Inspector Keetie’s cronies swarmed them.
In their blitz to grab and subdue Elestran and Rakana, they knocked aside several of the House of Pleasures’ nearby clientele, including Dargon.
“Elestran of Bloodford…” Keetie said as he tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, seeking that elusive perfect fit. “We shall see how that story holds up.” Keetie minced to Rakana. “You reek, my little bauble.”
As the guards dragged Eles and Rakana away, Eles made eye contact with Dargon. He looked for some sign, some indication that Dargon would save him.
He saw nothing.
* * * *
Inspector Keetie’s manor stood nestled on the bay, framed on three sides by an impeccably well-manicured garden of hydrangeas and topiaries trimmed in a variety of fanciful shapes. The entirety fell under the attentive eyes of Keetie’s house guards, and dogs roamed the gardens, sniffing out anyone foolish enough to jump the seven-foot-high walls. The interior afforded every comfort. The furnishings of the manor reflected a man who appreciated the finer things in life, to the point of pampering. Bathrooms came equipped with brightly tiled tubs adorned with images of seductive mermaids and frolicking seahorses, and vanities stocked with all manner of costly perfumes and powders. Soft, comfortable chairs of the highest quality were abundant, always affording a place to sit, relax, and contemplate one of the fine works of art that adorned the walls. Serene views of the water on one side of the manor were made cozy with generously sized fireplaces and thick quilts and throws. Eles was held here against his will, a prisoner, but somebody must have forgotten to inform the cooks because his meals were decadently delicious and the wine velvety and potent. The servants were legion and well trained.
This man lived exactly the way Eles had always dreamed of living.
Eles spent the day in a room that seemed built to contain ‘guests.’ The windows, barred and locked, afforded a pleasant view of the gardens, but no means of exit. The furnishings provided a surprising degree of comfort for a detainee undergoing interrogation.
Make no mistake. He was interrogated.
In the morning, Keetie had summoned Eles to breakfast. No stranger to truth serums, Eles knew after a few sips that Keetie had laced his grape juice. But truth serums aren’t infallible, particularly if you know you’re being subjected to one. Eles knew the tricks. He didn’t attempt to fight it. He breathed into it, steadied himself, and answered Keetie’s questions truthfully, if not comprehensively. He dodged and skipped, offering truths about his past and about his trip to Venaisin, without giving up key secrets. For example, Eles told Keetie that he wasn’t really a royal alchemist from Bloodford, but a denounced alchemist from Greyarch. He admitted that he lied about his identity because he wasn’t sure how he would be treated at the Pleasure House. Enough tension existed between Ghault and Faros that an alchemist from Greyarch might be suspected a spy. Such a label often led to detention. Or worse. He told Keetie that Venaisin fascinated him, and he had always wanted to study the city’s history. All true. Since Keetie didn’t know exactly what questions to directly ask, Eles took pride in the fact that he lasted the session without giving up his benefactor, or the real nature of their trip to Venaisin. At one point he did have to implicate Rakana, at least indirectly. When questioned about whether he saw Rakana doing anything out of the ordinary, he had to admit that the girl had been muttering in her sleep. Words and phrases he didn’t know the meaning of. He felt guilty about it, he confessed, but there was nothing to be done.
In the evening, a servant again summoned him to the dining room. A place ideal for entertaining, with a long oak table that sparkled with silver candelabra and urns filled with hydrangeas. Ceiling-to-floor tapestries stitched with ancient runes organized in geometric patterns covered the walls. Keetie sat at the head of the table, which already had two plates of food set, sipping from a silver goblet. He had his hair styled up to look like a swirled unicorn horn, instead of his usual satyr horns, and his long velvet jacket swathed him in crimson red, accented by a bright yellow ascot. Somehow, the silk ascot avoided being besmirched by the black goo that made it impossible for any hairs on his head from straying from his immaculate designs.
“Elestran the Base. You are a clever one, aren’t you?”
The Base. A bad sign.
“How clever could I be, with such a moniker? I endeavored for Elestran the Wise. I would have settled for Elestran the Astute.”
Keetie smiled. “Still time for a change, old man. The trick will be to avoid Elestran the Dead, or Elestran of the Writhing Agony.”
