Vacillian Read online

  Nical pulled his tunic over his head, dropping it onto the chair, then stepped out of his britches. Standing naked before her, he felt her yearning gaze cover his body. He found her emaciated shape repulsive but he relished the way she looked at him. He saw himself through her eyes: muscular and tall, in the prime of his youth, a handsome king with all of Estneva at his command. The hunger upon her face and in the slack of her mouth excited him.

  He stored his foria pipe in a locked box, an ancient wooden box with inlaid metal that sat on the lower shelf of his washstand. It opened with a rusty old key he always kept on a leather cord around his neck. He didn’t offer any to Raffiela. Foria was far too dear to share with his friends much less with a slave. Nical would have killed the foria trader for charging so much, but as hard as his agents had tried, they could find no other merchant who traded in foria.

  After one puff, Nical was fully aroused.

  He moved closer, gripped one of the bedposts, and let Raffiela pleasure him. No need to look at her. He closed his eyes and imagined it to be the mouth of someone else – more beautiful, still robust, hungry for his worm. A voluptuous young woman on her knees before him. Then that image, too, began to fade away. Fainter and fainter. He felt his whole body expanding with pleasure, growing stronger and fitter and strangely younger until at last, the fantasy woman vanished. He arched his back and moaned. All that remained was his feeling of ecstasy.

  He held tight to the bedpost. He kept his eyes closed until he brought his panting under control. When at last he opened them and looked down at Raffiela, she was lying very still upon the bed. Unnaturally still. He recoiled from her body and began to dress.

  * * *

  Nical came upon Pamina in the corridor not long after he left his chamber. In her threadbare dress and frayed sandals, the old Placekeeper was a picture of neglect, her wispy gray hair pulling free from the neck knot. She moved along the stone floor with a shuffling gait that irked him.

  “You look like an old peasant woman,” he said, adjusting the collar of his fur-trimmed robe. “Didn’t I tell you to get rid of that dress?”

  “You did, sire.”

  “And why are you still wearing it?”

  Pamina gave him a frown of resistance, her face deeply lined, her lips pursed.

  “This dress suits me well enough. I need no better.”

  She was spoiling his foria glow. “It has nothing to do with your needs. The dress offends me – get yourself a new one. You’re a member of the king’s household and ought to look the part.”

  “If I must.”

  “Indeed you must. In fact, I command it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Her mute disapproval made him testy. She’d always disapproved of him. “And why are you wandering about in this part of the castle?” he snarled. “Have you nothing useful to do with your time?”

  “Tell me what needs to be done and I will do it.”

  “You ought to take up weaving. It requires no special talent.” It was only the nuisance of Raffiela and his need to dispose of her body that made him more cruel than usual. “Even someone of your advanced age can learn to work a loom.”

  Pamina lowered her head. “I’ll see that she’s removed from your chambers at once, your highness.”

  With a prim smile of satisfaction, she passed him by and shuffled away down the corridor.

  Nical had always resented this uncanny way she had of knowing what he wanted, of understanding how he felt without his speaking a word. He wouldn’t have minded if she’d always approved and indulged him, but half the time, she chastised him instead.

  He’d been four or five the first time it happened, not long after his mother the Queen had run off to join the Rabbians and Father brought Pamina here from the Orphanage. Nical had been silently gazing at the throne one day and thinking how grand it would be to sit upon it himself, to indulge his every whim.

  Pamina gasped and said, “You mustn’t want that.”

  “Mustn’t want what?”

  “Your time will come. A boy ought to love and respect his father. You must not wish him dead.”

  But he did wish it, again and again. Somehow Pamina always knew and scolded him for his “unnatural” feelings, time after time.

  As he grew older, she told him he shouldn’t want to scald and flay the stable master simply for having criticized him. “He’s only trying to help you become the best rider you can be.” She told him he shouldn’t be glad that Tavi had turned out to be an imbecile, nearly incapable of speech. “As eldest son, he ought to have been king. Feel pity for him.” She told Nical he shouldn’t want to enjoy the slave girls “in that particular way.” According to Pamina, such desire was also “unnatural.”

