House of Lust (21 page)

Vosgaris was not going that far; he was looking for the machine shop, and found it.  The doors were open and inside a diminutive elderly man was sweeping the floor, brushing out sawdust and other detritus.  “Stay outside, don’t let anyone else in while I’m talking to the proprietor,” Vosgaris ordered his two guards.

The elderly man looked up in alarm as the captain’s shadow fell across him.  He had a bruised face and a cut forehead, half healed.  Vosgaris leaned against one of the stout wooden lathes.  “You are Rakinn the wood turner?”

“Who are you?” the elderly man replied.

“Someone who has met the same gentleman as you, with similar results.”

“Klimat.”

“If that’s his name, then yes.  I was a special guest of his a night or two ago.  Warned me to leave Turslenka.”

Rakinn eyed the insignia on Vosgaris’ upper arms and chest.  “You are the emperor’s man?  Klimat hurt you?”

“He did, which is why I’m eager to make his acquaintance again.  I reason he’s no friend of yours, and if I can find him I’ll remove him from your life – and mine.”

Rakinn laughed deeply and scratchily, his lungs crackling.  “You think you’ll stop them from trying to put me out of business for not joining their guild by removing their chief enforcer?  Hah!  They’ll have his replacement lined up in no time.  You’re wasting your time.”

“I’m not bothered with the guild – I just want this man’s hide.  Where can I find him?”

“The guild won’t let you touch him without punishing you – even if you are the emperor’s man.  You’re dabbling with danger, Captain.”

“Let me worry about that – what will it matter to you?  Whoever they employ they’ll still bully you.  Anyway, why are they picking on you specifically?  I would have thought they’re not that bothered with one trader.”

Rakinn leaned on the pole of the brush.  “I make good quality furniture, and the guild wanted to buy me out since I won’t join them, then they began threatening me.  Same happened to two others in my trade elsewhere.  One died, the other left after his daughter was set upon, had her hair shaved off and left naked in the street.  Nobody said anything, nobody saw anything, nobody did anything.”

Vosgaris was shocked.  “The governor did nothing?”

“The governor doesn’t want to know – not that anyone was brave enough to go against the guild, anyway.”

“Carpenters’ Guild, or Masons’ Guild?”

“Carpenters’ – the Masons are nothing to do with what I do.  There are some new types running it these days, nasty types.  You won’t find them, of course, they’re out of the way, pulling strings from afar, giving people like Klimat a job in the first place, then allowing him to have plenty of free reign to make sure everyone does as they’re told.”

Vosgaris folded his arms.  “So what if I take this enforcer out along with his boys, and give the guild leaders to the emperor?”

Rakinn cackled again.  “You can try – others have failed and this bag of wind Olskan who runs this cesspool of a city turns a blind eye.  The only time he stirs from his rutting room is when his own rule is threatened, then he acts worse than any enforcer.”  The wood turner spat in disgust on the floor.

“Well I’m not the governor.  I’m a soldier, and I want blood.  Give me that pile of shit Klimat – it’s the least you deserve to be put out of his clutches.”

“Ah what the heck, sure.  Makes no difference to me.  He’ll be carousing this time of day at the Dockside Tavern.  Watch out for him, though, he’s got some hefty types with him.  They spend the mornings there getting courage in their bellies, then go round the day’s list of people to intimidate in the afternoon.”

Vosgaris pushed himself away from the lathe.  “Thank you.  I’ll take care of this Klimat so he’ll never bother you again.  Good day.”

Rakinn snorted.  “You’ll need a bit of luck; he’s protected at high levels.”

“So am I, wood turner,” the captain said as he left, waving the two others to follow him.  They retraced their steps to the town square, then turned south towards the docks where the district turned rougher and the people more sullen.  The smell of the sea came to them as they approached, and before they knew it they were close to the harbour, where a number of fishing vessels were moored.

“Wonder if any of those belong to the Mirrodan?” Vosgaris asked himself.  He looked about.  There were warehouses and stalls, the harbour master’s office, people bartering for goods, buyers, sellers and a few onlookers.  To the left stood a shabby tavern, a wooden construction that may once long ago have been clean and white, but now was dingy, filthy and covered in growth.  “Stick close to me,” Vosgaris said and loped over to the doorway.

