I am a man who has never enjoyed coupling with a woman. Mutual exploration of inner folds is exhilarating. But after the whippings and before the march through the bay of eldest boys, I experienced for the first time by sheer agony what would later be an avid joy.

  Slavers would come too. They’d pick the stoutest, giving us the added chore of balancing nutrition for self-defense and appearing just sickly enough to avoid being sold to a waiting oar-chain. The same boy who ate my star muffin left us wailing out from the iron bars of a carriage. I gave him a flouting wave, but I’d wager his tears prevented the full fruition of my passive-aggression.

  Making it to adulthood and being released was a dim far light. Many ran away. It was my good sense that knew a runaway would just as easily suffer the fates on the streets that they fled from at the orphanage. This kept me there, but nothing else.

  Several years later, a well-dressed man roostered in. He swung a cane and was outfitted like he’d just walked off a stage. All of us who were nearing manhood were lined up. He strolled up and down the file until at last coming to me. Clicking his heels when he halted, he inspected me from head to toe.

  The boys in the line by that time had forged mighty friendships. It was our turn to exploit the dirt-faced youngsters and run amok throughout. I’ll always remember those dearest friends, our savage rise and survival, the secret meetings followed by carnal expedition.

  The Lord bought me. Lord Stanifer Voss, was of moderate wealth, but was so embedded in the spectrum of Pelliul exuberance that to many he was as envied as a king.

  As he and I made our way in his carriage to Pelliul, I looked back at the frowning monster that had kept me swallowed for so long; I turned my head and uttered an oath.

  With polished white woods adorned by golden leaves and seats of red velvet, his carriage was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Lord Voss loved my blue eyes. He told me many times. He loved much about me, in fact, and drawing the curtains he showed me the expectations of our arrangement. Although young, I think my developing zest for the endeavor surprised him. Or maybe he already knew.

  No, acquiring another lover was not the reason that he had bought me, though it certainly became a perk.

  Lord Voss was the quintessential Pelliuli. Arrayed in a dapper style, befitting the more welcoming climate, he would walk into an outhouse as if presenting the commode with an illustrious bequest. Pelliul, known for its festive and extravagant glow lamps, was a buzzing nest of artists, thespians, and narcissists. City of Lights, the lamps hung in every color. The place was not without its Nilghordesque features, of course. A throng of fighting pits, a locust plague of drug users, and the thunderous clamor of the Metropolitan Ward reminded any tourist that it was only part fairyland.

  Lord Voss was in the business of entertaining the entertainment. In his gardens, what I would have called fields, he had a healthy stock of opium poppy. Those plants were permitted then as they are permitted now. Their special position in Chapwyn churches passes the law books, but most Scepters owning vast fields of it when The Municipal One and Maecidion penned their arrangements didn’t hurt either.

  More than the drugs, Lord Voss ran a professional catering service that was at every elite gallery or sold-out play. Most auspiciously, he ran a flock of rent-boys. That was where I fit in. And the stable of young men, under the grooming eye of Lord Voss, was no inane, filth-laden bevy, mind you. Plucked from orphanages throughout our province, he ran the tightest operation in the city and expelled a hefty sum of money toward our development.

  At the orphanage, I was taught the basics in reading and writing. I guess literate slaves are worth more than drooling ones, and the headmaster had to do something with all that time on his hands. Regardless, I am grateful I left there with these tools, because after my purchase I was soon sent to a private boarding school. There I was molded into a makeshift gentleman, versed in etiquette, dancing, literature, and other arenas that had nothing to do with my mindless and naked chore. During my year there, I learned all that I know now about the Rehleian province, its families, loud whispers, and legalities therein.

  It was also there where I learned of my greatest passion. Under the oblivious eye of instructors too busy recounting the stacks of tuition, I looted the place of all that could be buried and dug up later.

  Upon returning to the Voss estate, I was immediately put to work. As you may imagine, I didn’t mind the job. You may or may not be amazed at the different types of clients a rent-boy of value attracts. Politicians, droves of actors, and the occasional insatiable couple would render a chalice of flowing coin.

  What a great financial opportunity too. Greed: the mere overindulgence of self-interest. You may call me greedy and I will nod. When I started adding opium to my routine, the floundering orgy turned snoring nudists allowed for the greatest hauls.

