The Red King (23 page)

“My intent was to show you this,” Rory said,
setting the gem aside and lifting a small, glass vial. It contained
several small round brown seeds. “Do you know what these are?” At
Andrew’s negative head shake, he continued. “They are hemlock
seeds.”

“The killer of Socrates,” Andrew said,
softly.

“A few will send you to the sick room for
days, more and you face painful death,” Rory said, laying them in
front of Andrew.

Andrew’s voice was steady, no tremor or
hesitation. “Is this what I will use to kill him?”

“I want to tell you everything, first,” Rory
said.

“Rory, I don’t need…”

“I promised you, Andrew, and it is owed.”

Andrew quieted, took a deep breath and
nodded. “All right.”

Rory rested his elbows on the table. “I told
you the beginning; the raid, my capture, some of my early days.
When I tell you that there was some pleasure I did not lie. Maarten
kept me as a sort of pet, something to train and show off. He
dressed me in rich garments of velvet and silk. I learned to read,
write, dance,” he quirked a little smile at Andrew’s raised brows.
“He had aspirations of courtliness.”

“I had a room, adjacent to his, which he
filled with such luxury as a young man I could not imagine. My bed
was finely appointed and there were chairs, a desk, even a commode.
I had books, maps, games and all manner of toys. Even as I grew he
brought the gifts. They became more elaborate, things he had stolen
from other countries, other lives. I cherished each and every
one.”

“It’s a strange thing to be a slave, Andrew,
to have your very life in the hands of another. Whether he stole me
or not, he became my very existence. His happiness was all that
mattered, for it was in his melancholy that my worst days would
come. When he felt well he was playfully hurtful, only pushing so
far as to make the pleasure that much more sharp. Those moments
were exquisite.”

Rory rested, looking away from Andrew’s wide,
sympathetic eyes. “I would have some of that wine…”

“One moment,” Andrew said, and he quickly
rose and left the room. Shortly, he returned, carrying one of the
casks and a cup. He cut the cork with his knife and poured a
healthy draught.

After Rory drained it he wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand and continued. “When his spirits would suffer
he wanted to make the world suffer with him. I was his slave,
trained to offer whatever I could to ease him.” Andrew opened his
mouth but Rory stopped him. “I would say all of it, first, please.”
Andrew nodded.

“Maarten started with the whips. You have no
idea how many kinds there are, truly. When my back was bruised and
bloody, he would throw vinegar on me. It was like being burned by
the hottest fire and though it did nothing more than burn, it
always seemed to be the worst part. I still bear the scars, for the
lash’s kiss does not fade.”

“He moved to knives, as you can see by the
patterns fading on my skin. I feared he might kill me, but he lost
interest in those fairly quickly. He had found a new toy. It was a
phallus, made of wood and wrapped in leather, huge and ugly. When
he became maudlin, he would…use it on me. Or make me use it myself.
It hurt more than anything I had ever felt, like being ripped
apart.”

Andrew poured another cup of wine, taking a
sip from it before he passed it to Rory.

“There ceased to be any sort of pleasure. He
only wanted pain now and not always mine. There was more than just
the serving girl. He would make me fellate him while watching as
they were whipped, burned, or cut. One time he brought his own
guards in to take turns with a little girl. Then he gave me to them
and they plowed me until I was unconscious. On another, a slave
caught stealing had his hands cut off. All of this in Maarten’s
quarters, in the rooms I was confined to day after day. After a
while the smell of blood would not be washed away and the sounds of
screams would never leave me.”

Andrew was shaking and pale. Rory handed him
the cup. When Andrew had refilled it Rory gently pushed it towards
him, “Drink it.”

Andrew gulped it down and poured another. His
eyes were red and glazed with tears when he next spoke. “When
did…when did you escape?”

“I told you of the boy, the one he killed
because I would not participate in his torture. That night he
nearly killed me, too, beating me with the leg of a chair, giving
me this,” he pointed to a scar above his lip, mostly hidden by his
mustache but still visible. “When I woke I thought my lip was cut
clean through. I was left in the dungeon for a month. When he
finally brought me out he only stared at me as if I disgusted him.
I probably did, seeing as I hadn’t bathed or even changed my
clothes since he sent me away. My face was still battered. I could
only cry and beg him to take me back, to allow me to be his servant
once again, but he sent me out into the cold. The first time in
thirteen years I had been outside the keep.”