A man lounged against the doorway and looked the captain up and down insolently.  “What’s your business here, pretty boy?”

Vosgaris grabbed him by the throat and threw him aside.  The man slid across some ordure lying in the gutter of the road and swore loudly and violently as he got to his feet, stinking foully.  By the time he looked around the three men had vanished into the tavern.

Vosgaris stood looking about the main room.  Patrons sat at chipped wooden circular tables, some hidden by beams that held up the roof.  His eyes settled on a group of men in the far corner.  No others looked like ruffians and men capable of wielding swords.  He pushed through the mass of people, nudging some out of the way, attracting dark looks and muttered curses, but the two following him with their swords very much in evidence stilled any thought of rising up to deal with the rude-mannered man.

“Good morning,” Vosgaris announced his arrival at the table with the five men.  One, the man in the centre, a big, bushy-haired man with thick eyebrows and a long nose, glared up at him.  Vosgaris smiled cheerily.  “I thought I’d come and join you gentlemen for an early morning quaff and share ribald tales of dragging people in off the streets and subjecting them to a thorough beating.”

“You’re brave to be here, you fool,” the bushy-haired man growled.  Vosgaris nodded; the voice matched that of the man who had assaulted him the other night.

“This time, Klimat, I’m not a play-thing for you and your sadists to kick around the room.”  He planted a boot on the edge of the table and pushed with all his might.  The table went up and deposited the entire contents over the men, mostly Klimat, and sent him toppling against the wall, the upended table pinning him there for a moment.

Vosgaris and his two men spread out, swords at the ready.

There came a mass scraping of chairs and the rest of the patrons rushed to the door to get out.  Two of the five ruffians got to their feet, the ones on either end.  Vosgaris nodded to Arkanin and Hendros.  “Kill them, they’re unimportant.”

The clash of steel filled the room.  As the fight went on, the table was pushed angrily back and Klimat rose, roaring in fury.  The two others with him scrambled to their feet, dripping ale from their clothing.

“You’re gonna die for this, emperor’s lickspittle!” Klimat growled.

Hendros slashed down across his opponent’s chest and the man staggered back, hitting a beam, then slowly fell to the ground.  One of the two dripping ale came at him, sword high.  Vosgaris met the other’s attack, parrying the first slash, one aimed at his neck.  The captain countered, bringing his blade close to his own neck, then slashing hard.  The ruffian blocked the blow.

Klimat waded in, pushing the man out of the way.  “Go kill the other fool, this one’s mine!” he said.  Klimat jabbed for Vosgaris’ chest, stepping over the now upturned table.  Pieces of broken mug crunched underfoot.  Vosgaris backed away, wanting space.  To one side Arkanin now had to face two men, but they were getting in each other’s way.  Hendros battled with the other man.

Klimat stepped towards Vosgaris, his face a twisted mask of hatred.  “You’re going to regret coming to Turslenka.”  He wielded his broadsword, bringing it down hard, aiming to slice the captain in two.

Vosgaris smashed aside the blow and he cut up inside the reach of the ruffian leader.  Klimat took the thrust in the shoulder and gasped, staggering back.  With a moment’s grace, Vosgaris turned to his left and slammed his blade down into the neck of one of the two taking on Arkanin.  The man clutched his spurting neck, looked wild-eyed at the roof, then fell slowly to the stained floor.

Hendros cut his opponent down but Arkanin received a blow to the ribs, cutting through his light leather padding.  As Arkanin went down, Hendros came across and ran the ruffian through the back.  Now only Klimat remained, and he was holding a bloodied shoulder.  He grimaced and came again, but pain and his injury interfered with his timing.  His blow slammed into the floorboards and Vosgaris sent his pommel up into the man’s chin, laying him out.

The harsh breathing of the survivors was the only sound now to be heard.  “Go see if he’s alright,” Vosgaris motioned to Arkanin, sitting against a beam, his face screwed up in pain.  Hendros bent to examine his comrade while Vosgaris stepped up to the prone Klimat.  “Well, my friend, it’s my turn to entertain you at my abode.”

