The Manticore's Soiree Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLEPAGE

  MAP: ARAEN

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  CHALICE AND CHANCE

  THE BOY WHO WOULD BE KING

  THE MANTICORE'S SOIREE

  LETHE

  MEMORY AND THOUGHT

  QINGMING

  EXODUS

  TWILIGHT'S END

  BY THE RIVER UNDER THE BANYAN TREE

  THROUGH THE PALE DOOR

  THE MAP OF SECRET DESIRES

  YELLOW RIVER, YELLOW EMPEROR

  THE FALL OF THE RAVEN THANE

  THE SHADOW KING: CHAPTER ONE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Manticore’s Soiree ©2017 by Alec Hutson

  Published by Alec Hutson

  Cover art by Jeff Brown

  Edited by Tamara Blain

  Interior layout and design by Colleen Sheehan

  All rights reserved

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-0-9982276-2-7 (print)

  978-0-9982276-3-4 (ebook)

  Please visit Alec’s website at

  www.authoralechutson.com

  For Chen Ling, my shining light

  “The Boy Who Would Be King” by Alec Hutson. Originally published in Ideomancer Speculative Fiction Magazine, April 2004

  “The Map of Secret Desires” by Alec Hutson. Originally published in You Are Here: Tale of Cartographic Wonders, N.E. White, ed., 2016

  “Exodus” by Alec Hutson. Originally published in The Newcomer, Alisdair Shaw, ed., 2016

  “Through the Pale Door” by Alec Hutson. Originally published in Timeless Tales, December 2016

  “The Manticore’s Soiree” by Alec Hutson. Originally published in Every Day Fiction, January 2017

  “By The River Under The Banyan Tree” by Alec Hutson. 4th place, Retreat West Short Fiction Prize, 2017

  “THE ALE IS FOR THAT young fella with the scar.”

  Merik set the flagon down on the bar’s cracked slate countertop, just out of her reach. Nel glared at the old man, giving him what her mama called her ‘dragon eyes’. He smirked and began wiping up a puddle of wine someone had spilled earlier, ignoring her.

  Nel went up on her toes, straining to reach across the bar; her fingertips brushed the dented tin flagon, causing it to rock dangerously.

  “Don’t you go spilling any, imp!” admonished the old barkeep, pausing in his cleaning to wag a gnarled finger at her.

  “God’s blood, Merik. Don’t torture the poor girl.” Red Verise stopped her preening, snapping shut her little silver hand mirror, and slid the flagon close enough to Nel that she could grip its battered handle.

  “There you go, love,” the Dymorian girl said, smiling at her.

  “I could have gotten it myself,” Nel mumbled back, struggling to lift the heavy drink without any of the ale sloshing out.

  “Course you could have,” Verise replied lightly, brushing away a bright red curl that had fallen across her face. “But us ladies of the Moon should help each other, you know?”

  “Hold it like this, Marinel,” the pretty dark-haired girl sitting beside Verise said, reaching down with a muslin-draped arm to guide one of Nel’s hands beneath the flagon. “You won’t drop it this way, I promise.”

  Merik snorted. “Learn that up in your big Bright Quarter house?”

  The dark-haired girl, Kai, slid from her stool to crouch beside Nel. She smelled like oranges and jasmine, which for Nel summoned memories of wandering through the spring market with her mother.

  Kai pressed her palm to the small of Nel’s back, making her stand straighter. Then she ran her fingers through Nel’s hair, smoothing out some of the tangles. “Shoulders back, chin up,” she said in a prim voice, and Nel couldn’t stop the giggles from bubbling up inside.

  “Now you could be a proper lady’s maid,” Kai said, winking at her.

  Nel made a face. “I don’t wanna be a lady’s maid.”

  The dark-haired girl leaned closer and whispered, “That’s all right. Neither did I.”

  A ripple of laughter passed through the girls clustered at the edge of the bar, but Nel didn’t get angry, as she didn’t think they were teasing her.

  Kai gave her a gentle push. “Now go deliver that drink. And don’t forget to remind the handsome ones that there are beautiful ladies waiting for them out here.”

