The Lure of Fools

by Jason James King

  The girl stared down at the floor. Her internal struggle didn’t last long, however, for she reached up and clasped Jenoc’s hand. “Okay,” was all she said.

  Graelle stared at her warped reflection in the translucent glass sphere set on her desk–a speaking stone. She looked up at the mirror hanging on the wall to her left. The face that looked back at her always seemed a strange one, as though it wasn’t really hers. She touched her double chin and jutted out her jaw to make it disappear. She used to be slim and pretty with lustrous black hair. Now she looked more an orphanage matron than the madam of the most successful brothel in the kingdom. She chuckled at that, but the laugh died when she turned to look back at the speaking stone.

  Why was she hesitating? The answer came easily; it was because of what she’d seen in Argentus’ eyes. It was a look of primal fear, the kind that said Argentus–no, Ezra–was willing to do whatever it took to protect someone.

  He really had changed. He wasn’t the same arrogant bully she’d known years ago. His scheme to recapture the Rikujo leadership wasn’t about wealth or power. He was actually trying to save his nephew. He loved him.

  Graelle remembered a time when she’d seen the same thing in the mirror. That was a lifetime ago, before she’d learned the cruel lesson that only one thing mattered in this world, and that was your own survival.

  Survival.

  Graelle had always been good at surviving. And at first, it hadn’t been a selfish thing. She, like Ezra, had been willing to do whatever it took to save those she cared about. That’s what drove her into prostitution in the first place. Her widowed mother had died of fever when Graelle was just thirteen, leaving her to care for three younger siblings, the youngest only two years of age.

  From then on, her life had been one continuous crisis. She was worn, used up, and broken. The physical damage she’d done to her body in selling herself multiple times a day always made her ill in some fashion. Once she’d caught a sniffle from a client that spread to her siblings. It hadn’t gone that bad for Graelle, her nine-year-old brother, Ressel or eleven-year-old sister Faela, but it had ended up snuffing out the life of baby sister, Vyl.

  Only a few months after that, Ressel never returned from his daily stint of begging on the streets. Although she’d looked and looked, she never found him. Faela left a few years later to join the Rasheera nunnery, and when Graelle refused to do likewise, Faela had turned her back on her. That’d left Graelle alone and without a friend in all of Shaelar.

  She fared better as she got older, finally taken in by a Rikujo guild lord who, while not kind, was not exceptionally cruel. Eventually he’d fallen in love with her, and as lover to one of the leaders of the syndicate, she’d been given privilege and eventually was trusted to manage his operation.

  Graelle, of course, hadn’t loved the man back– she wasn’t sure she could ever love a man. But she pretended as best she could, all in the name of survival. That arrangement ended the night she’d slit her lover’s throat while he lie in a drunken stupor. She’d talked herself into it after the bastard had raped and beaten one of his whores because he’d caught the young girl skimming client’s pay.

  The other Rikujo lords hadn’t found out about Graelle’s treachery until six months later. But the brothel had flourished so much under her unsupervised management, they left her in charge, and even gave Graelle her lover’s former place on the shadow council. Her bloody rise to power both pleased and ate at her, and so she told herself that she’d only did what she had to do to protect the women who worked for her.

  That was part of it. But if Graelle truly had wanted to better their lives, she would’ve turned the brothel into a factory, and the whores into seamstresses. She hadn’t. She’d continued the operation, improving conditions for the girls, but also working them more in order to increase revenue.

  In the end, she would always use the same excuse to soothe her aching conscience; she’d done what she did to survive. And that’s why she was going to do this now. It was broken thinking, but she was a broken person, and it was a broken world.

  She reached for the stone but startled as motion from the open doorway drew her attention. She snapped her hand back. “Who’s there?” she demanded. She let her hand hang down, twisted it slightly, and her concussion rod slipped from inside her sleeve into her hand. But before she could raise it and take aim at the doorway, a head poked out from behind the side of the doorframe.

  It was Ezra’s chubby monk friend, Irvis.

