A Court of Muses Page 10

  Even after he’d come, Errol was completely unsatisfied. It must have shown in his expression. She kissed his forehead and rumpled his hair. “What’s wrong, love? What do you need?”

  He hesitated, more uncertain than ever that he should speak of what he craved. “I’m afraid to ask. It might not be allowed. Or perhaps you will have to report me to someone.”

  “We are very discreet in this establishment. What happens within these walls stays within these walls.” She trailed a finger down his neck and into the silver-white hair on his chest.

  “I need an artist. Or musician. Or actress. It isn’t your body I need, but your mind.” He glanced away, feeling silly saying it.

  “Of course. You’re a muse. Tell me more.”

  He wasn’t a muse. Only royalty were muses. The deception made him feel cheap and dirty.

  Errol cleared his throat. “You do understand, then. I need some kind of artistry and originality to make me feel satisfied. I can’t feel satisfied with a . . . rehearsed performance.” Or a passionless one, but he didn’t want to say that out loud and insult her. “I need to absorb the imagination and brilliance of an artistic individual.”

  “I understand. Perhaps you would like us to put on a little theatrical here in the room for you? Something impromptu and unrehearsed that will bring out your ardor?” She patted his cheek reassuringly. “We can do that. Just wait a moment, and I will assemble a troupe of actresses for you.”

  “Truly?” he asked.

  Her grin was genuine now. “What kind of story would you like? A comedy? A tragedy? A romance?”

  “I don’t know that it matters. As long as it’s inventive and ardent, it will do.” Errol wished he knew how to use the kind of magic that would draw out her creativity, but all of this was new to him.

  Jezebel left him for nearly ten minutes. During that time, he dressed and paced the room. He was more exhausted than before, but that restless energy hadn’t left. It had only grown. Probably he would be more likely to obtain the result he desired if he could inspire like a muse, but he didn’t know how to do that.

  When Jezebel returned, she had two young women with her. One was Delilah from earlier, though she now wore a plain nightgown and housecoat, looking groggy. The other young woman, Salome, was dressed as a man, her chemise mostly tucked into a pair of trousers and a hat on her head. Someone had drawn a mustache above her lip with what Errol suspected was shoe polish.

  Jezebel whispered instructions to Delilah and her supposed admirer “John.” Neither girl could act, and out of the three women, Jezebel seemed to be the creative one, at least when it came to bossing other people around. The creativity she’d lacked during their routine lovemaking she more than made up for. Errol recognized their play as an adaption of a Punch and Judy show he’d once seen in the market—but with less punching and more romance.

  It was only when Delilah began to serenade her lover with a lullaby, changing the words to suit the play, that Errol felt the first wave of originality sparkle and waft in the air above their heads. He closed his eyes and breathed it in. The fragrance was like lilacs in the spring and the innocence of childhood.

  Delilah stopped singing. “Mother, what’s he doing?”

  “Shush and keep singing,” Jezebel said.

  Errol hardly registered their words. The creativity soaking into him entranced him. Finally he felt as though he’d gotten what he needed. He sank onto the bed and relaxed. He could feel something happening inside him, a blossoming rose awakening to a morning he had never experienced before. He felt as though he were made of pure sunlight, radiating inspiration to all in the room. In turn, their acting became more talented. Errol didn’t need to watch them; he could feel their genius radiating toward him.

  He had no memory of how he ended up naked in bed with all three of them. Salome lay curled up in his arms, her head on his chest, her shoe-polish mustache smeared. She wore the same costume from the previous night, and that gave him some reassurance he might not have slept with her. Behind him on the bed, he heard Delilah whispering. As her voice grew louder and more frantic, Errol turned. Jezebel lay behind him, mostly dressed, and beside her sat Delilah, still in her nightgown.

  Delilah shook the woman by the shoulders. “Mama! Mama, wake up.” Fabric on the woman’s dress tore under the girl’s fingers.

