The Red King (38 page)

As he wandered through to the kitchen he had
seen on his first night, he heard pounding at the doors behind him.
He almost laughed, wondering who would call upon this dismal place.
The fate of the last visitors sobered him and he briefly considered
darting to the doors to shout a warning. He could see the glow from
the kitchen fire, though, and that was his goal.

When Andrew entered all movement ceased. Six
servants, male to the last and all as pale as their master, turned
to stare at him with blatant astonishment. The only sounds were the
popping of wood as it burned and the bubbling of something viscous
on the hearth. “My lord needs wine,” Andrew said, speaking as loud
as he could manage. He sounded as he felt, raw and aching.

One of the men stood, dropping both knife and
half-peeled potato. He turned his back to Andrew and moved towards
the corner. He seemed to sink, feet first, into the floor. To
Andrew’s addled mind it was magic and it took him a full minute to
realize there were steps there, leading down. His laugh escaped and
it was brittle and hollow.

The other men returned to their duties
silently and shut out Andrew’s presence. Andrew did not blame them
for that. He paused, considering their bent heads and averted eyes,
Andrew found he did not blame them, at all. They looked as
downtrodden as any slave, as beaten as any dog. The blame for all
of this misery rested on one person’s shoulders. Andrew held that
close, hoped it would help fan the flames of hatred and provide him
strength for what was to come.

Shortly, the first man reappeared with a clay
jug similar to the empty one in Maarten’s quarters. “You go back
now,” he said as he handed his burden over “before he comes to find
you.”

The jug was heavy and Andrew was weak. He had
to wrap both of his shaking arms around it and clutch it close to
his chest. He nodded, gave the man a polite “Thank you” and turned
to go.

There were voices in the great room, in the
far left corner near the doors. Andrew saw Laurent’s back but could
not see to whom the man spoke. He focused instead on keeping his
steps steady and silent. When he swayed, dangerously close to
falling over, he found the grace to move sideways and catch his hip
on a rickety table. As he paused to catch his breath, he heard a
gasp from across the room.

Andrew’s eyes widened when they fell on
Ortega. The man looked shocked, staring at him with disbelief.
There was a tall figure beside him, wrapped in black Arab garb with
his head and face covered by a kufiya. Andrew could determine
neither sex nor age, although the person leaned heavily on a staff.
All he could ascertain was that the hands and skin around the eyes
was pale and that those hands tightened on the staff as they gazed
at each other.

“My apologies…” Andrew began but Laurent flew
at him before he could finish.

“What are you doing?” Laurent hissed, loud
enough to echo off of the stones around them. “Are you mad? Do you
know what will happen if he returns to find you gone?” He took the
wine from Andrew and took one arm in a painful grip.

“The other was empty,” Andrew offered as he
was dragged from the room. “I thought…”

“You do not think here. You await the
Master’s bidding and that is all,” Laurent scolded, angrily. He was
moving too fast for Andrew, who stumbled and fell hard on his
knees. Andrew’s cry bounced throughout the hall.

“Wait, please!” Andrew tried to regain his
balance but was now tangled in his banyan, stepping on the bottom
and landing heavily against the wall.

Laurent’s fingers dug into his arm, sending a
shock of pain when they pressed the bite mark on the inside. “Never
leave the Master’s chambers without him! Never!” Laurent shouted,
shaking Andrew hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“Laurent! Please…just let me…” Andrew begged,
trying to regain his balance and pull the hand from his arm.

“You have to hurry,” the man insisted. He put
his face close to Andrew’s and his eyes showed too much white. The
desperation in his voice sent chills up Andrew’s back.

Quickly, inelegantly, Andrew yanked the ends
of the robe up and wrapped them around his hips. He nodded and
allowed Laurent to haul him towards Maarten’s rooms.

They found the doors closed and the guards at
their stations. Their smirks were the only confirmation
necessary.

The servant knocked. “My lord?”

It took several moments for there to be any
sound from the other side of the door. Andrew took the time to
collect himself, straightening his robe and running shaking fingers
through his unruly hair. He schooled his face into an expression of
apology, readied the words to soothe Maarten’s fury or beg for
forgiveness. The longer they waited the worse his anxiety. He
clenched his hands in his robe and cursed their trembling.

