“How often and how long is Lord Cynnor usually in town?” I needed to confirm what Talfyn had told me. If Brisen corroborated the lad’s tale, it wasn’t mere gossip.
“He comes for the tournaments and a few other official events, he never stays long.”
She was telling the truth. “Splendid. Thank you for your cooperation. I ask you to not reveal anything spoken here.” I looked around regarding them. “That means all of you.” Removing their gags, I asked, “Do you swear on Lliania’s Scales you won’t talk of this?”
They all said the words, as good as any written contract.
“Good.” I dug into my purse, fished out a few Gold Suns and handed one to every person in the room. Another few I placed on the table. “I apologize for the inconvenience. These coins are for your trouble. Anyone take those of the children, I will know and come back to teach you a lesson in manners.”
They were honest people, but the sight of gold can drive even the most honest mad.
Rhun was a different matter. He only paid token attention to his family, but as it turned out, he was fucking his mistress every chance he got.
I always wonder about the fleetingness of human affection. Is it because your lives are so short that you think you need to cram in as many cunts or cocks as you can when the object of your affections goes bald, or fat, or gives birth to your children? What about the emotions, the love? Is it the same as liking one dish until you see a new specialty?
Anyway, Rhun’s mistress, Sorai, a Dragonlander as it turned out, lived near the docks. A beauty if ever there was one, tall, dark, with fierce, intelligent eyes, she stood out in every crowd. From the way she handled the blade when I witnessed a few toughs trying to threaten her purse from her, I realized she would not be easy to intimidate.
I love a challenge.
Sorai made her living designing, building and repairing barges.
I know. Takes a lot of brain and education to do that, and while the Tallon isn’t small, there are few shipwrights in these parts. Heard rumors that most river-drovers used to buy their vessels down south, on the coast, from the people building the ships that travel the coasts. With Sorai in Ma’tallon, I reckon they now buy their ships locally.
Anyway, I never could find out what she saw in Rhun. The guy was too squirrelly even for a human. With her, I had to be careful.
I posed as a potential customer, entering her workshop in broad daylight and pretended to make a big order. Soon, her assistant had directed me to her office, a stuffy affair with drawing boards and sketches all over the place. She looked up from her latest design when her assistant cleared his throat.
“Yes?”
“This man wants to buy several vessels,” the young man said and dashed out, closing the door behind.
“Really now?” Sorai asked, sizing me up. Her ancestors must have settled the land behind the Veil of Fire centuries ago, for now, up close, I noticed that her skin was darker than any Dragonlanders’ I had ever seen before.
The sun, you see, and the fire, I guess. Anyone courageous enough to live in the lands of the dragons changes, you see. They’re a sight to behold, majestic like their fireling sponsors. What are firelings you ask? Never mind, think dragons, that’s all you need to know.
“You’re no human,” Sorai said, her white teeth flashing in a smirk.
I was taken aback. Were all Dragonlanders so perceptive? As I lowered my hood, I asked her exactly that question.
She shook her head in the way Dragonlanders do, a more ponderous motion that took along the shoulders, something they must have adopted from the dragons. I must admit I was drawn to her.
It’s odd, I had never been attracted to a human, male or female, but Sorai was enticing.
“Many elves crossed the sea and the Veil to live with us. They,” she said, inclining her head with the same sinuous motion as the shake to indicate the people outside, “they don’t know elves any more, we do. It’s easy to spot, for the trained eye. What can I do for you?”
There was no deference in her voice, just the matter-of-factness of one equal to another. I liked her even more then. “Your lover.”
Again, her teeth flashed, along with her eyes. “You want me to share?”
Yes, I was falling head over heels for her, but that is beside the point.
“No,” I said, hearing my voice quaver. “I need to speak with him.”
“Which one?” Sorai said, smirking.
For a moment I was speechless. I must admit I hadn’t paid much attention to the comings and goings other than when Rhun was around. Then I saw her smile.