  Mother? This woman had raised her child in a brothel? How had that detail escaped his attention the night before? Errol didn’t know what revolted him more, his inattention, or the nobles having an orgy with their family members. Then again, he shouldn’t have been one to judge after what he’d done.

  Delilah slapped her mother and looked to Errol with tears in her eyes.

  Jezebel’s glamour was gone. She was probably only in her late forties, but she was a Witchkin who had led a hard life, judging from the lines of age around her mouth and eyes, gray threaded in her hair, and the liver spots on her hands. She stared up at the ceiling, unmoving. Errol pushed back her sleeve and touched her arm. She was cold.

  His heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach.

  “Fetch a doctor,” he said.

  Salome shifted in the bed. “What’s going on?”

  “What did you do to her?” Delilah clutched at her mother’s rumpled gown.

  “You need a healer or a doctor,” Errol insisted. He felt for a pulse, knowing there would be none.

  Delilah ran out.

  “What in all the realms happened?” Salome asked.

  Errol had used muse magic. An artist had died. He had ended up in bed with three women—which meant he might have behaved inappropriately toward adolescent girls.

  His belly cramped with guilt. He was as bad as the rest of them.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Consequences of the Codpiece District

  The madam made Errol wait in the parlor as she dressed. A servant bade him call on her in her office. It was a small room, and a young woman sat at the desk tallying numbers in a ledger. She was Witchkin and probably only fourteen but dressed conservatively and respectably in plain attire. Her hair was pulled back into a bun.

  Madam Sheba did look like someone’s grandmother, but one dressed in fine clothes that showed off an ample bosom glamoured to appear plump and young. She leaned against the desk and looked him up and down. “So you’re the troublemaker?”

  Errol didn’t know how to answer that. If she reported him to his supervising officer, he would be in trouble. If she thought he was a noble, she might report him to the king.

  “I beg your pardon. I don’t know what happened.” He bowed his head.

  “Jezebel had a weak heart, and you overtaxed her. No need to trouble yourself with fretting over the matter.” Madam Sheba tapped her long nails against the wooden desk. “You will of course pay me to make up for my losses.”

  “Yes, Madam,” he said. In the navy and cavalry, a severance was paid to a soldier’s family after he died in battle. He didn’t expect anything less.

  “Athaliah, read off the numbers, if you please,” Madam Sheba said.

  The young woman behind the desk listed the many expenses he had incurred the night before. She calculated the math, which was more than he currently carried with him.

  He paid all he had. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t think I would need to bring more money with me. I can return with the rest upon the morrow.”

  The brothel owner snorted. “That’s what they all say.”

  Errol was a man of his word. He would prove it to her. “What about the girl? Her daughter? Should I come back and provide something for her?”

  The madam shrugged. “If it will ease your conscience, be my guest.” She walked him to the door. “After you’ve settled your debts, you will be welcome back anytime.”

  Errol suspected the only reason she said that was because she thought him someone far more important than he was.

  The gnawing hunger in Errol was gone, but in that place was gui
lt and self-loathing. He stood outside the brothel, a shroud of despair weighing him down. He didn’t want to return to his own room and his own life. He was certain someone would know what he’d done.

  “Oi!” someone whispered behind him.

  Errol looked up. A young woman’s head poked out of a window on the second floor above the alley. She waved him closer. Errol glanced around, uncertain whether this was a trick of some kind. He had no more money with him. He walked over so he could see her better.

  “You want to do something useful for Lila?” she asked.

  “Do you mean Delilah?”

  “Madam Sheba isn’t going to give Lila a coin of what you pay her for her mum’s death. You want to help her out? Come back here tonight at midnight and bring enough chink with you to pay off her mother’s debt so she’ll be free.”

  “I can’t. I have to—”

  The window closed.

  Errol had a shift to work, and he wouldn’t get off until after midnight.

