A Dictionary of Fools (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 2) Read online

  How unfortunate, then, that Kisten was so firmly wedded to his fate. Even if he’d had the opportunity to be fully independent, which he hadn’t, he knew in his heart that he simply enjoyed his life too much. He fantasized about being ordinary, on occasion, but he could never stomach the ignominy, sacrifice, and above all lack of power that ordinary involved. It wasn’t so much that Kisten craved power—because, truly, he didn’t—but that he couldn’t stand having to just sit there while injustice occurred.

  Between Kisten’s first and second year at the academy, he’d been nineteen and an ass. He’d applied for and been accepted to a prestigious flight program that took place during the summer semester. In exchange for his so-called summer vacation—a three week leave—he’d gotten several shorter leaves. Which, he’d thought, was much more exciting. Standard summer leave meant hanging around on Brontes; with this program, he’d be able to see the sights in several exotic ports of call on several different planets.

  He’d spent one of those leaves on Goliath II in a sink named, ironically enough, for one of the empire’s more straight-laced empresses.

  Run-down apartment buildings crowded in on each other, and every street corner came replete with a pharmacy offering drugs galore—legal and not, no prescription required. And there were women, too—lots and lots of women. Kisten had been having an on again, off again affair with one woman in particular and she’d agreed to meet him for the weekend. She wasn’t possessive. He wouldn’t have cared if she was. And he’d had every reason to hope that she’d be a willing participant in the most ecstatic orgy of his life.

  He, Utpal and Jivaj, having come to what they’d honestly believed in their naïveté to be the most corrupt corner of the universe, were determined to make the most of their opportunity. They’d disembarked midmorning and Aleah—that had been her name, the flavor of the month—wasn’t meeting them until after dinner. They all had money, they were all bored, so they’d decided to go in search of drugs.

  Finding drugs had proved even easier than he’d imagined. No sooner had he and his friends gotten settled in their hotel and come downstairs than a man approached them and asked if they’d like some cocaine. Amazed at the novelty of having the dealer come to them, they’d agreed that they would very much like some cocaine. They hadn’t even made it to the nearest pharmacy before purchasing several other drugs as well, all off of eager-looking men who resembled nothing so much as some little girl’s favorite uncle.

  Looking back on it, Kisten was horrified at their willingness to trust total strangers. Who could have been selling them powdered cement dust. Although Kisten, to his dubious credit, had tried the cocaine before purchase and pronounced it sufficiently numbing.

  The tip of his tongue was still numb when he visited his first off-world pharmacy. They pushed open a door that sagged sadly in its frame and set a hanging bell to tinkling. Inside, the small room was crowded and dark. Spiders crawled over boxes of goods that looked as though they might conceivably date back to the revolution. Years later, in a future too alien to be conceived, Kisten would stand in the smoke-filled ground floor of The Twisted Lip and remember this moment. Both places emitted the same vague aura of evil.

  The pharmacist—a woman—sat on a rough wooden bench. She didn’t speak, but waited for them to come forward. Kisten reviewed his options, too spoiled for choice to decide. Which was probably how he wound up in so much trouble. At Jivaj’s urging, he somehow found himself purchasing an envelope of pills that promised to deliver a priapic erection.

  I don’t need any help in that department, he’d whispered to his friend, feeling like a schoolboy. Old men take these.

  And young men take them recreationally, Jivaj had pointed out significantly.

  Kisten bought two dozen pills for the price of a bottle of water back home and felt quite proud of himself. Afterwards, armed between them with several grams of cocaine, some opium, and a decent amount of hashish—plus the priapism pills—they decided to get blasted.

  They met great success at every bar they visited—in all regards. Women loved a man in uniform, and Kisten and his friends were not only in uniform but also extremely good-looking. Utpal was the son of a famous arms manufacturer and Jivaj was a prince in his own right—a fact not lost on any of the women he met, although he’d never taken himself too seriously. Unlike Kisten. Jivaj was the kind of man who women adored and men worshipped. He was decent and kind and he loved to laugh, and he was desperately in love with a girl he’d known since he was a child. Which should hardly imply that the man was a monk; only that he had his limits and, being the troublemaker that he was, had decided to live vicariously through Kisten. Who, at that point in his life, had no intention of ever getting married.

