The Red Winter Page 2

  The demon gestured at their bland gray suits with a disbelieving sigh. Once the technologists had departed, Mr. Bonn saw that his lord intended to do the same and cleared his throat in his habitual “Surely-Your-Majesty-is-forgetting …” manner that Prusias found so tiresome.

  “My king, braymas from the eastern duchies are begging an audience to discuss Yuga. She is moving once again and devouring their lands and subjects.”

  “I know what Yuga is doing, Mr. Bonn,” replied Prusias. What else would Yuga be doing? All she did was drift and feed. By now the demoness was the size of a moderate kingdom, a gargantuan black storm whose tendrils probed for prey like blind, hungry leeches.

  “But my lord, she is—”

  “Guarding my flank, Mr. Bonn. What enemy would dare approach from the north or east when she is near?”

  “But, Your Majesty, if we do nothing, she could drift over the mountains. She could even threaten—”

  “Let me worry about Yuga,” snapped Prusias, ending the matter. “Look after our Workshop friends and make my apologies to the braymas. They’re all invited to the party. They can pester me then. For now, I have another appointment.”

  The imp anxiously consulted his scroll.

  “There’s nothing on my schedule.”

  The king quickly checked his bandages. “I’m well aware of that, Mr. Bonn. Not all of my doings are on your accursed schedule. I’ll see you in my chambers at eight. Lay out something modern.”

  “Surely His Majesty isn’t going alone,” said the imp anxiously. “We do not yet know the full extent of the conspiracy.” He glanced at the alcove where the Grand Inquisitor was reviving her subjects for their next round of questioning.

  Prusias’s laugh boomed in the vast hall. “I’m sure assassins would flee before you! But don’t worry. I care not if my enemies come by land, sea, or shadow. There’s nothing finer than a fight before a party, Mr. Bonn. It’s a conversation starter.”

  Leaning on his cane, Prusias chuckled and made for the exit nearest the alcove. Nodding to the Grand Inquisitor, he paused to glance at Lord Razael, who seemed to be coming to. The earl’s garments had been cut away and he blinked in hazy confusion at his exposed midsection. When the traitor’s eyes finally fell upon his captors, they shot wide with awareness. Straining frantically, the oni fought and flailed against his magicked bindings. When this proved futile, he tried to speak but only strained the stitches of his Glasgow smile.

  “Shhh,” said Prusias, patting his arm. “Save your strength, Razael. I’m not hearing confessions today. If you’re lucky, you can announce your guilt tomorrow. Or next week. There’s really no hurry, so lie back and relax, old friend. I’ll have a pudding sent from the feast.”

  As he departed, Prusias glanced back at the Grand Inquisitor, who was poised and trembling, her arms bent at peculiar angles like some gargantuan praying mantis. She was one of his prized assets—a faceless nightmare bred to terrify those who were not easily frightened. Whenever Prusias wanted Razael to talk, he would talk. Andras, Yva, Kazhyk, Grazznu … they would all talk, beg forgiveness, and pray for a quiet end to their existence.

  It was a shame about Razael. Prusias had known him for many centuries and he was always good company, if a tad fawning. His greatest gift had not been his wealth or even his talents at verse; it had been knowing his limitations. Razael never objected when other, more powerful demons thrust him aside or fed at his trough. It was how he’d persevered for so long, trailing the lions like a hyena hoping for scraps. You should have stayed patient, Razael. Injured lions can still bite. So can a Great Red Dragon.

  Razael and the others were not alone in thinking him finished. Sprinkled among the many rumors were some unpleasant facts: Prusias’s invasion had been repelled and a child had shattered his crowns and made him flee across the sea. Some naturally took these incidents as a sign of the king’s weakness. Others concluded that the girl—and therefore Rowan—was invincible.

  But they were mistaken. Prusias was not weak, and Rowan, much less the child, was far from invincible. As he descended a series of dim stairwells, Prusias recalled when the girl appeared and the instant he’d recognized what she might be. The revelation had shocked him into vulnerability, but it would not occur again. In any case, Prusias was confident that she would not be joining the assault on his kingdom. She would remain behind—a defender, a protector of those who had not marched off to war. That was her way. That had always been the way of her kind.