  “I thought you said you couldn’t abide the–how did you put it?–‘carnal vortex that was my den of iniquity?’ What are you doing back here? We’re not scheduled to meet until tonight, and you said that would be at a regular inn.”

  Irvis stepped into full view. His eyes darted back and forth, and he unconsciously brushed a hand over the top of his balding head. “I-I…” he stammered.

  Graelle slid her concussion rod back into her sleeve. “What? Did your loins get the better of you? Don’t be so embarrassed. You’re not the first ‘holy man’ I’ve seen come in here.” She sat back down. “I’ll call Varin in. She’s the only one awake at this hour. But don’t expect a discount!”

  The chubby monk worked his jaw, opening his mouth to speak, and then closing it again before saying a word.

  “What? Not interested in Varin? Well, I can call someone younger, but it’s going to be double the price, and you’ll need to wait an hour for her to bathe and–”

  Irvis turned and fled. Graelle shook her head. Well, it wasn’t the first time she’d seen that either–a customer losing their nerve. It happened more often in those who professed self-righteousness and moral superiority.

  An odd lot those were. Husbands, fathers, lords, and even some ladies. They all looked mortified when they came into her pleasure house, but that didn’t stop them from seeking their thrills. It was almost if someone were forcing them to come here.

  He’ll be back. Which meant Graelle had to hurry. She reached out and touched the speaking stone. There was one thing a person had to learn in order to become a true survivor, and that was how to ignore the accusations of conscience.

  Jekaran swept the scythe low, swinging it back and forth to sheer down the tall brown stalks of barley in his path. Their crop hadn’t been nearly as large as the previous year, and Ez was already talking about having to let the soil lie fallow for a season. They’d done it before, so it wasn’t a catastrophe, but it had been a year of very lean meals. The next season they were rewarded with increased production, so Jekaran knew it was a sound strategy.

  He moved forward, swinging his scythe with much less energy than he’d started out with. He was by no means unaccustomed to the work, but six hours was enough to drain him. He paused, wiping his head and looking up at the sun. It hung low in the sky. That would mean it was about time for supper.

  Jekaran dropped the scythe and began to backtrack, scooping up the fallen stalks of barley, binding them with twine and piling them in his wooden handcart. When he finished, he retrieved his scythe, laid it across the small cart’s bed, and began pulling his load back toward the house. Every labored step was a cruel reminder of just how exhausted he was, but it wasn’t the satisfying weariness that comes after a long, hard day’s work. This weariness felt more like the product of emotional strain and sleep deprivation, which was odd.

  Upon leaving the field, Jekaran spied Mulladin jogging toward him. Jekaran grinned, removed his hat with his right hand, and waved it high above his head. “Mull!” he called.

  Mulladin saw him, changed course to intercept, and ran up to him.

  “Please tell me Maely’s cooking tonight,” Jekaran laughed. “I’ve had just about enough of Ez’s rabbit stew. Divine Mother, but I don’t think that old man knows how to cook anything else.”

  Mulladin surveyed the field, and then stared down at Jekaran’s cart full of barely. “You come to this place often.”

  “Mulladin?” Something was wrong with the big man-boy; his b
ody language, the inflection in his tone, and the way he looked at the barley as though he’d never seen it before.

  “No,” Mulladin shook his head. “I am not him.”

  Jekaran’s insides twisted. “What’s happening?”

  “You’re dreaming,” Mulladin said.

  Then it slid into place. He was asleep; with his mental defenses lowered, the sword had taken the opportunity to reach into his mind.

  “Why are you in my dreams?” Jekaran asked. He willed himself to wake, but something blocked him.

  “That won’t work,” Mulladin said.

  “You’re keeping me here?”

  Mulladin nodded. “You have shut me out when awake, and we need to communicate.”

  Jekaran turned away and began stalking back into the field, away from Mulladin. “I don’t want to talk to you!” he snapped.

  Mulladin followed. “Please, Jekaran. Do not shut me out.”

  “Why?” Jekaran sneered. “Are you lonely?”

  “Sarcasm?” Mulladin said. “Yes, you are being sarcastic.”

