Shadowmage (Raxillene's Rogues Book 4)

by Max Keith

  They’d been facing each other across her map table, and he’d blurted it right out; what was it that made her trust him? She’d sat back in her chair and blinked her lovely eyes, genuinely surprised at the question. “Do you really not know? Shit, I assumed you’d found out for yourself.”

  He’d frowned. “Found out what?” But she’d been shaking her head, her bell-like laugh tinkling out of her thoat.

  “I bribed the Mage Council to send you down to Stacefield, fool.” She cocked her head atop her gorgeous neck and winked. “You were my choice, so you became their choice. And then Stacefield’s choice.”

  He’d been troubled by the implications. “But that means…” He’d shaken his head. “How did you even know who I was?”

  She’d gone quiet then, staring at him. “A great many people knew who you were.”

  That was as far as it had gone, then; little Lynna had brought up lunch, and the conversation had not resumed. Poildrin wondered now, as he shuffled up toward the old mine, whether it might not resume now, with a different woman. He frowned again, and then shook his head. Why dwell on it? He’d find out soon enough, probably.

  “Just over that rise,” Florin pointed. He did not sound as tired as he should, given the hellish climb and his sagging belly, but then he made this trip routinely. “The archers aren’t shooting because I’m here.”

  “Archers?” Poildrin looked around at the crags.

  “I see two,” Alorin breezed. “One beneath that boulder off to the left, and the other far up on the cliff ahead.” She frowned. “I wondered if it really was an archer. A shot from there would be nearly four hundred paces.”

  “Three hundred eighty, he reckons. That’s Parwit, my other nephew. He won’t have heard about his brother’s wounding last night, but he hates him anyway. Won’t matter.” Upper Thead looked utterly deserted, a place of fallen thatch and a scraggly, overgrown common. On cue, a crow spluttered its call from within one of the old granaries. As promised, a huge pile of tailings dominated the village. “As you can see,” Florin said dryly, “the lower is the more prosperous of the Theads.”

  “Good gods.” All that was lacking was the mournful sound of a dire wind, playing among old stones. That, and a wolf howl. Aimee blinked. “People live here?”

  “A few. We come up to work the mines when the fortress sends an order, but that doesn’t really happen now. The Imperials don’t trust us.” Florin sounded as though that was just fine with him. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Jerren? Where are you?” He moved toward the common, wagging his head from side to side. Aimee found a large rock and had Firkis take a seat while she checked his bandage. Alorin turned a slow, complete circle, taking in peaks to the north and a dazzling valley view to the west, then stopped facing Poildrin.

  “She’s not merely a minor rebel,” she observed. “But then, you realize that as well.”

  “A minor rebel does not require quite this level of protection, I would think.” He frowned. “She’s far more than Florin thinks, I can’t help but believe.”

  Alorin lowered her voice. “You ever wonder,” she began, holding his gaze, “whether the Empire has a person like Princess Raxillene? Perhaps a cunning, ambitious woman, tucked away into a mountain cave somewhere, pulling the strings of various spies and catspaws?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t need to wonder. Every nation has people like that.” He gestured toward the peaks. “I’m just not sure who this one’s working for.”

  “Like the Princess,” Alorin shrugged, “perhaps she’s working for herself.” He bit his lip and thought about that, looking doubtfully around at the blighted waste of a place. Raxillene’s Tower looked ramshackle, even deserted, but on the inside the Tower was clean and functional. This place was an absolute sty. “Still, in this place?”

  “There are mines around,” he speculated. “Maybe mines with maps and paper and ink.”

  “And swords and bows, too.” Alorin nodded. “We should keep our eyes open.” Florin’s tread was heavy as he came back over the common, and Poildrin found himself unable to say anything in reply, for he brought Jerren with him.

  He realized at once that she’d known exactly who he was at Lurik’s Rest, for she was staring thoughtfully at him as she approached. Still she was lovely, he realized, his penis nudging him insistently. Even with the small nose and the weak chin, there was that same luminosity to her that had always captivated him back at the College. And, of course, the eyes hit him as hard as ever. She assumed a faint quirk of a smile as she drew close. She wore a simple blue dress over a figure that looked just as it had last time she’d been riding him, jamming him into her, shrieking on the narrow cot…

  He shook his head to clear it. Shit. He realized he’d need to focus on keeping himself soft.

