The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (29 page)

Bonus Short Story:

The House of Dreams

The
essence of dreams, the stark reality that makes the mind doubt what is real and
what is not, is the suspension of disbelief. For a time, most often whilst
asleep but sometimes while the dreamer sits with a mug of ale, or a glass of
fine wine, time is forgotten and a moment can seem drawn long and pulled out of
shape. With a smoke wheel burning, a man might hallucinate and see his lost
wife, a child he never had, or in a darker moment his own death come to him
with a blade in hand and steely teeth bared in a snarl.

            Perhaps,
you might think, a dream will come true. A daydream, holding the local
barmaid’s full breast in one hand while your wife is forgotten. A dream of a
young princess, sullied by your attentions in a deserted hallway, hallowed
ground of royalty and your body terse with excitement while your imagine your
hands drifting over forbidden flesh…even the evil have daydreams.

            But
daydreams our not our concern for they do not come true.

            Daydreams,
sweet dreams. These are not our dreams. Our dreams lurk in the night. They
haunt the sullen hours when the moon does not shine and we forget that
starlight comes from other suns than ours.

            Ours
are the dreams that another gives us…the sneak illusions of the vampire…the
befuddled mind…the glamour that covers the approaching stench of decay.

The
nightmare. That is our province tonight.

*

Shawford
Crale knelt on the hard floor and took a fine brush and palette from his
manservant.    His servant stood ready behind his master holding a lamp for
better light while Crale painted. He began with a circle. It was a perfect
circle, drawn by hand.

            He
painted a pattern of intricate design within the circle.

            An
hour later and dusk had fled.

            'Night
comes, my lord.'

            'I
feel it, too. It is time. I must begin the incantations. You know what to do.'

            'A
courtesan, this time?'

            'No,
I have a taste for the seedy tonight. A wench, I think. One that nobody will
miss.'

            'As
you will,' said the manservant. He turned without a further word and left the
dining hall.

            Shawford
Crale sprinkled sand on the design to dry the paint. Then he placed a chair
within the circle and took a sip from the wine glass that was beside him on the
cold stone floor. He took a steadying breath and began to chant. It was not
easy, conjuring demons, and they were ever hungry. But he paid the price in
blood and they were sated.

            The
rewards, though…they were considerable. His returning youth and new found
wealth that came with the foreknowledge to play the markets. He was fast
becoming an immensely wealthy man. A man to be reckoned with, even though
Ulbridge was just a small town…one day it would be bigger. Perhaps he would
even take to the wider world.

            The
price? Blood. As always.

            But
never his.

*

A
cockaril crowed the evening call over Ulbridge, signalling nightfall, if not
bedtime for some. On the King’s Row sots walked wearily from their day time
lives to drown their sorrows in their cups. Wives wiped evening meals from
careless children’s mouths. Careless children pulled their covers high,
snuggled into their pallets and straw mattresses. Horsehair, for the few.

            On
Sunday Street in the Pauper’s Green a small child pulled a rare book from under
her covers and brought her candle closer to the bed. She had read the story
cover to cover since her mother bought her the book. She knew they could ill
afford books, but she loved her mother for the expense and the thought. It was
the most beautiful story she had ever read.

It
was called a ‘fairytale’, her mother had told her. There was a Lord in it, and
he took a pauper’s widow for his wife, and her daughter for his own.

            It
was her favourite story, but this night she felt restless.

            The
front door closed quietly as her mother left her once again for the night. The
little girl wished her mother safe from harm.

            Her
mother joined her neighbour. Together they walked the streets. They walked from
Sunday Street along the canal, hitching their skirts high as they stepped over
a puddle on the canal way. They would be hitching their skirts aplenty tonight.

            A
short walk later, a kiss for good luck, and Ellisindre stood alone under a
lamplight. It was early yet, for a courtesan. But she had no illusions. She was
no Lord’s filly, bought with a ruby and a smile. She would not be spending the
night perfumed and drunk on fine wines. She was a common whore. A penny and she
would perform, for the fat and toothless, for the rough and shy. For old men
angry with their dirks for their rusty steel, young men drunk in their cups
thinking of their wives in distant cities or perhaps a lazy walk away on a
different street.

            A
man walked by and she swung her hips to one side and pulled her skirt to show
an ankle.

            '’tis
early yet, love', said the man with a kind smile, unusual for most. 'Perhaps
later, if I have the time.'

            She
smiled back and shrugged sadly. He moved on and the street fell quiet. It was
too early for most gents, but she worked a full night. She was no stranger to
hard work. And it was hard work. But she could earn no more working the fields
or sweeping the Thane’s manor. Pulling mugs of ale for the drunk? No longer.
Perhaps, had her life taken a different turn…but not now. Not now they knew her
for what she was.

            And
what of her, when she grew too old to turn an eye with her ankle and too old to
turn a trick?

            Another
man walked past and ignored her a little too forcibly. Too good for her, he
thought, now he was sober. But she was a good judge. He’d be back after he’d
sunk a few and was perhaps one or two to the good.