  Jekaran stopped, threw up his hands, and spun to face Mulladin, or rather the sword’s apparition of Mulladin. “Get out of my mind!”

  “You are in danger.”

  “I’ve been in danger ever since I bonded you!” he shouted.

  “The threat I speak of is specific.”

  Jekaran stopped and spun on Mulladin. “Why should I listen to you? You’ve only ever tried to get me killed or possess me!”

  “It is my purpose–”

  “to destroy my enemies, I know! And I would welcome that if you weren’t insistent on being the one to decide who is or is not a threat to me!”

  Mulladin looked hurt, an expression that almost made him look like the real Mulladin. “I seek only to protect and serve you.”

  “Well, you need to work on the serving part! Because you’re terrible at it!”

  “Jekaran, please listen. Your life is in danger,” the sword went on.

  “No!” Jekaran shouted. “You listen! I never wanted this. I never wanted you! You turned my uncle into a monster, and now you’re trying to do the same to me!” Jekaran shook his head. “No, I am already a monster, and it’s your fault!”

  “Jekaran,” a voice seemed to thunder from above, one that did not belong to the sword.

  Jekaran raised his gaze to the sky and abruptly found himself blinking open his eyes. He was tucked away into a corner of his cell, a stained and threadbare blanket pulled up over his front. He shifted, and looked out through the bars to find Gymal standing there.

  The short, balding lord was dressed in unusually fancy clothing, his dousing stone hanging conspicuously down over a white silk shirt and purple doublet. He gripped a bar of the cell door in each hand, face pressed against the bars as he called in a loud whisper, “Jekaran!”

  “I’m awake,” Jekaran growled. And while he wouldn’t admit it to Gymal, not in a million years, he was glad the man had come to wake him. He felt the sword at the edge of his consciousness trying to pry its way back into his mind, but he seized on his potent fear to rebuff it. “What do you want?”

  Gymal leaned back from the bars and dropped his eyes to the floor. Why did the man look nervous? “Are you being treated well?”

  What? “I’m in prison–what the hell kind of question is that?”

  Gymal nodded to himself. “What I mean to ask is, are they abusing you in anyway?”

  Jekaran actually barked a laugh. “Aside from forcing me to eat slop that wouldn’t be fit for pigs, or making me sleep on the cold stone floor with this worn rag for my only blanket? Yeah, I’m being treated like a king.”

  Gymal frowned. “I’m just trying to– ”

  “What?” Jekaran stood, dropping his ratty blanket to the floor. “What’re you trying to do? Gloat over besting me? Well congratulations, my lord, you’ve destroyed your fiercest rival–a teenage peasant!”

  To Jekaran’s surprise, Gymal didn’t rise to the occasion. He just nodded, his face sorrowful. What was he playing at?

  “You know, you look almost just like him.”

  Jekaran hadn’t expected that. “Who?”

  “Your father,” Gymal said, and then met his eyes.

  This time the little lord caught him completely off guard, and he couldn’t find his voice to make any sort of coherent reply.

  “Yes,” Gymal nodded with a satisfied smile. “I knew him.”

  “How?” Jekaran finally managed.

  Gymal dropped his eyes back to the floor. He opened his mouth two or three times, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Finally he looked up. “I will see to it that you are given a nicer blanket and better food.” Then the little lord turned and scurried away.

  Jekaran gripped the cell bars, one in each hand and shouted, “Wait! Who was my father?”

  The only reply that came was the slamming of the outer dungeon door.

  Tyrus was a coward. He’d come down to the dungeon on his way to the dinner with king with the intention of telling the boy the truth, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. Why? It wasn’t as if he were confessing his secrets, just Kybon’s.

  That day came back to him unbidden, and he could see himself sitting in the library, working to devour a stack of tomes. He’d been in the middle of reading Tarsali’s treatise on the Allosian influence found in western art–the title of that book would be forever burned into his memory–when hushed whispering drew his attention to the reception table.