Vosgaris waited for Thetos and Metila to go to the dungeon beneath the governor’s residence.  Klimat had been there for two days now, and Vosgaris was getting jumpy, for the emperor would be arriving on the morrow and everything hinged on Klimat telling them who it was he was working for.  Klimat had stubbornly refused to talk, and Thetos had oddly refrained from using pain to extract information from him.

Vosgaris wasn’t exactly keen to do so but he saw no other way.  Thetos had smiled and held up a finger.  “Ah, young Captain,” he had said, “there are ways to torture someone without touching them.”  He had looked at Metila who had smiled back, but her expression sent chills down Vosgaris’ back.

Now, Thetos had decided it was time.  Metila had spent most of the day in her room, chanting, rustling about, the door to her room shut.   Vosgaris had checked that Arkanin was comfortable, and he was on the mend after Metila had briefly tended him.  When Vosgaris has asked why she hadn’t cured him completely, she had scornfully replied she was not a wet-nurse to children; she had stopped his bleeding and now, she had said, nature should take its course.

Thetos had passed a few instructions to the gaolers beneath the residence, and he had been assured that the prisoner was fully prepared.  Vosgaris was now pacing up and down Thetos’ room, glancing every so often at Metila’s door.  “What in the name of Kastan is she doing, Governor?”

“What do we men know of women?” Thetos replied.  “I don’t ask and even if I got a reply, I’d doubt I’d understand it.”  He chuckled.  “She’ll be out in a moment, you’ll see.”

“The emperor is arriving tomorrow, Governor – he’s going to have my innards stretched across the Storma if I haven’t got a name for him!”

“Stop fussing, Captain – Metila will do her best to get the information from our guest.”

Vosgaris made a disgusted noise and threw himself into an empty chair.  He tapped his fingers on his knee and kept on switching his attention from an unconcerned Thetos to the door to Metila’s room.  Suddenly the door opened and both men stood up.  Metila glided into the room, there was no other way to describe it.  She was dressed in the darkest black outfit possible, a long cloak fastened at the throat, and on her head a skull cap of the same colour.  Her eyes were lined with black and her lips were black.  Her skin, though, seemed to glow, but Vosgaris wasn’t sure whether that was due to the lighting or from something she had put on.

He gaped.  Thetos merely raised an eyebrow; living with the witch he’d become used to seeing some really weird and outlandish things, although he himself had to admit she was looking fairly special this evening.

The woman came up to them and looked up.  “I ready.  Need tray in there carried.  You,” she pointed to Vosgaris who saw that her nails were long and curled and again, black, “carry them carefully.  No drop, no spill.”

Vosgaris nodded, swallowing.  There was something – frightening – about her.  He saw a tray on a small chair and picked it up, staring at the cups, bowls and bottles of some kind of liquid.  Potions?  His mind briefly went to the drug she had given him, but he thought it odd that she would do that to torture someone.

No, it would be something else.  He followed the two out of the main room, Thetos holding Metila’s hand high.  He had the sudden realisation that Thetos was not the one in charge; she was.  That diminutive, pseudo-slave was the chief.  He puffed his cheeks out.  He certainly didn’t wish to upset the witch – no doubt she’d do something to him in no time that would have him writhing in agony or jabbering like a fool.  He felt a pang of fear – maybe she was really powerful like the legends said?  No, if she was, she would have done something really awful by now.

The corridor to the right ended in the entrance to the servants’ wing, but just on the corner there was a guarded door, the entrance to the dungeons.  They were allowed entry by the guard and passed through the normally locked stout iron-banded wooden door.  A flight of stone stairs led down and they descended, their path lit by flickering torches set in iron brackets in the walls.

Down they went, then along a straight passageway with a floor of straw.  It smelt damp, so the straw would soak up the moisture.  To the left and right were cell doors, and guards stood on duty, making sure nothing untoward happened.  The gaoler greeted them and assured them that the prisoner was ready in the room at the end.

Thetos warned all to stay out of the room on pain of death.  All bowed and remained where they were.  The door at the end was ajar, and Thetos pushed it open, allowing Metila to enter the room first.