  I have mentioned the Municipal Dungeon, but theft was not the charge that landed me my first stay.

  One morning, I was sunning myself at one of Voss’s fountains when he approached me. He advised that I was to be taking a trip. We’d never done this before. The money had to be worth the hassle. Given the address, I was told nothing more than “be flexible.” But how many possible meanings could that have in my line of work?

  A carnival was wheeling out to Nilghorde that very day. It had been many years, but whatever it was that engulfed me in the back of one of those wagons took me quite a bit of talking to calm myself. Cold swished in my gut when we climbed a small hill, and Nilghorde’s jagged fangs shot upward. A haze of smoke hid the summits, and in its grayness I saw what I’d climbed out of. The city smiled a sickness as I confirmed how bad I wanted to turn around. I knew I was home when I smelled the sea.

  Wanting to accomplish my task without delay, I utilized a bath house and donned my attire. I’d forgotten how aesthetic Nilghorde was not. Back in Pelliul a young man in lavender jingling ornamental flare was as common as the scurrying rodents and cold stares that met me here.

  I dodged one heckling clerk, two thugs, three snarling dogs, and a pack of good citizenry nailing fliers before running face-first into the gold-plated chest of a stout Chapwyn priest.

  “Those carried by the winds of the flesh,” the priest said, “are apteth for collision with more grounded things.”

  Sitting in the dust and dirt of the street and with my head swirling, I gathered my wits. For one agonizing semester I’d parsed the local religions. Some of the higher shelves in those orders were on Lord Voss’s elite list. Of all their screeds and parables, a Chapwyn verse I was particularly fond of, from the same tome this looming clergyman had just spit down on me, had once been inked on a ribbon of parchment I used to unroll in moments of sizzling inspiration: The rich man needeth not his golden foibles.

  But one I hadn’t even realized I’d retained came out of my mouth as the flier-nailers gathered around the priest. “He who useth the Holy Word to mocketh the fallen be both a fool and a brigand.”

  The crowd spilled from the sides of the holy man and all but flanked me. A calloused hand, though I know not from whom, stopped me from rising. I couldn’t help but postulate the sectarian nature of the fliers; some already ripped down the alleys, flapping in the wind. This was the peasantry, the loyal to good order, and some rebel using a priest’s divinely inspired words against him was fuel for the burning stakes. A man in rags exposed the first half of a sword.

  The priest’s ring-laden hand halted the blade. “Offer thoust a tithing,” he spoke, leaving a few of his plump fingers on his minion’s scabbard. “From thee sinful wages, and be graciously spared thy just steel.” The crowd nodded. Some mouthed the words.

  Whatever was to come first—negotiations or the unleashing of the mob—was shattered by the Ward. Shooting through the crowd, spinning the priest, and toppling over men and woman alike, a boy emerged from nowhere and ran down the street. The Ward was right after him, a thundering blur of silver and blue, flattening the ragged man and sending his sword chittering over the cobblestones before breaking under pursuing hooves. The filthy youth dropped a loaf of stolen bread and scrambled over the nearest wall.

  The gods weave openings in mystery, or so I believed the verse to go. I was on my feet and flying. Soon I was inside the Morgeltine District without a mugging or another near call with dismemberment.

  The Morgeltine is the wealthiest district. The Rogaire mansion sits there, although at the farthest eastern sliver and butting up to a dark thicket. A bit of snooping shows the property is considered part of the Morgeltine by jurisdiction alone, and the mansion loomed on the crumbling edge of one of Nilghorde’s original boundaries.

  The Morgeltine’s estates serve as a grand and shimmering moat, one encircling the keep of the Conqueror himself, or The Municipal One if you’re the staying-in type. No place in Nilghorde parallels such wealth, and I knew my company for the night was likely to be a man of unquestionable prominence.

  I have done so many house calls that I truly forget the mundane trivialities upon meeting at the doorstep. Also, I will spare you and myself from the details leading up to my arrest.

  I never had contention with the woman’s role; in fact, I made a living out of it. What I didn’t predict was literally being ordered to dress up as one. In his bitter drunkenness this land owner, or banker, or Supreme Magistrate spit directives at me like I was one of his slaves. You gain experience, dealing with problem customers, so I tried to calm him and sway the happenings to a more controllable end. He’d have none of it. When I refused to put on the dress for a second time, a showering of threats followed.

