Hells, it felt good for him to let loose, too.
Dormael found Shawna’s eyes tracking him throughout the night. She gave him a deep, inscrutable look that he couldn’t fathom. It wasn’t a lustful glance, or even an admiring one. She seemed to be ruminating on him in some way, and her thoughts played out across her drunken, uncaring features. Whenever she caught Dormael looking at her, and realized that he had noticed her regard, she would wink at him.
Damnable, confusing woman.
“Your friend came through here not long ago,” his father said. Dormael looked up and regarded the old man, who held two flagons in his hand, one offered to his son, the other to D’Jenn. Dormael smiled and took the drink, then gestured for his father to sit down. They had chosen seats away from the rest of the merrymakers so that they could take a break from the constant attention, and get a bit of the cool night air.
“You mean Jarek—the Mal who brought you the Shaman’s Leaf bush?” Dormael asked.
“No,” Saul said, shaking his head. “The one with the mismatched eyes. Kendall.”
“I see,” Dormael nodded. During the early years of their Warlock training, Dormael had nicknamed Kendall ‘Evil Eye,’ because the man had one brown eye, and one blue. “What did he want?”
“Said he was passing through,” Saul shrugged. “We gave him a bed for the night, filled his belly. You know how your mother likes to dote on all your friends.”
“Right,” Dormael said. “Which way was he going?”
“North,” Saul said. “He said there was going to be some big meeting in Ishamael soon, that the whole Conclave was headed home to be present for it. I just assumed that’s why the two of you came through.”
Dormael shared a look with D’Jenn.
“No,” Dormael said, suddenly interested. “We were in Alderak, doing something else. Did he say anything about this big meeting?”
“Just that I’d probably hear about it later, that it was big business,” Saul said. “Hells, boy—I’d hoped you would be able to tell me more. It’s the only reason I brought it up.”
Dormael eyed his father sideways. His pop had always been the sort to grumble about politics. Having served in the army, he and a troop of his veteran friends were always interested in the moves of the kansils and clan leaders. His father was known locally as an outspoken man. If anyone had their ear to the ground about politics, it would be Saul Harlun.
“Pop,” Dormael ventured, “I’ve been away for a while. What’s been happening here in the last year or so?”
“Fuck all and horseshit, that’s what,” Saul said. “Not that I’ve ever believed anything the Council says, mind you, but this year has been especially bad.”
“How so?” D’Jenn asked.
“First of all, Berrul has failed to knock down a motion that the richest three tribes pay higher taxes on commerce,” Saul grumbled. “Orris, Soirus-Gamerit, and Duadan all have to give a higher percentage on their commerce every year, which means all the businesses do. Thing is, the bitch who proposed the damned motion couldn’t explain where all the new money is going.”
Nilliam Berrul was the Kansil of the Soirus-Gamerits, and sat for their tribe on the Council of Seven, with the leaders of the other six tribes of the Sevenlands. Kansils were elected by the clan leaders of the tribe, and could only be deposed by those clan leaders. If Berrul was voting against the interests of Soirus-Gamerit, especially where taxes were concerned, then there must have been a damned good reason. Such a thing would make his clan leaders apoplectic.
“Who proposed the motion?” Dormael asked.
“Jurillic,” Saul said. “Of course that old bitch voted for it. Her gods-damned tribe doesn’t make anything, or have any business to tax. Tasha-Mal is full of pastoral nomads, for the gods’ sake.”
“That doesn’t make much sense,” D’Jenn said. “What would Tasha-Mal clan leaders care for taxes on commerce? They’re all half-mad warrior bands out there. They only trade for what they use, most of the time.”
“That is a bit odd,” Dormael nodded. Tasha-Mals were famous for their stance on self-reliance, and as far as Dormael knew, the Mals had never asked for anything from the Council of Seven, save for martial support to fight the Rashardians to the south. The Mals were the tribe that bordered Rashardia, and felt the brunt of their raiding.
