The Base.
Like an unshakable sickness, the name clung to him, a reminder of decades lost pursuing diversions. Pursuing salves.
As Elestran sat in The House of Pleasures, the name kept echoing in his mind.
The Base.
The House was an exclusive club the likes of which he had never seen. Yet it was hauntingly familiar. Venaisin’s elite surrounded him, sprawled out on silk pillows embroidered with wyverns and griffons. Their silhouettes swayed on the sheer curtains of their private booths. Colored lanterns immersed the room in muted greens, purples, and reds.
If you wanted to gamble, there was a room for that. The stakes may be higher, and the games more exotic, but the rush of winnings, and more often, the despondency of losses, were all the same. Dice. Chips. Marble game pieces. Eles fought off the pull.
The Base.
The wines and liquors being generously poured were of the highest quality. Carafes and crystal glasses inlaid with precious metals were everywhere. Reds. Whites. Purples. Browns. It would be so easy to raise a finger and have a drink whisked to him from across the room. Some of the most potent ones could drown him with a single glassful. The memories of the warmth of it inundating his system came rushing back. So many years lost in the haze.
The Base.
The aroma of pipes and vapor-bowls snaked through the air. A snuffbox. A trance needle. It seemed nothing was illegal here. People looked up at him with stupefied grins. Eles knew those grins. The grins of ecstasy. The grins of the invulnerable. The grins of the lost. In his day, he could have taught these fools a thing or two about getting lost. They had no idea the expert who visited them this evening.
The Base.
He shook his head to focus on the task at hand. Even the most exclusive of clubs will allow a foreigner admission with a gem of superior quality and notable size. Dargon had provided him with one that pleased the club’s manager. Pleased her quite a bit. Eles explained he had heard tale of an unparalleled courtesan and patronized the club to get to know the girl. The woman bade him sit and enjoy himself, whilst she check on the availability of the lady. He sat, but he did not enjoy. All that Eles had seen, had experienced, in the last week, when juxtaposed against this place, made it painfully apparent how much of his life he had wasted trying to hide.
The club steward appeared at the top of a curved, mahogany staircase. She beckoned. The girl would see him. Eles was instructed earlier to ask Rakana if she would see Dargon. If no, he should leave immediately. If yes, he needed to open her balcony doors and step out, a sign for Nadja and Dargon that it was clear for them to steal themselves up to her room, something Nadja had obviously done in the past.
As Eles reached the top of the stairs the manager leaned in. “You’re lucky, Elestran of Bloodford. This one isn’t often here. On most nights she accompanies Venaisin’s wealthiest at social events. Her beauty is highly sought after.”
As they made their way down the decorated hall, he straightened his hair. It was foolish, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to dull the inevitable, poorly hidden look of disgust as he entered the room.
The door to the room was already cracked open when they arrived, an invitation. The manager pushed it open and called in, “Elestran of Bloodford.”
A massive, canopied bed, shrouded in silk decorated with butterflies that seemed to shift and glide of their own accord, dominated the room. (Magesty? Or a trick of the weave?) The doors to the balcony, partially concealed by thick, crimson, velvet drapes, peeked out from across the room. A shoji screen of bamboo and rice paper, painted with gold and silver dragonflies, concealed the left side of the room. From behind the screen a girl’s voice floated lazily across the room, “Thank you Madame Parini.” Madame Parini nodded her head to Elestran and closed the door.
“Do you have a drink, sir?” The voice was soft and gentle. Inviting.
“No.” Eles pulled at his clothes, again trying in vain to improve his appearance.
“Would you like one?”
“No, I am not here to drink, Rakana. Nadja sent me.”
Silence. Rakana appeared from behind the screen, moving soundlessly, silk slippers gliding effortlessly on the rug decorated with cherry blossoms. A cream-colored kimono with black trim draped loosely over her shoulders. She reminded him of Gi’s girl, but taller, with softer features. Her hair was tied up in a bun and was striped with equal parts black and pink. She was so beautiful. The idea of abandoning the plan and allowing himself to stay customer crossed his mind. He knew it would mean his death, but if there was a way to die…
“Who are you?” Rakana asked warily. Now that he got a good look at her he recognized the far-away look in her eyes. Something coursed through her, buzzing in her head. Something she now struggled against.