Laurent rapped on the door again. “My lord,
Andrew has brought you wine.” He glanced at Andrew and passed the
jug back to him.

Finally, there was the sound of a bolt being
thrown. One of the doors swung open. “Send him in.”

Andrew looked to Laurent and saw the emotion
in his eyes shuttered away. The guard was sneering as Andrew passed
him. Andrew crossed the threshold slowly and made his way to the
inner room to set down the jug. His fingers were shaking when they
reached for the vial.

He heard Maarten’s voice. “Throw the bolt. I
will call when I am ready to come out.”

Clearing his throat, Andrew forced his tone
to be gentle and warm. “Please forgive me, my lord. I only wished
to see to your comfort.” He reached for the empty goblet from where
Maarten had left it, on its side, on the floor. When he picked it
up, the open vial tipped bottom up into its bowl.

Maarten moved into the room and closed the
door behind him.

Smiling, Andrew poured the wine, watching as
the white powder began to dissolve. He wished he could stir it but
that would give the game away. “Let me give you a drink.”

“Come here.”

Andrew set the jug down too fast, jostling
the table and causing the deep red liquid to slosh over the side of
the goblet. He put his hands flat on the wooden surface, willing it
to stop spilling.

“Now.”

“My lord?” Andrew moved towards him, slowly,
pasting the smile on his face.

Maarten reached for him and took his throat
in one hand. Pulling him close, the man stared down into his eyes.
“This lesson will be taught only once.” Maarten squeezed.

No air could get past Andrew’s throat.

“You will never leave these chambers without
me.”

Andrew nodded, his own hands coming up to
clutch at Maarten’s wrist.

“You will clothe yourself only in what I see
fit to give you.”

Lights were dancing in front of Andrew’s
eyes.

“You will not speak to Laurent, my guards, or
anyone else in this keep.”

Ink had spilled again, clouding his vision.
He dug at Maarten’s fingers, frantically trying to pry them
open.

“Do you hear me?” Maarten shook him and
Andrew felt something twinge in his throat.

No...Not…ready
, Andrew thought, jolted
by the pain blossoming beneath Maarten’s hand, but not enough to
keep the shadows from his vision.

“Do you!” the man roared, striking Andrew
across the face.

Maarten let him fall. Andrew’s first breath
was choked by fluid and he coughed. His mouth flooded with the sour
taste of blood and bile as he retched onto the stone floor.
Maarten’s foot caught him in the stomach, twice, and then came down
on his back. Andrew felt his bladder give way and the hot, stinking
piss soaked into the banyan.

“You will answer me!”

Andrew only vaguely heard the man walk away.
Drink. Please, drink it
, he thought as he struggled against
the darkness threatening.

When he felt hands tearing the clothing from
his back, he tried to crawl from them, to escape. He was stripped
bare and shoved face first back to the floor. There was a weight on
his neck, heavy, painful pressure pushing him into the stones.
Maarten’s foot.

“You will,” he heard the man seethe, “answer
me.”

The crack reached his ears just before the
whip met his flesh.

It was quiet. The
Rovfugl
maintained
the silence that had fallen since it had docked. No one spoke in
the small room, though the rustle of fabric as one of them shifted
in their chair did distract from the one sound that reverberated
off of the close wooden walls.

Shink.

Two of the men looked at each other, not
daring to speak, or ask the third to refrain from his steady
application of stone to sword.

Shink.

The largest of them, so tall and broad he did
not fit in a chair, moved slowly, silently as possible, to stand at
the sharpener’s side. “Enough. Please. It will do the deed.”

Shink.

The two exchanged glances once more,
conversing without words, until the third raised his eyes to glare
at them. They stilled, cowed by the darkly enraged expression on
the man’s face. Their discomfort was palpable, yet they did not
speak again.

Shink.

Footsteps clattered above them, rushing
across the deck to hurry down into the hold. There was a clamor of
snarls and barked insults, drawing closer to where they waited. The
door flung open, allowing entrance to a man in black robes. He
pulled the kufiya from his head, revealing his startlingly silver
hair and shouted, “He lives!”

