“Ah, this should do,” Morlia said, as I presented the first batch of posing rabbits. The dinner guests were Morlia’s usual entourage, a faceless lot of acquaintances with names I never bothered to remember. “Is there any of that wine left? What was the name of that one? Not that sickly brand from Quinnari; those people truly have no taste for such things.”

  “Yes, Mum, believe we ha—”

  “I remember. That wine we had when—”

  She continued her ramble as I thought out the night’s rummaging. There was a room in the East Wing whose lock was giving me some real trouble. If the opportunity presented itself, I’d get into her master bedroom. That meant keys. Keys meant vaults. Vaults meant—

  Maybe the bitch would pass out from the Grest she was presently going on about. Better yet, one of those sycophants would bed her down in a corner for a few hours.

  “Good butler, go find a bottle or two.”

  “Yes, Mum.” I made my way to the wine cellar, chuckling as I heard the predictable foulness from Morlia to Werlyle, whom last I saw devouring his plate at the far end of the table.

  When I returned with a bottle of Grest on a silver platter, both worth more than many denizens of Nilghorde made in a year, the fight was in full swing.

  “—Leave me alone, you old bat.”

  “Old bat! That’s what you call the woman gracious enough to allow you to stay in her home? You do nothing for us, unless you consider tugging your pecker a chore.”

  Some of the newer guests smiled through their discomfort, while those who’d grown accustomed to the exchange—perhaps even came to the dinners because of it—laughed loud and chimed in louder.

  “No really, cousin,” she insisted, “what do you do all day?” To her nearest cheering section, “You see what I have to deal with here? Wer-lie-all, such a prole name.”

  “Same as you, sit on my ass and squander someone else’s fortune.”

  “He really is a boorish type,” a man dressed like a poet said.

  “You know what Rinlot said about you?” Morlia said.

  “Leave me alone, bitch. You can entertain these opium heads and cocksuckers with a trip on your broom.”

  “Is something funny, butler?”

  “No, Mum.” I snapped to, like a soldier.

  “I didn’t think so,” Morlia said. “I didn’t think so because I know you are aware of the stakes in the outer bailey…and their purpose.”

  That damned Werlyle was going to get me killed. I had to find a reason to excuse myself, and quick. To my good fortune, Werlyle stunned us all.

  “I doubt Rinlot had a chance to tell you much of anything,” shoveling in his meal, “seein’ as you killed him and all.”

  An air of silence became palpable, thick, ending when forks clattered as guests excused themselves.

  *

  I suppose I have gone into a good deal about the others in this tale, but perhaps too little about myself. You must excuse me, I am one who looks toward the future voraciously and views the past as burned leaves. Yes, but you are right, sometimes it is necessary to delve into the past. Not to paint the past in gold or fondle one’s self with nostalgia, of course not, but rather to make understandable things that are not always apparent—in this case, the alleged interplay between Rinlot and the House of Ordrid, the unalleged interplay between Rinlot and me, and how I came to this wretched mansion.

  As I have mentioned, I was an orphan. The orphanage I spent my early years in changed names so many times I’ve forgotten what to remember it by. Names mean and do little. You may not remember the name of someone or something, but you’ll most certainly remember the contents of your interactions. The staff came and went in an ugly merry-go-round of snarls and abuse. A safe haven for just about every form of human depravity, it was also an academy for finding the vulnerable parts of the human body. When not being whipped by the disciplinarians, you had to contend with the older, stronger boys. I learned quickly the frailty of knees when engaged from the right angle, and the sensitivity of eyes when met with a twig.

  No birthdays stick out, save one. The fog of early childhood memories unglue themselves. In the spaces between them are swish-swashes of disciplinarians disappearing to fight in the last stages of the wars in Rehleia, and armless and legless veterans hobbling in to replace them. Then came my seventh birthday, clear as summer. The Suelan cooks made me a muffin, shaped like a star with a little yellow candle.

  Some of the other boys found it an atrocity they hadn’t received a star muffin. After being pinned down, I watched the leader among them, already as big then as your average dockman, stroll up and devour my present.

  I got to keep the candle, which I jammed in the eye of the boy who had held down my arm just a moment before. If you push hard enough and hold in place, you can feel a squish followed by a nauseating give. It became a specialty of mine, you could say.

  This boy flailed on the ground next to me as the disciplinarians broke through the ring. A man that looked like a shaved carnival ape, known for his heavy-handedness, barreled through, a closing wake of silent children behind him.

  I was sent to the cellar, and after his trip to the infirmary the other boy joined me. We were stripped of our clothing and had our hands bound above our heads. For what must have been hours we both just stood there on our toes like pigs at the butcher. He was sobbing into his bandage while I tried to free my hands from the binding leather. With no signs of success, I stopped my squirming as we heard the eminent footsteps echoing down the stairwell. The other boy must have already experienced the cellar. His fidgeting was only outdone by his pitiful squeaks.

  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!” 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 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.