  * * *

  Errol went to bed for a few hours before waking. As he shaved in the small mirror he’d hung on the wall, he thought his eyes shifted from violet to brown in that way the royal family’s did. He was so startled, he cut himself on the cheek. When he looked in the mirror again, he saw his eyes were violet as they always had been.

  His face was bright and glowed with vitality he’d never seen before, but dark circles the color of plums ringed his eyes, attesting to his lack of sleep. He wondered whether anyone would notice how unearthly he looked, perhaps it was all his imagination.

  Errol took food in the mess hall for his midday meal, but the food settled in his stomach like a heavy anchor. All he could think about was that poor Witchkin woman and what he’d done to her. He couldn’t even remember most of the night. His silver hair and the gifts that came with it had never seemed like such a curse.

  He had a shift guarding one of the princes’ chambers that night. It wouldn’t be over until two o’clock in the morning. But the young woman had asked him to come at midnight. He’d been saving money for years for Alma’s dowry. He could spend some of that on buying Delilah’s freedom, though he hated the idea of taking from funds he’d hoped to give to his sister someday.

  Yet he could think of no alternative. He would meet them at midnight.

  He went to his captain to ask him for the evening off.

  “I’m not feeling well, sir, you see, after the previous night’s events,” Errol began. “I’d like to take a sick day—err, night.”

  “You look fit as a fiddle.” Captain Kasen managed to look down on him, even though he was seated behind his desk and Errol was the one standing. “You’re probably sick from drinking too much ale. You’ll have to learn to live with your hangover and make better choices in the future.”

  “Sir, I don’t have a hangover. It’s from the muse magic. You chose me for that duty last night because—”

  Captain Kasen stood. “Exactly. I chose you for that duty because I knew you could handle it. I will not hear another word about it. You are dismissed.”

  If Errol had happened upon Semmy, he would have asked his advice, though he didn’t know whether he could bear to confide his shame in anyone. But Semmy was occupied with duty, and Errol was supposed to be busy with his tasks for the day.

  It wasn’t one of Errol’s days to work on training in the field with his men, and he was glad for that at least. He started his shift with a lesson from Captain Helga. Though he was tired from lack of sleep, the glamour magic came easily to him.

  “I see someone has been practicing,” Helga said.

  Errol had been practicing, but that wasn’t why the magic came easily to him today. Despite his fatigue, he had more energy—a different kind of energy.

  After the first couple of illusions she made that he successfully saw through, he lost focus, his mind drifting back to Jezebel’s vacant eyes when he’d found her dead. Perhaps the madam was right, and she simply had a weak heart. She might have died anyway that night, but he doubted it. She’d died because he’d drained her of creativity.

  Helga scratched her chin. “For someone so shiny and glowing this afternoon, you certainly look forlorn.”

  Errol wanted to tell her about what he’d done, but if he did, surely she would have to report his conduct to someone.

  “I am not feeling well,” he said. “I asked my captain for the evening off to recover from last night, and he denied my request.”

  “Not feeling well? Really?” She pointed at him. “From the guilt in your eyes, it looks like you didn’t go straight home after all, am I right?”

  Errol peered at her. “How did you know?”

  Helga’s lips twitched into a smile. “You’re young and wear your heart on your sleeve. Someday you’ll learn to adopt a more stoic expression, but until then, I can tell something weighs heavily on you.”

  Errol wondered how old Helga was exactly. He knew she had to be at least five hundred. Her techniques in combat were superior to many, even compared to the most seasoned officers, but she looked as young as him. Then again, she was also a master of glamour.

  Helga crossed her arms. “Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  “I did do something I regretted last night. I was told to return at midnight so that I could pay restitution for my deeds, but when I told my captain that I was ill from the muse magic, he denied my request.”

  Helga grunted. “I’m not your commanding officer, and I can’t give you permission to take the night off.” She frowned. “Only someone with a higher rank can do that.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to do so, captain,” he said.

