A Court of Muses Page 9

  Steorra seated herself on a bench and watched her father leave. Her eyes didn’t shift color like the king’s did. Errol wondered who her mother was.

  Another screaming artist distracted Errol. When he glanced back, Steorra was gone from the bench.

  Errol patrolled, pretending not to listen to the king scold Quenylda. She was draped across a pianoforte in the other room this time. The pianist was slumped over the keys, unmoving. The birds’ nest had fallen from her head, and dancers had crushed the doves, white feathers splayed everywhere. Quenylda hiccupped. Prince Elric-Atherius lay on the ground under the piano, asleep, though there was so much music and chatter it was hard to imagine anyone could have slept.

  “What did you do to your brother?” the king demanded.

  “My husband,” Quenylda corrected. “And I didn’t do anything. He did that to himself.”

  “Do not lie to me, young lady. I can tell you enchanted him. Just as I can tell you’re slathered in this unfortunate musician’s soul.”

  “He did it, not me,” Quenylda said through half-closed eyes, gesturing toward some random guest. “I can’t help it if he killed him.”

  “Your behavior shames me as your sovereign and master.” King Viridios looked at her in utter disgust.

  Errol couldn’t blame him.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon.” Quenylda slithered off the piano and almost managed a curtsy before falling onto her rear end and flashing her lack of underwear at the room.

  “You are intoxicated on imagination and a concentration of souls. You are banished from the festivities and will go to your chamber, where you will stay until tomorrow.”

  She laughed. “You said constipation. And chamber pot.”

  “I said concentration—something you are incapable of exhibiting. Get up, and go to your chamber.” The king nodded to the exit.

  She lifted her chin haughtily.

  Shadow goblins gathered behind the king as if curious what he might do. Some of the Fae guests had paused in their dancing and had turned their attention from their buffet of artists.

  King Viridios stared Quenylda down. “If you defy me, I will have the guards drag you to the dungeon and lock you up until you beg for my forgiveness.”

  She made a face at him as though she were a child.

  Errol was shocked she would behave so impertinently to her father and sovereign.

  “I’ve had enough of that insolence!” The king shouted with such authority the whole room rumbled.

  Errol had to grab a wall to keep from falling over like some of the guests.

  The entire room went silent.

  “Heed my words, or I will feed you to the Jabberwock,” King Viridios said.

  Quenylda’s eyes widened. She scrambled to her knees and prostrated herself before her father’s feet. “I apologize, Your Majesty. It won’t happen again.” She hiccupped.

  The king looked to the shadows and nodded. The shadow goblins leapt forward as if they had been waiting for the invitation. Quenylda screamed as they snagged their twiglike fingers through her hair and into her gown and dragged her off.

  Errol was relieved he wasn’t the one who had to escort her out.

  He thought that Quenylda’s departure meant the muse activities might wane, and the royal family would start to behave more reasonably.

  Instead, it got worse from there on out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Unexpected Inspiration

  The muse magic exhausted Errol.

  As the royal festivities continued, the raucous behavior only increased. Errol did his best to predict when staff might be infected with muse magic, but sometimes he arrived in a room too late. It wasn’t just the guards who lost themselves, but the butlers and footmen as well.

  The sky turned gray with the coming of dawn, and the muses were still rolling on the floor in ecstasy. By that point, two musicians had been torn apart by Fae fighting over them, a sculptor, a painter, and a poet had gone mad. A weaver woman had suffered from an apoplexy, a dancer choked to death on his own spittle, and a singer and a thespian had gone comatose.

  The members of the Silver Court hardly noticed, too intent with feeding on their artists to pay heed to anything else. Many of them ended up on the floor in a gyrating pile. Some of the soldiers leered. Errol felt too disgusted with the entire evening’s festivities to chastise them.

  This was not what he had imagined of the noble gallant royalty who ruled the kingdom.

  Errol’s nausea and light-headedness only grew. Captain Helga was the one who relieved him. She grabbed him by the arm and practically dragged him into the hall.

  “My shift—I can’t—it ends in another hour,” he protested. Everything else came out jumbled and unintelligible after that.

  “If your captain wasn’t such a lease-mongering quisby, he would have come himself to check on you. But Captain I’m Too Important For My Britches sent me in his stead.”

  “Please,” he said, uncertain what he was asking for.

  “Get some food in you and a cold drink. That will make you feel better. Then get some rest.” She clapped him on the back with enough force to send him stumbling into a wall.

  “I need—I need—” Errol didn’t know what he needed. To create like the artists? Or to consume imagination and creativity like the muses?

  “I need you,” Errol said. Had he fully been himself, he would have blushed—but if he had been himself, he wouldn’t have said such a thing to a commanding officer.

  “Oh? You think you’re an artist between the sheets, eh? Sorry to deliver the news to you. I’m married. Get yourself to a brothel if you need to relieve your creative urges in that manner.”

  “I will not go to a—” He lowered his voice. “A brothel.” Not with how his sister felt about them; poor Witchkin women who were stuck with no way to protect themselves. He weaved on his feet and tugged his jacket indignantly. “I’m not a predator!”

