CASSEN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cassen inhaled deeply the bouquet of excrement, sweat, and blood—not to savor the stench that spoke of his childhood, but to remind himself of how far he had come. How ironic it was that he was on his way to meet a young man not unlike himself in his ambitions, but due to utter stupidity and obliviousness, had managed to descend within the social hierarchy just as rapidly as Cassen had risen.

Cassen was no stranger to the dungeons. He had many contacts within them—among the gaolers as well as the inhabitants. It took far less than lady servants to buy the trust, fleeting that it may be, of these lowborn wardens and malefactors, and it was always worth the cost. He had certainly never promised a prisoner so much as he intended to tonight, but this was no ordinary prisoner.

“Good evening, Vidar,” Cassen said with familiarity.

“Ah, the Duchess. Come to rape some of my boys again? Or is it the other way around? I never could tell.” Vidar’s smile was more disgusting than the smell. “You’ve turned me into quite the whoremonger.”

Cassen wondered how the man managed to amuse himself with the same joke each and every time he came to visit. Believe whatever you like, so long as you keep your mouth shut as I pay you to.

“Oh, but you know me so well, my good Vidar. Perhaps you can guess my taste for the night?”

“Well,” said the gaoler, stroking his misshapen chin as if truly considering. “I would have to guess you would be in the mood for some choice meat tonight. Perhaps something a bit princely?”

“Whoremonger you may be, but you are good at what you do. I will need an hour with the prince, undisturbed.” Cassen handed Vidar a golden coin worth fifty marks with a downward wrist and raised pinky.

“I would think a prince might fetch a more handsome sum,” said Vidar with a bit of humor. He was at least wise enough not to sound resentful.

“You would be wrong,” Cassen replied as he strode passed Vidar dismissively, having snatched the key from his desk. Show an ounce of weakness to one, and all will take from you a pound. It was an old Adeltian saying that Cassen thought especially fitting in his current surroundings.

“Interrogators of The Guard already did a number on him,” Vidar hollered to Cassen’s back. “You may not find him as entertaining as you like.”

Cassen needed no escort; he knew where the prince would be. There was a special cell for holding and interrogating nobility, designed to be less physically torturous in exchange for being more mentally so. Vidar had explained to him long ago how they found that those accustomed to the comforts of royalty would crack “too far,” as he put it, when placed under the normal methods of deprivation. Once stripped of the belief that they would ever reattain their former glory, they lost the will to live and the care to comply. This had become apparent after Lyell had taken over Adeltia. The attempts on his life implicated many an Adeltian highborn, and Vidar had been present for it all. But in spite of his advanced age, his spindly limbs, and near complete lack of hair, he had the spryness of a far younger man—almost as if he was somehow draining these prisoners of more than just their secrets.

A flutter of excitement passed through Cassen as he imagined for a moment that he was headed to Crella’s cell rather than to Stephon’s. What an enthralling time that will be, if and when it comes. But it was not a realistic goal for the time being. Crella was held in the former queen’s chambers at the top of the Throne. Members of The Guard were abundant in that area. It was the most heavily fortified section of the main castle, housing the king himself. Protectors could be difficult and dangerous to bribe, as a small minority of them actually took their vows to heart. It simply was not worth the risk at this time.

Cassen had passed countless empty cells on his way to his final destination. Each was the typical hold, containing no more than a bucket. Stone made the walls and floor, and the bars were of thick rusted iron. In time he reached a massive door not unlike one that would be found on most frames in the castle. He knocked three times and waited a few moments for reply.

“Enter.” The voice did not sound as though it belonged to one confined.

After unlocking the door, Cassen entered and found the cell quite decent indeed. A nobleman would retain some form of dignity after having passed so many horrid cells to finally be placed in such clean, albeit modest, quarters. It would let him know that he was receiving special treatment, giving him the hope of one day being freed. Why else would your gaoler go through the trouble of providing such amenities? In addition to the simple bed and chamber seat, there were luxuries such as books, a bucket of clean water, a bar of soap, a comb, and a tiny razor, too small to easily end one’s life with but certainly capable of shaving given enough time—something that would be had in abundance. Stephon’s half-eaten supper sat by the door, which appeared to have been a fair plate of food. Cassen made out the remnants of roast chicken, gravy, green beans, and a mug of some frothy beverage that was now empty.

“They told me you would come.”

Cassen knew the interrogators would be attempting to goad Stephon into revealing as many names and as much information as possible, but Cassen had nothing to fear. Though he had known about the heavy-handed plot, Cassen had nothing to do with its invention or execution. And it had no chance of success—Cassen had seen to that by implicating some of the conspirators himself. The fact that Stephon had been drawn into it was proof enough that the boy would work well for what Cassen now had in mind. And I will have little worry of him speaking my name after today, with the banquet so near at hand.

