Oubliette: The Poisoned Past Book One: The Poisoned Past, #1

By E.M. Prazeman

Lord Jester Lark

President Rohn Evan’s term is in its summer hours, and the war seems far away. Lord Jester Lark’s greatest concern involves finding more time to spend with his lover and their adopted daughter.

Then the ships come. A massive fleet opens fire on Perida Bay, and an ambush lies in wait as Lark races home by starlight.

Verai

He’s a long way from jeweled, cultured Saphir, among scarred soldiers and rough-handed fishermen who mutter about him being a jester’s plaything. But he loves Mark, perhaps too much to leave.

Then the ships come. Verai gathers up little Ellen and rushes to meet his beloved in the safety of the court’s protective custody cells. 

Mark never arrives.

The Church must uphold the law. The nobility must be honorable, fair, virtuous. The jesters help nobles survive a dangerous and duplicitous world by dealing with problems in ways that their masters can’t – at least, not in good conscience. That’s the way it’s supposed to work, anyway. But the longer Mark wears a jester’s mask, the less he trusts the nobility and the Church. Perhaps rightfully so, because when he’s ambushed, it’s not a jester that wants to take his freedom. It’s a creature of royal blood, bred into something inhuman, and it wants his loyalty, his voice, and his soul. As for the Church: It intends to cage him forever. 


In addition to reviewing books professionally, I've read well over 3,000 novels just for fun. The sad part is that I can't remember most of them, not because I have a lousy memory but rather because the plots are so similar and the characters so mundane that they all blur together. Fortunately there are a few standout stories that remain unforgettable. This is one of them! Well, to be honest, just about anything from E.M. Prazeman falls into that stellar category. Her world-building, characterization, plots, and pacing are first rate, original, and categorically well worth reading. Enough said; ignore my blatherings and buy the book. You won't be disappointed. — Lawrence Kane, ForeWord Magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.M. Prazeman
• Release date: Nov 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540192141

E.M. Prazeman

EM Prazeman lives on a small goat farm in the Columbia River Gorge in SW Washington State. Researching her books gives her an excuse to travel to places like Ireland, England, the Czech Republic, Belize, and all sorts of other amazing places in the world. She writes full time, paints, listens to all kinds of music (a big shout out to the amazing Lindsey Stirling!) and generally tries to do everything at once, as one does when one grew up with the ideal of the Renaissance Man embodied in an artist/musician/athlete/project engineer father and a explorer/athlete/nurse mother. Her husband is also amazing and travels the world teaching conflict communications (including the physical parts.) She loves answering questions, and supporting fellow authors and new writers, so please feel free to contact her via her website.

Book preview

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Chapter One

Lark

Five minutes to himself. That’s all that Lord Jester Lark wanted, after being politely asked, cleverly hounded, and rudely confronted by various individuals during the party as to what person he would nominate to be Meridua’s second president. He didn’t have to be alone to find a moment of privacy in his own mind. He only needed music to lift his soul, and Crimson Manor’s music room had one of the best musicians he’d heard in a long time performing just when he needed it the most.

The stifling air in the elegant velvet and dark wood room and the obnoxious chatter from various parties in it didn’t deter the young master jester in an autumn leaf filigree and cloisonné mask. Quail, his traditionally-double-meaning jester’s name an echo of Lark’s own, arched his back as his fingers flowed over the violin’s neck. His earthy-colored lips parted with a passion that deepened Lark’s appreciation of the swift music. The rest of the quartet seemed content to play a workmanlike accompaniment, all of them seated, their clothes damp with sweat. The jester came out of the arch with a pirouette that flared out his dark, feather-adorned hair and gold, brown and black silk ensemble, patterned after his namesake. One of the ladies in the room exclaimed, oh, m’jeste! and fluttered her gold and feather fan. Lark wouldn’t want his lover to know how his body reacted to Quail’s amazing flexibility. His heart trembled not just from delicate pulses of lust but also from the jester’s exquisite music. If only the rest of the quartet had a greater fraction of Quail’s skill, Lark would have offered them anything to play for him for the rest of the night.

Musically, the instruments crisscrossed and changed leads. Every time Quail’s violin had the lead, the music seemed to sparkle and dance with as much grace as he moved his lithe body. Though the rest of the quartet merely ambled behind their lead violin, the sonata rondo they played had such cleverness to it and so much unexpected variety that they could have all been novices and Lark still would have enjoyed it. The notes had a mathematical precision that wasn’t cold like addition, but beautiful and surprising like geometry. The angles all related, and formed a whole that seemed as natural and free as the distances between stars. It changed more rapidly than spring weather, too. As soon as Lark thought he knew where the music would lead him, it would dart away to hidden hollows or open into a grand landscape.

Unexpectedly the music returned to familiar ground, similar to the opening but now changed by the experience of all the other places it had led him. Lark just barely held back a cry of pleasure, though his passion drove him to stand up from his velvet seat.