“I was put on a ship, in the brig, and taken
to Algiers where I was sold. We had been unfed on the journey,
nearly a fortnight on nothing but a few crusts of bread and very
little water, and I was so weak I could do nothing but sit there
and watch the smith bolt the irons to my hands and feet.”

Another cup of wine passed between them.
Andrew was more composed, no longer threatening tears but still
distressed. “I know some of this, how you refused to eat and forced
your hands and feet through the shackles,” he said.

Rory nodded. “I don’t really know how long I
was there, maybe six weeks. At the end of it I decided to die. I
wanted it to end, either by starvation or murder, it made no matter
to me. I was whipped, but I believed nothing they could do was
worse than I had already felt. I thought that until they killed my
bench mate. He actually thanked me as he died.”

“My God,” Andrew whispered, shuddering.

“One of the crew, not the one who had killed
him but the one who would wield the cruelest whip, spit on his
corpse. I felt something. I felt anger, true fury like I had never
known. Feeling it after so long, after years…it gave me an unholy
strength. When they left, leaving the dead man beside me, I set to
the shackles. My hands were skinned as I pulled them free. My feet
I forced, smashing them with my fist until I could fold them, fit
them through.”

“How did you walk? How did you do what they
say you did?”

Rory smiled and there was a shadow of his
vicious wrath. “Unholy strength, Andrew; I did not feel anything
except their throats tearing and bleeding in my hands, their bodies
breathing their last. I killed twenty men that night. The rest
locked themselves in the brig to escape me. They called me a demon,
a
jinn
summoned to avenge those they had wronged, and they
were right. I found the cruelty Maarten sought from me that night.
He succeeded, in the end.”

Andrew looked ill.

Rory let him sit in silence. Let him absorb
the story completely. The emotions playing across his youthful face
ranged from pity to anger to disgust. There was pain there, too,
and a bitter sort of acknowledgment that drove him to pour another
cup of wine. He took a drink, sniffed, and collected himself to
speak.

“When I first saw you,” he began, meeting
Rory’s gaze, “you were like something from a dream. The sun was
behind you…it looked as if you were on fire, like one of God’s
angels come down to smite the wicked.” He gave a small smile and
looked away. “Perhaps you were.”

Rory was stunned. This was not the reaction
he expected.

“You were careful with me, at every turn.
Never once did you hurt me, even when I think you wanted to,”
Andrew continued. “Yet you did not treat me as a child. You spoke
to me fairly, respectfully, and only asked for that in return. You
tested my strengths, challenged my skills, but you treated me as an
equal.”

Pausing, he took another drink and filled the
cup again. He offered it to Rory, who took it and said, “You
accused me of thinking you a simpleton on more than one
occasion.”

Andrew smiled again, a quick flash of teeth
that was gone when he spoke next. “That was after we altered the
nature of our relationship.”

Rory nodded and drank the wine. This was
unfolding in a curious, astonishing manner.

“Even then, through the anger and suffering
after Fleming’s death, you chose not to hurt me. I do think you
wanted to, that you believed it would lift the pain to deal some of
your own. ‘Make the world suffer with you’, as it were,” Andrew
said, softly. “You gave me more than one chance to leave. I’ve yet
to regret staying.”

“You saved my life, Andrew. Acklie’s pistol
was aimed at my heart.”

“That wouldn’t have stopped a lesser man if
he were as aggrieved as you. Most would do what they pleased with
me, simply attribute it to the nature of humanity and the world
would nod in agreement. You took your pleasure, aye, but you were
conscious of my own, and have so remained.”

Rory looked away from him, discomfited.

“You teach me something new every day. More
than the fighting, or the ship, or the other, more sensual lessons,
you teach me how to live with the horror of living,” Andrew
said.