Vosgaris came in last and Thetos indicated he was to put the tray down on a small side table by the door.  The captain did so, then shut the door and stood by it, looking at the tableau in front of him. 

It was a torture chamber, no doubt about that.  In the centre was a large wooden table with iron manacles on it, and firmly held in this on his back, wrists and ankles pinned, was Klimat.  “Well hello, Klimat,” Thetos said, walking up to him, scratching his cheek with his large hook.  “How do you like our hospitality?”

“Go to the pit of fire,” Klimat growled.  He was looking at Metila as he spoke, for he’d never seen her before, although he knew who she was.  She smiled briefly and circled him, looking him over.  “What is this?” Klimat demanded.  “What is she doing?”

“Oh, making sure you’re comfy, no doubt.  I have no idea what she’s going to do to you, but as you know, we want to know who you’re working for and why.  You know why we want to know, too, I’ll wager, so let’s save time and effort and you tell us now.”

“Not a chance, Governor.  I’d be slaughtered.  You’ll have to waste your time.”

Metila drew in a deep breath and nodded.  “I ready.  Make sure no entry,” she pointed to Vosgaris.  “What you see here you never tell anyone, yes?”

“S-Sure,” Vosgaris said, a tremor in his voice.  This was getting really scary.  “I promise.”

“And you, too,” she said to Thetos.

“You know I wouldn’t,” Thetos said, stroking her face.  Metila smiled, a brief expression that made Vosgaris’ heart skip, then her coldness descended again.

“So, begin!” she said and spun round.  Even though she was small in stature, the height of the table meant that Klimat could see from her stomach upwards, and now she theatrically undid the throat clasp and the cloak fell to the ground, revealing her naked save for a small – and inevitably black – loin cover.  Vosgaris couldn’t help but let his eyes rove over her lithe figure. 
Oh by the gods, I’d have her right now,
he thought to himself. 

Metila stepped up to Klimat, and mounted the table, moving sensually onto the prisoner.  His eyes bulged, following in the main her pert, jiggling breasts.  She noted his attention and straddled him, her thighs either side of his ribs.  “You want?” she purred, rubbing her breasts.  “You wish love?”

“Governor – she’s a whore,” Klimat said, tearing his eyes off her.  “You stupid man, thinking I’ll tell all just for a hump!”

Metila laughed softly.  “No hump.  You tell soon.”  She clicked her fingers authoritatively.  Thetos nodded to Vosgaris.  “The tray.”

Vosgaris lifted the tray and brought it over to her.  Metila studied the contents, then picked up a cup and a bottle, and placed them by the side of Klimat.  Everyone watched, fascinated, as she poured some of the contents of the bottle into the cup.  She smiled at Klimat again and put the bottle down, then selected another bottle.  She carefully allowed two drops of this to fall into the cup, then put the second bottle down.  Now she reached for a bowl and picked out a few crushed seeds, dropping them into the cup. 

Smoke began rising in wisps, and she put the cup down.  “Stand back,” she commanded Vosgaris who did so with alacrity.    He watched as she repeated the process with a second cup and placed this on the other side of Klimat.  Smoke was rising more rapidly now, not thickly, but with a smell that Vosgaris found vaguely discomforting.  He stepped right back to the door, Thetos next to him.  They exchanged looks, then resumed their fascinated vigil.

Metila now selected the last of the cups.  Into this she placed the contents of a second bowl, crushed and shredded dried leaves, then added some of the liquid from bottle one.  She mixed it, sniffed it, then smiled again.  “Drink,” she commanded him.

“Go to the abyss, whore,” Klimat gasped, trying not to inhale the smoke.  He had a bad idea that if he did something horrid would happen.

“No, you will,” she said, then slid further up so that her knees were either side of his head, and she clamped it.  Klimat struggled but her legs were stronger than they looked.  He spat at her; the spittle landed on her cheek and oozed down to her chin.  Slowly, smiling, she wiped it off and made a curious symbol on his forehead with it.  Now she grabbed his nose and squeezed it hard, clamping it. 