  You’ll change your mind, Jivaj predicted confidently. The woman who’d bought their last round of drinks had just wandered off in search of greener pastures. She’d been middle aged and, ah, a bit forward. Jivaj, removing her hand from inside his waistband as politely as possible, had diplomatically informed her that he’d taken a vow of celibacy and thus had to refuse. Much as it bereaved him to do so. Kisten had encouraged him to make an exception and give the lovely lady what she wanted. Utpal had made himself scarce.

  Oh? Kisten arched his eyebrow. And this is because…? He let the question hang in the air.

  Because, said Jivaj, I know you better than you know yourself, Kit. And you’re a much better man than you give yourself credit for being.

  And the mark of a decent man is his willingness to marry, is that it? Kisten’s tone was caustic.

  Jivaj smiled. Rather knowingly, Kisten observed with some annoyance. Hardly. We’re not speaking in generalities, here, but of you in particular—and don’t get so bent out of shape! I’m hardly proposing that you tie the knot tomorrow, only pointing out that I think you will. Some pretty young thing will come along and tell you no, and be utterly unimpressed with you. And you’ll fall desperately in love, and she’ll spend the rest of her life leading you around by the nose. He finished his drink and signaled for another one, on his tab this time.

  That, said Kisten with complete conviction, will never happen.

  Jivaj laughed. Fine. And when you lose the bet, I want five darics and a new car.

  They’d gone to some ghastly club and ordered large quantities of food that none of them recognized, and the subject hadn’t come again. Kisten was saved from the threat of further serious conversation by the arrival of Aleah, resplendent in an outfit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. She sat down on his knee and kissed him full on the mouth. The petted, spoiled daughter of a wealthy merchant with royal connections, she’d decided at a young age that she’d rather have fun than get married. When dearest papa discovered the extent of her transgressions—including with several of his friends—he’d thrown her out and she’d been only too happy to go. She was a few years older than Kisten, but still very young and very beautiful. He liked having her around because she was so beautiful, and because her attentions to him made other men jealous.

  Moreover, she knew how to throw a party. She’d brought a couple of friends with her—who knew where they’d come from—and the next thing Kisten remembered was being naked in his hotel room. He’d swallowed a handful of the curious pills at dinner; he’d only discovered how many by counting the remaining pills the next morning. And devoutly hoping that one of his friends had cadged a few. He also had vague memories of snorting a few lines of cocaine, and in his next moment of sentience discovered that he was eating opium.

  What followed was, indeed, the most epic orgy of his life so far. He—and he was fairly certain that he’d expressed this sentiment, much to his dismay—felt like a sex god. He had sex for ten hours straight. He and his friends took turns double teaming all three girls. It was mid-morning before he finally lost his erection, and he spent the rest of his leave asleep.

  Now, lying amidst the heap of bodies, that night seemed a very long time ago.

  He did everything
he could to ignore the smell, which was getting worse as the afternoon wore on. The sun wasn’t warm, but it was warm enough and several of the men had already been putrefying when they died. He had absolutely no idea of how long he’d been lying there. The second prisoner had long ago finished his cigarettes and was humming softly to himself. If Tomas was still going at it with his little friend, then he was the sex god. He certainly had more stamina than Kisten had given him credit for.

  Having not drunk so much as a sip of water since about midnight, Kisten was also desperately thirsty. His thirst, more than his hunger, was becoming torture; but at least it kept his mind off of the smell.

  He lost consciousness for awhile—he couldn’t call it sleep—and came around to the sound of voices. Tomas had returned. Through his closed eyelids, Kisten could tell that it was growing dark. He’d been so groggy and discombobulated when he’d woken that he’d very nearly betrayed himself by opening his eyes. A thrill of adrenaline rushed through him as, steeling himself as best he could for whatever might come, he listened.

