The Promise of the Child (59 page)

“Your visit.”

“My visit. Yes. You know they can telegraph themselves?”

“I don't know what that means.”

Envoy paused, staring at his finger as it tapped the tablecloth. “Have you not wondered, Lycaste, how your friend can do what he does—where his magic comes from?”

Lycaste shrugged, waiting expectantly.

“They are so old, you see, that their
minds
have changed—it would happen to all of us if we lived long enough, apparently.” He grinned, pointed teeth twinkling in the candlelight. “The hemispheres of the thinking organs, apparently, are not naturally precocious at magical things, but become talented if left to stew for thousands upon thousands of years. It was something they only discovered when they started getting old enough. Teleportation, telekinesis, pyrokinesis, all that sort of thing.” His childish face grew mischievous as he stretched to peer at Lycaste's stomach. “The case in point being your little accident, Lycaste. With age comes power. Our guardians cannot be challenged, that is what I'm saying, and that is why I believe our position in this frightful war is unimpeachable.”

“You think they're on your side in this?”

The Firstling hiccupped into his drink. “Of course. They are at the king's ear, you may depend on it.”

Lycaste couldn't believe what he was hearing. “The Immortals support the First?”

“Of course. They are our direct ancestors, we their children.” The Firstling took another drink, looking immensely pleased with himself.

Lycaste considered the man dubiously, noticing little resemblance between him and Sotiris besides the Firstling's willowy figure. “Envoy,” he said tentatively, “can I ask you something?”

“Please do.”

“Do
you
hate Cherries?”

Envoy regarded him, mouth slightly open, spiked tips of his teeth glimmering in the gloom. He moved slowly closer. “Of course I don't, Lycaste. How could you think such a thing? Look.” He scowled with concentration, fighting through his drunkenness. “Some things must happen, people must be appeased. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“These decisions are never personal. It is regrettable, the situation you find yourself in.” He looked up at Lycaste tenderly. “I am very taken with you, you know.”

Another bell rang, startling them both. Dessert was ready.

“This is very special, now,” said Envoy, rising from his seat and placing a warm hand on Lycaste's shoulder. “Excuse me.”

Lycaste waited, sipping wine and looking up at the ceiling while he thought on what the Firstling had said. The ceiling's minutiae were carved to very exact standards, as if by a shaped template and not guiding hands. He let his eyes skirt the beautiful accumulation of shapes dreamily. Precision was attainable in growthstone, but not a goal. Perhaps this wasn't growthstone at all, but something even more sophisticated.

Envoy returned and placed a large plate in front of him. On it was a subdued-looking, thoroughly alive bird. It glanced at Lycaste in recognition. One of the Glorious Birds that had captured him in the Utopia.

Lycaste stared at it. “I know this bird, Envoy.”

“Yes. If I'm not mistaken, it tried to remove your eyes.”

Lycaste pulled his head back, remembering.

“The First requires you whole,” Envoy said, sliding a curved knife from the tablecloth. The bird looked at Envoy with bland acceptance as the Firstling sawed into a shaved area in the bright plumage at its rear. Lycaste closed his eyes and set his drink down.

“I didn't ask for this, Envoy,” he muttered, turning his head away.

“This bird was bred for the Firsts' table, Lycaste. All of them were. Do not fear—it is an honour for them.” He took a ceramic fork with two long tines and removed the sliver of pink, bloody meat, holding it towards Lycaste's plate. “Try some. Nothing compares to mature, living flesh.”

Lycaste winced. “Why doesn't it make a sound?”

“Would you prefer that it did?” Envoy took the piece for himself. “This isn't a test, Lycaste, you don't have to try it. But you'd be missing out.”

Lycaste watched the bleeding bird with fascination. It looked sleepy. He reached out slowly with his fork and snagged a small piece from the cut, pulling it free. Keeping his wine close to hand, he put it in his mouth, tasting blood and fat, slippery like fish. It was fragrant, as if flavoured by all the fruit it had eaten in its life.
Living flesh.

Envoy watched him closely, passing him a new wine. “Try this with it.”

