Parasite Soul Read Online Free PDF Page B

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sewage, and even the main thoroughfare was liberally spotted with garbage and
manure. The manmade channel which cut through the heart of the city was
dry save for sludgy pools of oily water, filled instead with debris and
refuse. Simon could barely believe people chose to live here, and in such
numbers. City folk were known to take on airs as though their poor rural
kin were somehow of lower social standing than themselves; be that as it may ,
Simon thought, at least we don’t live unashamedly amidst such squalor .
    Few citizens were out and about when Simon was marched to the
palace; the city slumbered. This baffled Simon slightly; he, his father,
and his neighbors were up at the crack of dawn. Daylight was not to be
wasted in the rural areas of Cannevish. Here, the locals lazed about
apathetically, only tradespeople moving with purpose.
    Had Simon not been so apprehensive, he might have studied the locals
in detail. As it was, only a handful intruded themselves upon his
attention: an enormously obese merchant, sporting a vast, curling
mustache, loudly berating his subordinates with no care for whom might overhear;
a small group of coiffed and manicured women – so different from country girls!
- gathered at an outdoor café to sip tea and chatter amongst themselves; and a
scholar, recognizable by his pointed mauve cap, who dozed in a doorway beside
an empty platter and a sign Simon couldn’t read but which was probably a plea
for charity. His own escort didn’t arouse curiosity or speculation.
News of the dragon’s death apparently hadn’t hit the capital yet.
    Simon wondered if he’d be asked to pose with the great beast’s head,
which would surely be brought down from the mountaintop cave; he envisioned
cheering crowds and lovely young maidens clamoring for his attention.
He’d heard tales of the great square of Vingate, which was surely more colorful
and exciting than the discouragingly unpleasant streets to which he’d been thus
far exposed; perhaps the ceremony would take place there.
    Lost in this fantasy, Simon paid little heed to the formalities
which took place at the palace guardhouse, or the expansive courtyard beyond the
portcullis, or even of the palace itself with its lofty towers, conical spires,
and battered old pennants, many of which needed to be replaced. He did
glance curiously at the stables, comparing the seemingly endless rows of stalls
housing magnificent chargers with the tumbledown shed he and his father used to
shelter Adelaide the cow and their single old plow horse, and was amazed that
all this might soon be his.
    Two orderly columns of poles lined the route from the gatehouse to
the palace doors. At first, Simon assumed that they were topped with some
manner of sculpted ornamentation. As he drew closer, he realized with a
shock that what he’d taken to be sculptures were really human skulls mounted on
spears, perhaps two dozen of them in total. Clumps of hair and traces of
parchment skin still clung to some of them, fluttering in the light
breeze. As he passed between these grisly trophies, he noticed a placard
set at the base of each, inscribed with what he imagined to be the name of the
unfortunate individual who no longer inhabited his or her sun-bleached
cranium. Simon gulped down a queasy sense of unease. The dead
displayed here were a stark reminder of what befell those who offended King
Minus.
    Escorted into the throne room by guards of a notably superior
quality to the likes of Rowland and Brannock, Simon fought his nerves and kept
his eyes pointed at the gold-trimmed crimson carpet. He knew better than
to look on the King directly without permission, particular with that path of
skulls keeping his manners in check. Minus was temperamental; his
daughter notoriously so. He allowed himself to be led placidly, aware of
flanking rows of soldiers and clusters of frilly noble folk, but keeping his
eyes averted from any person of importance. He’d expected the massive
chamber