  “Come on,” Tomas was saying to the prisoners, as though nothing had happened, “let’s dump this lot and get going. I have a dinner waiting for me, even if you two don’t.” He laughed at his own joke.

  The cart began to move forward again, the bodies bouncing against each other as its wheels fought the rutted track that served as a road. The world grew darker and colder and Kisten heard the rustle and crunch of dead leaves. They’d passed into the forest.

  “Alright,” said Tomas, “this is far enough.”

  The prisoners didn’t lift the bodies out individually, just upended the cart and let its cargo spill out. Kisten tumbled bonelessly to the ground, worried as he did so that he might land at a wrong angle and break his neck. But he didn’t, and the blanket helped to cushion his fall. Beside him, Aros lay prone. Kisten hadn’t felt so much as a shudder of movement all day. Not that he’d been trying to. He’d done his best to distance himself from his surroundings, passing in and out of consciousness as he recollected better times. Some of those better times had been pretty goddamn bad, but they’d still been better than this.

  And if Aros was dead….

  The cart began to rumble away, Tomas talking all the while.

  This was it, Kisten realized. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. He was free.

  THIRTY

  Even so, it was a long time before Kisten dared to move.

  He couldn’t quite make himself believe that what he was experiencing was real. This must, he decided, be what life was like for the mouse: hiding in the grasses, waiting for the shadow of the hawk to pass and worrying, even as it did so, that the hawk would come back. Or maybe that it was watching from some far off tree branch. Besides, he wasn’t sure where to go—and he wasn’t sure that he could face the truth about Aros.

  Dry leaves tickled his cheek, reminding him uncomfortably of that long ago hay. It had smelled like rat. The leaves smelled of soil and winter and rot. Experimentally, he took a deep breath and sighed. Nothing happened. The men surrounding him lodged no complaint.

  He’d done it.

  He’d really done it. He was free—he was free!

  A strange feeling began to steal over him, even as he kept telling himself that he must be imagining things: part joy, part terror, part exhaustion and part desire to just go. To put as much distance between himself and that horrible place as was humanly possible, before it dragged him back. He wondered if he’d ever feel like he had escaped, or if years from now he’d wake up in the middle of the night convinced that his life since this moment had been a dream and Palawan Prison the only true reality. Was he, even now, lying prone in his shallow ditch and waiting for roll call?

  Had he died—was this Paradise?

  His head swimming, he freed himself from the blanket and sat up. The last of the light was fading, and the woods around him were lost in shadow. He reached down and touched Aros. Aros flinched, but didn’t rouse. Joy quickly turned to distress. Aros was alive, but barely. And he wouldn’t be for much longer unless he got help.

  Kisten patted his friend’s shoulder and wondered what to do. Leaving the forest was too great of a risk, without any sense of where help might be. One of the patrols was bound to see him.

  He’d decided to at least shift Aros into a more salubrious spot when a lone figure materialized from the trees.

  Shadows clung to him like cobwebs, pulling apart and reforming to reveal a dark silhouette. Nothing of his features was visible. He moved as silently as the wraith he so resembled, gliding through the leaves as though he floated above them. Moving into the last of the waning light, he solidified into a tall man wearing a simple wool cloak that hung straight to the ground where it vanished into the leaves. The hood was pulled forward, and there was no evidence of a face beneath the shadow. Kisten stared, and said nothing. The effect was terrifying, and yet oddly alluring—like the man himself.

  He stopped, and at once became perfectly still. He oozed sex and danger and evil, without doing a thing.

  He raised his hands to his hood. His fingers were long and thin and as pale as a corpse’s. A single jewel winked on one, a large diamond the color of blood. He lowered his hood to his shoulders. The movement, like all of his movements, was slow and graceful in its deliberation.

  Kisten saw himself.

  His brother’s eyes tightened, but he betrayed no other emotion.

  “Aros needs medical attention,” Kisten said calmly.

