The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter Read online

  Serena said, “Are you going to tell me?”

  Still watching the cognosci, Name of the Sun hesitated. She recalled Nahid’s drunken list, the so-called pleasures in his life. Why had she expected more from him? Kholics were restricted by training and culture and history. Like these simple cognosci, rooting for remnants on the beach, they were damaged by the city.

  The brains of these creatures, low functioning at the best of times, had been fried altogether by bleach, which had been served to them by the madam who had captured them, and knew how to permanently pacify them. Serena had found the cognosci discarded behind a whorehouse; fucking the creatures was popular among certain deviants in Nowy Solum.

  How different, Name of the Sun suddenly wondered, was the fetish of fucking kholics? In the eyes of some, no different at all. She shuddered. Just to entertain these thoughts was horrible. Nahid had put doubts in her with his hurtful words.

  “We used the tunnels,” she said, “to get into Jesthe.”

  “From the centrum?” Now Serena seemed alert.

  “I hadn’t been inside since I was seven. Nahid had never been in there.”

  “Why would he? Kholics can’t go in. That place is for hemo kids.”

  Name of the Sun frowned. “I told you his sister works in Jesthe? His twin sister—”

  “Octavia. Sure. Everyone knows that.” Serena made an expression that was hard to decipher.

  “We went to where the chatelaine sleeps. We went into endocarp.”

  “Endocarp?”

  “The inner sanctum. Heart of the palace.”

  Serena almost looked up. “I know what it means. You went there with Nahid?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was she there?”

  “Octavia?”

  “No. The chatelaine.”

  “She was.” Name of the Sun did not want to tell Serena any more of story. This had been a bad idea. She said, “Have I done something to upset you?”

  “I’m not upset, it’s just that there were these men who came by the ostracon—”

  “Maybe I should just go.”

  One of the cognosci, which had been looking over its shoulder, started to make a nasally whine; people nearby—three male hemos—were moving among the rocks, carrying fishing poles, making it nervous. The cognosci were accustomed to Name of the Sun being around, but men terrified them.

  “Let’s both go.” Serena stood. “I need to get these guys back up. You can come back, too, if you’d like.”

  Serena ran a shelter in a shed on Red Cross Street. There, she had taught herself rudimentary physicker training—enough, anyhow, to mend the most obvious of ailments. The creatures followed her wherever she went. But the invitation to return to the shelter had been cold, hollow; Name of the Sun did not feel welcome. She was so tired anyhow, and she had a shift at the end of the day. “I should get some sleep.”

  They walked the embankment and Name of the Sun glanced up to see a man wearing only a loin cloth, holding a crop, staring down at her. She froze. The man’s chest was streaked with welts. He pointed toward her with his whip and she looked away for a moment, breathless—

  When she looked back, the man was gone, but the cognosci huddled by Serena, baring their teeth, piddling where they stood, and would not budge.

  Lingering in the narrow archway at the top of the stairs, the chatelaine watched her father. Her lungs and legs were sore from the exertion of the climb, and from the recent sex, both this afternoon’s and the debacle of the previous evening. She should have brought water to drink.

  Or started to act her age.

  She hooked tabs of a gauze mask behind each ear, pushing the fabric against her mouth, making sure it was snug; some days her father demanded this and would only greet her if she wore the mask.

  He stood at his work table with his back to her. He seemed smaller than he did the last time she’d been up here, which was a fortnight ago, maybe a little more. As he worked, his narrow shoulders rose and fell. He was naked, as always: ribs prominent, hairless buttocks clenched. On the table, something she could not see squealed; her father lunged, grunting, to subdue it, or catch it, as it tried to bolt.

  The dungeon was colder than her own bedchambers; there were no reeds on the floor here, no wall hangings, no sparks remaining in the cavernous fireplace. Smiling grimly, the chatelaine recognized a definite familiar bond: neither of them was able to keep a fire lit, even with a city of resources and servants at their command.

  Lanterns cast dim light over the dungeon chambers from sconces angled either side of the room, but since there was no parchment over the windows here, the dim yellow light of day also fell across the worn wood of the floor; the room was generally brighter than most. But no window covering also meant that the dungeon was abuzz with insects, mostly swarming the table where years of blood, choler, and melancholy had all drained from a central funnel to collect and congeal in a stone trough on the floor.

  Somehow, in the castellan’s fractured logic, this situation was not an issue. The chatelaine had long ago abandoned attempts at seeing logic up here.

  Out in the streets of Nowy Solum, the old castellan’s reputation was worse than the chatelaine’s own. His reign had been brief and tumultuous before it was suggested, in many counsels, that his young daughter take over. The chatelaine had been a child when her father retreated to this room, just a small girl, left alone in a great palace, with monsters and silent palatinate for company.

  Would chamberlain Erricus agree that there had been an improvement after the change of power? She doubted this; both her and her father pursued passions and lifestyles that the old man could never approve of.

  For a moment, the chatelaine continued to watch her father torture the poor creature, striving as he did to discover unknowable secrets.

  Then she stepped into the room.