He’d managed to get control of himself and started to sit back down when the door to the music room opened and Verai peered in. Lark’s mood became threadbare with weariness in an instant. Rather than make the offensive chatter worse by adding even a whispered conversation to it, Lark got up and intercepted Verai in the doorway.

The president and Lady Winsome are leaving and they want you to return to Hevether Hall with them. They’ll be waiting for you at the carriage in a few minutes. Those exquisite brown eyes and that kissable mouth angled into stern lines, but Verai couldn’t hide the pout from Lark’s mask-enhanced perception.

Lark pressed him back into the hall and shut the door. The chatter in the room might have been rude, but the noisy discussions in the crowded hall outside deeply offended the beautiful sonata rondo. Thankfully the thick carved doors and plush rugs kept the worst of it out of the music room.

It felt cooler in the hall, but only just. The gas lamps and hundreds of candles overwhelmed the slight breeze that came from the open double doors at the end of the hall. It was the First of Sooner, Holiest of Days, and Lord Jester Bell had thrown a lavish party. Lark had wanted to have one at Hevether, but Rohn’s expression at the suggestion and Bell’s pleading for Lark to attend his party had convinced him that he should yield in this matter. Crimson House hadn’t been decorated in daffodils, apple blossoms and daphne as it would have been in temperate Cathret, but the heliconia, ginger and orchids seemed even more festive. The arrangements looked beautiful, even though the party itself had begun to wane. Sadly, the tropical island heat wilted even the most lightly-dressed celebrants. At this late hour it had finally cooled enough that many of them had become somewhat more animated than they had been at dusk, but the flowers in ladies’ hats drooped, sweat began to overwhelm the expensive perfume, and even the brightest eyes had hints of weary pink in the whites.

The Evans weren’t the only ones who had begun to leave, but apparently no one actually wanted to go just yet because many of the several hundred guests clogged the doorway and the front of the hall. Perhaps some intended to move on to the street party that had turned Perida’s city parks into a glorious riot. No one had gone so far as to move outside.

I’m sorry. I have to stay. I have business to conduct. Lark didn’t look into Verai’s eyes until after he’d spoken the words. He braced himself for Verai’s irritation.

Verai’s dusky skin sometimes made it harder to tell when he blushed, but this time the heat of his anger was so forceful anyone could tell. It made Verai even more beautiful. Dark, curly hair well-groomed into a small tail, gloved and bejeweled, he had dressed in silver to offset his smooth skin and dark eyes. He seemed to know that Lark wasn’t taking him seriously and he scowled. You always have business. It’s late, and you’re exhausted and clearly you have enough leisure to – He worked his jaw handsomely. Gawk, he said under his breath, at the new jester.

Lark wished he could kiss him, not just because he was so lovely but because the rare show of jealousy made Verai seem more Lark’s age and temperament. I’ll make my excuses to the president. I’m sorry, Verai, but I can’t go just yet. If I could leave, I would.

I hate your mask, Verai murmured, as if that had been the topic of conversation. Lark started toward the doors but Verai caught his arm. No excuses, please. Just come home.

This is my duty. Just for another pair of years. Three, actually, but the last year of Rohn’s duties would be different as he transitioned from president to vice president. It would mean lighter work for both of them, Lark trusted.

I understand about your work. But what about Ellen?

Lark felt a pang. I know.

You say you know, but you don’t do anything about it.

Half the reason I’m out so late is because I start late so she doesn’t miss me as much, Lark reminded him. If he left before her bedtime song she often refused to go to sleep, and Trudy had hinted a pair of times that Ellen did worse than that. Her piercing, angry shrieks were enough to send anyone to the madhouse in short order.

A group of young women in neatly-matched green silk gowns stared intently at them, and a number of others nearby tried to listen in, though he doubted they could hear anything in all the noise.

I’ll walk you out, Lark told him.

I don’t want to argue. But obviously Verai very much wanted to keep arguing about the same thing they’d been arguing about for weeks now. I will, however, remind you that you promised.

I will leave soon. I’ll keep my promise. Verai didn’t roll his eyes but he might as well have, the way he looked away with such impatience. "I will."

Lord Jester Lark. Dellai Bertram always kindly announced himself with a greeting, as if he expected that Lark would have to school his expression before facing him. Lark wasn’t sure why. Rohn had said that they’d been contentious before Lark lost his memory. Whatever it was that had caused their enmity seemed to have been forgiven, however.

Lark didn’t intend to trust the dellai, but he saw no reason to fake animosity when he felt none. Dellai.

The dellai, large and striking with the red tattoos all over his face and his voluminous red and white robes, smiled in a detached but sincerely friendly way, as if he too was uncertain how long he’d stay in Lark’s good graces. Mr. Lowell. He bowed his head very slightly to Verai, but the gesture seemed larger thanks to his order’s odd, winged, red and white hat.