“Elestran the Base suddenly seems palatable,” Eles responded without sarcasm. Keetie quipped playfully, but it was best to show a man like Keetie that you understood the seriousness beneath the surface.
The Inspector reached over and patted the chair next to him. “Sit. My cook prepares a roasted eel that is without equal in Faros.”
“Very generous, Inspector.” He moved, head bowed, and sat, uncomfortably close to Keetie. He had to consciously point his knees to the side to prevent his legs rubbing against his host’s stockings. The eel was spicy and perfectly prepared. The wine was even better.
Keetie pointed to one of the tapestries with his fork. “Do you know what that is, Elestran of Greyarch?” He never spoke while chewing, but rather waited until the food was well on its way down his gullet.
“I don’t, sir.”
“Of course you don’t. The Ghaultish never appreciated the rich history of the ancient weavers. This is an ancestral diagram. The runes are familial symbols, and the design is a chart of sorts, showing the history of how the families were connected to one another over the ages. I’ve studied this. I have a deep appreciation for the history of those weavers who preceded us. Kendon. Bordorious. Faros.” Keetie took another bite, which meant a prolonged silence while the man savored his petite portion. He washed it down and dappled the edges of his mouth with his napkin.
Eles wondered where this conversation was headed but followed his instinct to shut up, eat, and listen.
“Your friend is not so clever as you. Let me be direct. I know who you are, Elestran. I know you came here with Dargon Lodern, Head of the Council of Ghault. I know why you’re here.” Keetie stared, unnervingly still.
Careful, Eles thought. We’ll see.
“Outside of the company I presently keep, you’ll find knowing me tedious,” Eles offered. “I have nothing but decades of idleness and debauchery to offer a man like you.”
“And whose fault is that?” Keetie asked mischievously. “Lodern is a fool. His decision to anoint your brother Ke’Van as Royal Alchemist, while you rotted away, unused, for decades, proves it. Only a fool wouldn’t see how invaluable a man like you could be.”
Eles’ chest tightened and his pulse raced. It was what he had always believed, of course. Down deep. For some years – way, way down deep. But nobody had ever seen it before. Or if they had, nobody had ever said it.
Until now. Somehow, Keetie knew it, and he punctuated the opinion with another lazy bite of his marinated eel. The man was in no rush to force a response. He was incontestably sure of himself.
Eles had been tossed away.
Once Qolor was gone, his life had crumbled.
Qolor, Eles’ old tutor, was task oriented. He congratulated the successful completion of a task, of a step in the process, but never complimented an alchemist’s talent. He focused on what you did. Not who you were. Qolor’s approach to perfecting his soul, to synchronizing his emotional state to his physical work was to pour his soul into the product itself and block out any collateral damage to those affected by the work. The transformation itself was the beauty of the universe. The makeup of the world, and the secrets waiting to be unlocked by the transmutation of that makeup, were constant. People were temporal. For decades, Eles agonized that he was too young to understand that lesson, that it was his inexperience and naiveté that led to the loss of his gifts. What was the life of that young dreamer (he couldn’t even remember his name!) compared to the chance to discover a salve to heal a king and change the course of history? Or the opportunity to supply the realm with a weapon that could destroy the Ghurr? His brother had seized opportunities, even created them, to put himself in a position to be considered one of the most influential alchemists in history. It wouldn’t happen, of course. Ke’Van could never attain divine perfection. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t live his life to be very rich. To be envied, the gods curse him. Eles never attained wealth or invoked envy. Doubts nagged him. Haunted him. Ruined him.
“I cannot argue,” Eles replied.
“Of course you can’t. You’re not a fool. You know that Lodern is using you. You know there’s no way that Lodern permits you to walk away from this pursuit alive. He simply can’t.”
The thought had crossed Eles’ mind.
Keetie continued, “I’m curious. What has he promised you, for your assistance?”
“Nothing.”
Keetie put his goblet down and leaned back in his chair. He seemed genuinely surprised. “Nothing? Then why are you here?”
Eles had to think about that for a moment. “It was either come or be hanged.”
Keetie’s eyes narrowed, and he adjusted his ascot as he let this sink in. “What a lovely man,” Keetie purred as he emptied the remains of the bottle into Eles’ goblet. “It’s becoming increasingly apparent why his entire council is stabbing him in the back.”