Klimat shook and gritted his teeth, keeping his lips firmly shut.  Metila kept as still as she could, waiting, the cup poised.  After a few moments, during which Klimat’s face went redder and redder, and his eyes bulged even more, he finally couldn’t hold out and sucked in air.  Instantly the cup’s contents went into his mouth and her hand slammed over his lips, trapping the liquid.  Klimat struggled and shook but she was blocking his air, and he swallowed.

She removed her hands and he spat out what was left, glaring up at her in hatred.  She smiled in triumph.  “You talk soon.”

“What did she give him?” Vosgaris said in a hushed tone.

“Don’t ask me, I’m just a pretty face around here,” Thetos said.

Vosgaris stared at him for a moment, then shook his head in bafflement and went back to being an onlooker.

The smoke spiralled up to the low stone ceiling, and remained above them like a haze.  Metila took a small draught herself, then indicated that the tray could be removed.  Vosgaris hurried forward, grabbed the tray and beat a hasty retreat.

Klimat’s heart was beating furiously; he didn’t like the fact this woman was astride him; he’d heard rumours of her, and was beginning to understand that they were right.  She scared the life out of him.  She had slid back so that his head was free.  He looked at the Governor.  “Nothing’s working – she’s a fraud!”

Thetos shrugged and folded his arms.  “Lovely night for a chat, don’t you think?”

“You’re mad,” Klimat muttered.  He looked up at Metila, sitting there watching him intently.  “What are you looking at?”

Her mouth opened to reveal a series of jagged, evil teeth.  A deep hiss came from her and a forked tongue flicked in and out.  Klimat screamed in terror.  Metila’s hands raised up and her nails grew longer, curling into talons.  Her eyes grew red and the pupils shrank, and the room began to shake.  Klimat gibbered.  This was a demon from the pit of fire.  Even as he thought that, the ground all round the table fell away, tumbling down, down, down, to be replaced by a glowing pit.

“Now, mortal,” Metila’s hissing voice came to him, “you will be taken down to the pit and devoured every day for eternity!”

Klimat screamed.  “Noooo!!!”

“Then tell me and you not go down – look into pit.”

Klimat twisted his head.  Rising up from the flames deep below were dark shapes – demons.  They were cackling with evil laughter and telling him they were coming for him.  “I’ll tell!”  He began babbling, shouting out everything he knew.  His voice rose as the dark, slit-eyed demons came closer.  “Stop them!”

Metila raised a hand and the demons halted, fury emanating from them.  “You said he was ours!” one accused her.

“No!  He not for you, unless I say!”  She turned to Klimat.  “More!”

Klimat stuttered out the rest of what he knew, then burst into tears.  Metila pointed to the demons.  “Go!  Return to pit!”

“Nooooooo,” the demons defied her and began circling.  Metila hissed, her eyes slits themselves, and sent a burst of energy at them, forcing the unwilling shapes down, screaming in rage, deeper and deeper back out of sight.  She clapped her hands and the pit vanished, and she sank onto her hands, head bowed.

Thetos and Vosgaris stepped forward, concerned.  Metila was soaked in sweat, shaking with effort.  Thetos picked her up gently and cradled her.  She looked at him through sweat-filmed eyes.  “I did well.”

“You did fantastically, my love,” and he kissed her on the forehead.  She smiled and closed her eyes.  “I sleep.”

Thetos nodded and looked at Vosgaris.  “Remember, not a word to anyone, or you won’t be worrying about the emperor stretching your innards all over Makenia, I’ll do it myself.”

“I’m not going to say anything, Governor!  Not a single word.”

“Good.  Arrange for that poor bastard to be taken to the mines.  Best he’s well away from here by the morning – if he’s got a mind left.”

“What did she do….oh, you don’t know either, sir.”

“No I don’t and I don’t ever want to know.  Whatever it was – it scared the piss out of him – look,” he nodded to a huge damp area around Klimat’s loins.

“But – all she did was sit across him and order him to talk – he was terrified.  I saw nothing that could possibly do that!  It must have been the potion.”

“Perhaps, but Metila won’t ever say,” Thetos said, looking at the sleeping woman in his arms.  “She’s so beautiful.  It’d kill me if she ever went.”

“Governor – she has some kind of hold over everyone.”