Paul Kearney - Kings of Morning

‘Lord, no, please. Kill me if you want. But not that.’ The tears fell from his eyes in silver ribbons.

The Honai said nothing. He seemed preoccupied. He was reading a scrap of parchment. He grunted.

‘Your friend Auroc has disowned you, boy. Says you are quite the little troublemaker.’

‘Auroc? No — Lord, no. I beg you.’

For the first time the Honai’s bright, violet eyes met his own. ‘You have spirit, slave. For a kitchen scullion to spy upon the Great King and his family! I hope you were well paid.’

‘No-one paid me. I was stupid. I did not think.’

‘Maybe.’

The door opened. In came a massive, black-haired Kefre with a heavy face. His eyes were dark with anger. At once, the Honai went to one knee, then straightened. Deference sat deep-planted on the Honai’s countenance. And fear.

‘My Lord Kouros. This is the boy.’

The dark Kefre loomed over Kurun, ignoring the greeting. ‘Did you get anything out of him?’

‘Nothing of use. He holds to his story.’ A pause. ‘My prince, I think it may be the truth.’

‘I am not a spy!’ Kurun screamed.

Kouros knelt until his face was level with Kurun’s. He held out a hand. Without a word, the elderly hufsan in the corner came forward and set the knife within it. Kouros felt the edge, his gaze never leaving Kurun’s face.

‘Was it my brother?’ he asked, softly. ‘Was it Prince Rakhsar?’

Kurun’s vision was broken into a spangled mosaic of tears. ‘Lord, I am a kitchen slave,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I am nothing.’

The violet eyes studied him. The Kefren prince exuded anger, like perfume made rank by sweat. The hand which held the knife trembled slightly. There was a smell of burning in the room. The hufsan at the table had uncovered a clay firepot and was blowing the coals within into life.

At last Kouros seemed to relax somewhat. He breathed out.

‘I believe you’re right. The boy is telling the truth,’ he said. ‘I can see it in him.’

The Honai nodded. ‘Youth makes for foolishness. What shall I do with him, my prince?’

Kurun was sobbing with relief, sagging in the leather bonds that imprisoned his limbs. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you, lord.’

Then Kouros leaned close, a flash of movement startlingly swift in so bulky a form. He grasped at Kurun’s soft flesh, and the knife sawed a second, then slid cleanly through. A jet of blood, black and shining, spattered Kouros’s face. Kurun shrieked.

At once the hufsan scuttled forward, holding a skewer of iron whose tip glowed yellow. He thrust it between Kurun’s legs and worked the point back and forth, as though he were smearing plaster into a crevice. A sickening smoke rose. Kurun screamed and strained in the chair until the straps were bloody and the sinews in his neck stood out like wires.

Kouros studied his handiwork. The Honai handed him a linen towel and he wiped his face.

‘He’s a pretty one, all right. Just the sort Rakhsar would like.’ Then he smiled, and set a hand on the Honai’s breastplate. ‘No — the lady Roshana. Have him sent to her. Let her know the whole way of it. She has a heart of corn, a soft spot for waifs and strays. This will let her know what I do to her brother’s spies.’

‘Even when they are not spies at all. A capital notion, sir,’ Dyarnes said, face impassive.

The grin on Kouros’s face sat uneasily. It did not seem to suit his features. ‘A clean cut, Dyarnes?’

‘Very clean, my Lord. I could not have done better.’

‘The Great King’s son must never shrink from using the knife when he deems it necessary. I never shall. Have him sent to my half-sister’s apartments just as he is.’

‘Yes lord. It shall be done tonight.’

The uneasy, un-right smile was still on Kouros’s face as he left. Dyarnes stood looking down on Kurun a moment more.

‘Give him something for the pain,’ he said to the hufsan in the corner, his golden face twisted with disgust. And then he swept out of the room without a backward glance.

‘So, you joined a Royal dinner without invitation,’ the old hufsan chuckled. He bent and picked up the bloody piece of meat from the floor and waved it in front of Kurun’s pain-glazed eyes. ‘These are bigger than most, my young friend. Say goodbye to them now. Your life is starting over again tonight. You were very lucky.’

‘Lucky.’ Kurun slurred the word. He had bitten through his own tongue, and his mouth was full of blood.

The hufsan was a bent, brown creature in a dun robe the same colour as his skin, His eyes were bright as a bird’s, and he had the long fingers of a musician, or a scholar.

‘Rinse your mouth out.’ A bowl was placed at Kurun’s mouth. ‘Good. Now spit — over your shoulder.’

The bloody liquid dribbled from Kurun’s mouth. The old hufsan wiped it away with the cloth Kouros had discarded.

‘You are no spy of Rakhsar. I could have told him that.’ He took a mortar from the table and scooped out the contents with one hand. Then he knelt between Kurun’s legs and began gently smearing it over the seared gash there. Kurun came to life again, struggled in the chair, moaned thickly.

‘Hold still. If it’s done right now, you’ll still look pretty down there, and you may even have a cock that works. This was done to you later in life than usual, so you may keep something of your manhood about you. You’ll never need to shave, though.’

He put the mortar away, wiped his hands, humming like a man content with his work, and produced a vial of amber-yellow liquid. He put it to Kurun’s bloody mouth. ‘Don’t waste a drop. This is juice of the poppy, and you’re lucky to get it. I think Dyarnes liked you. And the prince knew it, or he’d have gutted you for the fun of it. Believe me, I’ve seen it. But the black bastard still has some shame about him. He knows a needless killing would get back to his father. Dyarnes still serves two masters.

‘There. Good boy. In a moment or two you’ll feel the pain go, and all the worries of your little life. I’ll unbuckle you then.’ He stroked the boy’s thick black hair.

‘You are alive, and young, my friend. This shall pass, as all things do. It is not the end. Believe me, I know.’

‘Who?’ Kurun gargled.

‘My name is Hiram. I’m from the Harem.’ He giggled. ‘Hiram of the Harem, that’s me. They dragged me out of my bed to make sure you wouldn’t bleed to death. Yours aren’t the first balls I’ve picked up off the floor, believe me.’

‘Kurun shook his head, stared at the door. ‘Who — ’ he repeated.

‘Ah, I see. Well, you have been mixing in elevated company this night, kitchen-boy. The tall Honai was Dyarnes, master of the King’s Bodyguard. And the black-haired, grinning monster who sliced your manhood off was no less than prince Kouros himself, whom most think will one day sit in his father’s chair and rule the empire. He thought you a minion of his brother’s. Or perhaps he didn’t. It hardly matters.’ Hiram grinned, showing yellow teeth as uneven as the gaps in a broken fence.

Kurun sagged in the chair. His eyes dulled. ‘Death,’ he said, a long whisper that tapered into a sob.

Hiram stroked his hair again. ‘Not death, little one. Not tonight. Kouros tried too hard to be cruel. Roshana will see that you are well treated. She has her mother in her. And this will not be the first time Kouros has left something broken at her door. I remember, when they were children, he once strangled her favourite nightingale and set it on her pillow.’ Hiram’s face grew grim, the fine-wrinkled skin tightening about his mouth.

Kurun was sleeping now, breathing deep, his head sunk on his chest. Hiram began to unbuckle him from the chair.