  Helga rolled her eyes. “As you say, Lieutenant. Go home.”

  “Fine.” Errol huffed. “But I’ll have you know, my sister delivers meals to houses of ill repute a few evenings every week!”

  Helga’s attention was drawn away by a loud crash in an adjoining room. She shooed him toward the exit and hurried off.

  With an irritated sigh, Errol spun on his heel and marched out the side gate.

  The walk back to his room cleared his head some, enough to know a hot meal or a cold drink would do him no good. If he ate, he’d probably vomit. At least he was granted some privacy being an officer with his own quarters, even if it was in a closet-sized room. Restless and slightly depressed, he did his best to satisfy the aching need of muse magic that had settled in his loins, without going to a brothel.

  He was left exhausted and physically gratified, but a deep hunger inside him was still left unsatiated. A ravenous void full of yearning had opened up during the revelry and couldn’t be quenched with lust. He needed to breathe in the creativity of artists.

  Errol tried to sleep, but he shifted his legs incessantly and couldn’t stop replaying the images from that night. There had been so much beauty in those rooms, yet there also had been cruelty. The Silver Court had used those humans, and most of them hadn’t cared about any of their precious artists getting hurt in the process.

  Their behavior revolted Errol, yet he couldn’t help feeling the same lust when he thought about the way the imagination and bursts of artistic genius had radiated from a musician or dancer. He shivered, thinking about how the inspiration had skated across his skin.

  He had been given the smallest taste of temptation. It had sunk its teeth into him and left him wanting more. He would go mad from pining if he didn’t do something. It was with great reluctance and desperation that he decided to take Helga’s advice.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A House of Good Repute

  Errol dressed and took a coin purse with him as well as a sword, uncertain how expensive
it was to visit a brothel and more uncertain whether he would encounter ruffians along the way.

  His skin was feverish against the early morning air, and he should have put on a cloak, but he hadn’t thought to do so. He walked to the village, hoping to use up his restless energy. He wasn’t as familiar with the village as Alma was, seldom having the occasion to frequent it, and he never had time for a stroll these days. Only officers with leisure time could afford such novelties.

  The thought of his sister made Errol momentarily pause. She would disapprove of what he was doing. Not only was he squandering his money, but he would also be spending her money—or money he had intended to give her some day. Yet if she had any compassion for him, he didn’t think she’d mind that he needed to get this maddening muse magic out of his system, and he knew no other way to do so.

  Errol wandered the streets, scanning signs for a house of ill repute. The only people walking on the lonely street were drunken men who hadn’t made it home to their beds yet.

  Errol passed a respectable working-class woman unlocking a bakery. He suspected it wouldn’t do to ask her for directions. He should have asked the men.

  The sky grew bright with the impending cheerfulness of morning, searing Errol’s eyes after his late night of work. As Errol walked, he passed another bakery with the staff inside starting their day. He worried he’d left his flat too late in the morning for it to be considered night anymore. If the ale houses were closing, it was likely the brothels would be too.

  Finally he found himself in front of a closing tavern with an owner kicking patrons out into the street. A young Witchkin woman stood outside, alone on the street corner. She looked like she was trying to pose seductively against a wall, but she looked far too sleepy to be alluring.

  Her brown hair was long and worn down, so different from most of the working class he encountered in the castle with their tresses hidden under caps. Her hair was slightly rumpled, as were her clothes. Though her dress was made of fine fabric, even with her shawl wrapped around her, Errol could see it was too large. Her only adornment was a ribbon around her neck.

  Errol cleared his throat. When she didn’t look at him, he said, “Miss, are you waiting for someone?”

  Her eyes widened as her gaze skated over his hair. She hurriedly curtsied. “I beg your pardon . . . my lord.”

  Errol could see she had confused him with royalty and wasn’t certain what to call him.

  Had he been more himself and not so impatient, he would have corrected her.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I couldn’t help noticing your attire and . . . you seemed to be out late—or early—and I saw you waiting here alone.” His face flushed with heat as he bumbled through an explanation. “There’s somewhere particular that I’m looking for, but I’m afraid I don’t know how to find it. I’m looking for someplace discreet, if you catch my meaning. . . . a specific place.”

  “Are you looking for the House of Solomon?” she asked.

  “Um. . . .” That sounded like some kind of Morty religious temple, not the kind of place he sought. “Is that code for a house of ill repute?”

  She scowled. “Ill repute? I’ll have you know the House of Solomon has the best repute in the Codpiece District.”

  “I see.” Errol had a feeling the standards for a district called Codpiece weren’t going to be very high. In any case, he suspected that was where he needed to start.

  “Can you take me there, or is it too late—early?”

  “It’s never too late or too early if you’ve got enough chink with you.” She winked at him and eyed his purse at his belt.

  She walked as briskly as a soldier. Errol was tired enough he could barely keep up with her, let alone take note of the route.

  He couldn’t help noticing how young she looked. She was a Witchkin, so he suspected her face accurately reflected her age. He detected no glamours.

  “How old are you, lass?” he asked.

  She lifted her chin. “Eighteen.”