  “Handsome and rich ones,” Red Verise amended, and the girls laughed again.

  Nel rolled her eyes and turned away. Balancing the brimming tankard carefully, she threaded her way between the tables and low cushioned couches that littered the tavern’s common room. The ale sloshed when her toe bumped a chair’s leg, but at least there wasn’t any chance she’d spill it on anyone – the Moon was empty tonight, except for the group of bravos and gamblers sequestered in one of the private rooms. A year ago that hadn’t been the case: every table had been filled, girls in diaphanous wisps of cloth clinging to men attired in the brocade and silks popular among Lyr’s wealthy. Dreamsmoke had hazed the air, and on the stage Red Verise had plucked a slim ivory keppa, its ghostly notes trembling beneath the hum of conversation. Sometimes late at night her mother had even climbed onto the stage and sung for the crowd the same old Lyrish ballads that she sang to make Nel fall asleep.

  She hadn’t sung in the common room for a long time. Something had changed in the city – Nel didn’t really understand what, but she had caught fragments of worried talk among the girls: there was a new archon, he had made some rules about places like the Moon, and now a lot of people didn’t want to come here any more.

  As Nel approached the carved wooden screen that separated the private room from the rest of the tavern, someone behind it cursed loudly, a harsh voice that made her shiver. She slowed, glancing back nervously at Merik, but the barkeep shooed her on impatiently. Swallowing away her fear, she slipped around the screen.

  Five men were seated at a circular table of black wood, intent on a game of chalice. Empty tankards and bottles littered the table, as well as a spent dreamsmoke lamp. The game’s hoard was sizeable, a pile of gold and silver pieces that made Nel’s fingers twitch. It was more money than she had ever seen in one place. Each gambler had a row of cards turned upside down in front of them, and as Nel approached the table, one of the older men – a sickly looking fellow with jaundiced skin and a scraggly black beard – pushed a card forward and placed a silver kellic on it, then gestured toward a young man in a silken doublet. A livid scar curved down the side of this youth’s face, so Nel moved tentatively in his direction, holding out the tankard. He didn’t spare her a glance, focusing instead on the card that had been put forth.

  “Challenge,” the man with the patchy beard said. “Do you accept?”

  The scarred man shifted his gaze to the older gambler, and Nel saw venom in his eyes. Real dragon eyes, she thought.

  “Again, Tarris? Haven’t you bled me enough, you old snake?”

  The older man shrugged. “Nothing personal, Baern. You just seem to be giving money away tonight.” Nel noticed to her surprise that a small boy hovered behind the older gambler, his hand clutching the roughly patched sleeve of the man’s shirt. His dark, solemn eyes briefly found hers, and then he quickly looked away.

  The scarred man’s mouth twisted. “Very well. I accept.” He placed a kellic down, then flipped one of his cards, revealing the faded image of a strange-looking rooster with scaly legs.

  The older gambler, Tarris, pursed his lips. He turned over his own card, showing an ancient man draped in white robes holding a silver orb.

  “Cockatrice beats vizier,” Baern exclaimed, snatching up his opponent’s coin and placing it with a flourish on the small stack he had amass
ed beside his run of cards. “Looks like your luck has turned.” Without glancing at Nel, he reached out toward where she waited, and obediently she passed him the tankard. He took a long pull, then set it down hard enough that some of the ale slopped over the rim.

  Nel knew that she should scurry out of the room, but something made her linger. She wasn’t sure what, exactly; it felt to her like the air had suddenly sharpened. The younger man in his rich clothes with his cruel smile didn’t seem to notice. Neither did the other gamblers, as they continued checking their hidden cards or making coins dance upon their knuckles, murmuring to each other. But there was an odd glint in the older man’s eye as he watched Baern smirk at him from across the table… and the look on the face of the boy behind him was even stranger. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his lips slightly parted, as he studied the cards upon the table. Nel thought she saw his hand tug slightly on Tarris’s sleeve.

  “Challenge,” the older gambler said again, and Baern’s eyes widened.

  “Truly? You’ve lost your vizier, old man. I know you can’t have more than a few of the lesser beasts and maybe a royal or two left in your run.”

