A short while later, Khaster’s valet presented himself at the door once more. The smell of cooking insinuated itself around him. ‘Will your guest require breakfast too?’ he enquired, clearly making a great effort not to look round the room.
‘I have no guest,’ Khaster said. People would think he’d had sex with Tayven. He would not be able to convince them otherwise. A person should never think their situation can’t get worse. It always can. Always.
Chapter Six: Red Witch
From that morning forward, Khaster shut himself away. He applied himself to his training with savage zeal that left him exhausted and scarred. He would not drink intoxicating substances. In a few short weeks he’d be sent to Cos, and maybe there he would die. He was too much of a coward to kill himself, but there would be plenty of opportunity for the Cossic guerrillas to have him. He’d make sure of it. Rufus Lorca came every day to enquire as to his state of mind. He wouldn’t give up, no matter how off-hand Khaster was with him. After a few days, Rufus said hesitantly, ‘You mustn’t hide away because of Bayard. He won’t touch you. Almorante will make sure of it.’
Khaster snarled. ‘Almorante? I doubt it. He will be under the impression I have made free with his property. I probably have two enemies now.’
Rufus frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘That wretched boy. He virtually had to carry me home, then stayed with me because I passed out. But who will believe that?’
‘Well, everyone,’ Rufus said, shrugging. ‘Tayven told Almorante what happened. He has sung your praises about court. You have nothing to fear from that corner. Anyway, Almorante wouldn’t mind even if you had screwed the boy. Tayven isn’t a slave, Khaster. Almorante is fond of him. They have an understanding.’
‘I was led to believe differently.’
‘I can’t imagine you were.’
Khaster growled. ‘It doesn’t matter, in any case. I don’t want to get in that state again. I’m not hiding from Bayard, Rufus, I’m simply avoiding dissolution.’
Rufus shook his head, laughed. ‘You are a singular creature, Khaster. Will you at least come hunting with us tomorrow?’
‘All right,’ Khaster grumbled.
The following day, part of him harboured the ridiculous fear that Tayven would be in the hunting party. He wasn’t. I am flooded by relief, Khaster thought, but the relief felt odd and strangely like disappointment.
On the night before the rest days, Khaster dreamed of Tayven. It wasn’t a particularly disturbing dream, the boy haunted its borders, radiating joy that Khaster could not reach or absorb. In the dream, he thought to himself, I have dreamed of him every night. I just haven’t remembered. He awoke with a furious resolve. He would avoid his friends later. He would find himself a woman. It had to happen. He couldn’t bear the way Tayven’s presence still seemed to hang around his rooms like the stink of a hidden dead rat. Only, it didn’t smell bad really. That made it worse.
He decided he would visit one of the high class whore-houses in the city. No more Soak encounters. The thought of actually going into such a place and voicing his request filled him with dread. He couldn’t do this sober. So he went out into the city, to a liquor merchant. The shop was cavernous and dim. A thousand bottles glinted on the shelves, filled with exotic fluids that had come from every corner of the world. Khaster browsed, wondering whether to buy a flagon of wine or go for expensive merlac. Then a tall red bottle caught his eye. It looked like a gigantic perfume bottle, its neck slender, its belly softly-curved. Harm, called in this place by its proper foreign name, Etropia. Khaster stared at it. Should he? No, no. But he couldn’t take his eyes off it. He could taste it again, the bitter sweet resinous perfume. The craving washed over him like a wave. Could he become addicted so swiftly? No, surely not. He simply craved the oblivion the Red Witch imparted. He took down the bottle from the shelf. This he carried to the counter, where the merchant praised his selection. ‘Only the best, from the Mewtish border with Elatine. She’s travelled a long way, this one.’ He patted the bottle affectionately as he wrapped it in dark red tissue. ‘Will you be requiring any of the essential tools, sir?’
‘Everything,’ Khaster muttered, embarrassed. He felt he was the only person in Magrast who was ever embarrassed. They all took everything for granted, sex, narcotics, drink. This man probably drank harm with his mother after dinner.