  Errol had met plenty of boys trying to get into the navy or cavalry, asking for positions deemed to mature or difficult for a boy less than eighteen. He knew how to spot a fibber.

  “I’d wager you’re no older than fourteen,” he said. “That’s young for your line of work, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sixteen. Most of my customers don’t mind.” Bursts of creativity rose from her like sparks from a fire as she spoke. “They prefer us younger women.”

  “Are there any adult women at this brothel?” Errol wasn’t sure that was the politest term. “Mature women with experience?”

  “Naturally. If an older woman is what you want, there’s Madam Sheba, the owner. She’s two hundred years old and looks like a very attractive grandmother.”

  Two hundred wasn’t that old except for a Witchkin or weakened Fae. Then again, Errol supposed the lass was so young herself, anyone over fifty would seem ancient to her.

  “I’m not particularly inclined toward grandmothers. I have something specific in mind. I’m seeking. . . .” He didn’t know whether he should say the word “artist.”

  That might imply he was a muse, and he wasn’t really like them. He wasn’t royalty, and he didn’t misuse commoners, whether Witchkin or Morties.

  This girl was a Witchkin. Her affinity sounded like wind rushing through reeds and tasted like panpipes and flute, or perhaps that was her creativity. His senses grew confused. Her artistic talent had to be related to music or dancing. He felt it in his bones as strongly as anything he’d ever known.

  The girl’s name was Delilah. She led him to a building decorated with Greek columns and Mesopotamian designs. A man let them in at the back door. The parlor inside wasn’t as fancy as anything in the king’s castle, but it was as fancy as what Errol had seen of Mistress Cadwynn’s parlor the time he’d been served tea by the lady of the house.

  No one served him tea now. Delilah waved a hand at a variety of decanters and tumblers. “Sorry no one’s around to serve you. Everyone has probably gone to bed. You can help yourself to the drinks.”

  Errol suspected drinking was the last thing he should do. He needed to use muse magic. Alcohol might only make this new magic harder to control. He sat alone in the room, listening to the pianoforte being played in the corner. No one was there, but there was a spell to enchant the keys and make the instrument play. It lacked the emotion a piece of music required to feel satisfying.

  Errol hadn’t realized how much his time in a castle full of muses had affected his appreciation of music until then. It was very possible he’d been imbibing in musicians and artists all this time without knowing it.

  The longer he listened, the more the music irritated him. It was passionless and empty. The girl was taking too long. He probably shouldn’t have come.

  Just as he was considering leaving, Delilah returned with another woman with brown hair like her own. The woman was dressed in a fine gown, though her hair had been put up hurriedly. A thick glamour coated her face, and he couldn’t tell how old she was. She held herself with the confidence of a mature woman. She gave Delilah a significant look, and the girl nodded.

  “This is Jezebel. She’ll take care of you tonight,” Delilah said.

  Errol was starting to see a theme to their names at the establishment. It was likely all their names were pseudonyms they gave customers.

  The woman smiled. “Welcome to the House of Solomon . . . Your Highness?”

  Errol could see she also was confused about his identity. If he had come in uniform, he wouldn’t be mistaken for royalty. “No—er—I’m not—that is to say—You have me confused with someone else.”

  Her grin grew. “Of course I do. What would you like me to call you tonight?”

  “Errol.” He wondered whether he should have given a false name.

  The woman took his hand and led him up a flight of stairs to a room with elaborate wainscoting and a canopy bed.

  “We’ll be taking
you up to our finest room. No expense is too great for you.” She winked.

  “About that—” Errol cleared his throat. “I don’t know the going rate of this sort of thing. I don’t want to be vulgar, but can you tell me how much this will cost me?”

  She laughed, glancing over her shoulder at him. “That depends on what you want and how long you require a woman to satisfy your needs.”

  Errol blushed.

  The room was palatial compared to his own—though smaller than anything in an actual palace—but the furnishings were tasteful enough. The canopy bed dwarfed his own.

  “Do you prefer me to undress or wish to undress me yourself?” Jezebel’s smile was coquettish.

  “Oh, uh, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about that.” Errol removed his shoes. He didn’t consider himself a complete novice. He’d bedded girls, but they were ones he’d met with his mates in the navy, and they hadn’t charged money for lifting their skirts—except for one—but he hadn’t known until afterward that she would demand payment.

  He felt completely out of his element now. “Are you an artist of some sort? A musician?” he asked.

  She laughed as she disrobed. The creative energies of an artist didn’t rise from her as she removed each layer. She performed this ritual with the skill of someone who had done it a thousand times, but there was no genius or visionary talent in the performance. She was more like a clockwork mechanism—not so different from the enchanted pianoforte—performing a routine without emotion. Her acting skills would probably have been enough to convince most that she was enjoying herself as she undressed Errol, but he could tell the difference.

  It was true she was more experienced than the few women he’d bedded, but as he gazed at her face, it became easier to see through the layers of glamour. She’d only used a simple enchantment to trick the eyes into not seeing her wrinkles and liver spots. She was old enough to be his mother. It wasn’t the most arousing thought. He tried to focus on the moment, to absorb any creativity she might be radiating, but there was nothing to accept from her other than her body.