“You saw him?”

“Yes, Malik, I saw him. He didn’t recognize
me,” Etienne answered, glancing to the man who honed his blade as
he lifted his head to stare, still silent.

Malik dropped to his knees beside him, saying
softly, “Do you hear? He lives,
Ruaidhri
. We are not too
late.” He put his hand out to take the stone from his captain,
gently prying it from bruised fingers.

“Oh, yes, he bloody lives,” Ortega swore,
throwing his cloak into a corner. “He lives, he breathes; he wears
the finest robes to fetch jugs of wine. He walks through the hall
like he is the god damned Prince of Denmark. He was perfectly fine,
healthy and happy.”

“He wasn’t…” Etienne began, shaking his head,
but stopped when Rory’s eyes met his. Rory tipped his head to the
side, as if waiting, so Etienne took a deep breath to continue. “He
seemed dazed. He limped. And he had trouble carrying the jug,
though it did not look like it weighed much.”

“Was Maarten with him?” Rory asked, his voice
rough, low.

“His first words in three days and he asks
about Maarten,” Ortega sneered. “I’d wager your master would
approve,
Ruaidhri
.” In a flash of movement none of them
could have predicted, he was shoved, tripped, and brought to the
floor. The edge of the cutlass pressed to his throat did not stop
his curses. “Get off me, you filthy...”

“Was Maarten with him?” Rory seethed, staring
down at him from his perch atop Ortega’s chest.

“Rory, no, he wasn’t,” Etienne said, pulling
at Rory’s shoulders. “This is not the time.”

“No, there is no time,” Rory said, shoving
his hands away as he stood. He swayed and Etienne caught him again.
“I have to go.”

“Rory, you’re not ready!” Etienne cried.
“You’re still so—”

“
Weak?
” Rory spat. “I’ve strength for
this. By God, I have plenty of strength.” He swung his sword and
brought it down on the chair he had just abandoned, splintering the
wooden slats and the solid seat into shards and pieces. He stared
at each man in turn, then, challenging them, daring them to stop
him. None did.

“Maarten’s first rule for his…
his
pets
; never leave the rooms. If Andrew,” Rory paused,
swallowed, remembering his own lessons. “If Andrew was there
without him, he’ll be punished.”

The last word was whispered. He could barely
speak past the tightness in his throat. No one spoke to
counter.

“I’m going. Malik, Yousef, you know what to
do. Etienne,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the horrified
face of his friend, “take care.”

He left the cabin, ignoring Etienne’s pleas
as the man followed him. He brushed past Ortega’s silent crewman,
not turning to see if his own men were behind him. He knew they
would complete their tasks. Just as he knew he would finish
his.

“You agreed to
my
plan!” Ortega
growled, hurrying to place himself in front of Rory. When the man
made to push past him, Ortega shoved him against the galley wall
and grinned at the pained grunt it brought forth. His smile was
wiped away in a flare of agony when Rory twisted and slammed his
knee into Ortega’s groin.

“Then gather your men and
do it
,” Rory
said from behind clenched teeth. “But my part begins now.” He threw
Ortega from him and continued to the stairs, with Malik and Yousef
close behind.

Rory emerged from below decks into the cold
night air. The icy wind set his wounded body to aching but cleared
his mind. His only goal was to enter the keep and bring Andrew out
of it. Anyone who stood in his way would see his face and feel his
sword as they died. He led his shortened crew across the plank,
nodded first to Yousef, who saluted his captain with a murderous
gleam in his eyes and set off for the fallen walls to the south,
then to Malik, who grinned and stepped forward.

Malik took the lead. His size allowed for
Rory to stay hidden as he kept close while they approached the
keep. In his cloak, with the voluminous hood pulled to cover his
face, the man surely resembled
Chernobog
, the accursed Black
God of the old
Vendere
stories Maarten once told him. When
he pounded on the great doors on the north side, facing the dock
where the ship was moored, Rory could have sworn he felt the wood
beneath his feet tremble.