Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter Six

Count Roost awoke from yet another variation of the same dreadful dream. He performed his reassuring hand motion then: grabbing one thumb in the other fist, rotating around until he could grab the other thumb with the opposing fist. He continued for several seconds until the chilling effects of the nightmare subsided.


Glancing from the end of his bed to the window facing the east, the count glimpsed that the sun had already risen and was almost clear of the seas on the horizon. Someone had failed to wake him on time. He felt a rage then at the incompetence and drew on that to bellow out “What does a governor need to do to get some adequate help on this island?”


Something metallic, a goblet most likely, dropped to the floor a few flights down and Roost heard the pattering of awkward feet make their way up the stairwell. He imagined them passing first the room with the wilting plant and then his workroom and now—


There was no knock as the youth entered, huffing excitedly. Count Roost did not recognize this boy. “I’ve scared off another one, have I?” The boy didn’t even nod out a confirmation which was verification enough for the count. “What happened to, er, Pestra?”


“Petran, sire…” Count Roost raised an eyebrow and the youth took the hint. “Yes, yes, Pestra, sir. Pestra, ah, he couldn’t fittingly arrive today and, uh, he asked, or maybe said that I could come up and, uh, ta-take care of things here. Sir. Count. Sir.”


Roost wanted to smile at the boy’s stammering but could not offer himself up as being able to be pleased. “And your name, boy?” he asked instead.


The boy, who had to be in his earlier teens, Roost guessed, said, “Uh, Botchael, sir. Or Botch, if you like, or wish. Or like. Sir.”


“And Batch Boy, why was I not awakened just before dawn, as instructed?” Roost knew full well that he had not personally instructed the boy to perform the task but thought that if the other had been too cowardly to follow through on his own work, then he should have been as equally competent in bringing the replacement up to speed on how things worked around Castle Tigra Lei.


He immediately thought that the incompetence should have been expected since Petran had been too fearful to return; what reason did this new boy have to come back tomorrow anyway? Or the next day? Or the day after that?


Roost knew the answer, obviously. It was why the islanders feared him. It was also why he had no need of the cells below ground.


The count, as usual, would Curse any dissenter.


A lock of Petran’s hair was already in storage. As it was refreshed less than a week ago – a Curse required that any hair used in a casting be nine days fresh from the victim – the boy would feel the repercussions by noon.


“Uh, sir, Petr... Uh, Pestra told me that, uh, the old man needed, uh, first, uh…”


Roost nodded and waved any further explanation away. Of course he had been tied up taking care of the old man. The dying man. The man that should, by all accounts and action, already be dead.


Maybe if he was already dead, I could’ve moved on by now. But no.


The count churned internally a little. He scooted to the side of his bed, dipped his feet into his thin yet comfortable slippers, and stood up, allowing a cacophony of popping joints to rattle throughout the room. Botch looked as if he had no idea what to do next.


“Boy, Batch, my breakfast. And morning Jule-cor stiff. Fetch them.”


Botch nodded and fled from the room. The count then moved to the cracked mirror on the wall. It reflected a lazy angle of the bedroom window and rebounded little sunlight into the room. He looked at himself, letting the crack pass diagonally across his face: it felt appropriate.


Staring back at himself was a man of bedraggled black hair, trimmed neatly around the ears and at the base of the skull. It was ordinary to maintain a longer cut in this region but Roost felt himself as anything but ordinary. His eyes still looked tired – he hadn’t slept soundly – but still retained their spark-crazy malice that was hardly ever conveyed with a baby blue hue. He rubbed his stubbly face, knowing he would shave himself in a bit as he did not trust anyone else to do it for him: not with his history anyway. Roost stood up straight, noting his trimmed physique but feeling bulkier for reasons privately known. He popped the joints in his fingers then, except for his thumbs; there was no point as they never sounded off.


Scents wafted up the tower’s stairwell.  It was some type of egg being fried up for the count. Botch already has the advantage of learning from Petran’s mistakes. Obviously, the failed youth had shared as much as he could. Roost then imagined Botch frantically moving about belowground when he realized the sun had already risen and he hadn’t awakened the lord of the castle due to the boy having to clean up after the invalid: it made him smile.


Roost then moved through the doorway and started down the steps to stop off in his workroom. Puze, like always, was in his glass-mesh cage. So pathetic, thought the count with a stitched sneer. As the cage was not fastened to its respective workbench, Count Roost hoisted it up into the air with ease – the glass threads were hollow – and shook the contraption around. The tiny creature inside made barely a sound. “Wake up, little Puze!” Roost shouted, feeling his own breath pass through the cage and slightly warm his hands.


“Amm a-wak-ay. S-s-sire.”


The count smiled, thin-lipped. “And you are aware of the day, yes? Of what you are to do?”


The creature nodded, the motion barely perceptible due to his size.


“Do not be wary, feeble Puze. It is just another step towards our goal.”


“Yooo-ar goalie, Co—”


Roost shook the cage violently again, cutting off the creature’s remark. “It is not nice to contradict our masters, Pew-Puze.”


“Ind thee auld mann?”


The count felt his face flush with anger at the creature mentioning the decrepit elder and immediately wished to cast a Curse on the denigrating Puze but felt a pang of regret: no additional Curse was possible.


Instead, he hurled the mesh cage out of the small, glassless window and stood motionless, listening for the potential crash. If he had hurled it with enough force, then there would be no crash of glass but a deft plunk of wave as the cage sank into the nearby shores. Roost switched from looking out the glorified hole in the wall to staring at another glass-mesh cage, this one being empty at the moment.