  He’d always ignored her and done exactly as he liked. If it weren’t for Arn’s abiding affection for the old woman, Nical would have gotten rid of her. And from time to time, the crone did have her uses. When he returned to his chamber, all evidence of Raffiela would be gone.

  He did not feel grateful.

  * * *

  The foria glow usually helped him pass tedious afternoons, each one so much like the other, but sometimes it went dark and made him wary of everyone around him. Sitting on his falcon throne with its cracked beak high overhead, Nical listened to his chamberlain’s report on taxes and felt convinced the old man was cheating him. He listened to his steward talk about livestock and food provisions, wondering if he were conspiring with the head cook to poison him. When Pamina entered the great hall and took up her mending in a corner, he knew the smile on her face meant she had devised some new way to thwart him. She was still wearing the same tattered old dress.

  At least he did not fear his brothers. He had never feared his brothers. Arn, the youngest, was too much of a drunkard to be a threat and Tavi, the oldest, was an imbecile. Tavi sat cross-legged next to him on the throne dais, drooling with a half-open mouth and cradling the immense head of his sea panther. Arn had been here a few minutes ago but seemed to have vanished.

  At the far end of the great hall, a guard from the castle gate was entering through an immense arched doorway. As he crossed toward Nical, the man stumbled slightly, almost lost his balance, and pulled himself up with comical dignity. Drinking again, of course ... his dark beard glistening wet with mead. Most of the guards drank while on duty. From time to time, Nical felt obliged to go down to the barracks and berate them, though in truth, he didn't blame them for getting drunk. How dull to stand on guard for hours, dressed in thick furs, wearing a helmet and holding a heavy sword, all in readiness for some threat that never appeared.

  The guard came to a stop before the throne and knelt upon one knee. He was a distant relative, the son of some cousin or another on Nical's mother's side. What was his name? The family resemblance was clear: same sharp high cheekbones, eyes with gray centers so large they nearly crowded out the whites, a broad mouth that was loose from drink.

  “Rimando of the castle guard, your Highness." The effort to steady himself and not slur his words made the man look and sound wooden. "My captain has sent me to make report. He bids me say we are holding a man at the gates ..."

  He broke off at the abrupt sound of pleasure grunts, loud and unrestrained. It had to be Arn in one of the dark alcoves, rolling around with a slave girl. Or possibly a slave boy. It didn’t seem to matter which. Arn had started drinking even earlier than usual and didn't seem to care who might hear the guttural sounds he was making. The guard struggled to keep his countenance and choked down laughter that came out as a brief, high-pitched snort.

  "Go on," Nical barked. He found nothing to laugh about in his brother's behavior. "You were saying there's a man at the gate ..."

  "Yes, your Highness." Rimando resumed his wooden pose, eyes fixed straight ahead. "He calls himself a bard and asks leave to entertain you."

  "And what exactly is a bard?"

  "Unknown, Sire. But he says he brings tales of the time before and will also sing if it
pleases you."

  The time before? Before what?

  "I suppose he wants gold for this entertainment," Nical said.

  "He asks for food and lodging, nothing more."

  A stranger at the gate with tales to tell, and he wasn't asking for gold. Maybe this day would turn out to be less tedious than all the others.

  "Bring him up, by all means. If he reeks, make sure he bathes first. Give him food if he needs it. We will wait."

  * * *

  Arn had fallen asleep and was snoring loudly within the dark alcove. Nical felt a surge of anger at the sloppy sound of him.

  "Are you as disgusted by our little brother as I am?"

  Tavi was stroking the sea panther’s blue-black fur with a far away look in his gray eyes.

  "Of course you are. You don’t have to answer.”

  Tavi almost never spoke, except now and then to repeat something he'd heard another person say, in exactly the same words and tone of voice, over and over until it seemed to have no meaning. On very rare occasions, he made a brief lucid statement that sounded almost as if he’d followed every word of a conversation, though of course it couldn’t be true. He was a skilled mimic, nothing more.