Khaster didn’t want to examine the array of bowls, tongs and resin bags, even thought the merchant was keen for him to do so. ‘Anything,’ he said curtly. ‘The cheapest will do.’
Disappointed, the merchant put the paraphernalia back in its drawers. ‘Which resin do you require? Prime?’
‘Yes.’ Khaster got out his money. No doubt the merchant was wishing he’d suggested the most expensive tools as well.
In his quarters, Khaster arranged the equipment on his table with shaking hands. It felt sordid, doing it alone like this. He had no idea how much resin to put into the fluid, nor how long to heat it. The first measure he drank was so fiery and fierce he thought he would choke. Dame Sally’s brew had been smoother. Clearly, this would take practice. Khaster drank three measures, and by the time he left his quarters, his blood was on fire. The whole world looked red to him; shadows were crimson, the sunset above the spires of the city an incredible blaze of infernal hues. He felt as if a sober part of himself still resided in his brain, observing the behaviour of the part of him controlled by the Witch. He watched as this person went into a flaming doorway, where inside it was like a genteel hotel. No grubby whores on display. The women who occasionally glided across the lobby looked like duchesses.
Somehow, he came to be in a room with a female who wore small, carefully curled feathers in her hair. Her makeup was precise and perfect. Her manners were impeccable. She made polite conversation as she undid Khaster’s trousers and put her hands inside. Before she did anything else, she let down her shining yellow hair, and it made her seem younger, mischievous.
Khaster sprawled on a sofa, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, while the woman knelt before him, skilfully pleasuring him with her mouth. He couldn’t feel anything. He was hard, so something must be going right, but it was as if he was apart from his body. It was clearly enjoying the experience, but his mind wasn’t participating. Was that possible? He raised his head, blinking at the ruddy light in the room. He looked down. The yellow hair, so lustrous, like silk, like sheaves of corn. He reached down to touch it, mesmerised. The woman raised her eyes to him, smiled around his cock, and then it was Tayven kneeling there. A shudder passed through Khaster’s body. His mind woke up. Intense feelings pulsed through him, unbearable delight. He uttered an ecstatic yet mournful cry that turned into sobbing as an orgasm squeezed every muscle in his body into a painful knot.
The woman drew away. ‘You taste of the Red Witch,’ she said. ‘Would you like more?’
He hardly dared to look at her, but when he did it was the gracious whore kneeling there, not anyone else. Her eyebrows were raised and she seemed to be smothering a smile. He shook his head. ‘No. Thank you.’
She stood up. ‘Is there anything else you require, sir?’
Khaster could barely move. Could he ask her to help him up? Perhaps another measure of the Witch would restore him. He felt sick, feverish. ‘Your offer of the Red Witch. Yes. Give me that.’
The woman smiled and nodded. She had the equipment in the room. He watched her deft preparations. Perhaps he should talk to her. She would be wise, offer advice and comfort. He could pay her to do anything. Be my wife, be my mother, take me home. In the event, she gave him the drink, then made it clear his time was up. But the Witch had worked her magic. He could walk, function.
Back in his quarters, he wept. He’d taken too much of the Witch. Nothing was real any more. He saw animals crouched in the corners of his room, a shadowy writhing shape upon the bed. He wanted to tear out his eyes. He knew people had done things like that under the Witch’s spell. He�
��d never felt so alone. ‘I won’t do this again,’ he said aloud, and then he saw the spirit of the Witch sitting across from him in a place where there was no chair to sit upon. She looked like Pharinet, a wicked smiled surrounded by a halo of shining black hair. She grinned at him, her head tilted to the side. ‘Will you not?’ she said and laughed.
‘I want you,’ Khaster told the vision, who was becoming more like Pharinet with every moment. ‘I want Val. I want you back, both of you. Where are you?’
The vision vanished. Everything vanished. He was alone in a black void.