  Yes, the girl was strong, but not invincible. Nothing was invincible. Prusias had abandoned such notions when Astaroth was humbled on Walpurgisnacht. Prusias would not have believed such a thing was possible. He’d always respected strength, and Astaroth had been strong. It was Astaroth who toppled mankind’s governments, claimed the Book of Thoth, and refashioned the world. And as Astaroth rose to preeminence, Prusias had served him and taken pride in his master’s might and wisdom. Astaroth had called himself the “Great God,” and Prusias had believed him—believed with a fervor that now shamed him. Since Walpurgisnacht, Astaroth had retreated into disgraced obscurity. But Prusias would not slink off; he would not fade away into irrelevance. He would regroup. He would win. And he would remember Astaroth’s invaluable lesson: everything had its weakness—even the “Great God.”

  Demigods, too!

  The room Prusias had chosen for the meeting was small and out of the way, an afterthought in such an immense palace. Servants rarely visited this hallway and they never entered the last room on the left. Curiosity could be fatal in Blys and its servants knew better than to wonder why a particular door would not open.

  Prusias did not enter from the hallway, but from a secret passage that ran deep beneath the packed and raucous Arena. Slipping inside, he shut the door and settled into an armchair. The windowless, lead-lined room was as quiet as a tomb. But it was not inhospitable; it boasted a small library and a marble fireplace with a Caravaggio glistening above it. The painting was not one of the artist’s better-known works—too scandalous—but Prusias had always enjoyed it. It had been commissioned by a prominent Medici and cherished at his private retreat. Prusias could not recall why the man had summoned him, only that he’d wept when parted from his painting.

  A knock interrupted Prusias from these thoughts. Glancing at the door, he gave a lazy wave with his cane and the heavy bolt slid aside. Three hooded figures stood in the hallway. Prusias glowered at the smaller one in the center.

  “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  The handler gave a deep bow before peering cautiously within. “And I wasn’t expecting a king, much less a king alone. I’d expected one of your lackeys.”

  “You are one of my lackeys. Get in and shut the door.”

  As they entered, the king studied the handler. This one was always changing; he was hardly recognizable from the last time Prusias had seen him. His skin was almost indigo and covered with runes from recent skinscrolling. The eyes had an impish glow and cast nervously about, never settling for long. Even his aura was inconstant, its contours wavering and uncertain. Poor fool doesn’t know what he is or isn’t.

  “I asked to see them,” said Prusias, indicating the two assassins who had entered with the handler. “Why are you here?” The handler shrugged. “The Atropos understood you wished to negotiate a contract. These two don’t enter names into the Grey Book. That is my privilege.”

  “At my command,” Prusias growled.

  “At the command of any with the means to hire us, Your Majesty. Wise Prusias may have revived our order, but the Fates play no favorites. To invoke their wrath, one must follow the protocols and make proper tribute. Does His Majesty have proper tribute?”

  “I have something far more interesting.”

  “We’re intrigued,” said the handler. He sat cross-legged upon the rug, upright and attentive. The assassins remained where they stood, staring impassively at the king. Their expressions were not inquisitive or hostile—not even blank like those in the king’s
opium dens. They were absent and present, careless and calculating. Unlike the handler, the assassins had no auras. They might have been two black holes hovering before his Caravaggio. That they were unarmed seemed of little comfort; their combined presence triggered profound unease. Prusias had never been so close to both at once. He resolved never to do so again.

  “I want them to murder someone,” he stated simply.

  “Naturally,” replied the handler. “But they already have a target. The Fates require his death first.”

  “That job will soon be finished.”

  A fiendish light flickered in the handler’s pale yellow eyes. “This is news to me, Your Majesty.” The handler turned to his companions. “Have you failed to report something?”

  Glancing down, the handsome one shook his head. The assassin’s contempt was so palpable that Prusias wondered how the handler dared to turn his back. He clearly enjoyed some sort of hold or protection, but Prusias would not have trusted such measures. There was a dangerous unpredictability to these two; one could never quite guess the full extent of their capabilities. It came with their lineage. If you cage a tiger, best know how high he leaps.

