The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [56]
He wheeled. “You’re serious? Why would I touch them? They’re as close to grandchildren as I’m ever going to get.”
The chatelaine inhaled sharply and wished she had never come here. “You are mean,” she said. “A horrible man.”
“I know how foolish you are, daughter. You should try to muffle your sounds somehow. It’s disturbing for a father to hear the things his baby is capable of, now she’s all grown up.”
“How can you possibly hear anything up here?”
“I fear everyone in the city can hear you at times.” But his tone was becoming softer; he had seen the hurt on his daughter’s face. “Do you forget, Terra, that Nowy Solum has enemies? That our family has enemies?”
“Who? We have no enemies.”
“You are wrong, Terra. You must be careful. You must respect the palace.”
“Like you did? Such drama.” Then, suddenly, the chatelaine felt her pain transform into anger: she had come to consult her father, to check on him, not to put up with these cutting comments and lectures. “And you have the balls to talk about family? You, of all people? You ruin families. I’m so sick of this. I’m granting the palatinate power today to return to all of Jesthe. Does that make you happy? Is that respect for the palace? You can expect a visit, I’m sure. And, for your information, I would never bring a child into this shitty world.”
He blinked, surprised at last. “There are times, my dear,” he said, “when I believe you also have choler, or maybe even melancholy, as your dominant humour. You were never tested, you know.”
“You say that every time we get together. You’ve seen the colour of my blood.”
The castellan smiled sadly. “Please don’t get too excited, Terra.”
“Why do you always insult me?” She clenched her fists. “Look, I’ve met someone. I might be in love.”
Over his shoulder, appraisingly, as if maybe expecting her to run at him, attack him, ruin his so-called work, the castellan peered once more.
She was disgusted. “This is all the fucking family I have right now. Me and you. Small wonder I love my pets so much.”
The castellan returned his attentions to the cobali bound on the table before him. He picked at the creature with an implement of some sort, then started to grind the metal rods deeper and deeper into the small bones until the cobali shrieked, then sobbed, a sound remarkably like the cries of a young girl.
Several other rods protruded from the creature’s body, some with joints of delicate gears and chains. Was the castellan trying to extend the creature’s thin limbs? At least the cobali died now, going limp on the table, though its associates, next in line, whimpered louder.
“You should have had a son,” the chatelaine said, not willing to let the fight end. “Maybe a son would have no qualms about cutting these things into little pieces, to see if they’re content or not. What are you trying to do? What is this travesty? Sometimes I fucking hate men.” She took a deep breath, wiped at her eyes, trying to look out over the misty city again, through the window, but this room was too high: nothing but clouds up here. “And what have you done with Tuerdian anyhow? Where is your servant?”
“Sleeping.”
“I should go look.” But she did not. “Please put clothes on. Why do you have to work naked?”
“Why do you?”
She tried to ignore this juvenile comeback; her father was not a healthy man. “I’ll send someone up to light the fire. In the meantime, dad, try not to kill too many of my subjects.”
Pain throbbed behind Nahid’s forehead, a pain so powerful all he could do was stop walking and close his eyes. Instead of dulling sensations, the bud served to amplify them. His sinuses were clogged with dried melancholy.
He stood at the intersection of Horsepool Street and Grindstone Lane, not far from the ostracon. There were other kholics in the streets here, cleaning, milling. They eyed him, aware of who he was, of course, aware of his sister’s situation, aware of his hemo girlfriend. He was no longer one of them. What he needed most was to crash somewhere. He feared the dreams he might have. He wanted to sober