  "What do you suppose this bard means by tales of a time before?" Nical said. "I hope it won’t bore me. What do you think?"

  When they were alone together, Nical liked to voice his thoughts aloud this way to Tavi, pretending to engage in conversation. He waited, as if giving his brother time to speak.

  "So you think these tales might actually turn out to be amusing?" Nical said. "I don't see why."

  Tavi continued staring straight ahead, his gaze remote, saliva dribbling down his square chin. The sea panther was purring in her loud rough way.

  "I hope you're right," Nical said. "But you always expect good things to happen and then you’re disappointed when they don't. I've seen it, time and again."

  Nical used to sneak up behind Tavi and terrify him with sudden loud sounds; he'd laugh as his brother began to twitch and jerk and pound his head against the wall, over and over. Nowadays the sea panther bared her teeth and hissed whenever Nical came too close. Since he'd tamed her, the animal had brought Tavi peace.

  "That may be true," Nical said, "but I think it's better to expect the worst and be happily surprised now and then. Why look, here's Capo Lukah! You see what I mean? I had no idea he was coming tonight and now I've had this pleasant surprise."

  A tall well-built man in black-laced knee boots was striding across the throne room toward the dais. Over his tunic, he wore a leather jerkin with complicated straps. His hair and beard were reddish in color – unusual for a man of Estneva. Tucked beneath his arm was a large roll of parchment.

  “My dear Capo,” Nical said, referring to Lukah by his title. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you here.”

  Lukah dropped onto one knee before the throne and lowered his head. “I’ve been here all the afternoon, your Highness.”

  “And no one told me? I had no idea you were here. Where have you been hiding yourself?”

  “In the shelving room.” Lukah rose to his feet. “You granted me leave to visit it whenever I might, and at last, I’ve found something of interest. Of very great interest.” Though he was nearing forty, just then his face looked young with excitement.

  “Oh, the shelving room again.” Nical didn’t understand why Lukah chose to spend so much time in a room full of old books and papers. The Capo could decipher the characters on their pages no better than anyone else in Estneva. So why did he keep coming back? What did he hope to find? The foria wariness took hold again and Nical began to wonder what plot Lukah was hatching against him.

  “Come look at this, your Highness.” Lukah carried the scroll to a long wooden table behind the throne and carefully unfurled it, holding it open with his two powerful hands. The parchment was thin and yellowed with age, torn in places.

  It was a complicated drawing of some kind, with neat straight lines and elegant curves, and symbols inscribed alongside them. Tavi had come up behind them and was also peering down at the scroll.

  “What is it?” Nical asked.

  “I’m not certain but I think … I believe it to be instructions for how to build a boat.”

  “You already build boats,” Nical said. Lukah was the leading boatwright in Sudana. Most of the fisherman in port owned at least one of his dugouts.

  “Not a small boat, Sire, but a large one. A very large one.” Lukah’s voice was shaky with excitement. “A boat that could voyage upon the open sea and journey to distant places.”

  If there were a man in Sudana he admired – and Nical would never have admitted as much – it was the Capo. Lukah had passion. Unlike almost everyone else in Sudana, he wasn’t content with the way things were. Life could be better, he believed. He wanted to build things.

  Today, still feeling the effects of foria, Nical saw him as a threat.

  “How large do you mean?” he asked.

  “Hundreds of feet in length. And tall, Sire – very tall!” Lukah nodded toward the parchment, his hands still holding it in place. “Those squares marked off with double lines – I’m sure those are rooms, actual chambers inside where the men could sleep on their long journeys.”

  “But why voyage upon the open sea? It sounds very dangerous. Why run the risk?”

  “Imagine the possibilities for trade! Distant countries, unknown ports. A boat like this might carry our furs and grains to foreign places and bring back gold. Or other goods, wonderful items we can’t even imagine!”