“My name is Elestran.”
Rakana swept closer and lowered her voice to a whisper, “Who are you to Nadja?”
She was close enough for Eles to smell the powder on her skin. “Well, nobody… really. I’m an associate … a loyal servant… of Lord Lodern of Greyarch.”
That spooked her. She stepped back. “What do you want?”
“He would like to speak to you. I mean… he needs to speak to you. It’s very important. Will you see him?”
“Is Kelshar here?” Her eyes sparked with life.
Not the question he was expecting. “Well… no, not here, but she’s in Venaisin. I think. No, I’m sure.”
“She didn’t want to see me?” she asked.
Again, Eles was lost. “Um, no. I mean, that’s not it, I don’t believe. I’m not sure, really.”
“I see.” Rakana looked as if she may have said more than she should. “You’re too old to be a guard. What are you? An advisor?”
“Of a sort… Lord Lodern’s alchemist. If you’ll see him, I’m to open your balcony doors and signal Nadja to bring him up.”
She ran her long fingernails down the length of her neck, thinking. She didn’t mean for it to be suggestive, but it was clearly beyond her control. “What does he want?”
“He should tell you that.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
Eles exhaled and shifted his weight. He had hoped he wouldn’t be put in this position.
Rakana didn’t wait. “Tell me, alchemist, or my answer is no.”
“He needs a seer.” It was blunt, he knew, but the clock was ticking. “You’re the only one he could turn to.”
Rakana crossed to a cushioned chair that flanked the balcony doors and sat. She crossed her legs, and the top leg became exposed, lithe and pale. He wondered if it had ever seen the sun.
“Is your name really Elestran?”
“Yes.”
“Elestran, you don’t know what you ask. This is Venaisin. If I were to dream again, it would be detected. The Council would descend upon me. Enslave me. Siphon my dreams for their own profit. I would very much like to help your lord, I owe him my life, but does he know what he asks?”
A dreamer. Very rare. Very potent. Memories came flooding back to Eles of the month he spent tending to the young dreamer subjugated to the Loderns so many years ago. The young man lived the same years as Eles but appeared older. His inability to sleep had left deep, dark circles under his eyes and left him looking sallow. He liked the dreamer (why couldn’t he remember his name?) because of his manic sense of humor and his acerbic wit. Eles was charged with facilitating the man’s dreams; with preparing and administering the necessary stews. He knew it took a grave toll. It gnawed at him. Drove him to do things. Things he would regret for decades.
Here he stood, in the presence of another, after all this time. He wondered why she wasn’t already under Dargon’s employ.
“Perhaps Lord Lodern can protect you. You really should speak…”
Suddenly, the bedroom door opened. Rakana stood up in surprise, clutching the front of her robe, a protective reflex. A petite fop of a man stood in the doorway. He had to be a foot shorter than Elestran, if you didn’t count his hair, shaped with tar to look like horns, which gave him the distinct appearance of a satyr. He wore glittery turquoise pants with matching mauve boots and shirt. His milky-smooth hands were adorned with rings of all shapes and styles and tipped with painted nails filed to sharp points. His proboscis overwhelmed his face, protruding in a way that seemed to drag his top teeth forward into a massive overbite. A curly-q moustache grew, no… painted on his face with the same kind of black goo that shaped his hair. He stepped right in and surveyed the room, while his index finger traced his upper lip.
“Splendid. I’ve caught you pre-coitus,” he said, mostly through his nose, looking disappointed.
“Inspector Keetie,” Rakana said with a curtsy, “I was not aware you were visiting this evening.”
“Quite so, quite so,” he said distractedly as he looked at Eles. His nose was tilted up and it twitched slightly as it tugged at snorts of perfumed air. “Who are you?”
Eles dared not betray the anxiety that threatened to cripple him. “Pardon me sir, but I’ve paid considerable sums for this time with the lady,” he said with as much haughtiness as he could muster.
“No doubt. My genteel imagination is being assailed by visions of how your wickedness would manifest itself with the girl.” He fiddled with the pinky ring on his right hand. “I don’t know you. Which means you are nobody in Venaisin. One more chance. I won’t ask again. Who are you?” Still, his nose sucked at the air as his eyes flitted about the room taking everything in.
