagger clasped for the kill . . . No, the Vulde would not like this diorama at all . . .
Baus paused to depart. He scooped up Lolispar, his ganglestick and took his wits with him out of Delizra’s boudoir.
As he was about to close the door, he looked up to see Tulesio and the Vulde striding ominously down the hall.
Baus jammed the door shut, jerking into the corridor with apprehension. The predicament could not be worse—glib responses would not exempt him. What to do? Curse his luck! Had the two seen him ducking out of Delizra’s bedchamber? He hoped not, yet, the inimical way that Delizra’s sire now stared at him did not inspire any great hope.
He forced himself to act and cried out in pained relief: “Vulde—how reassured I am to see you!”
“What’s this?” croaked the Vulde sardonically. His voice was gruff and his blazing eyes did not look sympathetic to a loiterer. He gazed from his daughter’s door to Baus.
“There is a certain matter which I must take up with you,” Baus insisted. Draping his arm familiarly around the Vulde’s shoulders, he essayed to propel him away from Delizra’s door and toward that of Griselda’s.
The Vulde studied him with displeasure, drawing back. “What are you doing? Why are you loitering around my daughter’s chambers?” His gaze fixed on the bloody patch oozing from Baus’s left thigh. He seemed to automatically guess the nature of the wound as he glanced inimically back to Delizra’s door.
Baus addressed the gruffness of the query with carefully-placed explanation: “I was making sure that your daughters were safe. It is a love story—I mean a long story—” he laughed at the slip “—but before you draw inappropriate conclusions, listen to what I have to say. I detected sounds. Upon waking, I emerged out in the hall, spying Cedrek sneaking into Griselda’s bedchamber.”
“Cedrek?” snorted Tulesio. “Why would that oaf be sidling around here?”
Baus opened his palms in bafflement. “I can hardly guess—barring that which would seem indelicate.”
“What of the blood on your garments?” demanded the Vulde. “It has stained your costly outfit that I gave you.”
“’Tis true, and for that I feel sadness.” Baus pointed downward. “Cedrek has gone mad. He inflicted this wound upon me when he saw me ready to expose his private ploy.”
“Private ploy? What ploy?” fumed the Vulde. Quaking with fury, he turned to his manservant, “We shall investigate this matter and throw the churl Cedrek out of the house.”
“A good plan, my Lord. I don’t know why you admitted him in the first place. He has been a constant source of agitation ever since he arrived at Krintz.”
Jaw clenched, the Vulde agreed and burst into Griselda’s room. Stalking inside, he met dumbstruck wonder full in the face when he saw Griselda, hips on top of Cedrek, interlocked in what could only be construed as an intimate embrace. The bedcovers were disarranged. In a tumble of sweaty folds, the maid was making vulgar sounds in similitude to a wegmor and Baus, poking his head in from behind, marvelled that Cedrek, slack-limbed and red eyed, looked the worse for wear. The Vulde instantly raised his voice to a strangled roar. “Dawcocks! Licentious smuts! Unprise your scandalous flesh from my daughter this instant, you lout!”
There was a thump and a bang. A spent, withdrawn figure released itself from beneath Griselda and rolled off the bed, landing in a heap on the floor. The butcher’s son, much paler than he was in the Dakkaw’s vat, gasped with an apathetic shudder. He lolled his eyes under black heavy lids and held himself in deathly stead, palms open in wretched appeal. “Sir, I can explain. Baus—he tried to—”
“Tried to what?” the Vulde blared. “You are a liar, a salacious villain—a sorrowful scoundrel—not to mention a blackguard. Do not pin more on Baus. ’Tis you, you rascal, who I see wrapped in scandalous embrace with my daughter.”
Griselda now stood with massive hips squared. “Father, you prude, you bore me with your sanctimony. Be off with you and leave us to our sport! Cedrek is a fine lamb, a newborn babe perhaps, but just the same, beginning to warm to his calling, aren’t you Cedrey?”
Cedrek made a nebulous, mewling sound.
“I must say,” she jested, “his talent for entertainment is budding, yet truth be told his endurance is substandard. What of that? Everyone is in need of a good teacher, is he not?”
The Vulde’s throat congested with rage. “Silence, you wench! I shall not tolerate this damnable foolishness. You are an impudent slattern!”
As was his original project, Baus retreated in earnest. He took to his heels, stumbling down the hall, leaving an enraged Vulde in dispute with Cedrek whi
le his oldest daughter screeched at him as he frog-marched Cedrek to the wall for punishment. Baus skipped straight on through the parlour. He beetled to the heavy brassbound door whose bolt he slipped back and heaved open the door with a brief flurry.
He slipped out into the moonless night and felt a moderate relief. It was good to be out of that snakes’ pen, he thought. But time was not on his side. What of Valere? The sea captain he could only hope would escape in time.
The cobbles were slick, dusted with a patina of frost. Inopportune for sprinting, Baus realized, but sprint he must!
He had gained no more than a hundred yards, when the massive front door of the manor crashed open and a huddle of figures burst out, followed by a peal of ringing bells and furious orders. Baus spied Tulesio and Hysgode, and three of the red- and green-liveried watch-members pounding pell-mell after him. From the threshold came the Vulde’s obscene shrieks.
Baus winced. He skidded across Voydram’s square, his heart a hammer in his ears. “Fly, you egg-headed fool, fly!” He urged his feet on to new speeds. How such a pleasant evening had turned poisonous! That he could outdistance a pack of frenzied attackers was unlikely, but how else could he outwit these oafs? The obelisk shone like a spire of death in his path. He hurtled closer to it, with worn face creased and his breath rasping. He could discern the fateful grin on the Dakkaw’s visage.
Would it be beside this sorrowful wretch that he too would burn?
Thrusting such thoughts out of his brain, he groped for Lolispar. Around the other side of the obelisk he ran. Quickly he slashed at the Dakkaw’s bonds. Loosening the Dakkaw’s legs, his arms, was a death wish, but only desperate men commit themselves to desperate deeds.
“There, Dakkaw!” Baus cried out fiercely. “You are free. Never say that I did you no favours. Use your freedom to your advantage for both our sakes!”