  “You could happen upon one of the majors or the general and speak with them about the matter, but it’s quite possible they’ll just agree with your captain and chastise you for shirking your duties. They’ll likely tell you to toughen up, especially if Kasen has already blustered on in his way and told them about you attempting to dodge duty. . . . There’s only one person with the power to get you off duty. This will only work once or twice in your career. How important is this to you?”

  Errol nodded. “Very important.”

  She stood. “As far as I can tell from our lesson, you are unfit for duty. I’m escorting you to the infirmary.”

  “That is a kind offer, but I can’t see how that will help.” Especially when Errol wasn’t actually unwell.

  Helga reached into a drawer of her desk and pulled out a brown bottle half full of liquid. She stuffed the bottle into her jacket, the bulge of its shape quite noticeable. The air around her sparkled, and the bottle hidden in her jacket melted away with an almost untraceable glamour.

  “Just so you know, Lieutenant Errol, you owe me a bottle of whiskey for this.” She winked.

  Captain Helga escorted him to the infirmary. The physician on duty was Dr. Jong, a Witchkin man with strawberry-blond hair and a gaunt face.

  Helga nodded to him. “A private word in your office about this soldier’s medical condition?”

  Errol sat on one of the cots as he waited for them to return. When they did, Dr. Jong’s face was flushed, and his breath smelled of alcohol.

  “You are unfit for duty.” Dr. Jong belched, trying to conceal it as a cough.

  Errol hoped he wasn’t going to need to perform any surgeries that day.

  * * *

  Errol went back to bed for a few hours, taking advantage of the luxury of sleep. When he rose, he collected his savings, purchased a bottle of whiskey for Helga in town, and then went to the House of Solomon.

  He found two girls waiting in an alley. One was Delilah, the girl from the previous night. The other was the one who had called out to him from the window. He learned her name was Athaliah. They wore dresses made of expensive fabric, shawls covering their shoulders, and their hair worn down rather than worn up like a respectable woman’s.

  Delilah wouldn’t meet his eyes. Errol supposed she bl
amed him and hated him. He wondered whether she remembered more than he did.

  His palms grew clammy as he considered what he might have done. “I beg your pardon for asking, but I don’t seem to—I can’t—I don’t recall all that happened last night after your theatrical. I hope I wasn’t—that is to say—I apologize if I behaved ungentlemanly to you.”

  Delilah rolled her eyes. She didn’t answer. Athaliah elbowed her.

  “Excuse me for asking, but did I do anything untoward?” Errol asked.

  “You just lay there writhing and drooling like an idiot.” Delilah clenched her fists. “Mother fretted you were having an apoplexy, but she was too exhausted to do much about it. Ironic how that is, as it turns out, you gave her one.”

  Errol was more certain than ever he must have drained the woman of her creativity and life force.

  Athaliah took charge. “Now here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to go in and pay off your debt to the madam. Then you can offer to buy Delilah’s freedom. Madam Sheba will name a price too high, and you will haggle with her because she’s going to overcharge.”

  Delilah sniffled. “But what will I do once I’m free? I’ll be all alone.”

  Athaliah patted her friend’s back.

  “I could try to help you find work,” Errol said. He’d done as much for his sister.

  Delilah gave him a dirty look. “It’s bad enough working for a madam. I’m not going to work for some pimp who will let men drain me.”

  A lump lodged in Errol’s throat. Was that what he’d done to her mother?

  “You will find work,” Athaliah said. “Something respectable like a seamstress or a maid. We’ll ask Elizabeta. She found work after she left.”

  “But I won’t have you anymore. I don’t have anyone left.” Delilah flung her arms around Athaliah. “It isn’t fair.”

  “It’s better this way.”

  Both girls started to cry.

  Errol couldn’t stand to watch. His own heart ached at the sight of them. “I’ll pay her to free both of you. Then you can stay together and help each other, all right?”