Verai ducked his head. Dellai. Verai always behaved too respectfully around the dellai, as if he were both offended by and afraid of him. He was always evasive when Lark asked about that.

You’re not leaving us so soon, the dellai protested amicably.

Not just yet, but yes, I’m wandering toward the door, Lark informed him, mainly for Verai’s benefit. He would leave as soon as he could. Not before. He had to speak with Bell first.

I wonder if I might not have a word with you in private before you leave. The dellai smiled at Verai. If your friend doesn’t mind. He spoke the word ‘friend’ especially lightly, as if he feared that Lark might construe disapproval in whatever the dellai assumed about the two of them. It was awkward, but polite and Lark appreciated the effort, especially since officially such relationships were sinful.

The lord jester is very tired, Verai protested.

I must speak to the president first, Lark told the dellai. But you may have the next dance.

The dellai hid away a brief look of affront. Lark hadn’t meant to tease him; it was just a bit of poetry, not an actual flirtation. He smiled and then hid it away lest the dellai take deeper offense.

I’ll inform the president if it will save time. Verai’s offer surprised Lark. He normally employed Rohn as a powerful ally to try to get Lark home sooner. It didn’t usually work. Maybe he’d given up on the ploy.

Thank you, Mr. Lowell. Lark gave Verai the best apologetic smile he could.

I’ll make sure they leave a lamp with Bindart so you’re not riding alone in the dark. Verai ducked his head to the both of them. Dellai. Lord Jester. If you’ll excuse me. He stalked off.

Good night. The words chased after Verai with a softness he didn’t care to reveal in public. He really must be as tired as Verai supposed. Lark’s mask made it difficult to tell with any accuracy how far he’d slipped into exhaustion. Which reminded him, he hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink in too long.

Water. He could seldom bring himself to drink wine at such busy events. Though he couldn’t remember the poisoning, he dreamt about it sometimes. He didn’t know how accurate the dreams that seemed like memories might be, but they had an uncommon power that sometimes left him feeling afraid and weak and overwhelmed for hours after he’d woken from them.

Should I be as concerned for your health as your friend is? the dellai asked.

I could use a little respite.

From the ball or from such social events in general? the dellai asked.

No – I only mean, I need a little water.

They walked together deeper into the house, turning right at the vast intersection between the entry hall and the main gallery to where a buffet had been arranged in the main dining hall. Lark snatched a clean glass, polished it with his handkerchief, and served himself a ladle of water from the main fountain, much to the unease of a waiter standing to assist the most important of the house guests to the clear water in a ceramic cooler on a table nearby. The water was warm, but clear and untainted, and that’s all Lark wanted. He filled the glass again, and then he and the dellai exited to the gardens.

The stars and sky seemed muddied by all the torches, gas lamps and bonfires placed about the garden. Despite the late hour it still bustled with guests, mostly couples, and servants loitered there to lend a hand or offer a drink to passersby. It took Lark a while to find a remote and open enough area to attempt a private conversation. At last they came to an unoccupied landing. Paradise flowers and Meriduan violets were arrayed beneath tiny-leaved, lacy adua trees in narrow beds that ringed around a raked sand circle with a fountain in the center. The dellai settled at the fountain’s edge and Lark sat close, but not too close beside him. Lark took off his shoes and slippers, and then his stockings and cooled his feet in the night-chilled sand while the dellai gathered his thoughts. A hummingbird, unnaturally about after dark, buzzed by and hummed near the gas lights to sip at the small, white, jasmine-scented adua blossoms.

About Gutter.

Those first words sliced through Lark’s body like a sword thrust. He waited, frozen and wary, his full attention now upon the dellai.

I have been corresponding with a friend in Cathret, the dellai told him.

No wonder he wanted to speak to Lark privately. He couldn’t dare utter such words aloud to anyone else, not even in the relative privacy of his own offices at the church.

You don’t seem surprised that I’m in contact with Cathret, the dellai noted.

Lark’s mask had done very well at hiding his expression. He didn’t care about the dellai’s associations, but he did care what the dellai and his associate might think of his feelings for Gutter. I have friends in Cathret too, Lark told him.

And you correspond with them?

I would be foolish not to, but it’s quite a different thing for a jester to do it.

It is, the dellai admitted gravely. I trust your discretion in general, though I need not in this case, considering the subject of my correspondence. I believe I may be able to release you from your political prison. I will not, however, proceed without your permission.

Lark didn’t understand. He didn’t ask for an explanation, though. The dellai would come to it. The fact that the priest who reigned over religious matters for all of Meridua hesitated to be straightforward suggested that he needed gentle handling, or he might change his mind about discussing whatever scheme he’d concocted.