  “So do you,” Keshav replied in his sibilant voice.

  Gliding forward, he helped his brother to his feet. Intelligent violet eyes regarded him, and Kisten wondered if this was what he’d really looked like—and if he’d ever look the same again.

  “You will,” said Keshav. Words had always been unnecessary between them.

  Other men emerged from the woods. Someone bent to examine Aros, but Kisten paid them no mind. His attention was all for his brother, and for the fact that he was safe and they were together and finally, finally he wasn’t alone. He’d been cut off from his brother, his family, his life for what felt like ten lifetimes with no one to help him bear the burdens of responsibility. Now, at last, he could relax the vigilance that had wound him taut for so long and know that in doing so he hadn’t just condemned himself.

  Keshav made a barely perceptible gesture, and one of the men nodded.

  Kisten stared vacantly at the forest for a long time, before returning his eyes to his brother’s. “It took you long enough,” he said blandly.

  “My confidence,” said Keshav, “was not misplaced.” And then, astonishingly, he embraced Kisten and held him tightly. It was an unheard of demonstration for one of his reserve. They’d held each other in private, but Kisten had never known Keshav to touch anyone in public. He returned the embrace and the overwhelming rush of emotion that had prompted it.

  Keshav stepped back. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.” Kisten thought he could, at least.

  Keshav turned, leading him further into the forest. Despite his best efforts, Kisten betrayed his presence with the crackling of leaves beneath his feet and the occasional crack of a twig. Keshav did not. The ground sloped gently downwards and eventually turned spongy, eliminating the betraying noise. Not that Kisten was concerned; Keshav wasn’t, and that was all he needed. Keshav, whatever else he was, was a professional and always planned ahead.

  Two of Keshav’s men, Kisten saw, were carrying Aros.

  “You knew about Aros,” Kisten said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” agreed Keshav. He talked calmly as they walked, as though he and Kisten were marking time at some garden party. They passed a canteen back and forth between them, and the purified water was the single best thing that Kisten had ever tasted. “I’ve been watching you,” said Keshav. “I knew how you’d escape as soon as I arrived and studied the situation.”

  “Which was when?”

  “Last week.” He paused. “Even if I’d b
een rescuing a stranger, I still would have anticipated that particular route. Process of elimination: you chose the only feasible option. The only possible option, I believe. I got into position last night,” he continued, “I knew where you’d be, because I’d seen where the prisoners were buried.” Keshav was a highly trained marksman in addition to everything else, and described his activities as calmly as if he’d been reading the weather forecast. “I watched you all morning.” He turned to Kisten, face expressionless. “Your right foot twitched twice,” he commented without feeling.

  Kisten’s lip quirked slightly into the odd half smile that he’d developed inside the enclosure and would never lose. His old smile wasn’t gone forever, but in the future would be an exceedingly rare event. And one that, his beloved consort had been known to claim in later years, transformed his entire face. He was still the same man, but he’d never regard the world in quite the same way as he had before.

  He’d grown up, and he’d grown quiet, and he’d met a part of himself that he hadn’t known existed. He’d become, although he didn’t know it yet, the same thoughtful man who’d one day fall in love with a woman because she was a survivor, too.

  “The guard was the target,” said Keshav. “In case something went wrong.”

  “Watching him all day must have been fun.”

  “He ate some opium,” said Keshav matter-of-factly, “couldn’t get hard and ended up falling asleep.”

  The prairie surrounding the prison wasn’t flat but rather undulated in a series of softly sloping hills. Happily, the prisoners’ burial ground was located at the base of a natural depression. Which made anyone in it a natural target. Keshav had set up his position some three hundred yards off on a rise and hidden himself amongst the tall grasses. He’d watched the day’s proceedings through the high-powered scope on his rifle. One of the men carrying Aros, Kisten would later learn, had been Keshav’s spotter. When killing the guard hadn’t proved necessary, Keshav had given the order to collect his brother and the strange man he’d brought with him.