Eles abandoned haughtiness and decided to embrace reverence. “Forgive me. The beauty of the girl overtook my decorum, sir. I am Elestran, newly-appointed alchemist to the Count of Bloodford.”
“Alchemist, is it?” Inspector Keetie asked, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve always wondered, Elestran the Alchemist, what it is they put in Pindola’s ointment.”
It was everything Eles could do not to smile. “Pindola’s ointment? Well, the interesting thing about Pindola’s ointment is that the ingredients can vary based on which region the Alchemist’s guild calls home. In Faros, the base is, of course, extract of the Black Fern, indigenous to the Skull Marsh, but in Anduir…”
“Enough,” Keetie interrupted. “Your reliance on paid-for pleasures makes soooo much sense. Wait outside,” he commanded as he turned his attention to Rakana, his head tilted back and his nose twitching.
Eles caught Rakana’s gaze before he exited. “Madame, I look forward to continuing our encounter. I’ll be in the hall.” Eles stepped into the hall and put his back against the wall as close to the doorway as possible without being seen. The Inspector didn’t trouble himself to close the door. Still, Eles had to strain to hear what was being said, especially by the soft-spoken Rakana.
“Rakana, it is said you are friends with Nadja Kavital, yes?”
“Not recently, Inspector… …some time, but I know of her… …you ask?”
“I’m investigating a kidnapping. And worse. Your friend is suspect. Would you know where I might find her?” The Inspector snorted.
“…Long time… …I’m sorry.”
Nadja was identified. He fought the urge to run outside and warn her and Dargon.
“You don’t, do you… But what is this I’m picking up? Very faint, but still, a rift. I don’t recall any writs of allowance here.”
“…Talking about… …not here, I assure you…”
Silence ensued, and Eles couldn’t tell if no one was talking, or if they were suddenly whispering. It made him nervous. He decided to risk peeking in. Inspector Keetie pressed against Rakana now, his nose at neck level and his bejeweled knuckles caressing her rear, causing the bottom of her robe to ride up her legs. His sniffs triggered a visible rigidity in Rakana. Keetie whispered something.
“I would never be foolish enough to allow anyone to practice enchantments in my room, Inspector,” Rakana said with full voice.
Keetie backed away, and turned, prompting Eles to duck out of view.
“Yes, I believe that’s true,” Keetie replied. “Still, there’s something here and I will return when I have sufficient time to fully investigate. Do not share what we discussed here with anyone. I will know, I assure you. Good evening, little bauble.”
Eles slid a pace away from the door before the Inspector emerged from the room.
“May I proceed?” Eles asked, as the Inspector passed.
Keetie stopped and peered at Eles like he was a steaming pile of dung. “I weep for the girl.” With that, the diminutive man marched down the hall and down the staircase.
Eles entered the room and locked the door behind him. Rakana looked distraught, slumped down in the padded chair with head in hand.
“He will return. He’ll know,” she said softly as she looked up at him.
He started to put some pieces together, remembering some of his old lessons about the dreamer. “You take Blue Depths, to suppress your dreams.”
“Yes.”
“Every night?” Blue Depths. Powerful stuff. Addictive.
“Yes.”
At least half her life must be adrift in a numbing haze. He pitied her. Elestran the Base would have envied her.
“It won’t hold up.”
“I know.” Her eyes were filled with bitterness. But as he watched, the look transformed into one of despair and tears welled. “Go to the damn balcony.”
* * * *
“What would possess you to see Dargon?” Nadja blurted, bewildered.
“I… owe Lord Lodern,” Rakana replied hesitantly while her gaze pored over the man.
“Owe him? Owe him what? Why?”
Rakana looked to see if Dargon would speak before answering. “That’s his story to tell, should he choose to.”
Nadja turned to Dargon, but he stayed silent. Her face twisted in betrayal. Her best friend shared a clandestine secret with her worst enemy.
Dargon stepped forward, “Lady Rakana,” he said with a bow of his head, “I would not be here were my situation not dire. I’ve come to ask for your aid. My entire kingdom depends on it.”