Khaster had to spend the next day in bed. He only got up once to pour the rest of the harm down his toilet. He dared not have it in the room. He didn’t trust himself, because he felt so ill only another measure of the Witch could cure him. He would suffer this through, cleanse himself. The actions he’d taken last night hadn’t solved anything. He wouldn’t do that again, not under the Witch’s influence anyway.
Rufus Lorca turned up late in the afternoon. He could see immediately that Khaster was ill and voiced concern. Khaster didn’t tell him what was wrong. He wouldn’t be able to bear the fact that Rufus would be pleased. ‘A secret acolyte of the Witch,’ he would say, ‘how wonderfully sly of you, Khaster.’
‘It’s a pity you’re out of sorts,’ Rufus said, ‘because Almorante has invited you to a gathering at the palace this evening. It’s a personal invitation, which he’s asked me to deliver. You won’t just be one of the crowd this time.’
Khaster groaned and put a pillow over his head.
‘Yes, I can see you’re disappointed. Can’t you raise yourself, take a bath, eat something? You might feel better. This is a good opportunity for you, Khas. You should make the effort to attend.’
‘I would rather eat my own limbs.’
‘The cuisine will be quite exquisite. Far nicer than raw meat.’
Khaster removed the pillow. ‘I’m not going this time, Rufus. It’s got nothing to do with how I feel physically. Please convey my apologies to the prince. You can tell him I am ill.’
‘He won’t take no for an answer, Khas, rest assured of that. When Almorante gets an idea, he pursues it until it’s brought to ground.’
‘What idea?’
‘He wants to cultivate you. You are Caradorean, and a kinsman by marriage of the Caradorean who holds the emperor’s right hand.’
‘You mean Valraven? We are not close friends.’
‘Not any more, no. That only makes you more valuable.’
Khaster sat up, intrigued in spite of himself. ‘What is Almorante up to? Why does he need me?’
Rufus idly picked up a lump of Caradorean serpentine that Khaster kept on the window sill. ‘Oh, you know what the court is like. Everyone needs allies, and the princes more than most, seeing as there are so many of them. Valraven has become very powerful. I don’t know exactly what happened the last time you two went home, and I don’t expect you to tell me, but it’s clearly affected you both very strongly. Valraven hardly leaves the imperial palace. Leonid treats him like a son. You can appreciate Almorante’s concern.’
‘He’s only second in line. What does Gastern feel?’
‘Gastern wants Valraven. Not in the sense Bayard does, but politically. Gastern is his father’s favourite, but he’s no fool. He knows that once Leonid goes, all hell will break loose. He’ll need strong allies then. No Caradorean has ever been as close to the emperor as Valraven. You are a spiky lot. You do your duty, but you’re always fighting the bit. Not Palindrake. He can be ridden without a bridle.’
There was a silence. Rufus put down the serpentine, rubbed his hands together.
‘Almorante is wrong about me,’ Khaster said. ‘I’m of no use to him. I have absolutely no interest in what goes on at court. They can slaughter each other for all I care.’
‘Oh, don’t care,’ Rufus said. ‘Don’t even think about it. But take up a hand, play the game. It’s called survival.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to survive.’
Rufus snorted. ‘Oh, do stop whipping yourself, Khaster. It’s boring. You’re alive, so just get on with it.’
The next morning, very early, a page from Almorante’s palace presented himself at Khaster’s door. He held in his hands a letter written in Almorante’s own hand. Khaster opened it. His heart sank. It was a summons, not an invitation. He could not disobey.
‘I’ll wait while you get ready,’ said the page sitting down at Khaster’s table. ‘Then I’ll take you to the prince.’
Khaster didn’t like the way the boy looked at him. His expression was amused yet calculating. Khaster had the sudden dread that the page knew Tayven, had spoken with him about the events of the previous week. There was a conspiracy afoot. He could smell it. ‘Wait outside,’ he snapped.
Slowly, insultingly, the boy got up and left the room.