“Here’s the really odd bit,” Saul went on, motioning Dormael closer. “Jurillic’s son had been captured by the Rashardians last year. I remember, because she offered a reward for anyone who would lead an expedition into the Golden Waste to take him back. Your brother almost joined some fool expedition into the desert before I talked him out of it.”
“I think I heard something about that,” Dormael said. If he remembered correctly, Nyra’s son had been a famous warrior in Tasha-Mal. The stories about him were almost mythical, and everyone had assumed he was poised to take the position of kansil from his mother. Then, he had been taken.
“What was the man’s name—Jurillic’s son, I mean?” Dormael asked.
“Was? Try is, boy—the man is still alive. Kitamin is his name.”
“He’s still alive?” Dormael asked. “Did one of those expeditions rescue him?”
“No,” Saul said. “In fact, several were lost in the attempt. The Mals were in turmoil for awhile, deciding on whether or not Jurillic was strong enough to lead them, what with letting her son be captured in a raid. You know how the Mals are.”
“True enough,” Dormael nodded. The Mals held tighter to their tribal roots than did many Sevenlanders.
“Well, listen to this—at the last Council meeting, the man just appears in Ishamael with his mother. No word on how he got there, no ceremony, no type of public hubbub at all—and he looks bad, Dormael. I sent one of your cousins to Ishamael to sell a load of your mother’s firewine, and he was there to see him. He said that Kitamin looked like a corpse, and had both his hands cut off.” Saul leaned in, and gestured with his ale as if he’d just uncovered something dire. “Tell me how he escaped with no hands, boy.”
Dormael shared an ominous look with D’Jenn. It was rare than anyone escaped Rashardian slavers. The few times it had happened were famous stories, and celebrated for their rarity. This story sounded far-fetched to Dormael, but he knew his father would have no reason to lie.
“Did she say anything about it? Nyra, I mean,” D’Jenn asked.
“Nothing that I’ve heard,” Saul replied, shaking his head. “Just the usual thing, you know—how happy she is to have her son back at her side. Kitamin, though…he won’t say a bloody word. I don’t blame the man. The gods only know what they did to him, other than chopping his meat-cuffs off, eh? But here’s the rub—a week after her son returns, she motions that these taxes be added to the yearly sum. No reason for them, not really, just some vague explanation like ‘to better protect the common good’. Bunch of horseshit, if you ask me.”
“Are the funds going to set up an army, or to the Southern Bastion, maybe?” D’Jenn asked.
“No,” Saul replied. “The Council is going to collect them, and then…,” Saul shrugged and waved his hands around. “They turn into smoke, apparently. Why would Berrul not vote against this, and why would Jurrilic propose the damned motion in the first place? It doesn’t make sense. It’s clearly just a money grab.”
“I wonder how the man got home,” Dormael mused aloud. That was the strangest part of the whole story. Rescuing the man, especially a year after his capture, would have taken vast resources, access to seedy contacts, and skilled people who were willing to undertake the mission.
“The man won’t say anything at all,” Saul replied. “Nyra has been silent, too. There’s a lot of grumbling, you know.”
“What do you think happened?” Dormael asked. He didn’t like to entertain his father’s conspiracy theories, but he did enjoy hearing them.
“I think that someone rescued Kitamin Jurillic, then held that over Nyra’s head. Strong-armed her into proposing that motion,
” Saul grunted, taking a pull from his flagon. “Why else would she suddenly want to collect a river of silver marks, when the Mals have never cared about money? Someone put that woman up to this.”
“And Berrul?” D’Jenn asked. “Why do you think he voted for it? Maybe there’s a good reason. Maybe the Council just doesn’t want to share the reason with the public.”
“Even if there’s a good reason, it doesn’t explain why the motion was proposed by the Mals,” Saul said. “Why would Jurillic give two golden shits about a secret fund? Why would she be the one to establish it?”
Dormael opened his mouth to dismiss his father’s point, but brought himself up short. He was struck with a good reason why the woman would do it—someone powerful had done something for her. They had done something impossible, like rescuing her son when no one else could. If this shady person needed a secret fund created, and the Mals were the only ones over which he could find such leverage, then that could explain it.