Lycaste took the cup, suddenly realising what was in his mouth and wanting to be rid of it. He fought a gag and drank deeply, finishing his host's wine, then sat very still until he was sure it would all stay down.

The Firstling cut away a few more pieces until the bird's eyes closed completely. “It's enough for me that you tried it, thank you. You need not eat any more.” He draped a white silk napkin over the bird, shrouding it entirely, and pushed the platter away from them.

Lycaste took a large drink and pulled his eyes from the shroud, which had begun to move again slightly. “What happens to me after the king has seen me, Envoy? What then? Will I be allowed to go home?”

Envoy fell silent, staring into the darkness of his wine. “I was afraid you'd ask that, simply because I don't know the answer. It may be that you can; the boy-king's attention span is … fickle, at best. But your fame will keep you in the public eye well past that time. You are as free as you may ever be, Lycaste. Learn to embrace it, enjoy your state. From now on you're going to find life a lot more comfortable.”

Lycaste could hear his new self as it phrased the question, a ghostly future image of a man not so cursed by shyness settling in the same chair he sat in now. “Perhaps I'd refuse. You never know.”

Envoy's smile returned. “Well now, that would be even more unwise than murdering a Plenipotentiary, so we mustn't speak of it. I beg you to trust me in this, Lycaste. I am a sincere man.” He refilled Lycaste's cup with the diminishing wine and pre-emptively plucked the stopper from another decorative jug. “This is good, isn't it?”

Lycaste looked around him and out into the night, suddenly beginning to giggle. Envoy's smile broadened. He slid to the seat closest to Lycaste and filled a couple of fresh cups, adding something from a reflective bowl near the centre of the table. Lycaste looked at the purple leaf bobbing in the pale drink, wisps of strong colour leaching from it, and bellowed laughter. They put the drinks to their mouths in unison and sipped. What would his old friends think of him now? Worldly wise and supping mind-altering substances with a powerful man of the First; Impatiens would be climbing the walls with jealousy.

Envoy stood groggily and held a finger up with mock dramatics, leaving the room. Suddenly music began to drift in, as if a hundred voices had been waiting next door for his command. He returned and moved slowly about the room, dimming lights with a languidly twirled finger.

“Your looks, Lycaste,” he said abruptly as he came near. “Do they make people jealous?”

Lycaste thought about the question groggily, wanting to get up and dance. “Yes. No. I'm not very good at … reading people.”

Envoy sat down again, his face very close to Lycaste's, eyes searching his. “Do people treat you unfairly sometimes? As if you have been gifted with a natural talent, something they don't have?”

“I suppose. Sometimes.”

“There you are, then. But it is not always a gift, is it?”

“Never.” Lycaste shook his head and frowned as the man placed a hand on his thigh.

“I wish you could spend more time here, with me, Lycaste.”

He stared at the man. The drug was taking effect, he knew, but he found himself wanting to agree. The room drooped and sagged, its lights dimming even more. It felt like they were in a quiet corner of a crowded space, surrounded by revellers.

“Aren't you happy here?” His friend's eyes grew large, beautiful.

“I am, I am. I like it here.”

“You're happy with me?”

“Of course. You've been kind, when few else were.” He thought suddenly of Sotiris, how he'd forgotten to thank the Immortal for saving his life.

“I see much in you, much that I admire. You have charmed me, Lycaste.”

They took each other's hands, Lycaste's huge fingers enfolding Envoy's completely.

“I wish you could stay,” the Firstling said regretfully, gazing up into his eyes.

“Tell them to let me, then. Can't you tell them to let me?”

Envoy laughed at the desperation in Lycaste's voice, suddenly nuzzling his chest. “Dance with me.”

Time skipped in a yellow-golden blur, infused and infected by the hundreds of soft voices. As it slowed, Lycaste found himself holding Envoy tightly. The man looked up, his face very close.

Lycaste glanced around suddenly, worried for an instant that someone in the crowded room might see, but they were completely, shockingly alone. It was very dark. He pulled away and looked at where the other man's hand had ended up.

“What's the matter?” His companion's voice was very small.

“Don't,” said Lycaste thickly, putting the Firstling down. “I don't want that. What's going …?”