Eles looked at the wine. Considering the circumstances, it seemed ill advised to continue drinking. Then why did it beckon him so?
Keetie pushed away from the table and stood. “Walk with me.” It sounded more a suggestion than a command.
Eles stood and let his gaze linger on his silver goblet. His every fiber wanted to pick it up, to take it with him, but Keetie standing was the out he needed to resist. He left the table and walked with (and, of course, slightly behind) the Inspector.
“I am not blind, Elestran, disciple of Qolor of the Green Light. I recognize and value talent. I’m prepared to offer you a position working for me.” Keetie said it while taking in the splendor of his great hall. “I could point to several crimes you’ve committed by coming here to Venaisin, but I see now that you’re here against your will. Mine is no intimidation or coercion. This is an offer to stay here and be my alchemist, with all the equipment and provisions a man of my wealth can provide. If you decline, we will ship you back to Greyarch, where you may take up whatever existence you may have had there.” Keetie climbed the wide, curved staircase up to the second floor.
If the Inspector’s offer was legitimate, it could mean a significantly fortuitous turn of fate. Being associated with Lord Lodern had created a legitimacy of Eles’ value that was now being coveted by the Inspector. The man’s wealth and influence conjured visions of an inspiringly well-stocked lab and the opportunity to concoct and invent again.
But it wouldn’t be in Greyarch.
Keetie wasn’t royalty. Rich and powerful, yes, but he was a servant of the noble families of Venaisin. Eles would be a world away, and his ascension couldn’t be rubbed in the noses of the alchemical guilds of Ghault.
Why did that matter? He wondered why, even after all these years, he could still be so base, so weak, as to care about revenge. In his current predicament, he should be leaping at this offer. He would. He would.
“Dargon Lodern would not take kindly to my switching loyalties. Is he still alive?”
“Lodern is a man without a realm, without any friends, and without any hope. Have no fear of your prior captor,” Keetie replied as they strode past Eles’ room and further down the hall. “I recommend you focus on the future. Not the past.”
Eles half hoped Lodern was dead. There would be no question of loyalty then. No what ifs to be pondered.
Keetie opened the door to a large, well-furnished bedroom with a balcony that looked out over the bay. The sun had recently set and the ships bobbing on the waters of the Bay of Serpents were flecked with newly lit lanterns. A cool sea breeze blew into the room and fluttered the tapestries that hung on the walls.
“This would be your room.”
“Quite impressive,” Eles said in awe. He smiled as he imagined himself waking up in the four-poster bed and stepping out onto the balcony to overlook the city that would be his to unearth.
“Yes, obviously. The position of Grand Inspector holds real power in Venaisin,” Keetie replied nonchalantly. “Would the position interest you?”
“Yes.” It came out quickly. It came out without thought. He wondered where Dargon was right now.
Keetie didn’t show any sign of victory. For him, the outcome was never in doubt. “Of course, to benefit from working for me you would need to swear allegiance to me. I would need to be convinced of your loyalty.”
“Of course.” And why wouldn’t he swear loyalty to this man? Eles wondered. Who was more deserved? Who had ever offered him more?
Keetie closed the door and continued down the hall. “I am a man who believes actions speak louder than words. I require you to demonstrate your loyalty in a small way. Your fellow captive needs to be punished, and you will act as executioner.”
“Me? Why?”
“A symbol, if you would. Sometimes one needs to fully cut their ties to the past to embrace their future. In addition, I suspect if I make the hanging a public one, I may be able to ferret out Lodern. He may just be foolish enough to approach, thinking he may somehow play the savior.”
So that was it. He hoped to trap Lodern by hanging the Dreamer. “Inspector, I have come to understand Dargon Lodern in my travels here, and I assure you there’s no need for a hanging. He will not risk his life to save the courtesan.”
“The courtesan? Rakana? Oh no, no, no, no. Now that I’ve sniffed out her power, the girl is far too valuable for me to foolishly throw away.” He stopped at another iron bound door, unlocked it, and swung it open, revealing a stark room void of furnishings. “You misunderstood me.”
Shackled to the wall at the rear of the room, Kelshar raised her bruised face.