  “Challenge,” Tarris repeated, slipping a coin onto one of his cards as he nudged it forward.

  Now Baern looked almost gleeful. “Going out in a blaze of glory, eh? I can respect that, foolish as it is.”

  He flipped one of his cards: a faded dragon uncoiled across a wash of blue sky, fire leaking from its mouth. “The wyrm. Unless that’s a knight, I’m another silver richer.”

  Tarris turned his card, showing a stately woman wearing a golden crown.

  “What bad luck!” Tarris chortled, snatching up the kellic. “Dragon eats empress!”

  He leaned back in his chair and shared a triumphant smile with the other gamblers. Before he could even place the recently won coin on his pile, though, Tarris spoke again.

  “Challenge.”

  Surprise flitted across the younger man’s face, quickly replaced by pity. “You’re addled, old man. If you were half the chalice player I am, you’d know what I’m holding. But I accept.”

  He turned his final card, snapping it with obvious pleasure onto the table. A man sat upon a gleaming silver throne, a crown that looked to be the twin of the one worn by the empress on his brow. “The emperor. Game’s mine.”

  Tarris nodded slightly, his expression unreadable. Then he showed his card.

  A collective gasp went up from around the table. Nel craned her head forward, trying to make out what he was holding. It wasn’t some fantastical monster or resplendent warrior or haughty noble. Just a battered copper cup.

  But she knew what it meant; you couldn’t grow up in a tavern in Lyr and not. It was the only card that could beat the emperor – a poisoned chalice. Not only had Tarris won the challenge, he had also claimed the entire hoard; Nel had never seen this actually happen, and she had watched a hundred games of chalice unfold on this very table.

  Only a master could have set up the sequence of challenges necessary to reach this outcome. Baern had been played, and as the realization dawned, his shock quickly gave way to anger.

  “Bastard!” he snarled, shoving away from the table and standing. “Bloody lucky bastard!”

  Tarris looked on calmly as Baern spat on the floor, glaring at him. Then the scarred youth whirled and strode out of the room, nearly knocking Nel over.

  She caught herself and dashed to the edge of the screen, peering around its cracked edges as Baern approached the bar and the surprised girls. He grabbed Red Verise’s pale arm, pulling her off her stool. “With me, whore,” he said roughly, dragging her toward the stairs that led to the rooms.

  Nel saw Cook’s bald head emerge from the kitchens at the commotion, and the big man started to follow them, his truncheon at his side, but then Red Verise glanced back and shook her head sharply.

  “She’ll be fine,” Merik was saying as Nel hurried back to the bar. “Red knows how to handle ones like that.”

  Kai twisted her satin handkerchief nervously, staring at the second-floor landing where her friend had vanished. “Yeah. You know who that was, though?”

  “He’s a Vhalus scion? Has the look of that brood.”

  “Baern ri Vhalus, first born of Menosh ri Vhalus.”

  Merik whistled. “That’s as rich a name as we’ve had in here. His first time?”

  Kai nodded. “I heard… I heard he used to spend his days at the Laughing Toad. But he was banned a few days back.”

  Merik’s gaze drifted to the stairs. “Did he hurt one of the girls?”

  “No. Senna – you remember Senna, the girl with the dead eye who sells oysters and clams – she told me he was plenty rough with the girls, but the reason he was told don’t return was because he killed someone right there in the common room.”

  Merik scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “And the watch didn’t take him in?”

  “The other man came at him first, is what Senna told me. Pulled daggers while Baern was playing chalice and went to stab him, but Baern got out of the way and ran him through with his sword. Since he didn’t start it, he wasn’t brought before an archon.”

  “His father probably dices with the archons anyway,” Merik grumbled, but Nel thought she saw him relax a bit. “So he killed someone in self-defense. Can’t blame a man for that.”

  “Aye. But still, the Toad wanted him gone, for a while at least. So that’s why he came here to play chalice tonight.”

  “Daddy’s money ain’t going to spend itself,” Merik said. Then he caught sight of Nel hovering beside the bar and scowled. “Imp! Off to the kitchens and help Cook do some cleaning. I don’t think you’ll be needed out here anymore.”