I realized then she was flirting with me. And believe me, I would have loved to reciprocate, but I had a job to do. “May we shelve this part of the dance until later?”
She shook her head. “Dance?” I have no idea what my face looked like, but it made her laugh. “As you wish, we shall postpone the dance until later.”
“Thanks. I need to speak with Rhun.”
“Speak or interrogate?” she asked, once more her eyes gleaming with cunning.
“Either, both? Depends on how cooperative he is.”
“Let me send for him.” Sorai stood, her linen pants and tunic rippling down her body.
Yes, I was enamored.
She called her assistant and sent him on his merry way. Then we waited.
After a while, she said, “Do you need something to make him compliant?”
I didn’t know who this woman was, what she was, other than drop dead gorgeous, but I realized she was so much more than a shipwright.
No, I won’t elaborate!
“I think I try to reason with him first.”
“If you need help, ask.” Again she flashed her irresistible smile.
I didn’t. Rhun was far too intimidated to lie. He confirmed Talfyn’s and Brisen’s stories. Turning corroborated rumor into fact. I could have asked more of Cynnor’s staff, but chances would’ve grown that somehow the lord would catch wind of my investigation and flee.
Sorai assured me she would keep Rhun away from work. I didn’t ask how.
Finding Lord Cynnor’s country estate was easier, and a lot faster. I spoke to a few drovers who made regular deliveries to outlying places, and Cynnor Manor was one of them. It was a half day ride out of Ma’tallon, and I arrived there at dusk.
Like all estates anywhere, Cynnor Manor had a wall and guards. Not that either posed any problem. Like many rich folks are wont to do, they save money where they shouldn’t; the guards were overworked, too few, and half asleep on the job.
And the wall was a minor obstacle.
Hidden in a bush growing near a window, I watched as Cynnor and his family dined. His wife looked spoiled, gold and silk dangling off of her as if she had fallen into a clothing store and rolled through to the jewelers. Last time I had seen such decadence I had driven a lance right through its heart, her heart.
The children were of age, and while they had the same vacant, entitled look like their father, there was something undoubtedly malicious about them. Spoiled children behave a certain way, no matter their origin. I’ve seen it with elves as well. And Sorai tells me that beyond the Veil of Fire, things aren’t really that different. Cynnor’s spawn threw tantrums at the slightest imagined offense, insulting the staff, tossing food on the floor, with their parents watching in bemused silence.
And the Lord Cynnor himself? He was the biggest cunt of them all. Sitting there on his gilded chair, probably imagining himself king instead of the King. I wondered how House Kassor hadn’t killed them off long before my involvement. Maybe they thought him too buffoonish? He was fat, had his gray hair combed over the ample bald spots on his head, and looked like an angry tomato had ravaged a cucumber.
You laugh, but it’s true.
I waited until they retired. Then I entered the house.
The servants were about. But the one who noticed me just looked my way and shrugged. No loyalty there, not that I blamed the woman. Maybe the tomato fa
ce had raped her too. Just the thought of killing the bastard gave me a sense of accomplishment.
First the children.
They were in their rooms, opulent affairs that suffocated in luxury. I usually keep children unconscious when doing what I do, but after having seen their disgusting behavior, I decided to not grant them that kindness. They deserved none.
Gagged and bound, I dragged them to their parents’ bedrooms; yes, tomato face didn’t even share a bed with his wife. I bound and gagged her, and then carried the threesome to Cynnor’s door.
The bastard was already snoring.
Not for long, I thought and entered silently. A few quick steps and I was by his side. First came the gag, then the struggle as the cunt woke. A few light blows to the face sufficed to subdue him to the whimpering cucumber he was. Then I tied him to the bed.
By now he had regained his wits and stared at his family. His daughter, his son, even his wife as I dragged them in one by one. He was whimpering like a neutered dog, probably would have promised me gold, land, anything, had he been able to talk. His kind thinks money is everything and everyone is as corrupt as they are. I ignored him.
Next, I closed the door and opened my pack.
