The Gimlet Eye

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The Archon was dying. In his palace, beside the Square of the People and in the shadow of the great mainmast and sails that towered over Quentaris, the old man lay breathing his last.

The room was silent, save for the deep, sighing, gasping breaths of the man who had spent so much of his life serving Quentaris. His nephew Florian Eftangeny sat by his side, his plump face devoid of emotion. It wasn’t Florian’s way to show anything as weak as sadness. In fact, the only emotions he’d ever been known to show were anger, envy, bitterness, arrogance and occasionally fear. None of the good emotions, like love, or empathy, or gentleness.

‘You may touch him, my lord,’ the court physician said in a whisper.

Florian grunted. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘He’s in pain, my lord. He might like you to hold his hand.’

Florian turned his head slightly. ‘In pain, you say?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Then ease it!’ Spittle flew as Florian shouted at the physician. ‘In the name of all that’s magical, man, give him something to relieve him of it!’

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