I have some very highly-placed persons ready to believe that Lord Jester Gutter was to blame for the entirety of what happened in Port Deep in regard to that unfortunate household. They are already convinced that he deceived and manipulated you in such ways that you acted, largely without foreknowledge, to his advantage at Summer Sky Hall. Lark didn’t want to remember the regicide, but he did. Pieces of it anyway. Black blood that transformed into black flowers pouring from the king’s neck ... had that actually happened? Your acts on the battlefield were under a mask’s influence, and in addition, easily understood to be the actions that any man would take when fighting for a cause he deemed worthy, rather than in ways that would be considered criminal, malicious, sinful or evil. It wouldn’t be difficult to convince them additionally that you helped convince Their Majesties Saphir to hand over the Gelantyne Mask in order to facilitate a truce. That part, as far as I understand it, has been accepted as fact among Cathretan nobles and commoners alike, though many try to paint it in a sinister fashion.

Though he hadn’t planned on traveling to Cathret for diplomatic purposes, he did feel as if the dellai had begun to release him from a cage that he’d assumed would be his entire world for the rest of his life. The possibility alone of having direct, face-to-face conversations with those who determined policy and influenced the Lord Dellai ....

Rohn would never let him go, of course, but that had never stopped Lark before. He wanted to go to Northern Cathret without having to sneak through battle lines, or avoiding sacred guards who’d be eager, after punishing him to their satisfaction, to deliver him to the Church. Maybe with the dellai’s help, he might even gain an audience with the Lord Dellai. I thank you. I thank you very much. He almost laughed, not only from joy but fear. He needed to do these things to help Meridua survive the war, wanted to do these things, but it might mean his own beheading if everything wasn’t arranged with absolute perfection.

You might not when you hear the price for the completion of my labors, the dellai said. The only way I can see moving forward from this promising yet tentative beginning is for you to denounce, publicly and often, your mentor.

Confused feelings swelled, twisted and knotted in his chest and gut. He thought he might be sick, and he wished he’d had more water. For no obvious reason he began to feel cold, and he feared he might have a seizure, though the telltale scent and taste of spice didn’t clog his nose and mouth.

I could begin it, how you confessed to me your pain and revulsion at all that had happened. How you tried to dissuade him, and save him from the madness that claimed him, and ultimately .... What would you like me to tell them as far as what really happened to Gutter?

Lark’s Hasle friends believed him when he’d told them that Gutter was dead. Few others did. He couldn’t remember whether he’d told anyone how Gutter had died. He didn’t dare ask, not even Gzem, in case the letter was intercepted and everyone saw further evidence of his vulnerability.

Some days he remembered his past more than others, or so it seemed. He had a hard time separating dream from history, fact from suspicion. A few memories had more clarity than he wanted to recall, and one of those was Gutter being shot. Another was Gutter’s worm-eaten corpse on the ground in the woods.

He had Gutter’s sapphire and blue diamond-crusted porcelain mask safely locked away. Sometimes he took it out and caressed it, kissed it gently as he might have kissed Gutter’s cold, dead brow. What had happened between the shot and kneeling in grief beside the rotted body, he couldn’t say. Who had shot Gutter, he didn’t know for certain but he guessed it was the person he remembered stabbing over and over again, long past death, in those same woods.

He could never find his way back there, even if he’d tried. A place in the woods in Cathret? That could be any among countless thousands of acres of wilderness, or a quiet hollow a short walk from the manor where Gutter, and perhaps he, had slaughtered a dozen people.

People like the many servants of the home he shared with the president and Verai, who may or may not have done anything wrong besides work in the company of a certain Lord Jester Foll.

Lord Jester?

Lark struggled with the division between his instinct to be practical and Mark’s innate sense of loyalty and justice. He hadn’t been at odds with the human part of himself in months. Mask and man worked in conjunction in a harmony so complete that sometimes he felt no difference at all between who he was with a mask and who he was without it. But this ....

The dellai shifted uneasily. I’m sorry if this idea of mine has hurt or offended you in some way.

I’m grateful, Lark assured him. I am. Of course you must proceed, regardless of my feelings on the matter. Gutter would never forgive me if I didn’t grab on to this opportunity with both hands. He realized he’d been unconsciously twisting a ring on his pinky finger. He made himself stop.

Does he live? the dellai whispered.

No. He does not. It didn’t matter if the dellai believed him or not. Doubt, in this situation, was his ally whether dealing with his friends or his enemies.

Well. Your feelings are very important to me. If you need some time to consider ...?

He didn’t even consider it a choice. No. I won’t change my mind.

I cared about him too, the dellai said softly.

Not now, Terrance. The words, Gutter’s words, sharp and full of irritation and power, blinked in Lark’s memory. Terrance Bertram. It had been the first time Lark had heard the dellai’s given name, spoken in Pickwelling Manor in Cathret. Lark wished he remembered when that had happened. Perhaps he could piece it together. He drew out a small notebook from his vest pocket and wrote in code everything about the memory he could before it vanished.