In their blitz to grab and subdue Elestran and Rakana, they knocked aside several of the House of Pleasures’ nearby clientele, including Dargon.
“Elestran of Bloodford…” Keetie said as he tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, seeking that elusive perfect fit. “We shall see how that story holds up.” Keetie minced to Rakana. “You reek, my little bauble.”
As the guards dragged Eles and Rakana away, Eles made eye contact with Dargon. He looked for some sign, some indication that Dargon would save him.
He saw nothing.
* * * *
Inspector Keetie’s manor stood nestled on the bay, framed on three sides by an impeccably well-manicured garden of hydrangeas and topiaries trimmed in a variety of fanciful shapes. The entirety fell under the attentive eyes of Keetie’s house guards, and dogs roamed the gardens, sniffing out anyone foolish enough to jump the seven-foot-high walls. The interior afforded every comfort. The furnishings of the manor reflected a man who appreciated the finer things in life, to the point of pampering. Bathrooms came equipped with brightly tiled tubs adorned with images of seductive mermaids and frolicking seahorses, and vanities stocked with all manner of costly perfumes and powders. Soft, comfortable chairs of the highest quality were abundant, always affording a place to sit, relax, and contemplate one of the fine works of art that adorned the walls. Serene views of the water on one side of the manor were made cozy with generously sized fireplaces and thick quilts and throws. Eles was held here against his will, a prisoner, but somebody must have forgotten to inform the cooks because his meals were decadently delicious and the wine velvety and potent. The servants were legion and well trained.
This man lived exactly the way Eles had always dreamed of living.
Eles spent the day in a room that seemed built to contain ‘guests.’ The windows, barred and locked, afforded a pleasant view of the gardens, but no means of exit. The furnishings provided a surprising degree of comfort for a detainee undergoing interrogation.
Make no mistake. He was interrogated.
In the morning, Keetie had summoned Eles to breakfast. No stranger to truth serums, Eles knew after a few sips that Keetie had laced his grape juice. But truth serums aren’t infallible, particularly if you know you’re being subjected to one. Eles knew the tricks. He didn’t attempt to fight it. He breathed into it, steadied himself, and answered Keetie’s questions truthfully, if not comprehensively. He dodged and skipped, offering truths about his past and about his trip to Venaisin, without giving up key secrets. For example, Eles told Keetie that he wasn’t really a royal alchemist from Bloodford, but a denounced alchemist from Greyarch. He admitted that he lied about his identity because he wasn’t sure how he would be treated at the Pleasure House. Enough tension existed between Ghault and Faros that an alchemist from Greyarch might be suspected a spy. Such a label often led to detention. Or worse. He told Keetie that Venaisin fascinated him, and he had always wanted to study the city’s history. All true. Since Keetie didn’t know exactly what questions to directly ask, Eles took pride in the fact that he lasted the session without giving up his benefactor, or the real nature of their trip to Venaisin. At one point he did have to implicate Rakana, at least indirectly. When questioned about whether he saw Rakana doing anything out of the ordinary, he had to admit that the girl had been muttering in her sleep. Words and phrases he didn’t know the meaning of. He felt guilty about it, he confessed, but there was nothing to be done.
In the evening, a servant again summoned him to the dining room. A place ideal for entertaining, with a long oak table that sparkled with silver candelabra and urns filled with hydrangeas. Ceiling-to-floor tapestries stitched with ancient runes organized in geometric patterns covered the walls. Keetie sat at the head of the table, which already had two plates of food set, sipping from a silver goblet. He had his hair styled up to look like a swirled unicorn horn, instead of his usual satyr horns, and his long velvet jacket swathed him in crimson red, accented by a bright yellow ascot. Somehow, the silk ascot avoided being besmirched by the black goo that made it impossible for any hairs on his head from straying from his immaculate designs.
“Elestran the Base. You are a clever one, aren’t you?”
The Base. A bad sign.
“How clever could I be, with such a moniker? I endeavored for Elestran the Wise. I would have settled for Elestran the Astute.”
Keetie smiled. “Still time for a change, old man. The trick will be to avoid Elestran the Dead, or Elestran of the Writhing Agony.”
