Masque of Death by King William

Author:King, William
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Typhon Press
Published: 2016-08-18T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

It was just another drunken night in Maial. Anders had seen scores of them. He had done little but drink and fornicate since he had come back from the Xilarean Highlands. He had money now. At least for a while longer. He had the silver to do whatever he wanted. The Governor had paid well for the damned coffin.

He ran narrow fingers through his thinning, blonde hair, touched the hilt of the shortsword on his waist, then looked over at Bethani. He said, “Fancy another drink, darling?”

She nodded with professional enthusiasm. He tossed her handful of silver and said, “Get me one while you’re up there.”

For a moment, he thought she was going to object. She headed to the bar and Anders watched her go. She was tall, almost as tall as he was, had a nice body and she was dressed to reveal it.

“Slow down, you big bastard,” said Gregor. “The night is young, and so are we.”

Squat, apish Gregor did not look young any more. Years of hard-living made him seem older than his forty summers. There were lines all over his sunburned, frog-like face and scars on his muscular arms. He turned and kissed the girl under his right arm and then the girl under his left. They responded easily. They were as drunk as he was and it was the Masque of Death. They might have done it even if they were not being well paid.

“I want to drink,” said Anders. He was proud that his speech was not slurred. “I need to drink. It’s what the others would have wanted.”

“They are not in a position to want anything now,” said Gregor, “so why worry about it.”

“If you were dead and I was still here what would you want me to do?”

“If I were bloody dead, I wouldn’t care what you did. Why the long face? We’re both alive, and we’ve both got gold. We’re living like kings. King bloody Emperor bloody Aemon doesn’t live better than we do. In fact, from what I hear he lives a damn sight worse. No drink. No women. No tobacco. What kind of bloody life is that I ask you?”

“The King-Emperor is a saint,” said one of the girls. Anders could not remember her name. Maggi. Magda. Monika. Maybe.

“And may the Holy Sun bless him for it,” said Gregor. “But I’m no saint, darling, and you can thank the Light for that. Otherwise, you would not be so drunk and so well-rammed.”

“The King-Emperor is a saint,” the girl repeated since Gregor had obviously not got her point. “He watches over his people and intercedes with the Holy Sun on our behalf.”

“Inter-what?” Gregor was struggling now.

“Intercedes,” said the girl.

“What does that mean?”

“Dunno. It’s what the priest always used to tell us on Sunsday. Always telling us how good and noble the King-Emperor is.”

“That’s because King Aemon pays the priest’s stipend and for his church and for all the bloody nice beef he eats as well.”

“Frater Lorco was a holy man,” said the girl.

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