The Wake
By Mary Kirby
“We were ten years old. Lucanis had just read some book about wyverns, and suddenly that’s all he’d talk about. Wyverns, all the time, wyverns.” Illario told the story with fond amusement and an impressive amount of confidence considering that he was slung over Viago’s shoulder and couldn’t find the ground with both feet.
Viago sighed and shifted Illario’s weight on his shoulder as they reached the foot of the stairs to the casino guest rooms.
The casino belonged to House Cantori. Teia had sent the staff home. The windows and mirrors were all temporarily covered with heavy black velveteen to prevent any wandering souls from getting lost on their way. The tables for cards and dice games had been cleared and set instead with lavish floral arrangements of crystal grace for parting and embrium to ease a sorrowful heart. Their perfume clung to skin and clothing, but still wasn’t sweet enough to cover the stench of liquor wafting off Illario Dellamorte. Maker, Teia owed him for this.
“There I was, so covered in prickle-burrs I stuck to everything I touched. Lucanis was nothing but mud from the ears down. Catarina just stared speechless.” Illario laughed. His knees buckled, or he just stopped trying to walk entirely, and he collapsed onto the stairs, taking Viago with him.
Viago cursed under his breath and tried to pry the larger man off the stairs, the smooth dark samite of Illario’s jacket slipping out of his grasp. Viago wished he’d gone with Plan A: drugging Illario to sleep in the lounge and throwing a sheet over him. But Teia’s deep, dark eyes had pleaded with him to take care of the reeking drunkard, and… Viago sighed and cursed again. For a moment, he had a clear, perfect vision of leaving Illario snoring in the middle of the staircase. Except Teia would kill him. Maybe even personally.
“He was my cousin, but we were more like brothers, really. Always getting himself into every sort of trouble. And I was always right behind him, you know? Always.” Illario’s voice suddenly grew thick with emotion. “Now there’s nobody for me to follow.”
Viago let out a sigh, then crouched down and levered Illario off the steps with a slightly pained grunt.
“It should have been me.” Illario sounded bitter now. The rant was approaching the end. He’d repeated this speech like an actor rehearsing for a particularly infuriating play for hours downstairs as his composure crumbled and he looked more and more like he’d fought a herd of druffalo and lost.
Viago lurched up the last of the stairs and fumbled with the door to the closest guestroom. For one hellish moment, he feared he’d have to pick the lock, but it opened. He dragged Illario to the bed and dumped him like a corpse.
“Did I tell you about the time Lucanis took me wyvern-hunting?” Illario asked as Viago wet a handkerchief with a few drops from one of his vials. Before he could start into yet another rendition, Viago covered Illario’s nose and mouth with the cloth, knocking him out.
“Another time.” Viago replied. And he left the room.
(Illustrated by Matt Rhodes)