Lord Argenwain, Gutter’s master, had been at the table too. He wondered why the dellai had been there, and what they had been discussing. The regicide? He had a hard time believing it, and he couldn’t risk asking the dellai about what he knew or how he’d been involved. Dellai Bertram must have been connected to it all somehow, because the way he spoke to Lark, and the things he did, things like this, suggested an alliance of some kind with Gutter that now extended to Lark.

Lark hated being involved in intrigues, how many he couldn’t even hazard a guess, with only feeble, disconnected memories to serve him. He wished now that he’d taken notes. Jesters didn’t take risks like that unless they were mapping a particularly difficult intrigue. He was right not to have done it, but he wished for it just the same.

The war has changed you. The dellai smoothed his hands down his thighs. Were his palms sweating? I’m very sorry that it has wounded you, but I must confess I very much like and respect the person you’ve become.

You’re too kind. The praise made Lark uneasy.

I’m sure that’s of little comfort to you. Still, I had to say so. I hope you will guide me so that I can be not just an ally, but also a friend to you. I wish to be that. Gutter would have wanted it.

The dellai sounded sincere. Lark couldn’t trust it, but he didn’t have to. Thank you. I want us to be friends as well. As he spoke the words, a current of revulsion threatened to make him visibly shudder. I know we had a rough start. I hope you’ll forgive my youthful clumsiness when we first met.

I hope you forgive my own clumsiness and prejudice. The island wars made me suspicious of mainlanders.

Lark did his best not to take insult. I hope you don’t think of me as a mainlander.

Not at all. Not anymore. But back then, I fear I was hard on you for no good reason other than you’d come from the mainland and you wanted to get close to our now-president. I thought you might have sinister reasons for doing so.

You didn’t know me then. As I didn’t know you. Lark slipped and clipped on his stockings, tucked his feet into his soft slippers, and buckled his jeweled shoes back on over them.

The dellai smiled. Perhaps after all the hubbub from the nominations and elections have settled, we might have dinners all together, as I once supped with your master. Nothing as severe as a weekly ritual. Just once a month. I’m sure you’ll be far too busy even after the president becomes a vice president to do more than that.

Yes, well. Lark stood. Thank you again for your efforts. I will gradually reveal a sense of disagreement with my former mentor’s methods and madness whenever I can contrive to make such a thing appear natural and spontaneous. He hadn’t even really had a chance to grieve Gutter’s loss. How could he, when he remembered so little? A sense of wrongness writhed inside him for even contemplating what he’d have to do.

The dellai’s warm expression cooled, and he looked uncomfortable. I was rather hoping you would begin tonight. This needs to begin as soon as possible.

Lark’s shoulders started to bunch up. He forced them to stay down and relaxed. I don’t know. I’ll be leaving the party soon. I’m not sure I could make it sound natural. Good evening to you all, and by the way, I think Gutter the evil regicide deserves whatever Cathret can do to him? No, I don’t think so.

But you’re so clever. That sounded strained. This is extremely important. Considering how long it takes to get word to the mainland ... I’d like to make some sort of solid statement about what you’ve done when I send out my letters tomorrow.

Tomorrow? How early?

Before dawn.

Shit. I’ll arrange to make some mention of something along those lines tonight. There wasn’t a ship carrying post to Cathret that he knew of that left early in the morning. These letters you’re sending out tomorrow. May I add some of my own? Assuming they’re going to Cathret.

The dellai hesitated, then nodded. Of course.

Lark’s curiosity lit like a bright lamp. What ships would leave tomorrow that might go to Cathret? Did Rohn know about this? He wondered what the dellai had arranged, perhaps in secret, right under their lashes. Thank you. It’s just to the university. Nothing all that interesting, except maybe to a historian. It won’t be in a puzzle scroll, though it will be sealed, puzzle knotted, and in code. Is that all right?

I don’t see any conflict. The messenger may insist on a fee, however.

So he’d engaged a messenger. An islander or a mainlander, Lark wondered. Thank you. I’ll send the papers and a pair of ar to your office before I go to bed.

Excellent. That should cover it. May I be witness to your first forays into the disassociation? I’d like to say so in my letter. The recipient would prefer to receive stronger proof of your cooperation than my assurance that it will be done.

I have a private meeting I must attend to first.

Of course. The dellai rose and started back to the manor house. I’d hate to depart with nothing but business between us. I’d like to hear how your daughter is doing, and the president’s son.

Lark let the smile well up high onto his cheeks and glow in his heart, though his suspicions sharpened anytime anyone asked about Ellen. Wilden is growing so fast. He’s already crawling about, getting into all kinds of mischief.

And Ellen?

He always felt a trace of fear in his belly when he spoke of her to people, trusted or no. She’s mastering four languages –

Four?