Perched on the edge of the massive bed, Rakana had already decided to assist Dargon – by dreaming. And if she were going to dream, the Blue Depths would need to be counteracted. Not easy. And dangerous. While waiting for Nadja and Dargon to arrive, Eles extracted as much information as he could out of Rakana. What was the potency of her Blue Depths? Was it made with black or purple poppies? When was the last time she took it? How much did she take? Was she taking anything else simultaneously? Eles demanded specificity. He was going to have to mix the diluting agent, and an improper combination could result in adverse reactions including temporary, and even permanent, madness. If done right, it should make her groggy. Help her go down. Deep. He knelt by the bed’s side table with his mortar and pestle, working with ingredients Rakana had stored away. Measuring. Crushing. Mixing. They weren’t ideal conditions, but Rakana obviously had a great deal of experience with Blue Depths and had a passable amount of equipment to work with the stuff.
“If I didn’t have to escape Venaisin anyway… I do this to repay my debt. Show me the person who would put the fate of the politics of a distant land over their own life, Lord Lodern.” Rakana watched Eles mix as she spoke.
“I can protect you,” Dargon said with confidence.
“I’m counting on it,” she replied as she turned to Nadja. “Keetie visited me. Moments ago.”
Nadja went rigid. “Why?”
“You didn’t happen to kidnap someone today?” Rakana asked, dripping with admonishment.
Nadja’s ruddy race flushed a deeper shade. “Damn.” She paced back and forth before spinning on Dargon. “This is your fault! Coming here. Clouding my judgment. Making me act the fool. You’re in Venaisin one day and already my life is a ruin!”
Dargon waited a moment before responding. “Even I’ve heard of this Keetie. A very dangerous interrogator. An inhaler.”
“Is that so? I’m in awe of your insight, Lord Lodern. Still think you can protect her?” Nadja snipped. “Rakana, you’re a fool to help him. Don’t risk revealing yourself. He can’t protect you. He’s here in Venaisin alone. On the run. He can barely protect himself.”
“It’s too late. When the Inspector dropped in, asking about you, he breathed in traces. He’ll be back.”
“That’s two lives you’ve ruined! You’re a walking Black Death!”
Again, Dargon stood still and absorbed the verbal assault before replying, “We’ll get you out of here.”
“Is Kelshar here?” Rakana asked in a way that made her seem five years younger.
“You know her?” More things Nadja didn’t know. Her agitation grew.
“Is she?”
“She’s in Venaisin but… she’s indisposed at the moment,” Dargon admitted.
“I’m ready,” Eles announced. He had the consistency and color he wanted. This was as good a mix as he was going to get, under the circumstances.
“Don’t” Nadja demanded.
Rakana took the bowl in her hand.
“I won’t sit here and watch you condemn yourself. You two seem to be old friends, so go ahead and find yourselves enslaved together. Not me.” She moved out to the balcony where her rope, still hooked to the railing, dropped to the ground below.
“Nadja,” Dargon called. “Don’t go. We need you.”
“To the hells with you.”
She disappeared over the railing.
* * * *
Her sleep could not be described as restful. Her body raged against going under. At first, she simply moaned and turned, but as she descended deeper, it turned into thrashing and gasping, a primeval response of self-preservation. Despite what so many would claim, Eles believed there was nothing unnatural about tapping in through dreams. However, Rakana had conditioned herself for so many years to avoid stepping off the edge that it now felt to her unconscious like an aberrant act. It was a delicate operation, Eles’ assignment. He must administer drops of the counteractive to Rakana based on how her body was responding along the way. Dargon would need to talk to her. Question her. Extract the information he needed while Eles monitored. Dreamers are far and away the most precious of the seers because they can’t recall what they’ve seen. Owners of a dreamer could have questions answered without anyone in the realm knowing what they had asked, or what they had learned. They were very rare, and their gift, if discovered, was always seized and exploited by those who coveted it. Legends suggest the precognitive efficacy lifespan of a dreamer was tragically short, and Eles’ experiences reinforced it.
Rakana’s eyelids fluttered. Her lips twitched. It mesmerized and unnerved him all at once. She started whispering, clearly. “An empty bed. So young. So innocent. She drinks. She drinks. She doesn’t see. Poison. The man with the red beard. Pain and darkness. Why?”
“What is this?” Dargon asked.
“It’s impossible to know. Ask your questions. Direct her.”