  He did not turn. Over his shoulder, she saw the small blue body now, limp in his hands, but still breathing, heaving, partially strapped down to the table and twitching spasmodically. Against the far rim—which was made of hammered tin—two similar bodies huddled close to one another, staked together and making low moaning sounds.

  She stopped, shocked. “Cobali?”

  Arrayed on the table were various implements, mostly stained with red blood. Her father appeared to be trying to push a thin metal rod into the forearm of the hapless beast.

  “Where did you get those from? Who in the world gave them to you?” She felt a surge of nausea. “That criminal, Tully? My goodness . . .” But she was too tired, too dizzy, too occupied with her own tumultuous day to make much of a protest or sustain her repulsion; another time, maybe. “What are you doing to that thing?”

  The castellan turned now, frowning at the interruption.

  He did seem older, if that was possible, his face gaunt and drawn. Was he shrinking? Aging faster than most? The chatelaine was not even sure he recognized her. One of his eyes was shut, and in the corner of that eye dried blood had welled, as if he cried it, like tears.

  “I’m trying,” he said, “to make the world a better place.”

  “I don’t believe you. You just like to torture things, make them scream.”

  “Terra Bella. How could you say that to your own father? This is not torture. It’s progress.” He smiled, but with no conviction.

  “Is that—?”

  He had an erection.

  Trying not to look down, the chatelaine cleared her throat. “Your eye. What have you done to your eye? You’ve hurt yourself.”

  He shrugged.

  “You are aware that cobali have families?” She could not help but glance again at his bobbing cock. “And that they mate for life? Raise their young. Like I have heard some mammals do.” She looked away, anywhere but toward her dad. “This has been decided by committee. A council I hired. The beasts are intelligent and I signed the decree. See? You think I do nothing down there.”

  Now the castellan actually laughed. “Lucky for the cobali to hav
e you on their side. You are like a carnivore, my Terra, who bemoans the slaughter of animals yet stuffs her face with chops at every opportunity. You are an inconsistent girl. I think you should peer into a looking glass before you accuse me of torture. Hypocritical, if I may say so.”

  “What do I torture? I embrace living, not illness and dying. I’m a lover. But I thank you, father, as always, for your sensitivity.”

  He turned his back to her again. “May I ask why you’re here, sweetheart, so early in the morning?”

  “It’s midafternoon.”

  “Still, early for you. Do you wish to ask my advice about mundane tasks? Are you going to convince me again that it’s safe to come down and take over the city? Or maybe you wish to confront me about stories you might have heard?”

  “Stories? What stories?” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Gods have flown over Nowy Solum. There were reports. Celestial beings appeared, they say, over the river. Erricus is beside himself. But listen, father, I want to talk to you. Not about stories. I’ve made a few decisions.”

  The castellan was becoming lost in his task again; the cobali shrieked as the rod was forced deeper into the marrow of its femur.

  Raising her voice, the chatelaine said, “One of my pets was stolen.”

  This stopped him. But he did not turn. “From your chambers?”

  “That’s right. So I’ve ordered another one.” Then, surprising herself, she said, “If I didn’t know better, I might think you came down the stairs to take it.”

  He shuddered, no doubt at the thought of leaving his room. “Why would I do that? Which one was it?”

  “South Gate.”

  “Ah, the one you call the cherub. I’m sorry to hear that, Terra. You know I’m sorry.”

  “If you ever touch any of my pets—”

  He wheeled. “You’re serious? Why would I touch them? They’re as close to grandchildren as I’m ever going to get.”

  The chatelaine inhaled sharply and wished she had never come here. “You are mean,” she said. “A horrible man.”

  “I know how foolish you are, daughter. You should try to muffle your sounds somehow. It’s disturbing for a father to hear the things his baby is capable of, now she’s all grown up.”

  “How can you possibly hear anything up here?”

  “I fear everyone in the city can hear you at times.” But his tone was becoming softer; he had seen the hurt on his daughter’s face. “Do you forget, Terra, that Nowy Solum has enemies? That our family has enemies?”

  “Who? We have no enemies.”

  “You are wrong, Terra. You must be careful. You must respect the palace.”

  “Like you did? Such drama.” Then, suddenly, the chatelaine felt her pain transform into anger: she had come to consult her father, to check on him, not to put up with these cutting comments and lectures. “And you have the balls to talk about family? You, of all people? You ruin families. I’m so sick of this. I’m granting the palatinate power today to return to all of Jesthe. Does that make you happy? Is that respect for the palace? You can expect a visit, I’m sure. And, for your information, I would never bring a child into this shitty world.”

  He blinked, surprised at last. “There are times, my dear,” he said, “when I believe you also have choler, or maybe even melancholy, as your dominant humour. You were never tested, you know.”

  “You say that every time we get together. You’ve seen the colour of my blood.”

  The castellan smiled sadly. “Please don’t get too excited, Terra.”

  “Why do you always insult me?” She clenched her fists. “Look, I’ve met someone. I might be in love.”

  Over his shoulder, appraisingly, as if maybe expecting her to run at him, attack him, ruin his so-called work, the castellan peered once more.

  She was disgusted. “This is all the fucking family I have right now. Me and you. Small wonder I love my pets so much.”