  Florin halted several paces away at a gesture from Jerren, who came a few steps closer. She looked gravely and curiously at each of them, her eyes widening slightly when she saw the blood matting Firkis’ beard. Her voice was the same low, throaty, spellbinding murmur. “Nice to see you, Lyria of – of Wynsse,” she said with a slightly mocking smile. “Only you’ve lost your dancer, it seems. I’m told you’re not selling many woolens in these parts, either.”

  Alorin arched an eyebrow. “The market, it seems, is saturated.”

  The smile quirked wider. “Florin tells me you had a rough night. Can I offer you some tea?” She didn’t bother waiting for a reply, trailing her glance teasingly across Poildrin as she turned. “Bring your friends, Lyria. You’ve nothing to fear from me, I expect.” She strode off up the slight hill toward the common, Poildrin entranced by the way her body moved beneath the dress. He felt Alorin dig a sharp elbow into his ribs.

  “What the fuck?” she hissed. “Focus. Is something wrong?”

  Aimee moved closer. “Need some smelling salts?” she mocked quietly. She leaned across to nod knowingly at the valkyrie. “He’s interested in the girl.”

  “Indeed.” Alorin sneered in disgust. “If it’s a woman you need, hire one somewhere. Up here, keep it together.” She stalked off, leaving Aimee to shake her head.

  “She hates unprofessionalism,” she reminded the mage, quite unnecessarily.

  “It’s fine.” Poildrin took a breath. “I – I knew her once.”

  Aimee’s fine eyebrows knit. “Alorin?”

  “No. Jerren.”

  “Oh.” Then, the healer’s eyes went very wide. “Oh! You ‘knew’ her?” She looked back and forth between the man in the grey cloak and the woman in the blue dress, and frowned. “Seems unlikely.” She spun to clap a hand on the smith’s shoulder. “Come, Firkis. We’ll leave our mage here to catch up after he collects himself.” She chuckled and glanced down. “You’re in real trouble if you can’t control your erection any better than that, Poildrin. I’m a healer; I don’t miss these things.”

  “Fuck off.” Angry strides propelled him after Alorin… or, to be honest, after Jerren. He heard poor Firkis, confused, behind him.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, love.” Aimee now had something to feel superior about, which always pleased her. “Just concentrate on not getting blood all over me, please.”

  The cliff at the far end of what had once been Upper Thead was dotted with holes and pails and the strewn trash of several years’ worth of abandoned mining works. It smelled like any abandoned hole would smell after being rained and snowed on for years. One of the holes in the mountain, higher than the rest, had a thin curl of smoke wisping out of it. Alorin was marching calmly toward where Jerren waited by a large cave-mouth, smiling slightly. Florin had gone inside, presumably, or was up on some secret perch chin-wagging with his nephew. Poildrin sensed the innkeeper would play no further part in this.

  She was watching him; he knew it without even having to glance her way, and knowing those eyes were on him gave him an undeniable thrill. “This way, friends,” Jerren said, gesturing toward the cave. “It looks like a dirty hole, but it’s better ins
ide.” She stepped back to let Alorin pass through the narrow entrance, not without a hand on her hilt; something made Poildrin hang back while Aimee, with a knowing glance at him, led Firkis through.

  And then it was just the two of them, facing each other across the dark opening. With part of his attention the mage was listening for skittering rocks, for clashes from within, for horns in the hills; for what reason, he never really knew. But the future’s clues often came through the ears of those who listened.

  Most of his attention, though, was on Jerren. They took each other in quietly, even comfortably, her with her lopsided smirk. At length, he spoke. “So, Jerren. Been back to Red Castle lately?”

  “Never in my life,” she admitted smoothly, that low voice vibrating through his soul. She even smelled the same, the faint whiff of peppers.

  He nodded. “Is your name even Jerren?” He wasn’t sure why, but the answer mattered very much to him. She stared a moment longer, then her smile grew until it was genuine, a warmth that wrinkled the skin alongside her eyes.