“Elestran the Base suddenly seems palatable,” Eles responded without sarcasm. Keetie quipped playfully, but it was best to show a man like Keetie that you understood the seriousness beneath the surface.
The Inspector reached over and patted the chair next to him. “Sit. My cook prepares a roasted eel that is without equal in Faros.”
“Very generous, Inspector.” He moved, head bowed, and sat, uncomfortably close to Keetie. He had to consciously point his knees to the side to prevent his legs rubbing against his host’s stockings. The eel was spicy and perfectly prepared. The wine was even better.
Keetie pointed to one of the tapestries with his fork. “Do you know what that is, Elestran of Greyarch?” He never spoke while chewing, but rather waited until the food was well on its way down his gullet.
“I don’t, sir.”
“Of course you don’t. The Ghaultish never appreciated the rich history of the ancient weavers. This is an ancestral diagram. The runes are familial symbols, and the design is a chart of sorts, showing the history of how the families were connected to one another over the ages. I’ve studied this. I have a deep appreciation for the history of those weavers who preceded us. Kendon. Bordorious. Faros.” Keetie took another bite, which meant a prolonged silence while the man savored his petite portion. He washed it down and dappled the edges of his mouth with his napkin.
Eles wondered where this conversation was headed but followed his instinct to shut up, eat, and listen.
“Your friend is not so clever as you. Let me be direct. I know who you are, Elestran. I know you came here with Dargon Lodern, Head of the Council of Ghault. I know why you’re here.” Keetie stared, unnervingly still.
Careful, Eles thought. We’ll see.
“Outside of the company I presently keep, you’ll find knowing me tedious,” Eles offered. “I have nothing but decades of idleness and debauchery to offer a man like you.”
“And whose fault is that?” Keetie asked mischievously. “Lodern is a fool. His decision to anoint your brother Ke’Van as Royal Alchemist, while you rotted away, unused, for decades, proves it. Only a fool wouldn’t see how invaluable a man like you could be.”
Eles’ chest tightened and his pulse raced. It was what he had always believed, of course. Down deep. For some years – way, way down deep. But nobody had ever seen it before. Or if they had, nobody had ever said it.
Until now. Somehow, Keetie knew it, and he punctuated the opinion with another lazy bite of his marinated eel. The man was in no rush to force a response. He was incontestably sure of himself.
Eles had been tossed away.
Once Qolor was gone, his life had crumbled.
Qolor, Eles’ old tutor, was task oriented. He congratulated the successful completion of a task, of a step in the process, but never complimented an alchemist’s talent. He focused on what you did. Not who you were. Qolor’s approach to perfecting his soul, to synchronizing his emotional state to his physical work was to pour his soul into the product itself and block out any collateral damage to those affected by the work. The transformation itself was the beauty of the universe. The makeup of the world, and the secrets waiting to be unlocked by the transmutation of that makeup, were constant. People were temporal. For decades, Eles agonized that he was too young to understand that lesson, that it was his inexperience and naiveté that led to the loss of his gifts. What was the life of that young dreamer (he couldn’t even remember his name!) compared to the chance to discover a salve to heal a king and change the course of history? Or the opportunity to supply the realm with a weapon that could destroy the Ghurr? His brother had seized opportunities, even created them, to put himself in a position to be considered one of the most influential alchemists in history. It wouldn’t happen, of course. Ke’Van could never attain divine perfection. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t live his life to be very rich. To be envied, the gods curse him. Eles never attained wealth or invoked envy. Doubts nagged him. Haunted him. Ruined him.
“I cannot argue,” Eles replied.
“Of course you can’t. You’re not a fool. You know that Lodern is using you. You know there’s no way that Lodern permits you to walk away from this pursuit alive. He simply can’t.”
The thought had crossed Eles’ mind.
Keetie continued, “I’m curious. What has he promised you, for your assistance?”
“Nothing.”
Keetie put his goblet down and leaned back in his chair. He seemed genuinely surprised. “Nothing? Then why are you here?”
Eles had to think about that for a moment. “It was either come or be hanged.”
Keetie’s eyes narrowed, and he adjusted his ascot as he let this sink in. “What a lovely man,” Keetie purred as he emptied the remains of the bottle into Eles’ goblet. “It’s becoming increasingly apparent why his entire council is stabbing him in the back.”