“Let’s say that someone did pressure Jurillic into making the motion,” Dormael said, trying to think the problem through. “If everything you said was true, then why would Berrul vote against his own interests, as well?”
“If this unnamed entity can rescue a man from the depths of a Rashardian slave camp and bring him back with no hands, finding a bit of leverage over Berrul would be easy. I’ll bet that fat bastard has plenty of secrets that a person could use to twist him,” Saul grumbled.
“While that’s true,” Dormael said, “it’s also generally true that the more complicated your explanation for any given thing becomes, the less likely it is to be the right explanation.”
Saul glared at him.
“Don’t start using that Conclave rhetoric on me, boy. Platitudes are nice, but they don’t always explain reality—that’s something you have to remember, too. Sometimes the most unlikely thing is as common as you please, and political games are as common as pigshit.”
Dormael laughed. “Too true, old man, too true.”
Dormael went back to drinking, and shrugged off his father’s further attempts to discuss politics. D’Jenn, though, had a considering scowl painted over his face—of course, there was nothing new about that. D’Jenn had three expressions—asleep, scowl, and a deeper scowl.
As the night wore on, the party blurred around the edges. Dormael shared another three pipe-fulls of the Shaman’s Leaf with his father, and uncountable flagons of ale with everyone else. He sang with people, arms locked around shoulders, and danced until he was sweating in the cold night air. Dormael had been dreading this part of the trip, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why.
He spotted Bethany curled up by a fire, and lifted her sleeping body from the ground. He carried her into the house, and put her into one of the upstairs bedrooms. After he removed her boots and tucked her under a blanket, he left to head back outside.
In the hallway, Dormael came face to face with Shawna.
“You’re not a bad dancer, you know,” she said.
“I’ve got many skills,” Dormael smiled, “but dancing isn’t one of them. I’m not bad at flailing around like an idiot, though.”
“Were you putting Bethany down?” Shawna asked. “I was just coming to check on her.”
“She’s fine,” Dormael nodded. “Sleeping like a rock.”
“She had a good time today,” Shawna laughed, wiping an errant tear from the corner of her eye. “I don’t think I’ve heard her laugh like that. Why would you do that? Just…decide to take the girl in that way?”
Dormael took a deep breath, unable to to summon the words.
“It’s not that I wanted to adopt her, exactly,” he shrugged. “I just couldn’t imagine it any other way. I know you all probably think I’m an idiot, but I don’t care what you think.”
“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” she said, smiling at him.
“No?” he asked. “I expected you and D’Jenn both to crawl up my arse over this, but neither of you have said anything. You don’t object?”
Shawna let out a short laugh, and kissed him.
Dormael was so surprised that it took him a moment to realize what was happening. She smelled intoxicating, and her lips tasted vaguely of firewine. She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck, and he felt chills crawl up his spine. Before he could stop himself, he wrapped his own arms around the girl’s waist, and picked her up off the floor.
She giggled into his mouth as they kissed, pawing at each other’s clothing. They danced an awkward spin down the hallway, Dormael pulling her toward his old room. Shawna kissed him with enthusiasm, giggling through the spaces between their lips. He had never seen her like this before, but Dormael certainly wasn’t going to object.
He kicked open his door and dragged her into the room, laughing with her as they kicked off their boots. Shawna clung to him when they embraced, and made soft noises against him as he explored her body with his hands. Her skin was smooth, pale, and felt supple beneath his touch. Shawna was intoxicating to him, and Dormael felt a pounding excitement start up in his chest.
“Nobody’s going to find us?” she asked, breathing against his mouth.
“No chance,” Dormael said. “Magic, remember?”
He turned and whipped a hand at his door, and it slammed shut. Shawna laughed and pulled him back into a kiss, and he obliged her. Dormael walked her backwards until her thighs touched the bed, and then pushed her onto it. She closed her eyes and fell into a fit of laughter as she fell back, and continued to do so when he climbed on top of her.