  “I knew that was you, by the falls at Lurik’s Rest,” she confessed softly. “It wasn’t the time to greet you properly.”

  “Properly?” He arched an eyebrow. “An arrow from three hundred eighty paces, is that a proper greeting now?”

  She shook her head, still grinning. “We’ve got much to talk about, Poildrin Franx.” She stepped across the yawning mouth of the old mine, Aimee’s high voice echoing from within, and stepped straight up to him with her chin high and her lips ready. He kissed her powerlessly, as if he had no choice in the matter, and he marveled as he felt his arms reach out for her small body, still supple and still inviting as she fell against him.

  They let it continue too long; Poildrin was well aware he was silhouetted against the daylight, and that when Alorin paused to turn around she’d see the mage, arrested in mid-snog when his mind should have been on ways to betray a fortress. The kiss was still wet as they parted, Jerren with the mischievous smirk back in place.

  “You need to brush your teeth,” she informed him as she led him quite casually down into the cool darkness that waited.

  * * *

  She’d heard of Raxillene, as it turned out, and she was not surprised to find that they worked for her. “When kings and emperors keep fucking everything up,” she observed philosophically, “it usually falls to a sharp, determined woman somewhere to make the world go straight.”

  They sat at a solid little table in a wide, airy expanse cut out of the rock, still with tool marks scoring the walls in all directions. The whole place gave Poildrin the impression it had been gnawed out by some gigantic rodent. Jerren had a snug little nook carved out of one corner, complete with a featherbed and a large brazier. Firkis had frowned, his practical mind puzzled when he walked in. “How’d all this get up here?” he asked. “Mules?”

  Jerren nodded. “Many, many mules. But a woman needs a proper bed, see.” A wide hearth faced the table with a pot lying in the coals, simmering endlessly with the smell of venison and onions. “I’ve got many friends who see to my needs,” she added humbly.

  Now she leaned back in a simple wooden chair with the companions arrayed on the other side of the table. It seemed strangely like an interview for a job. “Women like myself and your Raxillene, we’re not rebels really, nor disobedient. We just get tired of watching the world go pear-shaped.”

  “Have you met the Princess?” Poildrin asked, suspecting he already knew the answer.

  “Do I need to?” Jerren thought a moment, and then plucked a pickle out of a bowl in the center of the table. “If I’ve heard of her, no doubt she’s heard of me. Of course, she might not know my name,” she pointed out, as if it were obvious. “I suspect most of the reason I know hers is because she’s the daughter of your king, the sister of your regent. The older sister, if I’m not mistaken.” Which was, after all, the whole point: if her brother hadn’t been born, or if he died without issue, she stood to inherit over their younger sister. “She seems a bit more ambitious than I do, but then she’s got more to gain.”

  “And you?” Alorin was curious, but of course she’d have had to ask anyway. “What do you gain?”

  Jerren looked at Poildrin, her avocado eyes mocking him, until he nodded and gave the answer. “She gets knowledge.”

  “I’ve always been a curious sort,” she confessed. “I worked for the Emperor for many years, but I’ll admit his ways are not mine. He wants the war to go on and on, since it stimulates the Empire’s trade and provides a bit of liveliness at his meetings. I’m not sure I share that view.” She munched thoughtfully on her pickle, her mouth the same O it had always been back when she’d knelt before him… He looked away, and she noticed with a quick grin. “I don’t think the Emperor likes me anymore.”

  “Florin, down the hill, he says the Emperor’s price for you is one-twenty in silver.” Alorin mentioned it as a matter of interest, but Jerren’s reaction was surprising.

  “Florin is a fool.” She wiped salty juice from her weak chin. “One-twenty is the price the local viceroy has set from the Red Castle. The Emperor merely wants me to die.” She shrugged. “He’ll get his wish sooner or later, but I’m sure he’ll die first.”

  The four companions looked at each other. “Are you sure you’re not working for our regent?” Aimee asked, her brow wrinkling.

  “Quite sure.” Jerren looked swiftly over at Poildrin. “It’s been eleven years since I was in the Realm.”