Dargon nodded. “Rakana. Dormu-lilies. I need to find them. Where are they?”
The dreamer’s body reacted to his voice. Her head tilted way back and her spine arced so that her back ceased touching the bed, only the top of her head and her rear.
“Aaaaaaaaah. Mmmmmmm.” Her back crashed back down. “No, no, no, no, no.”
“What…?” Dargon asked.
“I don’t… describe them.”
Dargon continued, “Dormu-lilies. Flowers. Purple. With long petals, tipped with points, that come together, like a fanged maw,” and then, as an afterthought, “beautiful.”
This seemed to strike the girl as funny. She laughed before responding, “Beautiful. Deadly. Sisters. Find the first without the other, this I dare.”
“Where are they?” Dargon urged.
“No, no, no. Never will you see that which you describe. No exit. Darkness. Barren grounds.”
“Are you sure you’re describing them correctly?” Eles whispered.
“I think so, yes.”
“Perhaps they look different. Explain their purpose.”
Dargon shot Eles a look of wariness.
“Tell her.”
Dargon conceded with a deep breath. “Rakana, Dormu-lilies. The most potent component of an Elixir of Seasons… an elixir of youth.”
The dreamer’s head started to shudder and shake and Eles could make out her eyes darting back and forth, underneath her eyelids.
“Youth… youth… youth…. laws… descendants… the eternal lie… the gods… liars… lies… death… privilege… crowns… schemes… treachery…”
Dargon started, remembering. “Yes, the crown,” he encouraged, “the crown will have it. When Hella hides behind Helene,” repeating the words of Garakul.
Rakana went still, eerily still, as if her whole body descended deeper into slumber.
“The crown…” she murmured, “yes…”
Eles administered a drop to her lips. He shared a hopeful look with Dargon.
“Hella passing behind Helene. Heavenly. And powerful. The flower. The crown.”
“Who is the crown?”
“Not who… crown of menhirs, a hill, overlooking the woods.”
“Of course!” Dargon said through clenched teeth, “Lormar’s Hill, in the White Owl. You see Lormar’s Hill, the Crown.” His shame at not realizing it earlier quickly dissolved into triumph. His jaw clenched; his destination discovered.
“I should pull her up, it is time,” Eles instructed.
Dargon held up a hand. “Almost. Rakana, the dormu-lilies, who has them?”
She laid more stagnant than Eles liked, and he quickly adjusted his application to initiate the stirring process.
“The girl… the girl… others…”
“Who?”
“A knight. Another…” Rakana’s speech was slurring.
“Milord…” Eles warned.
“Seconds, Base! Look at the shields, Rakana. What’s on the shields?”
“Half horse… half eagle…. red cross, on white…”
Dargon clenched his fists in recognition. “The Laveriums! Chrais nobles!”
Eles moved the bowl up towards Rakana’s mouth. Dargon nodded yes, and Eles applied the stirring drops to her lips.
Rakana’s hands slid up to her cheeks and she slurred again, barely comprehensible, “The… boy… the boy… feels me…”
The sound of barking dogs echoed up out of the courtyard. Dargon stood and moved to the balcony doors and peeked out to see what had agitated the dogs.
“Guards,” he said, “roaming the grounds. How long before she can move?”
“Not too long,” Eles replied while Rakana’s body settled, “but she’s going to be groggy.”
“Fill your pack with some of her things. We have to get out of here.”
It took Rakana a full minute before she could even sit up and get her bearings, and even then, she tilted, and her words slurred.
Still, Dargon pushed them to go. He stepped out of the room and into the hallway. He motioned for them to follow. Eles took Rakana’s arm and steadied her as they followed Dargon. Down the mahogany staircase they went and into the parlor proper. A man steadying a girl who had had too much was nothing anyone here raised an eyebrow at. They fit in perfectly, Eles realized, as they stumbled through the main room. He could see the hall to the exit.
Keetie emerged from the hall, followed by half a dozen armed soldiers. Behind them, another half dozen poured into the room. The patrons of the House of Pleasures quietly gasped and turned away, or drew a silk scarf up over their faces, lest one of these loose-lipped guards recognize them.
“Take them,” the Inspector said plainly.
The guards converged.