  Soon the Ward had me in custody. I assumed he pulled one aside and slipped him some gold, fabricated a story to incriminate me, or both. Only when I reached the Municipal Dungeon and was tossed in front of the reception desk did I learn about a new and fabulous Nilghordian ordinance. It was illegal for a prostitute to back out of a “business transaction” after verbal agreement. Since such agreements were impossible to verify, the legal victor was without exception the complainant.

  What a vile city! First day back in almost eight years and I’d wound up in jail. Back east I wallowed in décor, mingled with and suckled the rich and famous. Nilghorde, however, seemed my place to be bereft of freedom.

  My day in court was a farce. I gazed at the floor as a hot-blooded court room mercenary tore me to pieces on behalf of the absent plaintiff. His screed on the civil duty of merchants would have gotten him booed off a stage in Pelliul, but a stone victory in this urban coast.

  For two long years I withered inside the belly of the Municipal Dungeon. I fell back on the learnings of a childhood spent in similar bondage. Steering clear of confrontation as best I could, and strategically inserting myself at opportunities, I made the role of trustee. Being that I could read and write better than most of the guards helped. I landed a position in the head offices—and this is where it all leads—to include the office of Warden Rogaire.

  The first time I met him he came storming in while I was busy dusting. “Get the hell out!” was all I heard. Fair haired as I, but with golden brown skin, his hazel eyes made me avert my own as I made a hasty exit. Sweeping, carrying out trash, and taking notes for whomever, I opened my ears as I moused about. I soon learned, among so many trinkets, that Warden Rogaire—Rinlot—had just had a son.

  It was like I’d returned to the backrooms of a Pelliul theatre. All the bustle and drama that the guard officers fussed on about was as catty as a group of drunken actresses, just provincial and gruff. One would leave the room to use the privy, and before he could sit down four others who had just sang about brotherly creeds were now gossiping at his expense.

  It was in this gossip that I picked up the vital detail: the stinking richness of the Rogaires. Several shift supervisors couldn’t get enough of it:

  “…A deal with a pirate guild, about the Pelat spice routes.”

  “No, he goes into Crackpots Range—ever seen those skeletons missing their heads? He sells ’em to the Institute, he does.”

  “That there boy of his sure squirmed into the life. Probably a team of slaves to wipe then clap after a shat.”

  They all shared my observations. Rinlot wasn’t known for his exuberant salary or his keen intellect. What, did he trip in front of a toadstool-seated fairy eager to grant him wishes? It was said those still dwelled in the wildest glens and dales of the south, but I hardly took it as ostensible.

  Upon my release, I bolted back to Pelliul. With some proper grooming, I’d be employable again in no time.

  I could have kissed those streets. Cobbled beige and rusted ruby. On Lirelet Avenue the jasmine was in bloom, inhaled as jugglers and fire breathers lanced off the stained glass and gleaming lamp posts.

  The portico of Lord Voss’s home was as polished as ever. Rapping at the door summoned a housemaid whom I didn’t recognize. When I advised that I was a former employee and specified my trade, she gave me the up-and-down then shut the doors in my face. Furious, I beat them until they cracked open once more.

  “The master will be with you shortly, sir,” the housemaid said through the crease.

  After I’d successfully kicked every dead leaf and piece of rubbish off the steps, and as I contemplated another salvo of rapping, the doors cracked once more, then they swung open. Out roostered Lord Voss. I danced on his steps.

  He hammered me with the back of his hand. I was cut by a stupendous ring. I stood up only to take note that I’d fell.

  “You dare come here now!” He rattled his cane. “I should gut you and donate those cum-bloated entrails of yours to the kitchen of that moldy orphanage where I plucked you from! Do you know what your little stunt cost me? The groveling,” he became a parade of grovelings and high steps, “the groveling required to keep—the man you cheated—”

  “Cheated?!”

  “Ohh,” dragging out his disdain, “don’t you interrupt me. I am in no mood.” He slapped me again. I fell down again. I curled up in a clump of dead leaves, forgotten by the gardener.

