The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (8 page)

The king seemed to ponder his proposal. Landar waited patiently for him to make up his mind.

6
At Fort Nira things had changed for him, very rapidly. The first

inkling Landar got that he was out of the danger zone was when they gave him a big, luxurious room with all possible amenities.

The first two days they left him alone and just took him out for his regular walk in a courtyard. Then a man, who had introduced himself as Dennick had paid him a visit.

He had a face the color of parchment and his voice sounded as dry as the wind that scourged the landscape surrounding the imposing fort.

“I, and His Majesty the king of course, have taken an interest in you, young man. We've looked at the reports and we went through your antecedents and, ahem, your recent exploits. We have some use for you.”

He had replied that he was at the service of His Majesty and the kingdom. Anything he could do to help.

“Anything?” Dennick had asked, raising his eyebrows. “Marvelous.

We don't need much of you. Just your left little finger. We'll need to cut it off.”

He had paled instantly and looked at the man with unbelief and horror in his eyes.

“Come, come, Master Parmingh, you did say anything, didn't you?

Let's be practical, a man can live very well without his left pinky. Certainly in your case. In fact the little finger is of little use in general, and in your case it's practically a bother. That is, for you, because it could be of great value to the kingdom. We'll gladly relieve you of the unsightly thing.”

He had been struck dumb.

6
“I suppose your penis and your asshole fall under the definition of

‘anything’. Good, good. Don't be afraid. We won't be cutting your member off, but we do expect you to put both parts in the service of the realm.”

He had remained speechless. Dennick had explained that they needed to put some, what he called, mild pressure on his brother to be sure he did what was expected of him. They were going to send him his little brother's left little finger in a wooden box. Landar would have to write heart-wrenching letters — never fear, Dennick would compose them — that he would be tortured if Tomar didn't comply. The finger would drive the point home, the king's secretary remarked dryly.

Dennick went on to explain that the ambassador and his entourage, like all other embassies, had followed the royal court to Nira. He visited the local taverns regularly, so it wouldn't be too difficult for Landar to reacquaint himself with Drevau Heemar in a non-suspicious, seemingly coincidental way. His cover story was the truth, as far as it went. He could, no, he had to tell the ambassador that the cruel king had callously ordered his finger cut off, merely to put some extra pressure on his brother Tomar, who served in the administration of the Northern Marches, to make him take up the role of a spy. He could vituperate against the evil monster that spied on his own sons because he didn't trust them. He could rage against His Majesty for having him made a cook's help in the royal kitchen, him, Master Landar Parmingh who was a gifted student and was meant to have a brilliant career in the royal administration, like his brother. Or who could have become a member of the city council of Ormidon. He could have become lord mayor even, like one of his forebears had been.

Landar understood they had researched his family very thoroughly.

“If you agree to take up this assignment, you should be aware that it is not without danger. If you were to be found out, there is nothing 6
we could do. The residence of the ambassador is inviolate as per the

treaty between our two countries.”

He had nodded nervously.

“And there is some, ahem, discomfort involved, as I'm sure you realize.”

Dennick had looked at his left hand, and Landar had clasped his other hand protectively around it.

“Well, for the purpose of hoodwinking His Excellency, you can paint His Majesty as a cruel monster. He isn't of course. We plan to recompense you generously for your, ahem, pains. Therefore I have decided — and His Majesty agrees — to elevate you to the rank of baron.”

Landar had looked at him with bewilderment, still mingled with unbelief.

“Your family has certain merits to the realm. Your grandfather should have been made a knight, but, what can I say, the times were troubled. I feel, and so does the king, we owe your family a debt. Not a big one, but still. Add to that your own services and a baronetcy seems appropriate. Nothing fancy, mind you. In fact, it has yet to be created.

I was thinking of the village of Davellon and some neighboring lands.

It is nowhere near Ormidon, but that's in your favor. The surrounding demesnes are old, but their local lordships don't put on airs. You'll be accepted as one of their own in no time. Give it a few decades.”

He had been flabbergasted. Dennick had waited silently while he mulled it over.

“A title?” he had asked.

“Oh yes, not much of one to be sure, but genuine enough, and accompanied by a small demesne, with revenues more than adequate to uphold you in your, ahem, new rank.”

6
Again the king's voice brought him back to the present.

“I see I made the right decision in promoting you, My Lord. Very well, try to find out as much as you can, but don't arouse the ambassador's suspicion. The consequences could be disastrous, for the kingdom as well as for yourself. I understand we could learn a lot from Lorsanthian interrogation techniques.”

Landar shuddered involuntarily.

He had accepted the offer. Dennick had been right about his little finger. The thing was useless, certainly in his case. He had caught his pinky between a door that was being shut when he was still a little boy, and, although it had healed, it was slightly crooked, unbendable, and the nail was deformed.

A man was better off titled and moderately rich incomplete, without his left little finger, than completely poor complete.