“I’m teaching you to be a whore and a
murderer,” Rory said, softly.

“And I am your willing pupil. Do you truly
think I would stay if I didn’t want to?”

“You asked me that before,” Rory reminded
him, pushing the empty cup back to Andrew.

“You did not answer.” Andrew filled the cup
and slid it back, but it stayed between them, untouched.

“I think that you are led by your desires and
that my teaching has clouded your reason,” Rory declared, looking
into Andrew’s eyes.

Andrew drew back as if offended. “Am I your
slave then? Do you hold my life in your hands?”

Not knowing how to answer this, Rory took the
wine. “In a manner of speaking,” he muttered before drinking.

“I was under the impression that I had passed
your test,” Andrew said, his voice both bitter and amused. He
leaned closer again, elbows on the table. “Rory, if I were slave to
my desires I would’ve stayed with Etienne. His vast education would
have surely satisfied any yearning I may have had, many times over.
I am not a slave.”

That bit of information raised Rory’s ire,
but he kept silent and drank his wine.

“What I am,” Andrew continued, “Is certain
that Maarten needs to be stopped. His corruption has touched enough
lives. If that means murder, I gladly submit to bear that guilt if
it will save another family of innocents. If it means whoring…at
least I have a proper teacher.”

Rory scowled at the insult, but accepted the
truth of it. “You once told me you won’t kill just to please
me.”

“I will not do it to please you. I’ll do it
because it needs to be done.” Andrew tilted his head, his eyes
narrowing. “Is that what this is about? You think I agreed because
of some misguided devotion, just to make you happy? This must some
ruse, another test, yet I cannot determine the point of it.”

“I promised you my story,” Rory told him,
meeting his angry stare.

Andrew took a deep breath. “Yes, you tell me
your story now; relate the awfulness of your life to me as if you
read it from a book, yet I have seen it before me. I’ve heard the
pain in your voice and seen the terror in your eyes as you relive
it. Still you look at me as if you expect me to…what? Turn from
you? You expect my feelings towards you to change.”

“How can they not?”

“You say you killed twenty men; how many did
you save? How many more have you saved since that night?” Andrew
asked, more calmly. “If what you seek is to drive me away, this is
not the way to do it.”

“I seek to protect you!” Rory shouted,
slamming the wooden cup down on the table. “Andrew, do you not see?
Maarten is going to hurt you!”

“That is the plan, isn’t it? Isn’t that why I
am running for miles, swinging a stick at a tree, learning to
fight? So that I can escape after the deed is done?”

Rory pressed his lips together. He picked up
the vial of seeds and held them in front of Andrew’s face. “It is a
suicide mission. There is no way that you, or anyone, would be able
to slay Maarten in his own keep and escape. These,” he said, giving
them a little shake, “are to prevent the murderer from facing
painful execution.”

Andrew looked at the seeds and back at his
face. “You’re sending me to die?”

“It was,” Rory confessed, “the original
plan.” They stared at each other. He set the vial back down.

Pale faced, stricken, Andrew asked, “Did all
of you; you and Fleming and Etienne, did you all know that you were
sending me to die?”

“No. That is my addition. They know, but they
don’t understand the pervasiveness of Maarten’s evil. I do. It was
my contingency to prevent further pain,” Rory said. “They believed
it would be possible to leave, to fight your way free. I didn’t see
how it could hurt for you to learn but in the end it would have
made no difference.”

Before Rory could say or do anything else,
Andrew was on his feet. He flew at Rory and struck him across the
face. It was not a powerful blow, but it surprised Rory enough that
Andrew was able to hit him again. “How long were you going to
wait?” Andrew shouted at him.

Rory recovered his wits and had Andrew pinned
against the wall in the blink of an eye. Andrew fought briefly, but
there was no more heart for the fight. “I don’t know. Truth be
told, I wasn’t sure I was ever going to tell you.”

“Then why tell me now?” Andrew asked through
his clenched teeth.

His hands loosened on Andrew’s arms but did
not release. Staring down into Andrew’s eyes, bright with tears and
pain and accusation, Rory answered, “Because I can’t allow it to
continue.”