Cathretan, Old Cathretan, Hasle, and Old Hasle.

Old Hasle?

He tried to measure his words so that he didn’t sound defensive. There’s so much literature, especially sacred literature, written in it, and it’s so difficult, I thought it best for her to learn young. Later she can learn Os or Neuch or whatever she fancies. They’re much easier to master. He’d begun his studies of Os himself, when he had time, which wasn’t much. Just a pair of hours a week.

How many languages do you know?

Not nearly enough. Just three. Two and a half, really. I confess, I’m a bit selfish in my choices, as I’ve always wanted to have a better grasp of Old Hasle. It was the closest language in the living world to what the sacred beings spoke in the All. They tried to remain silent around him, or so it seemed because he didn’t hear the voices in his mind very often. When they did speak, the words that he didn’t understand from them sounded most like Hasla’s ancient language.

I suspect you’re being cunningly modest, but I forgive you. I understand that you can’t give away what you know and don’t know to just anyone.

I’m not worried about what you might say to who about my linguistic capabilities. Besides, they’re easy enough to test should anyone want to.

Old Cathretan. The royal tongue. Depending on how the war turns out, it might not be a bad idea for her to understand it. Something about the dellai’s tone, though it was appropriately grim considering that the islanders quietly sided with the south, gave Lark a chill. Which, if you don’t mind my asking, I wonder if you have a future planned for her aside from an advantageous marriage. You do intend to assist her in finding a comfortable future as a wife?

Lark almost wanted to admire the dellai’s skill in asking such a personal question, though it still verged on excessively familiar prying. I would rather that she have a comfortable living as a result of her own labors, and not necessarily child-bearing ones. However, I know my opinion is overly influenced by my experience as a jester. Ideally we strive to have wealth and means independent to our masters. But I can’t predict what she’ll want and need, not at this age. She may want me to find someone suitable for her and not bother with learning an art or craft with which she can make a living.

They walked up the manor steps. The house had emptied of some of its guests and wasn’t nearly as loud or stifling. Or so he thought until he heard the music.

It sounds as if the musicians are back from their supper, the dellai remarked.

Which meant the dancing had begun again in the ballroom.

Considering how clever and pretty a child she is, I thought you might train her to play some political role.

It took all of Lark’s skill to master his reaction. He wouldn’t have been able to manage it if the dellai hadn’t already put him on guard by mentioning Ellen and her languages. The only reason they were ‘teaching’ her Old Cathretan was because she already knew it. The baby words, anyway. I wouldn’t want that for her at all, but I don’t consider it my place as her father to deny her that path, should she wish to take it.

So if she decided to become a jesteress ...?

Lark smothered the offense he felt at the thought of his little royal princess becoming a jesteress and gazed at the dellai, trying to discern if the man knew her true birthright. I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself. I would discourage her, which would probably only make her want it all the more.

The dellai smiled. His tattoos made the expression wild and intimidating. You’re a very good father to her.

Which requires me to find Bell and then get home at a better hour than I usually do. I like to be conscious at breakfast for her.

But the statement. Just a few words, before we part ways. The dellai seemed to realize he’d pressed too far and nodded. Never mind. When you send your letter to me, perhaps you can include a note about what you say tonight. A deeper sense of unease crept in, probably a taint from his bad experiences with priests in his youth, though the mask tried to whisper something more into Lark’s mind. Unfortunately, though Lark’s mask was fine and potent, it didn’t have a soul like Gelantyne’s mask once did. It couldn’t speak the memories he longed to regain. The dellai’s breath caught. I almost forgot to mention. Last week I received word from the Newell household.

Lark’s heart skipped.

"They are relinquishing the manor. Of course I will require confirmation through the Church before I act on their behalf, but it seems that the manor is available for use and will be put up for sale soon. It only makes sense to offer it to the trerashefral. He spoke the Hasle word awkwardly and with barely-restrained disdain. It would be far more convenient than housing them at Hevether, and your master would have his peace and privacy."

Rohn would be so relieved. Lark smiled, though personally he felt let down. Perfect. He’d been looking forward to livening up Hevether Hall’s rooms with a visit from the passionate, fashionable Saphiran coterie known as Ellisen, or The Irises, but Rohn and Verai had been against it. They’d only agreed it made more sense than putting The Irises up at the finest hotel in Perida. That would have led to countless and potentially devastating scandals, and the other barons with suitably large homes felt understandably uneasy about hosting them. At the Newell residence The Irises would have their privacy, and if they did indulge in orgies or other things even more shocking to Meriduan sensibilities, the Irises would at least have the opportunity to control what became public and what would remain as outrageous rumor unworthy to see print in the local gazettes. "I won’t insist they stay at Hevether if the trerashefral considers your offer. He and the dellai edged closer to the wall as a group of young revelers passed down the short hall toward the ballroom. One of the young ladies blushed and fanned herself as their gazes met. Was the letter from the former mayor, or from Feather?" Lark hoped he didn’t sound overly concerned. Politically, he ought to keep his distance from her, but that didn’t stop him from worrying.