It was only standing before the massive wooden table that his resolve weakened. He tried to shut out his brain and just followed the instructions he was given. He made a fist with his left hand and put it against the side of the table. Someone with a leather apron gently pulled his little finger upward so that it, and it alone, rested upon the tabletop. He pushed against the side as hard as could, until his knuckles were white, bracing himself. It all took far too long. He saw the butcher-like man approach with a cleaver and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again he saw a little part of him lying, detached, in a puddle of blood. Only then the pain came. The all-pervad— ing, fiery pain. He let out a loud scream that died out in a sobbing whimper, while another assistant grabbed his fist, still pushing against the side of the table.

“These will ease the pain,” the man said, applying some herbs to the bloody stump and bandaging it.

6
They might as well have been sweet cooking herbs, for all the good

they did.

Dennick had watched the procedures impassively from a distance.

Then, for the first time, Landar had heard himself being referred to in a new manner.

“Come, My Lord Baron,” the personal secretary of the king had said. “I'll escort you to your quarters. We'll go through your letters patent together.”

“I'll do my best, Sire. Anything specific I should watch out for?”

The king seemed to be thinking, not so much about what to say as about how to say it.

“Look for signs of contentment, of self-satisfaction. As if His Excellency had discovered something very valuable for his master, and is sure to be recompensed greatly for it.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty.”

“Well, My Lord, I don't think I need to keep you any longer then.”

Landar, understanding that he was being dismissed, rose and, almost imperceptibly, bowed.

He made for the door, when the king called after him.

“Sir Landar?”

“Sire?” he said, turning around, rubbing the little finger of his left glove.

“Davellon may be a village, but the Davellon House can be anything you make it. Nobility has to start somewhere. It might as well start with you. Let nobody look down on you, for whatever reason, My Lord. Titles are granted or inherited, nobility isn't.”

6
“Yes, Sire.”

“Neither is regality,”
Landar reflected, making his way through the long hallways to his apartment,
“as the Tanahkos dynasty so deftly il-lustrates. What a strange man. He knows all too well how I come by
the information he so desperately needs, and yet he is the epitome of
civility. He goes out of his way to be nice to me. Adroitness?

Cleverness? Or true kingship?”

“Take all your clothes off. Immediately,” Rullio said sternly.

“You're going to get punished.”

“But, My Lord Count,” Cariam, who had just entered the room, stammered, “I have done nothing wrong.”

He was already getting hard, Rullio noticed by the slightly bulging pants.

“You're just making it worse for yourself,” he added for good measure.

Cariam undressed quickly. Rullio swung his legs off the bed upon which he had been lying and sat upright.

6
“Over my knees, you.”

The boy obeyed meekly and Rullio started spanking him. Cariam bit on a knuckle, his rock hard member pressing against his punisher's thigh. A warm, stinging glow spread through his buttocks.

Just when he thought he could take no more, Rullio stopped and made him sit in his lap. It didn't take much, almost nothing to make him come, spurting against his belly.

“I have done nothing wrong, My Lord,” he said in a teary voice, wrapping his arms around Rullio's neck. “I swear.”

“I believe you,” the count said. “This was not for what you have done wrong. It was for what you are going to do wrong.”

“Ah?”

“My sweet Cariam, powers greater than ours, who deem our lives nothing more than playthings to be used in their grand designs, have decided to part us. The warlord has asked me to undertake a mission for him and I will be away for many weeks, possibly several months even. And knowing you—”

“We've had a great run, didn't we, Rullio?” Cariam said, looking him in the eyes.

“Huh?” Rullio reacted, taken unawares.

“You're dumping me, aren't you?”

“Cariam, honestly, I assure you that the mission is real.”

“I've seen it in your eyes for quite a while now. You've grown tired of me. It was to be expected. You, a nobleman and all that. And me, just a lazy bum who is lucky enough to have rich and indulgently generous grandparents. To be honest, I don't think we would have made it. Not in the long term, we wouldn't have.”

Rullio caressed his hair. Cariam smiled sadly.

7
“To be fair, Rullio, I've been looking around myself for a while now.

I'm afraid you were right to punish me. There's this baker's son, about my age, with big, hard, calloused hands. Strong hands too, from kneading dough. Rough and sweet at the same time. He can chase the clouds away with his laugh. He likes a good pint of beer… I think he's more my kind of guy.”

Rullio laughed out loud.

“You're not mad? Not insulted?”

“No, no, my sweet boy. Why would I be mad at you? You've given me some of the most beautiful and exciting times of my life. We may be at the end of the journey, but that doesn't make it any the less worthwhile. I enjoyed making it and I loved every minute of it while it lasted.”

Cariam stood up, pushed Rullio gently down on the bed and started pulling off the count's pants.

“I haven't thanked Your Lordship yet for punishing me,” he whispered.

7
Ehandar slowed down and made his horse fall in line beside

Rullio's.

“Sneaking away, are we?” he asked, smiling softly.

“You know I hate goodbyes. We said everything there was to say last evening anyway,” Rullio answered, raking a hand through his wavy hair.

“I'm seeing you off, whether you want me to or not,” the prince replied. “Just until we come to the road that leads to the Northern Highway.”

They rode silently, side by side, for a mile or so.

“Rullio,” Ehandar started, hesitatingly, “you know this is very important, this assignment, don't you? I know my brother didn't make much of it when he asked you, but we need dependable intelligence.