Here, have a look at the craftsmanship. Yes, that’s steeloak, and see these parts of the rods? They fit into one another, a few turns and they are as one. Like this. You can fit a small arsenal into the satchel if you know how. Luckily our artificers do. See how this bit screws itself into the other end as I turn? And here we have it, almost looks like a spear, doesn’t it?
Aye, I have parts for half a dozen spears in here. They don’t need to be that thick. Steeloak, remember? Only dwarf-forged steel is stronger, but who has the time for that? Oh, right, elves do; well, I don’t; there’s nothing a good steeloaken point can’t kill.
Anyway.
Cynnor watched and whimpered as I assembled my spears. All six of them. By the time I had finished with the fourth one, the wife and children had come to again. They struggled, and whimpered, probably prayed to, but the gods really don’t give a fuck most of the time. They set up rules, and you don’t have to obey them. The consequence of such actions comes when you reach the Bailey Majestic and are weighed by Her Scales. If you’re a cunt, you will be a chamber pot or something.
What? No, I have no idea what the alternatives are. Spittoons, buckets for vomit, cloth to wipe your ass with after a shit, I have no idea. So, as I assembled the sixth spear, I began to speak. It’s what I do to upset the vile fuckers even further. No, of course not during a proper Culling, holding a soliloquy during a hunt on horseback is fucking impossible.
“There are laws, you know,” I said. “They were put in place so that there would be no strife, no chaos. We thought a Culling ever so often would teach you folks the power of consequence. Mistreat a dog long enough and it lashes out and attacks.”
I picked up the daughter, so she stood. Then, ever so gently, I pushed the first spear into her left hip and up to the right until the tip broke through the skin of her shoulder. As they screamed into their gags, I continued talking.
“Rebellions, we discovered, are a consequence of mistreatment. Those who rule ignore their duties. Yes, the rich have duties to those less fortunate, for their wealth, their nobility is forged on the backs of the poor.”
I took the second spear and did the same to the daughter’s right side, but I had miscalculated and needed to wriggle the spear around to get past the first one. By the time that was done, however, the daughter was already dead. Shame really, I had wanted her father to watch her flop like a fish a little longer. With the spears acting like a frame, I could place her easily against the wall, a little blood splattered against the tapestry, a hideous portrait of tomato face himself. It actually improved the artwork.
“Shit, I apologize for the inconvenience. It’s been a while. As I was saying, the rich have a responsibility. Which is why the nobility and priests live at the bottom of Ma’tallon, you know. So that they always feel the weight of responsibility. If they fuck up, their world will literally come crashing down on them.”
I took the third spear and scratched the son’s left side to mark the place I would have to pierce for the spears not to block one another. Then I stepped to the young man’s right and began this bit of the operation. Father and mother were groaning, weeping, and mumbling through their rags. The son, not so much. At least not after the initial piercing of his guts and lung.
“The law that nobility and merchants need to spend the majority of the time in Ma’tallon is there to remind you of your responsibility. Nobody expects you to live in the gloom all the time, of course, but if you don’t live there any considerable time at all, you tend to forget those you’re holding down are actually stronger than you and can crush you whenever they want. But why go through such trouble, my ancestors thought?”
I took the fourth spear and pushed it through the left side. This time without meeting resistance. “Hah! See what a little preparation can do.” As the tip pierced the son’s right shoulder, the boy twitched again. Spirited, I have to say.
By now the mother was hysterical, flopping on the floor like a fish, weeping, shuddering. A joy to behold. I paused a moment to savor the look. Then I leaned the son, still twitching on his set of spears, against the wall next to his sister.
What? You thought the shit you heard about us were Fiery Tales to scare children into eating their porridge? Sorry to disappoint, but we are not kind, we are efficient, and bloodshed is a lovely form of entertainment. We’ve enjoyed it for millennia. It’s rare now, and the Cullings are the only somewhat continuous showing of it nowadays. Sure, there’s also the games where we let criminals slash it out. Of course, crime still happens, elves are morons too, you know.