It came from the jesteress.

Feather hadn’t contacted him since the concert where Gutter beheaded King Michael. That she’d surfaced, alive and hopefully well, but hadn’t contacted him, made him wonder if she needed to keep her distance from him as well for some political reason. He doubted it was for his own good. From what little he remembered of her, she didn’t strike him as altruistic. From a practical perspective, he wanted to speak to her privately about what had happened there, in hopes that he could confirm the truth or lies within his nightmares. Personally, he yearned for her companionship, even if he couldn’t remember or understand why. Generally, though, it was probably better that none of the regicides contacted each other to avoid discovery, or rather confirmation of the conspiracy. The performers had all been advertised all over Saphir. Everyone knew who’d been on that stage that night.

He wanted to ask the dellai where she might be, and through what nation’s Church he’d confirm the news of her and her lord cutting landholder ties to Perida, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. Lark really needed to go home.

I haven’t yet written an answer, the dellai said gently. Would you like me to mention that you are eager to hear from her? Or perhaps you’d like to include a letter alongside mine.

Lark felt another twinge of that same unease he often felt around Dellai Bertram, but he could think of no logical reason why. I would not go so far as to tell her I’m eager, but thank you. I’ll compose something suitable and have it brought to your office as well.

I’ll see that it’s delivered. Good night, Lord Jester.

Good night, dellai. They nodded to each other and the dellai left him to wander Crimson Hall and peer into rooms, looking for Bell. The way the dellai had pressed him to publicly denounce Gutter had rattled him a bit. He wondered if the dellai hadn’t meant to poison him or lure him into some sort of trap.

He hated it, hated being afraid and unknowing all the time. If it would have brought his memory back he would have bashed his head into a wall until his brains leaked out of his ears.

Fear had kept him from Bell for too long. He’d been avoiding Bell for months, and now, in Bell’s own house, he couldn’t afford to do it anymore. He had to make a show of friendship, as Bell seemed to expect.

Bell wasn’t anywhere downstairs, which surprised Lark a bit until he ventured upstairs and peered past an open door into a large card room. Of course. Bell loved playing cards.

Bell saw Lark right away and stood up. Lord Jester! You honor us. Not a few of the barons and ladies stood up, which embarrassed Lark to no end. He bowed to them and they sat back down. Though they weren’t technically noble in the continental sense, they were highly regarded, important citizens of Perida and showing such respect to a jester, even the president’s jester, seemed upside-down to him. Will you join us for a game?

I was hoping to steal you away for a little while, Lark told him, but if you’re busy –

"Blood and morbai, no. I fold. He set his cards down. Forgive me," he told his tablemates as he stood up. Middle-aged, graying, with light brown eyes that matched what little color remained in his formerly light brown hair, Bell had a quickness about his movements that seemed relaxed and confident at all times. He placed his arm around Lark in a brief, somewhat drunken side-hug and, rather than go toward the stairs, took Lark to another room down the hall from the card room.

From what little Lark could make out in the very dim light cast from a single oil lamp with the wick set very low, it was a den of sorts. The room didn’t have the space or adequate furnishings to be a formal library, office or withdrawing room. A small collection of stones mounted on rosewood stands with brass plates filled several shelves. A pair of portraits hung on either side of the lamp. The shadows cast by the frames were so heavy Lark couldn’t make anything out of the subjects. It was much cooler than the rest of the house, thanks to an open window and the lack of sweating, boisterous people. Bell shut the door behind them. Before I try to lure you into my salon .... They’d be swarmed by many of the island jesters still conducting their business and intrigues in there. Bell let out a sigh and went to a tiny cabinet. It held two bottles of brandy and four crystal snifters. Brandy?

Lark had barely eaten, and he hadn’t had a drink all night. He’d been steadfastly maintaining public sobriety, a relatively easy thing to do considering his aversion to accepting drinks he hadn’t poured himself, and the public’s general assumption that his stomach couldn’t tolerate much. The people of Meridua, and most likely everyone on the continent aside from a few groups in Saphir, still believed his health to be ruined from the poisoning. Lark saw no reason to contradict that belief. Besides, he did have a touchy gut, and he still suffered from occasional seizures, and likely would for the rest of his life. But Bell’s offer tempted him, and not just because a little brandy sounded nice.

Supposedly they’d been friends. Lark had no memory of it.

Yes, please. Just a small one, Lark relented.

Bell smiled and made a subtle show of wiping out both glasses with the same silk cloth, pouring in plain view, and allowing Lark to choose which glass to take without giving clear preference to one or the other when he offered them. Bell took a sip right away while Lark cupped the snifter and swirled the rose-tinged amber liquid to warm it over his hand. We haven’t had much chance to talk in private, Bell said.