“Come here,” she breathed, and she yanked on his beard until their lips were locked together. Dormael descended into a storm of drunken kisses, Shawna’s hands pulling at his face, his hair, and running over his back. She kissed him like she needed him, and that set Dormael on fire.
He pulled her shirt out of her pants and started kissing over her stomach, and teasing her with the laces of her pants. He dove under her shirt, and laughed as he tasted the skin beneath. She made low, pleased sounds in her throat as his hands roamed over her, and he chased them with his lips.
“I thought you said I was terrible,” he laughed, plucking at the laces of her pants.
She made a noncommittal noise, and squeezed his hand.
“I knew you were just pretending not to like me,” he said. “You’ve been thinking about this since the day we met.”
Another noncommittal noise, this time with no corresponding squeeze. Dormael froze. He’d expected her to come back with something witty, perhaps to try and wrestle him off. He realized that she was lying still, and he felt heat rise to his cheeks.
“Shawna?”
No answer.
He pulled his head out from under her shirt and looked to her face. She lay with her eyes closed, the shadow of a contented smile tickling the edges of her lips. He gave her a moment, but she didn’t move.
“Shawna.” He nudged her arm.
“What?” she mumbled, swatting in his general direction.
“Nothing,” he laughed. “I hate you. I want you to know that.”
Dormael thought she mumbled something in response, but it could have been a sigh.
He put his boots back on, and tucked Shawna under a blanket in much the same way he’d done for Bethany. Dormael tried to think back to a time when he’d seen Shawna get drunk, and nothing came to mind. Clearly, she’d partaken a bit more than she’d meant to. This had been nothing more than the result of the wine and the Leaf.
Will she remember cavorting with me? He suspected that even if she did, she would pretend that she didn’t. There was no way in the Six Hells he was telling D’Jenn about this, either. He would never hear the end of it.
He had a feeling that no matter what happened, things would be awkward in the morning.
Earning the Knife
Dormael awoke to the sounds of a homestead in bustling motion.
Feet shuffled by in each direction, voices called out, pots clanged against counter
s and boxes banged against the floor. The sugary smell of Sweetpenny tea floated to his nose, blended with the mouth-watering scent of sweet rolls. The shifting aromas from the kitchen drew him from his blankets, and the corner of the common room floor in which he’d slept. Dormael had let Shawna have his old bed, and had said nothing about their encounter. Part of him hoped that the girl would forget that it ever happened.
He wanted another chance at a first impression.
He looked for his mother in the kitchen but she wasn’t there. He nabbed a piping-hot roll or two, and dipped out a cup of the Sweetpenny tea. D’Jenn was nowhere to be found—he’d either risen and started his day before Dormael, or he had drunk himself to death in the night. Dormael gobbled down the sweet roll and the tea, then dipped out another cup. He felt like he was covered in grime, and he smelled like a drunk who had fallen in a campfire. It was time to clean up.
Harlun homestead was built in the old fashion of his people, and there was a community bathhouse attached to it. It was a high-ceilinged building with a large community bath, and separate pools for when people were sick, or wished for privacy. The floor was tiled with stone, and the entire pool was fed by a nearby stream, tapped with copper pipes. The pipes brought the water into the complex, and emptied it back into the stream. Though many homesteads in the Sevenlands had bathhouses, there weren’t many quite as luxurious as the one his mother had insisted upon building. At the time, his father had grumbled that the woman had gone mad. Once the building had gone up, though, no one had found reason to complain. Dormael suspected, in fact, that relatives often came to visit only for the privilege of soaking in its water.
The only downside of the bathhouse was that the water was seasonally temperate. A brick furnace burned in the center of the room, but it only helped to take the sting out of the cold in the wintertime, and only worked when one stayed in the water close to it. That setback was nothing to someone with Dormael’s advantages, though.
He entered bathhouse and found his brother soaping up in the cold water, trembling with the frigid temperature.
The Knife in the Dark Page 15