  “Has it.” Alorin was completely unconvinced, but then she was unconvinced about most things.

  “I’m self-employed,” Jerren went on airily. “I do my work, I provide jobs in this sadly economically-depressed area, and I mind my own business. Well, mostly.” She scanned their faces. “It’s nothing that should surprise the likes of you, I would hope. You strike me as the sort of folk who mind other peoples’ businesses. Else, what explains your presence here? With false woolens and a bogus dancer? At the end of a road to nowhere?” She smiled comfortably. “I think we’ve got more in common than you realize.”

  A pause. “Are you our enemy?” Alorin asked not out of fear or bravado; she was merely curious.

  “Of course not.” Jerren leaned back. “You’re more than welcome here. I like having visitors from the Realm. I’ll feed you, give you a snug little cave to lodge in tonight, and come tomorrow we’ll head back down toward the fortress. I’ve got business in that direction, anyway,” she ended vaguely. “Meanwhile, relax. We can chat about what’s going on in the world, perhaps exchange some information.” She drank from a horn cup, her eyes dwelling thoughtfully on Poildrin. “Perhaps we can catch up with old friends.”

  Aimee snorted. When Jerren glanced swiftly at her, she smiled sweetly. “Where’s the latrine, Jerren? I need a piss.”

  With a grand gesture, the woman rose and led them toward the door. “But of course; I’m being a shitty host. As I say, we don’t get many visitors. Follow me; I’ll show you where you may stow your things.

  The chamber they found themselves bedding down in that night was large and airy, with a little grate carved into the corner. “It’s a small fireplace, but the chimney draws well,” she explained. “It gets cool in here by night.” Dinner had been generous portions of the stew, fat and chunky with various unidentifiable meats, but then as Lynna said back at the Tower, if you cook something long enough and add enough pepper, it doesn’t really matter what kind of animal it was.

  “Thank you,” Alorin replied courteously. Poildrin had been silent since dinner, but then the others hadn’t seen Jerren pluck at his sleeve after the meal and draw him into a corner. Come visit me later, if you’ve a mind to, she’d whispered, and now as they all rolled out their musty blankets and dug in their packs for toothbrushes, the mage sat on the stone floor nursing a prick gone painfully hard. If he’d a mind? Hells. The moment the lantern went out, he’d be straight out the door and down the passage, headed for the orange glow of the brazier. He started.
/>   “What?” Alorin was looking at him strangely.

  “Aimee says you used to know this woman. Anything useful?” she pressed, digging at her teeth with a little ivory pick.

  Poildrin rolled his eyes. “Nothing. Nothing at all. We met briefly at the Mage College.”

  “Ah.” The valkyrie finished with her teeth and, quite unselfconsciously, began to shed her clothes. “I see. I wonder that you’re even bothering to roll out your blanket, then.” Aimee laughed loudly, and even Firkis gave a low chuckle.

  “Fuck off,” the mage suggested. But he only waited a few more moments after Firkis blew out the light before he stole from the little chamber, taking care to avoid stepping on his friends. The orange glow waited.

  * * *

  Afterward, as they lay in slick, smelly languor, Jerren moved her cheek against his chest until she was looking up at him. “You’ve got more chest hair,” she observed drowsily.

  “I cast a spell,” Poildrin lied. “It gets cold in the Realm.”

  She ignored him. “So have you ever wondered,” she asked with elaborate carelessness, “why I sat next to you in that law class that day?”

  Poildrin stilled his fingers in her cloying, knotty dark hair. He never had. “I assumed you just couldn’t resist me,” he replied tonelessly. She snorted, then reached affectionately down to lightly smack his penis.

  “You’re being fresh. No,” she explained, propping her body up on one elbow. “I’m serious. I’ll tell you, if you like. Since, you know, there’s nothing between us anymore.”

  “Nothing between us,” he echoed. “Nothing at all, because we’re naked.”

  “Emotionally.”

  “Emotionally?” Of course not. He was a shadowmage; he didn’t get emotional. No, there was probably another word for the hot sensations that had been fleeting through his brain and his balls ever since Lurik’s Rest. There had to be. “I’m not an emotional sort.”