No. That would have taken effort to arrange, and Lark hadn’t felt inclined to do it until now.

You haven’t lost just a few memories, have you. You’ve lost them all.

He tried not to let his relief show. He would so much rather have everyone know than pretend anymore. Unfortunately, he couldn’t afford it to be known.

Bell opened a drawer in a side table. Among many other things Lark couldn’t quite make out, it held an elegant abalone box and a glass case of delicate, long-stemmed pipes with a variety of bowl sizes and stem lengths. Most of the pipes were artfully curved, though a few had short, straight stems. Mind if I smoke?

Not at all. His gut tensed a little but his back and shoulders relaxed and Lark sat gratefully back into the embrace of a well-stuffed leather reading chair. It smelled of fine oil and a clean, masculine scent adorned by a hint of chocolate and musk. The low light, the soothing sounds of muffled revelers laughing and talking nearby, and the much more comfortable temperature in the room lulled him.

He couldn’t let himself trust Bell with his secret. Denying it, however, would only lead to tests he wouldn’t pass. He considered changing the subject to what he’d planned to discuss, but he decided he’d rather find out what Bell would do with his silence.

Bell carefully packed chopped leaf from the box into a pipe’s delicate porcelain bowl. The pipe’s stem appeared to be some sort of tropical wood, dark and rich with colors of old fires. I can only imagine how vulnerable you must feel. For months I’ve been wrestling with ways to approach you without looking like I’m trying to take advantage. I suppose this is my way of giving up and speaking plainly. I would like to help you if I can.

Lark had his first taste of why he had liked Bell, assuming he had, that is. Maybe they had been friends. Did we know each other well?

"Hells no. We barely knew each other. But we enjoyed playing cards, and as far as I know, I was the only one with whom you cared to discuss politics. Since I have to guess why on your behalf, I would assume it’s because I don’t take politics seriously, or at least not as seriously as everyone else seems to take them. By a morbai’s eye, doesn’t anyone else seem to notice we’re all just a bunch of apes dressed up in silly clothes, grunting and scratching ourselves and each other and waving our sticks around?"

Lark chuckled and took a sip of the brandy. Not too sweet, not too sharp, and pleasantly warm, though as always brandy tasted a bit like someone had ruined a perfectly good wine so that they could get drunk faster.

It’s a deadly business, of course, but really, the way some people carry on and put on airs, as if they were divine rather than animals like everything else in this sphere. Bell reached back into the drawer and pulled out a pair of elaborate tongs. I’ll be right back, he promised, and hurried off with the tongs and his pipe to find an ember, probably in a brazier in the card room. What manner of leaf Bell planned to smoke, Lark had no idea. The leaves smoked in Perida varied from mild to foul, benign to as addictive as gracian. Mark had no fear of Bell being an addict to an evil smoke, and yet ....

Lark brought the box close to the lamp. As far as he could tell in the uncertain light, the leaves were a silvery, bluish color, like his favorite sort of sage, the kind Verai sometimes used as incense. The leaves hadn’t been pounded to dust, nor were they in greasy blobs, but seemed to have a soft sheen as from a fine oil. Otherwise they seemed to be mostly dry, and carefully chopped. They’d never been a part of a twist, so he doubted they had been transported far. They looked to have been chopped green, dried and then stored loose. Each individual piece had rolled itself into a little tube. Lark took a careful whiff.  His memory blanked a moment, depriving him of all thought, and then filled in with recently acquired knowledge. The herb had the bittersweet scent of unburned headache leaf, a healing herb that relieved pain but tended to addle thoughts with the same intensity as alcohol. It didn’t cause people to stagger or go blind or any of the other terrible effects of some smoked herbs, but if someone consumed too much of headache leaf too quickly, sometimes they became very light-headed and fainted. He’d noticed that people under its influence tended to be more congenial and were more inclined to giggle, even if they were sullen or angry when drunk.

He set the box down and perused the bookshelves. They held two-dozen leather-bound books of no particular subject, everything from what looked like a silly sailing adventure with a huge monster threatening an old galleon-style ship to a treatise on glass blowing. Some of the embossed titles were too worn to read in the dim light. He drew out a thin volume and found it was a grim account of someone who’d been held prisoner for over a decade.

Bell returned, puffing happily on his pipe, and Lark returned the book to its place with the intention of borrowing it later. The sweet, tannic smoke tried to cleave into Lark’s lost memory. He felt an unpleasant blankness, as if he was looking right at something without actually seeing it. This is what I propose, Bell began. I have no idea if you trust me, but we’re jesters. Trust isn’t needed for friendship.

No arguing that, Lark said in his best encouraging tone.

"We met every so often at Kerril’s On Watch. You used to like the rum drink they made inside a pineapple with orange juice and cane syrup and