Anyway.
It was the wife’s turn now. “That you people never learn,” I said, piercing her right hip and pushing through layers of fat and gut. “I mean there have been, what? Five Cullings before, and your father might have experienced one first hand. The villeins and freeborn think it great sport too, you know. To see their tormentors ridden down, impaled, gutted like boars. Gives them a certain satisfaction, and rightfully so.”
The wife whimpered, shuddered and straightened as much as she could when the sixth spear entered her left hip. “You have all the chances in the world to learn, you have history as an example. And yet you ignore it all to fuck over the ones that will kill you once they realize they are stronger. But who needs that chaos, right?”
Now the wife was flopping on both pokers. Given her girth, I had some trouble getting her to the wall. The slippery floor didn’t make it easier. Thankfully my spears had straight points so that the guts couldn’t slip to the floor and make things even messier. Our teachers told us about that shit. Shit quite literally. I mean, everyone soils themselves, which is stinky but sticks to undergarments, mostly. A ruptured gut? Not so much. Finally, I got her to the wall.
“Rebellions are never fun, you know. What starts as collective rage quickly turns into ambitious morons fucking over the others just to usurp the power from those the mob killed,” I told Cynnor. “So we get the same shit, only with different assholes. Believe me, we tried. Won’t you look at that, a nice family portrait.”
By now Cynnor was marinating in his piss and shit and tears, and the room had grown quite rank. I was tired of this man. There had been nobles and rich folk who had actually fought in wars, people who had stood their ground and fought back during the Cullings. They’re the reason why the system was changed. They’re why we began killing only the bad apples, if you will.
Cynnor was as pathetic as they come, I wouldn’t even want to shit or piss in him, were he to become a chamber pot in the gods’ halls.
I pulled three items from my satchel. A scroll with the Unbreakable Laws of Kalduuhn, the text isn’t that long. Here, have a look. See, any moron can understand and follow them, right? The second was a hammer, and the third a nail, two feet long.
&nb
sp; I walked over to Cynnor, sat him against the wall, laid the top of the scroll on his sweaty head – the sweat keeps the parchment from slipping—and then hammered scroll to head and head to wall.
Don’t look so pale, friend. You aren’t noble. But if you and I don’t show up at your place by midnight, Talfyn and Brisen the Younger will start with the fingernails.
No, we don’t want to harm you, but we need to be sure you understand. We know you work for Lord Evres, and there have been some very unpleasant rumors coming our way.
Yes, I am who I am, you saw the badge.
I am a Knight of Kalduuhn, and this is my sworn duty.
The Weight of Bliss
By A. M. Justice
Stuttering exhalations infected Moralen’s ears. Snores and huffing sighs rippled through the eardrums, thrummed along the ossicles, and jiggered him toward wakefulness. Eyelids heavy, he dragged himself upright. A fumbling pass through his pockets exposed his flask; cheap harlolinde scalded his tonsils.
The bliss dive stank, though none of those sprawled on grimy mats minded black streaks on damp walls. The cloying scent of bliss twined amid the ranker smells, drawing Moralen to his feet. Ochre smoke billowed from a tattered chaise, its occupant’s face obscured by blond-gray tangles.
“No more ’til you got mullas,” the blissmonger warned.
Eying the bandage wrapped round her forearm, he nodded. “I’ll be back later to change the dressing.”
Lips split around yellow teeth. “No more without mullas—too good a job by you. I heal fast, and no bliss for barter.”
He swayed, mind searching for an adequate answer, feet wavering between staying to inhale leftover smoke or leaving to earn enough for a full dose. “If you have any other medical needs—”
“More split flesh down here, doc.” Cackling, she spread her knees and unlaced the waist of her pantaloons. “You tend it, and maybe you have more if I feel good.” A foul burp bloomed from her nethers, and a grin pulled toward her ears.
“I’ll be back later,” he repeated, backing toward the door.
Blackest Knights Page 9