  “Our traders already do business with Bregasso. A few of them have even journeyed beyond to other countries.”

  Lukah shook his head. “The overland route takes many months and the roads are bad. The mountain passes beyond Bregasso are blocked by snow half the year. A route by sea would be always open to us.”

  Nical glanced from the man’s face down to the parchment then back again. Lukah was already Capo of the Guild, the most powerful man in Sudana after the king. Demand for ocean-going boats could make Lukah even wealthier and more powerful. Just how ambitious was he?

  At Nical’s side, Tavi made rhythmic clicking noises with his tongue. He was rising onto the balls of his feet then dropping down again, back and forth. Spit from his chin dripped onto the parchment.

  “And you can make sense of this drawing?” Nical asked.

  “I can. If you would, Sire – hold the parchment open and I will show you.”

  Nical placed his own hands where Lukah’s had been and felt at a disadvantage, pinned in place while the boatwright moved freely.

  “You see these lines here,” Lukah pointed. “See how they mark out strips that look all the same, or almost the same? I believe them to be planks of wood joined one to another. Instead of burning and hollowing out the trunk of a single tree, many planks of wood from many trees would be cut and pieced together. These larger pieces, almost like beams – they must hold them all together. I know I can build one, Sire, if you will allow it.”

  Nical had never built anything, never grown anything. After he ascended to the throne, he’d become the richest and most powerful man in Estneva. He was still rich and powerful to exactly the same degree, neither more nor less so.

  He wished he hadn’t smoked foria earlier in the day. Everyone around him seemed to have a dark plan. He abruptly removed his hands and the parchment curled back into a roll, toppling onto the floor.

  “You’re a boatwright,” Nical said. “You don’t need my permission to build this boat. If you really can.”

  Lukah gingerly picked up the parchment and placed it once again on the table. “My workmen can fashion a dugout using fire and adzes, no more. To cut planks requires the use of ... different tools.”

  In his unpredictable way, Tavi suddenly began to twitch and vibrate in agitation. In a moment, he hurried over to the sleeping sea panther and buried his face in her fur.

  “Different tools
?” Nical echoed. “You must mean metal ones. Saws and blades and such.”

  “Exactly, your Highness.”

  All metal weapons and tools belonged to the crown by royal decree. Only Balmin the carpenter had special dispensation for the use of several blades, on loan from the royal arsenal. All the rest were locked away in the dungeons – rusty saws, chisels, and other cutting tools, but more important, the weapons of war.

  “How many?” Nical asked. He made himself sound almost bored.

  “As many as you will allow, Sire. A boat like this would need to be large to withstand the high seas. It will take many workers to cut the many planks.”

  Saws and chisels could be put to other uses. Lukah might even have learned how to melt metal and re-fashion it into different shapes. What other discoveries had he made in the shelving room?

  “I will consider your request.”

  “What request is that?”

  It was Silvana’s voice, unmistakable in its full authoritative tones, so unlike the way most women spoke. She was striding across the room toward the dais, dressed in ermine-trimmed robes, her raven hair pulled back with golden clips. Though he didn’t much care for her company, Nical felt immensely glad to see her at that moment.

  “Good day, Silvana,” he said. “You’re looking radiant, I must say. What a pleasure it is to see you on this dreary afternoon.”

  Nical didn’t find Silvana attractive – she was plain and nearing middle age – but he’d always shown her an extreme sort of courtesy. As King, he felt he owed it to her. She was rich and powerful in her own way … for a woman. And she was never boring.

  “What request?” she repeated. She curtseyed in a highly formal way that had a note of mockery about it. “Good evening, Capo,” she added, without looking at him.

  “Lukah wants to build a boat,” Nical said, turning toward him. “A very large boat that might carry our goods to distant places. Tell her, Capo.”

  Lukah tucked the parchment under his arm. His enthusiasm had vanished. “Perhaps some other time, Sire. With your permission, I’ll take the parchment home with me and make a deeper study of it.” He gave Silvana a curt nod.