  The castellan returned his attentions to the cobali bound on the table before him. He picked at the creature with an implement of some sort, then started to grind the metal rods deeper and deeper into the small bones until the cobali shrieked, then sobbed, a sound remarkably like the cries of a young girl.

  Several other rods protruded from the creature’s body, some with joints of delicate gears and chains. Was the castellan trying to extend the creature’s thin limbs? At least the cobali died now, going limp on the table, though its associates, next in line, whimpered louder.

  “You should have had a son,” the chatelaine said, not willing to let the fight end. “Maybe a son would have no qualms about cutting these things into little pieces, to see if they’re content or not. What are you trying to do? What is this travesty? Sometimes I fucking hate men.” She took a deep breath, wiped at her eyes, trying to look out over the misty city again, through the window, but this room was too high: nothing but clouds up here. “And what have you done with Tuerdian anyhow? Where is your servant?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “I should go look.” But she did not. “Please put clothes on. Why do you have to work naked?”

  “Why do you?”

  She tried to ignore this juvenile comeback; her father was not a healthy man. “I’ll send someone up to light the fire. In the meantime, dad, try not to kill too many of my subjects.”

  Pain throbbed behind Nahid’s forehead, a pain so powerful all he could do was stop walking and close his eyes. Instead of dulling sensations, the bud served to amplify them. His sinuses were clogged with dried melancholy.

  He stood at the intersection of Horsepool Street and Grindstone Lane, not far from the ostracon. There were other kholics in the streets here, cleaning, milling. They eyed him, aware of who he was, of course, aware of his sister’s situation, aware of his hemo girlfriend. He was no longer one of them. What he needed most was to crash somewhere. He feared the dreams he might have. He wanted to sober up, but likewise feared sobriety.

  Head pounding, he moved past the ostracon’s block, past the squalor of the surrounding ghettos, without a parting word to his estranged brothers and sisters. For a second he thought about going back to consult a senior, but this simple act seemed impossible to achieve. Would he ever be able to return?

  Closer and closer to Jesthe, as if pulled through the streets, he climbed over a rickety, half-built home he was sure had not been there even the day before. He tried to recapture or at least understand past motivations in his life but could not. Within his chest, vessels carried black ichors to his spleen, and to his brain, and to his heart, flowing with a slow, relentless tide that pulled him down.

  Once, he had seen Octavia’s life-fluids, leaking from a gash she had received on a jagged piece of tin, and it had been nowhere near as dark as his own. She might even have had a chance at a regular life, had she not shared a womb with him, for how could his sister possibly function and be the way she was if she ever felt like he did now? Her veins must surely supply her a more even balance or she would be crushed by this weight. Even her tattoo looked as though it hadn’t taken properly, as if it might fall from her face, revealing a hemo, or at least a person with the ability to feel some degree of contentment.

  Rain began then, followed by the low rumble of thunder from somewhere above the clouds, and though Nahid normally liked to walk in storms, he sought refuge under the nearest stone arch, which was the entrance to an abandoned temple. Above him, dripping, a gargoyle representing two facets of some old god’s face—contorted on one side with aggression and on the other with orgiastic aspects—watched. He cared nothing about the hemos’ gods.

  Worn rock steps beneath his feet were stained but now the rains had begun to rinse them. Heavy and warm and thick, the storm did little to clear the air. People ran for shelter but none stepped up next to him, where he stood, covertly watching. Clouds over Nowy Solum seemed to transform from amber to dark green, though that might have been an effect of the bud, wreaking its silent havoc in his system.

  Shuffling noises
caused Nahid to turn: an elderly man, no tattoo, was coming forth from inside the temple, holding a lantern in one hand and what appeared to be a large fragment of parchment in the other. The man squinted, either at Nahid or past him, at the weather. He did not look particularly sick or crazy, as most were who squatted in temples. Yet as he approached, Nahid considered stepping into the rain to get away. He turned his back to the stranger but knew as he did so he would be addressed.

  “Kholic, are you able to read or write?”

  “I can read.”

  The old man grunted. He was very close now. “Then read something for me. My eyes are terrible.”

  Watching the rain and the mud leaping in the streets, Nahid held out his hand.

  “Will you step inside? Your kind is welcome here. You have come to the right temple.”

  Nahid complied, but did not go far. Away from the raindrops, he brushed water from his face and looked into the depths of the dark temple: candles burned toward the back, where several people in robes gathered silently around an altar. Over their heads, a lantern illuminated the small foyer and arching columns. The place smelled of dampness and mould.

  He took the parchment, began to read.

  “‘Their head aches, misaffected. In sunlight, which cannot transform bile into choler, they watch.’”

  He paused.

  “Please, continue.”

  When Nahid looked at the parchment again, he could not find where he had been reading. He scanned the words several times but there was nothing he could see about humours or choler. He squinted quickly at the old man, to see if this were a trick, but the old man just blinked with rheumy eyes and waited patiently. So Nahid started reading again, at random: “‘In a dwelling of modest proportion, they reside over the other dwellings, which are the homes of twelve adult men, seven women, and four surviving children. Each day, they build a temple. From beyond the perimeter of the trees, exemplars watch the progress and appear satisfied.’”