            She
shivered and pulled her shawl round her neck tighter. She could drop it an inch
or two when the next gent came a-by, but she felt the chill more than usual
tonight. She looked up through the lamplight to gauge the stars, but there was
nought to see but a low bank of cloud moving down. Fine luck and an ill night
for work. Fog rolling down from the sky and in from the lakes. A dangerous
night for a girl on the streets.

            And
a poor one for working. She could hardly bark her wares out loud on the street.
Fog would hide her from her gents and dampen their ardour. No one wanted to be
out in the fog. Men were a superstitious lot. Creatures prowled the night in
the fog. It bred stories like a man bred children.

            It
was coming in fast. Coming down the street. A dark, starless night and damp fog
a-rolling.

            Madal’s
horns, an ill night for her kind of work.

            The
taverns down the street were growing in noise. On a night like tonight she
wished she could afford to give a percentage of her takings on a licence. Then
she could work the back rooms of the taverns. Work in comfort…well, at least
the warm. But she could not afford a groat, let alone a penny.

            An
hour passed slowly, muffled carousing coming from down the street and across the
cobblestones. Occasionally she heard a boot heel walking unevenly through the
deadening fog, a gent passing by on the other side of the canal, unaware of her
and another penny passing her by.

            Each
time she heard footsteps in the distance she cursed her luck.

            Her
little girl was sickening. The priest could do little and her daughter
shrivelled in the light, becoming a creature of the dark like her. She had
tried all that she could think of and it had availed her little. The poor child
withered like a dry shrub, like she had at the age of thirty after she had
birthed the child and her no good husband had sold her to the street for a
mercenary’s life on the border and, no doubt, a stream of women he could buy
for a penny and feel no guilt about.

            She
turned tricks for a penny and her husband was off paying others a penny for
what she had given him for free.

            Useless
bastard. She could ill afford to lose the business. If he’d paid her a penny
for all the times she’d spread her legs for free…

            Well.
Perhaps her daughter would not have sickened the way she had. Perhaps she had
some unheard of pox she’d passed to her daughter. There was more guilt in her
head than she knew.

            In
many ways she was a simple woman. She’d paid the priest with all she had to
offer. Every penny she had, and then with every ounce of her flesh. And still
her daughter sickened.         He came back still, but she was simple, not
stupid. He didn’t come back for her daughter but for her.

            If
he knew the sickness was in her, too, perhaps he would be a little less eager.

            She
sighed and puffed in the chill air, fog swirling around her breath. Her hair
was damp and lank on her cheeks. All that time curling it as was the fashion
among the high class courtesans. Who did she think she was?

            A
waste of time, she thought, as the sounds of a horse clopping along the cobbled
streets came to her. Some lord slumming it tonight, she thought…the horse came
nearer, its location unclear in the fog. She could not tell how near or far it
was. She chanced to hope…perhaps the lord would pass her way and throw her a
silver for a roll along the canal bank.

            Fog
curled in the murk and a black horse came into view.

            Ellisindre
forced a smile onto her pale face and pushed her hip out, her hand resting on
the swell, her skirt hitched.

            The
rider came close and looked down at her. His cloak was dark and hung loose over
the horse’s flanks. His head was covered by a low hat, the brim pulled down to
hide his eyes.

            A
fine cloak, she calculated. A silver, at least.

            'Good
evening, my Lord. A sad night to be alone, for sure…'

            'Save
your wiles, my love. My master requires a woman’s company tonight, and you will
suffice. A gold piece for the journey, and one for the work.'

            Two
gold!

            'I’m
game. To where, my Lord?'

            'Just
a squire, whore. I’ve no time for your games. Get astride the horse and shut
your mouth. You can open it later for my master if you like, but I’ll not
suffer you to sully me. Come or as not, it makes no difference to me.'

            He
held out his hand.

            She
was no stranger to men with ire at her, for what she never knew. Perhaps they
hated her for what she was. Mayhap they hated her for what they were.

            She
did not care. For two gold he could call her all the names under the moon. She
took his hand and pulled herself up.

*

On
Sunday Street the little girl wheezed and coughed. She put her book down and
listened in the night. In the distance she heard a horse clipping down the
street…two streets over, she judged. Riding heavy.

            She
did not know how she knew these things she did. She was more awake this night
than she had ever been when she had known the kiss of the sun.

            She
worried for her mother. She worried for herself. No longer could she take the
sun. Her hands were weak but her eyes were strong. Even in the flickering
candlelight she could make out the picture that hung on the wall, hung there by
the priest. The priest who had used her mother in the other room while she was
supposed to sleep.

            She
did not know how she felt about that. But she could feel something…something
indefinable. A pull. She’d felt it for about a week now. She didn’t know what
it was.

            Tonight
it was strong. The night was calling her.

            The
horse’s hooves clapped on the stone perhaps two streets over. For some reason
she felt she should see what the ruckus was. She’d never seen a horse. Her
mother wouldn’t be back until the dawn’s first light…she’d never know.

            The
little girl pulled open the window and hied herself over the windowsill into
the night. Her bare feet slapped on the uneven stone and she walked slowly
toward the sound of the trotting horse.

            Revelling
in the smells of the night and the smooth refreshing feel of the silken fog on
her skin, she roamed the night. She walked by a man taking a piss in the canal,
the steady splash beside her. She was silent for a moment, then passed on. In
the fog, she was invisible.