Almorante’s palace was part of the great imperial building, which dominated the centre of the city, as big as a town itself. All the royal sons, who were of age, had an establishment of their own, as did the empress Tatrini. Palaces within palaces, cells in a gargantuan body, where the inhabitants brewed their intrigues and plotted scandals. The military buildings surrounded the palaces like a protective wall, yet it still took nearly an hour for Khaster to walk from his own quarters to those of the prince. He walked through fabulous colonnades, up innumerable steps, beneath ceremonial arches hung with flags. Bells tolled in the lofty campaniles, proclaiming the hour. Birds clattered up in huge flocks, cawing and wheeling around the towers. Somewhere nearby, Valraven sat with the emperor. What was he feeling now?
The page led Khaster directly into Almorante’s presence, then closed the doors upon them and departed. The prince’s morning room was warm and comfortable. A fire roared in the hearth and upon a table stood the remains of Almorante’s breakfast. Like all the imperial princes, Almorante was an arresting and imposing man. He was very tall, and for a Malagash, his hair was unusually dark, falling in a straight curtain about his shoulders. His face was handsome in a hawkish sort of way, the forehead high, the eyes deep-set. His hands were long, the fingers unnaturally mobile. He stood up when Khaster entered the room, and Khaster bowed to him. Not for the first time, he thought that Almorante should really be the heir to the throne. He was far more regal than Gastern.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Almorante said. His voice was deep and hoarse, as if he smoked zeg weed at every waking moment. ‘I wish to talk with you.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t attend your gathering last night, your highness. I was ill.’
‘I know. Rufus Lorca conveyed your apologies. A shame. It was a pleasant evening, and you were missed.’
Khaster’s heart had begun to beat faster. He hoped Almorante would get to the point quickly.
‘Please sit down,’ Almorante said, gesturing at a chair before the fire. ‘Would you care for a beverage?’
‘Thank you, your highness.’
Almorante pulled a bell cord and sat down opposite Khaster. He steepled his fingers before his chin and shook his head. ‘So, here you are, the remains of poor Khaster Leckery. Such a sorry state.’
Khaster was so shocked by these intimate remarks, he uttered, ‘What?’
Almorante smiled. ‘I have made a mission of you, Khaster. It is my pleasure to mend you.’
‘Your highness, Ic’ Khaster’s mouth dried up.
‘Please don’t stand on formality. I want us to be friends. You should hold yourself in higher esteem. Others think well of you, while you only hate yourself.’
‘How do you know these things?’ Khaster asked. He could not remember speaking intimately to anyone in Magrast. Was Almorante merely making accurate assumptions?
‘I have my methods,’ Almorante said. ‘You should stay away from the Red Witch, my friend. She’s a dangerous mistress. And whores talk, too. You should not visit them when you’re distressed. They like nothing better than to gossip about those of high
er stations than themselves.’
Khaster, who was adept at feeling embarrassed, had never felt so ashamed in his life. What had he said to the whore? Nothing that he could remember. Unless the Witch had completely addled his brain.
‘I don’t want to see you squirm,’ said the prince. ‘I’m not judging you, Khaster. You have been damaged, haven’t you? Your sister, your wifec’ He gestured widely. ‘I need say no more. We understand each other, don’t we?’
‘Is that why I’m here? Because of Bayard?’
‘Bluntly put,’ said Almorante dryly. A servant came in then, carrying a tray of steaming drinks. Almorante waited for him to depart. ‘You’re here mainly because I hate to see waste. I like to create. I like to repair. Also, Tayven Hirantel has spoken strongly in your favour. Your friends are concerned for you.’
‘Tayven is not a friend of mine,’ Khaster said before he could stop himself. ‘I want no one’s concern.’ At that moment, memory came crashing back, and he remembered how he’d talked to Tayven for hours that night after The Soak. So that was Almorante’s source. Yet another reason to regret that debauched behaviour.
The Crown of Silence Page 8