“Don't worry, Lycaste.”

“I'm not worrying.” He stepped away and clung to the table, abruptly aware with a hideous vertigo where he was, so far from home, as if nothing had really happened in the intervening time since he'd left the Tenth. It had all been a spell, a trick. He lurched for the door. “I'm going to bed now, Envoy.”

“Lycaste!” the man called after him, but he was already passing the globe, ready to negotiate the broad stairs. At their top he gripped the wall, staggering sideways like a crab as the room blossomed in and out of focus. He vaguely heard his name drifting from above, but lurched on down to the archway at the bottom.

The night was very dark. Trees sprinted past, their long fingers striking his face. Many times he fell painlessly, rolling until he could stand again. From the depths appeared the spark of light from his lodgings, far, then close.

Departure

Something apart from the pain made him open his eyes. There was someone outside. He shuffled to the high windows and looked out, squinting against the whitish First light, but saw nobody.

Lycaste went to the impressively stocked larder and drank some sweet water from a silver jug, large chunks of the night before perfectly blank in his memory. Feeling a little better, he went to examine the fruit trees in the courtyard, but breakfast was still a nauseating thought. He sat on the table, his head in his hands, listening to the twitter and warble of birdsong, a word here and there interspersing the nonsense. He looked around at the artful nihilism of the chamber, beginning to remember something about dancing. He didn't know any ladies here. Perhaps it had been a dream. Across the room the bed, huge and opulent in crumpled white silks, beckoned to him. He staggered back to it, sure he'd heard something again, too tired to care. He climbed in, scooping the cool material about him as he felt the throb of an enormous headache begin its business behind his eyes.

The hard, cold edge of a blade slid across his neck.

“Good morning,” said a female voice in his ear. “Look at you, sleeping in silk. Thought you'd got away with it, did you?”

Lycaste opened an eye. Cassiope, his victim's sister, bent over him, sweating and trembling.

“Those two halfwits from the Fifth couldn't get in, but they send their regards.” He tried to raise his head, despite the ache. She pressed the knife against his throat until he thought it would break the skin.

“Stay down, foolish Cherry, that's what this means.”

“Cassiope.” A different voice. Envoy. Lycaste suddenly remembered the previous night.

The pressure lifted.

“What's the point?” Envoy's voice from behind them both was stern, like Lycaste had never heard him. “Lycaste is ours now. If your sow of a mother had truly wanted justice, she would not have sold him to me.”

“You say that like she was given a choice, Tagetes.”

“She was welcome to refuse.” Lycaste heard him walk to the bookshelf. “But all choice carries a chance of penalty. I know you're a little light at the moment, waiting for the First to cover your debts—I understand, really, I do. But you'd be ripping the precious walls of your house down in no time to get at all that boastful silk if it weren't for Lycaste.”

Sure that the knife was no longer near his throat, Lycaste inched his face around. Envoy—Tagetes—was flanked by his two Asiatic guards, massive and grotesque, all watching Cassiope as she stood by his bed. He turned his face back to her, seeing finally that she had the knife to her own throat now.

She began to cry, the blade trembling at her thin neck. “You say you understand but you
don't
! None of you damn Firstlings do!”

“Drop it,” Envoy Tagetes said, one of the guards advancing slowly towards her, his thick, oddly jointed arms extended and ready. “Drop it and we can forget the whole thing.”

Cassiope hesitated, looking at Lycaste with brimming eyes, and tossed the knife down. She tried to run from the chamber but was intercepted by the second Asiatic, who held her tightly with one great fist.

Lycaste sat up in bed, feeling his neck and watching as Envoy went to her. The Firstling took the dagger handed to him by the guard and looked at it.

“In difficult times like this, the First can't stomach disobedience—I'm sorry, Cassiope.” The girl's eyes widened.

He brought the blade across her exposed neck, left to right. She jerked, legs kicking in the stiffened grip of the guard, her spraying throat gurgling. A whistling sound came from the slit as she tried to draw breath.

Lycaste pulled the covers closer, watching her spasming body, her bulging eyes meeting his. Envoy casually handed the knife back to the guard and turned to Lycaste.