Eles looked at the wine. Considering the circumstances, it seemed ill advised to continue drinking. Then why did it beckon him so?
Keetie pushed away from the table and stood. “Walk with me.” It sounded more a suggestion than a command.
Eles stood and let his gaze linger on his silver goblet. His every fiber wanted to pick it up, to take it with him, but Keetie standing was the out he needed to resist. He left the table and walked with (and, of course, slightly behind) the Inspector.
“I am not blind, Elestran, disciple of Qolor of the Green Light. I recognize and value talent. I’m prepared to offer you a position working for me.” Keetie said it while taking in the splendor of his great hall. “I could point to several crimes you’ve committed by coming here to Venaisin, but I see now that you’re here against your will. Mine is no intimidation or coercion. This is an offer to stay here and be my alchemist, with all the equipment and provisions a man of my wealth can provide. If you decline, we will ship you back to Greyarch, where you may take up whatever existence you may have had there.” Keetie climbed the wide, curved staircase up to the second floor.
If the Inspector’s offer was legitimate, it could mean a significantly fortuitous turn of fate. Being associated with Lord Lodern had created a legitimacy of Eles’ value that was now being coveted by the Inspector. The man’s wealth and influence conjured visions of an inspiringly well-stocked lab and the opportunity to concoct and invent again.
But it wouldn’t be in Greyarch.
Keetie wasn’t royalty. Rich and powerful, yes, but he was a servant of the noble families of Venaisin. Eles would be a world away, and his ascension couldn’t be rubbed in the noses of the alchemical guilds of Ghault.
Why did that matter? He wondered why, even after all these years, he could still be so base, so weak, as to care about revenge. In his current predicament, he should be leaping at this offer. He would. He would.
“Dargon Lodern would not take kindly to my switching loyalties. Is he still alive?”
“Lodern is a man without a realm, without any friends, and without any hope. Have no fear of your prior captor,” Keetie replied as they strode past Eles’ room and further down the hall. “I recommend you focus on the future. Not the past.”
Eles half hoped Lodern was dead. There would be no question of loyalty then. No what ifs to be pondered.
Keetie opened the door to a large, well-furnished bedroom with a balcony that looked out over the bay. The sun had recently set and the ships bobbing on the waters of the Bay of Serpents were flecked with newly lit lanterns. A cool sea breeze blew into the room and fluttered the tapestries that hung on the walls.
“This would be your room.”
“Quite impressive,” Eles said in awe. He smiled as he imagined himself waking up in the four-poster bed and stepping out onto the balcony to overlook the city that would be his to unearth.
“Yes, obviously. The position of Grand Inspector holds real power in Venaisin,” Keetie replied nonchalantly. “Would the position interest you?”
“Yes.” It came out quickly. It came out without thought. He wondered where Dargon was right now.
Keetie didn’t show any sign of victory. For him, the outcome was never in doubt. “Of course, to benefit from working for me you would need to swear allegiance to me. I would need to be convinced of your loyalty.”
“Of course.” And why wouldn’t he swear loyalty to this man? Eles wondered. Who was more deserved? Who had ever offered him more?
Keetie closed the door and continued down the hall. “I am a man who believes actions speak louder than words. I require you to demonstrate your loyalty in a small way. Your fellow captive needs to be punished, and you will act as executioner.”
“Me? Why?”
“A symbol, if you would. Sometimes one needs to fully cut their ties to the past to embrace their future. In addition, I suspect if I make the hanging a public one, I may be able to ferret out Lodern. He may just be foolish enough to approach, thinking he may somehow play the savior.”
So that was it. He hoped to trap Lodern by hanging the Dreamer. “Inspector, I have come to understand Dargon Lodern in my travels here, and I assure you there’s no need for a hanging. He will not risk his life to save the courtesan.”
“The courtesan? Rakana? Oh no, no, no, no. Now that I’ve sniffed out her power, the girl is far too valuable for me to foolishly throw away.” He stopped at another iron bound door, unlocked it, and swung it open, revealing a stark room void of furnishings. “You misunderstood me.”
Shackled to the wall at the rear of the room, Kelshar raised her bruised face.