“And here I am,” Cassen said. “I do apologize for the delay.”

Stephon lay on his back with a large vellum binding propped upon a pillow on his chest. The Intricacies of War and Tactics was a beast of a book, one that Cassen was not himself familiar with, but nobles loved to memorize and quote excerpts from it when arguing about battle tactics and formations with other highborn who had also never seen a battlefield.

Cassen gave a moment’s pause to attempt to unravel the mystery of how Stephon knew it was he who had entered the room, but decided the boy likely had no idea, and that with so much time at his disposal, he was able to come up with plenty of cryptic greetings for his few guests and interrogators. Stephon had always had a flair for the dramatic, and Cassen certainly could not fault him for that.

“They said you would free me,” said Stephon, his head still completely hidden by the massive book.

“I am sure they said a good many things, most of which, if having struck upon truth, only did so by coincidence. They are toying with you in the hopes that you will tell them everything you know.”

“I have already told them everything. Why would they continue to lie?” asked Stephon.

“Perhaps because they have no way of knowing that you have indeed told them everything.”

“But I have.”

Cassen was beginning to worry that Stephon’s mind might be too far gone for what he had planned, but there was no harm in continuing his efforts. He had come this far.

“My prince, I have not come to free you, not yet at least. I have come to offer you the greatest gift I can think to give.”

Stephon turned the page in his book as if not listening.

“And I do not expect you to believe my offer to be true,” Cassen continued. “I will not need from you any promises or trust. I would be a fool to expect them at this point. I only ask that when I bring you proof that my gift is genuine, that you accept it, and remember that it was I who acquired it for you.”

Stephon shoved the two sides of the book together, closing it with a solid thud, and hefted it to the side. He sat up in his bed, looking directly at Cassen. He did not look much different than Cassen remembered. He bore no marks or bruises from interrogation, though Cassen had not truly expected to see any. Stephon was the same cleanly shaven, handsome, and arrogant urchin he had always been, and he looked rather annoyed to have been kept down here for so long.

“And what could a lowborn duchess acquire that a prince and heir to the throne could not?”

A key to your cell for one. Cassen had not expected Stephon to have become even more brazen with his time spent in the dungeons, but it was often said that confinement, much like alcohol, allows one’s true self to emerge. It was somewhat discomforting to realize Stephon had actually been tempering himself until now.

“There are two men and a fair amount of castle stone that lay between you and the throne, are there not?”

“The king and his son have no claim to the throne. I am the true heir. And I will not be in here forever. I will take what is mine.”

What favor can you curry from springing a man from a trap he does not truly believe himself to be within? “Nonetheless, I assume you would be grateful to whomever was able to expedite the process of seeing you from prison and into your rightful throne?”

“That I would. I would reward such a person with a position of high esteem—greater, of course, than that of duke or duchess.”

“That is good—”

“But let me be very clear,” interrupted Stephon. “As of right now, it is not the king’s throne I wish to have. It is his head.”

Cassen nearly laughed. He’d heard that Stephon had gone quickly from apologetic to acrimonious as his stay continued, but to hear it firsthand was rather amusing. “Do you speak so boldly with those who question you?”

“Are you not one who is questioning me? I see no difference between you and any of the other fool members of The Guard, and I speak no differently. I have told you already of my plans to destroy the false king and his accomplices, and I tell you again that my plans have not changed. He is a disease upon this great Adeltian Kingdom, and he must be dealt with as such. His taint must be eradicated so that pure Adeltian blood can once again rule. Only then will this kingdom be returned to glory.”

Cassen saw no need to point out that Stephon himself was not of pure Adeltian blood, nor that when he was first dragged into this cell, kicking and screaming, he claimed to have only colluded with the Adeltians to such a degree as to thwart them.

“Your Grace, it sounds as if you have given this much thought. I will serve to aid you in every way I can. I realize pleading patience is of no comfort to you. All I can do is beg that you forgive me for the lethargy with which it must seem I perform these tasks. As you know, there are many among even the Adeltians who cower to the false king, and they too seek to hinder me.”

“You have wasted enough breath. Go and do as you have promised, and I will see you justly rewarded.” With that Stephon propped the heavy book back upon his chest, opened it to a seemingly random page, and looked as if he was again reading.

Cassen eyed the text with amusement. And to think I did not even get a quote. “As you command, Your Grace.” Cassen curtseyed and exited, shutting and locking the door behind him.