  The sight of me crying only encouraged his rage. A furious assault of polished boots and an accurate cane had me soon screaming.

  I wish I could have told him. I wish we could have sat down over wine. His grievances could certainly be unlearned, and after hearing my upsetting tale he would have surely shown pity. I wanted to stay in the enchanting light of the glow lamps and frolic among the dainty forever. But wishes only exist in the thoughtful shadows of regret. Reaching down into the dungeons of memory, I went cold and wrapped my hand around a strong twig.

  —

  After a long while I dared to breathe. Voss’s eye socket let out its last reserves of blood. I leaned over his flowerbed and vomited out every piece of me that I could.

  The air was getting colder. The very leaves that swirled whispered an ill fate if I hesitated. Through my tears, I picked every ornament off of Lord Voss before fleeing into the night.

  The doorwoman, the damned housemaid, she was the only one who saw my face. I never told her my name, and I believed no one saw the murder, but I learned fully the one-sidedness of our judicial system.

  There were many things on my side. What, were the Inspectors going to chase down every blond man of minor stature to check the grade of blue in his eyes? “Are you a former gay prostitute who killed his pimp? No, be gone then, scum.” How laughable. Yet, I couldn’t know what Lord Voss may have told his housemaid or what company he’d excused himself from. If the housemaid had even a mediocre memory, a sketch of my likeness was going to be on every lamp post in the city.

  I had to leave Pelliul—for a long time, maybe forever.

  I was no woodsman and Oxghorde bordered swamp. The former would serve me up as food for wolves, the latter a crippling case of fen-lung. Against every fiber of my being I forced myself to consider my best and only option. There was only one place one could truly melt into the maelstrom. In a week’s time I was back in Nilghorde.

  Abject poverty alone. Cemeteries with a raven-haired lunatic. And then finally, a mansion to burgle clean.

  II: The Noise in the Family Graveyard

  Sometimes when given the opportunity, even the frozen waterfall pours. Ansul’s ass, any more trips down Sentimental Alley and I’d be rendered waxing poetically as well-intended, yet arguably as irksome, as Seasmil loved to do on occasion. All I originally meant to convey was I’d learned through sheer happenstance that Rinlot Rogaire was both diffuse and wealthy, the ideal mix for someone hoping to cash in on a final grand theft.

  My last visit to the Municipal Dungeon should have cured me of ever worrying about getting arrested again. Not from rehabilitation, no that domain of justice had long flew away by the time Do-Gooder’s Row was half built.

  There was no rehabilitation in our corrupt city. Prison was now a racket. The class here who hammered nails and baked bread, all hoping to one day also perch themselves in the Morgeltine—well, some had better contacts with the brutes of the Ward than their competitors. Bursting prisons meant fewer merchants to compete against. It meant howling demand for cool-handed carpenters. And good riddance to anyone who made it behind bars.

  No, what got me an orientation day flogging and subsequent life sentence was a botched burglary.

  I’d started burglaries during the grave-robbing downtime. Our split kept me out of the pauper lines, but Seasmil’s strong interests in both the freshly dead and poor made for easy access but meager returns.

  The first dozen houses or so were a silken dream. Excelling seemed instantaneous; I was emerging a real natural. Then, on the same night a choir of Chapwyn door-knockers did their civic duty and hung a poet who’d stirred crowds with lamentations of missing our pre-Years of Peace ways, I was caught and my life was over.

  Sectarian maintenance of social equilibrium wasn’t the only landmark by which I remembered that fateful day. In fact, it became the minor of the two. Upon the fading sting of the last lash, the place was humming. From the dungeon’s belly to Rapist Wing, all the way to the shore of Crackpots Range, guards and prisoners alike were bouncing back and forth word that a convicted necromancer was coming in. This was a true rarity. Sorcery, Necromancy, Crystal gawking—the whole arcana bundle that comes with funny children who have more brains than blood—it all had been outlawed in Rehleia not long after The Conqueror and Maecidion the Virulent had struck some deal. The most common rumor was Maecidion’s House could still furtively practice all the things Seasmil and Somyellia showed far too much interest in. The only clause was he had to barter new deals with devils. The finer-tuning of which was now lost on the clerk or scribe, but it kept said devilry from stalking the streets and hills, having been as common as cabbage in the far elder days.