If Puze met his death soon enough by drowning or being crushed by his own shattering cage, then the little bothersome thing would rematerialize in the oldest glass-mesh cage, Roost knew. It was simply a small aspect of his overbearing Curse.


The count heard the crash, subtle as it was.


Regardless of how Puze died, be it naturally or at the maniacal hands of the count, he would constantly regenerate in a glass-mesh cage. As long as one existed. Roost felt a twinge of regret for having hoisted and lost yet another rare cage, especially with only three left in existence. He could not help but feel self-congratulatory though for having devised such an ingenious Curse; as it was, there were no other known forms of Magik that could even attempt to instantly transport a living being from one place to another without something incredible to transpire the feat, like with the dispositional Ring of Ten Minus Two. He knew that more Curses were in his arsenal as he had been developing his craft for quite some time, ever since leaving his hometown on his own volition several years ago.


Despite the acceptance of his own Curse, family members, the rest of his supposed friends and the menial town folk that had embraced the refugee family eventually made life too much of a veritable hell. With anger, he recalled faintly his last night amongst that disparaging town, presently pumping his fists around his thumbs in the process. He could still hear the laughter; the cries.


He heard gentle steps coming up the stairwell then, letting the bitter thoughts fade as new ones of breakfast entered. Roost said nothing and waited to see if Botch would notice that the count had moved to his workroom.


Without skipping a beat, Botch wheeled into the room Roost currently occupied with a solid tray of breakfast and drink held firmly with both hands. He did not even glance at his surroundings but instead set the tray in the only free spot, that which Puze and his cage had recently occupied, and pulled up a worn, wobbly stool. Folding an unused parchment to even the stool’s wobble, Botch gestured for the count to sit and start consuming. Count Roost wanted to express praise for Botch’s competence but knew he could not: this server had to fear, above else, the man he served, however temporary that was.


As the count ate his fried eggs and peppered meat strips – he assumed it was from a local farm animal but couldn’t place the exact creature – Roost realized that Puze had not returned. Regardless, the Cursed servant had a mission and knew that if he didn’t return with good, truthful news, repeated death-by-starvation was to be doled out. As Puze feared the count, he had no doubt the creature would perform as ordered.


Botch then passed the workroom again with a medium-sized basin filled with a liquid that steamed, leaving quickly-faded phantoms in his wake. Roost let surprise enter his mind at the boy’s greater level of competence. He had obviously caught on quicker than most, more than likely drawing on the combined knowledge of failed and currently-Cursed servants from the past.


Per circumstance, Roost was uneasy with suspicion. No one had been so adept with serving the count. Especially those from Boost. The count felt like striking the boy in that moment, as if to beat a truth from him.


He finished his meal, leaving the mess, and made his way up the stairwell with caution; if ever an attack were to come, this would be a prime moment. Botch could easily hurl that steaming liquid upon the count and begin whatever form of effectual punishment he felt was necessary.


But there was no attack. Botch was striking the count’s straight razor against the thick leather strap, both items that always rested in a shallow drawer beneath the fractured mirror. Atop the drawer rested the basin, filled as it was with steaming liquid, most likely water. Roost was again suspicious and attempted to sniff in the direction of the liquid. He knew there were substances from places all about Valent – few within Decennia proper – that looked like water but carried violently destructive properties.


The liquid, as best as Count Roost could discern, was odorless. Botch had not made notice of the governor’s entrance into his own bedchamber until he was done sharpening the razor. Instead of wielding it, ungainly or otherwise, the boy set it upon the bed, folding the strap twice over and laying it next to the blade. He walked shallowly between Roost and the basin, continuing towards the door.


After he was past the doorframe but before he could start down the stairwell, Count Roost quickly moved and upturned the basin, dumping the hot liquid all about the wall, the drawers, even splattering the mirror and dousing a weak flame that had apparently been lit to help keep the razor sterile – if the count was to make a positive assumption. The liquid also covered the floor, making Roost jump back to avoid contact.


Botch immediately ran into the room, stepping in the liquid and Roost braced himself.


The youth did not jump in pain or even react. “Sir,” he started. “Are you alright? Are you feeling o-okay? What happened? Sir?”


The count, before answering, shook his head dramatically. “Uh, Batch, yes, sorry. I felt a bit dizzy and must’ve taken a small spill.” He cast his head convincingly down to gaze into the reflectionless liquid; wood hardly ever let water possess the qualities of mirrors. “Ah, the basin, my face and its stubble.”


Botch looked a little fearful, as if he had made a crucial mistake. Count Roost felt that it wasn’t because of a failed assassination attempt. By the glint in his eyes, it looked like Botch was disappointed in his own service for the governor. “But I shall fetch that for myself, boy.” He let the faintest hint of a smile creep into the corners of his mouth then. “And you shall go to the beach. I require crabs with claws in tact. For a significant Curse.” Botch flinched then, as was Roost’s intent. The count knew the boy had nothing to fear though: this was for Petran’s insolence.


Though if the newest boy turned out to be as helpful as Roost imagined, he might skip Cursing Petran and personally thank him. If things turned out as planned.


He followed Botch down the stairwell, the boy heading straight for the rearward exit while the count went straight for the cooking area to heat another basin of water. His eyes drifted over the door to the makeshift infirmary. Count Roost imagined the decaying man down there, all alone, reading scripts by torchlight.


His spine stiffened at the thought as he knew he could very easily be imagining his own future.


Putting the thought out of mind, he moved to fill another basin, intending to finally be clean shaven.