  Prusias reached for a crystal decanter of whiskey. “Max McDaniels should already be dead,” he rumbled. “These two caught him near Bholevna and that Agent you possessed did the same at Rowan. Even when we cut his throat, he escaped to fight another day.”

  “It is a difficult task,” the handler conceded.

  Prusias nosed his whiskey. “Without proper tools, it’s an impossible task. I see that now. I’ve witnessed it on the battlefield. It’s why Astaroth always held an interest in the lad.”

  “He is formidable, but he’s still just a boy.”

  “He is a god,” snapped Prusias, his anger flaring. “His line is older than Bram’s, his blood purer than Menlo’s. His sire conquered the damn Fomorians! Our attempts might have succeeded when he was younger, but not anymore. The Hound has come into his heritage. No mortal weapon will slay him.”

  The handler’s smirk evaporated. “What does the king suggest?”

  Easing back, Prusias took a slow sip of his whiskey. “The cleanest solution would be to trick him into violating his geis. Should the Hound break it, he’d be as mortal as a mayfly.”

  The handler sighed. “The Atropos have searched and scried, but the Hound’s geis is as secret as his truename. We don’t believe he even knows what it is.”

  Prusias had expected this. “Then the job requires better tools. It requires a weapon capable of slaying immortals.”

  The handler raised an eyebrow. “I know of only one, Your Majesty. And our target carries it.”

  The king grimaced. “Not that wretched thing.” Prusias had evaded the gae bolga’s true bite, but he had certainly felt its sting. In the heat of battle, he’d thought the blows trifling—mere scratches compared to others he’d suffered throughout the ages. But the wounds were accursed. Two years later, they still festered and seeped through dressings that were perpetually renewed. Prusias hated the blade as much as he hated the Hound. “There are other options,” he said. “Precious few, but they do exist. And my servants have acquired one.…”

  The smaller assassin cocked his head. It was the first flicker of interest he’d shown in the meeting. You’d never suspect they were twins, thought Prusias. This one doesn’t even look human. Indeed, those dark eyes had a chillingly feral quality. They might have belonged to an animal, one of mankind’s gaunt and starving forebears.

  The handler glanced eagerly about the room. “Is the weapon here?”

  “Of course not. I won’t permit it near my person. But when we’ve finished, a carriage will take you to a temple beyond the city walls. It awaits you there.…”

  His audience listened closely as Prusias explained the relic’s uses and limitations. It was an ancient object, chipped and brittle from eons spent in Nile mud. A hard blow might shatter it; sunlight would unravel its unholy essence. But if kept in the dark, if used as intended …

  The assassins understood. Whether the handler did was not important, but at least he had the decency to bow. “Once a name has been entered into the Grey Book, that life is immediately forfeit,” he intoned. “The Hound’s existence is an affront to the Fates themselves. Atropos thanks you for your gift.”

  “It’s not a gift,” Prusias growled. “I have another job for these two.”

  “Who else has affronted the Fates?”

  “She has,” Prusias snarled. “Rowan’s new Ascendant.”

  “The Grey Book requires a name, Your Majesty.”

  “Mina. Although I can think of others less pretty.”

  “Mina will do,” said the handler. “Of course, a new contract will require new payment.”

  “The weapon is your payment.”

  The handler pursed his lips. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but as you said yourself, the weapon is just a tool. It cannot hire ships, bribe informants, or make tribute to the Fates. Powerful enemies are an expensive indulgence. If the king doesn’t wish to pay our order’s fees, there are many others he can consult.”

  “I already have,” Prusias grumbled. With a discontented grunt, he removed a heavy ring and tossed it to the handler. “A down payment. I still have a war to fight.”

  Hefting the ring, the handler appraised its magnificent stone. The ruby was wider than his thumbnail. “This will suffice. For now.”

  Prusias rose. “Then our business is concluded. Your carriage will be waiting.”

  “At the front gate, Your Majesty?”

  “Servants’ entrance.”

  It was nearly eight o’clock when Prusias arrived at his private chambers, a suite of rooms whose opulence trumped Versailles. Mr. Bonn was already present, standing dutifully by an array of outfits he’d laid out upon the massive bed.