  There, the robed librarian was pointing a messenger in Tyrus’ direction. The lad nodded and hurried across the room toward him. Tyrus tried to return to his studies, but a cold pit in his stomach made it just a pretense as he waited for the page to reach his table. At the time he’d wondered why he was suddenly anxious. Perhaps Rasheera was trying to warn him, for when he got the letter, he immediately knew.

  It wasn’t a detailed note, the message simply reading;

  Lord Tyrus Gymal,

  Your cousin, Baron Kybon Myadra, is dead. Your father requests you cease your university studies and return immediately.

  My condolences,

  Headmaster Aylen

  Of course, Tyrus had obeyed and sought the first carriage that would take him the two day’s journey back to the Saldren province and his home. He hadn’t wept, not until weeks after the funeral. His cousin was poisoned, and though no other noble house claimed responsibility, the ritual suicide of a recent addition to the cooking staff had more than confirmed it. Kybon had been assassinated, and the worst part was, Tyrus thought he knew who had been responsible.

  The Viscount’s daughter.

  Kybon had confided that he’d lain with her shortly after their engagement was announced, which made it all the more hurtful when he’d broken it off with her to be with a peasant woman. This was not common knowledge, of course. But somehow the Viscount or his daughter had discovered it, and her honor demanded nothing less than Kybon’s death. For in Aiestali high society, Kybon’s act had made the Viscount’s daughter into something of a whore.

  Passionate idiot! Tyrus clenched his teeth as he traversed a wide ivory colored corridor. His beloved cousin had never been able to resist a woman’s charms. His athletic build and outgoing personality made it easy for Kybon to become a womanizer, and the Viscount’s daughter was not the first naïve virgin he’d deflowered–just the most powerful.

  But it was different with Jekaran’s mother, Anarliee. Kybon didn’t talk about her like his other women. There was no lurid detailed account that made Tyrus’ face heat, or boasting as there had been with Kybon’s other conquests. No, Tyrus’ cousin was thoroughly smitten with a girl from Genra and began to talk of marriage and children as though he wanted such things.

  Tyrus was sure he was the only person who knew the girl’s identity, else the Viscount’s daughter surely would’ve slain her. He guessed her knowledge only went as far as the kind of woman Kybon had left her for. It was for this reason Tyrus c
ould never tell anyone of Anarilee or Jekaran. He had needed to stay away from the woman herself, too. That grieved him, for she certainly must’ve thought Kybon had abandoned her. His grief was made worse when he learned of Jekaran’s birth and Anarilee’s death.

  That’s why he had watched over the boy. That’s why he’d come to Genra each year to recruit for the well-finds. That’s why he’d had to distance himself from the boy by making him hate him. Though, well and truly, Jekaran had grown to be genuinely infuriating over the years. It wasn’t because of a foreseen last wish of his cousin Tyrus watched over the boy. He doubted that Kybon ever thought he’d die. He watched because it was the only thing Tyrus could do to honor him.

  Vengeance, of course, was out of the question. Bringing such a scandal to light would ruin his house. Having the Viscount or his daughter assassinated had been tempting, but Tyrus didn’t have the heart for violence, and had never been good at political intrigue. So, in the end, he’d just watched over Jekaran, intervening in his life anonymously when the boy and his uncle were desperate for work, money, or food.

  Now he’d made a mess of everything. I’m sorry Kybon. Well, at the very least Jekaran would be safe in the king’s dungeon. And he’d bribe the guards to give Jekaran special treatment and protection. He could even set up in Aiested, representing his house in the king’s court. Then maybe in a few years I can gain enough political capital to petition the king to pardon the boy. It wasn’t much of a possibility, but it would have to do for now.

  Tyrus was escorted into the mammoth chamber the king used for dining with guests. He gasped at seeing the enormous amethyst column rising from the center of the floor, and ascending a hundred feet before disappearing into the ceiling.

  It’s Aiested’s well. At first glance, it looked as though the well had grown through the center of the palace, but that couldn’t be right. Apeira wells still rose from beneath the ground but never in an area already populated with people. Therefore, it had to be the reverse. The palace had been built around the well.