  There wasn’t much to do in the kitchens, either. While Cook busied himself preparing a stew for later, Nel washed the day’s dirty plates and cups, dunking them in a bucket of cloudy water and then giving each a quick wipe with a rag. Nel liked it in the kitchens, even though she complained loudly every time Merik sent her there; if he knew she secretly enjoyed her time helping Cook, then she suspected he’d find other, more horrible tasks for her to do, like emptying the chamber pots or sweeping the common room floor.

  It was warm, for one thing: there was almost always a fire going in the hearth for a soup or a pot of mulled wine, and sometimes in the cold and rainy winter months it was the only place in the Moon where she felt the chill leave her fingers and toes. And then, of course, there was Cook, bustling around the kitchen with surprising grace despite his hugeness, usually humming a tune from his childhood in the Eversummer Isles. Sometimes he’d sing as he chopped vegetables or sliced up a goat shank, and even though she couldn’t understand the tumbling words, Nel imagined she could hear the hiss of surf on distant shores and smell strange flowers that would have wilted if brought to this cold stone city of rain and fog.

  Nel was so lost in her thoughts and the rhythm of her work that it was Cook who first noticed the sound of pebbles striking the small door that led from the kitchen to the alley behind the Moon. He cocked his head, breaking off his gentle humming. “Eh. Little one, your strays have come, yes?”

  Another small rock rattled off the door, and Nel set aside the cup she’d been polishing. She glanced around the kitchen, noticing how bare it looked. A small mound of limp gray vegetables, a few strips of dried meat hanging from the rafters, and a single ironhead on Cook’s cutting board, the fish’s milky eyes telling her that it had been caught days ago. Times were hard. “Do we have anything?” she asked, without much hope.

  Cook reached down beneath the table he stood beside and pulled out a ragged hunk of bread. “Had to hide this, otherwise the girls would’ve devoured it. Eh. Greedy creatures they are.”

  Nel grinned and hurried to take the bread from Cook; he bent down, and she went up on her toes to lightly kiss his smooth brown cheek. He smelled like old wood, same as the beautifully carved dolls her mother kept in their room. She loved him then, as much as she had loved anyo
ne other than her mama.

  “Go on, then,” he said, and clutching the bread to her chest, she dashed across the kitchen to the door. She pushed it open, shivering as tendrils of cold, damp air slipped past her.

  Jumbled shadows filled the narrow alley, broken crates and shattered furniture that the last shreds of twilight had transformed into a ruined cityscape. Nel stepped out onto the cobblestones, feeling something soft squelch beneath her slippers. She hoped it was a rotten vegetable and not a clump of night soil tossed out of one of the windows above. In the darkness she couldn’t quite tell what it was, but the smell in this alley wasn’t any worse than usual, so she breathed a small sigh of relief.

  “Oy!” she called out, peering into the gloom. “Where are you turnip-heads?”

  For a long moment nothing moved. Nel tapped her foot impatiently, but then slowly shapes came out from the shadows, creeping forward like skittish dogs. As they approached the light puddled around the open door, faces emerged from the blackness: Bethany, hiding behind her curtain of matted yellow hair; tiny albino Bone, his eyes a pale pink; and Samwin, who was a little taller than Nel, even though she thought she must be older. Nel saw hunger in the way they stared at the bread; times were not only hard at the Moon, she knew.

  “Where’s Ben?” she asked, straining to look past the three urchins. Sometimes the big boy hung back, waiting to make sure it was safe before joining the others.

  “Ben’s gone,” Bone said, tugging at his torn shirt.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Joined the Red Wolves,” Bethany replied in her small soft voice. “He’d been doing little jobs for them for a while, running messages, keeping lookout. Then one night they came and offered him a spot in the gang, said someone had been gutted an’ they wanted him to take his place. Made him cut his hand an’ press palm right there where we was hiding. I saw the whole thing. He left with them and we never seen him since.”

  “How long ago?” Something about this didn’t sound right to Nel.

  “Five nights, I think,” Samwin whispered, his eyes finding hers. Don’t tell them what you’re thinking, his look said.