  “Good evening, Your Majesty. I trust one of these will serve? Personally, I think your guests will find the turquoise dashing.” The imp gestured to a bright blue jacket embroidered with gold lace.

  Prusias frowned. “They’ll think I’m a waiter.” Setting down his cane, he stood and considered the alternatives. His frown deepened. “Really, Mr. Bonn, this will not do. I said modern. What’s modern about all these waistcoats and buckles? Silk breeches? I’m surprised there isn’t a powdered wig.”

  The imp nudged a round box beneath the bed.

  Checking his temper, Prusias spoke in a profoundly measured voice. “Tonight’s party is important, Mr. Bonn. It is the first official function since my recent setbacks. I cannot—I will not—make my entrance looking like someone’s great-aunt. Do you understand me?”

  “I believe so, Your Majesty.”

  Snatching up the offending garments, the imp hurried out, returning minutes later with a suit whose midnight hues seemed to shift and deepen as it caught the lamplight. Slipping on the jacket, Prusias looked in the mirror to admire its cut.

  “Who made this?” he asked.

  “Bartleby.”

  “Double his pay.”

  “I can’t. Your Majesty had him executed.”

  “Pity,” Prusias muttered, turning to assess the drape. “He had talent. But at least he was good enough to make this before he died. This is just what I had in mind, Mr. Bonn. It seems you’re not entirely incompetent.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  Prusias glanced down at his minuscule servant. “Is something troubling you?” he inquired, half amused.

  “Of course not,” sniffed Mr. Bonn. “Why would I be troubled that I don’t enjoy my lord’s trust or confidence? That would be a sizable problem and I’m incapable of big thoughts. Apparently that’s why I’m still an imp.”

  Prusias sighed and sorted through a mound of cuff links. “Am I to endure a snit every time I make a joke or exclude you from a meeting?”

  “You never used to exclude me.”

  “I wasn’t always a king,” retorted Prusias, selecting some diamond studs. “Kings have grave responsibili
ties, particularly in wartime. To win an empire, one must do great and terrible things. If I exclude you from certain meetings, it’s to spare you from matters I know you’d find upsetting. Don’t be too insulted, eh? We’re moving up in the world.”

  “You’re moving up in the world,” observed Mr. Bonn stiffly. “I remain an imp.”

  Prusias chuckled. “Is that what this is really about? Achieving koukerros? Why, Mr. Sikes is still an imp and he’s served Astaroth far longer than you’ve served me.”

  “With respect, Mr. Sikes is neither here nor there. My master has made promises.”

  The king’s smile faded. He turned back to the mirror. “You should be grateful I haven’t granted you koukerros,” he muttered. “You’re too tenderhearted to become a daemon true. By remaining my imp, you remain under my protection. Don’t undervalue that, Mr. Bonn.”

  “You may be right,” conceded the imp. “But I should like to have the choice.”

  “And you shall, my fine fellow, you shall. But I won’t weaken myself by granting koukerros during a war. It demands too much energy and I must harbor all I have.”

  Mr. Bonn nodded. “When the war is finished, then. I have your word.”

  “Once the war is finished,” Prusias assured him. “Now, if you’re done pestering me, perhaps I can get ready.”

  When he had smoothed the final bandage, Prusias walked out on his balcony to gaze upon his capital. He had never seen it look more beautiful, nestled in its ring of mountains, every district alive with lights and music. Smoke from thousands of fires was curling lazily into the night and its aroma was mingling with the jasmine and lilies of his gardens. Not all the fires were decorative or celebratory, however. The weavers’ district was ablaze, thousands of residents rioting for better wages or food or whatever. Look at those beautiful colors, he thought, as incandescent flames swallowed a warehouse. Prusias inhaled, the burning scents whetting his appetite as his gaze traveled to the city’s towers and battlements. Here and there, Workshop gargoyles interrupted their gleaming white perfection. As he watched, one of the creatures suddenly scuttled in a crablike motion to a new perch, where it settled and recalibrated its weapons. Its guns would soon be trained on the city slums, or its gates, or even the bridges that spanned the ancient Tiber far below.