allies and enemies 02 - rogues

by Amy J. Murphy

  He carried no visible weapons. The ground car was rusted but in good repair, a model that was most likely considered an antique when Uncle was a boy. The man said nothing, simply waited expectantly.

  Wary, she climbed inside the darkened interior.

  As the vehicle started, Asher slumped in the seat beside her. His head rolled against her shoulder. Irritated at his presumption, she wanted to push him off her, but stopped at the clammy coolness of his skin. Her stomach tightened. Miri, protect him.

  The freight yard gave way to towering houses, built shoulder to shoulder. Then the vehicle plunged into a solid dark as they entered a tunnel. When the car stopped, Erelah climbed out. The driver was joined by another man, just as old. Mutely they aided Asher from the car. A door opened in the wall nearby. Bright light spilled out, but she saw little of the room beyond. When she followed, the valet stepped in her way. He gestured with an open hand, a silent bid for her to go with him instead.

  “Where are you taking him?”

  “He will be well tended to, my lady.” A thick accent burdened the words, but he spoke in High Eugenes.

  Erelah stiffened. Does he know who I am? How?

  The way he addressed her was a courtesy only, she decided. There was nothing threatening about him, only a sense of duty and perhaps a detached curiosity. He had the manner of a servant used to conducting business for his master without question. Something about him reminded her of Uncle’s stodgy valet back on Argos.

  Regardless, she checked that the pulse gun was still wedged into her belt. She rubbed her damp palms against her thighs and followed him. Where else was there to go in this place full of strangers?

  Sconces drove back the shadows of a long corridor. The air was thick with damp and age. Her knuckles brushed rough, cool stone. They climbed a flight of stairs that opened into a new room that smelled of habra peppers and baking bread. The curved shapes of jars and metal pots glinted under the mellow light. A large kitchen. The commonness of it drove a sudden pang of homesickness through her. She thought of Old Sissa’s orderly sun-warmed kitchen.

  They did not linger, passing into a hallway where he picked up a small glowsphere. Its amber glow lit their way up a long narrow stretch of stairs. Finally, they stopped before double doors, hung with heavy brass hinges. Carved in fine detail on the wood was the same Kindred crest he bore on his tunic.

  The valet opened the doors and moved aside. “My lady.”

  She hesitated. “What is this place?”

  His dark eyes glinted under the light of the glowsphere as he handed it to her. His face was unreadable. “Safe.”

  Erelah felt a sense of protectiveness from him. He was a keeper of secrets great and small under the mantle of loyalty. But to whom?

  She stepped into the room. The door swung shut on quiet hinges. She expected to hear the snap of a lock behind her but it opened easily when she tried the handle.

  Safe.

  She found the latch on her side. Locked it.

  The sphere carved out dark shapes of furniture. Underfoot, pale tiles gleamed. A monstrous bed, piled high with pillows and blankets, filled the corner. Allowing the sphere to drift to a spot within reach, she sank onto the edge of the soft mattress. She tucked the pulse gun beneath a pillow. The baleful red eye of the ready light burned from its hiding space.

  I should inspect the room, look for dangers.

  In a moment.

  Erelah leaned back against the pile of cushions, intent to rest for a moment.

  65

  Sunlight pressed against her eyelids. Erelah surfaced from sleep. She wanted to remain that way forever, to melt into the bedclothes. The memory of the night before seeped in around her. She sat up too quickly. A wave of vertigo hit. Her stomach was queasy with hunger.

  Erelah moved to the side of the bed. Regardless of the warmth of the room, the stone floor was cool under her bare feet. Her boots rested like tired animals on a woven rug nearby.

  When did I take them off?

  In the full onslaught of daylight, the mystery of the room dissolved. Lofty ceilings painted with birds and winged mythical beasts greeted her. The walls were a sun-faded blue. An elaborate tapestry of the Fates dominated one corner. The far wall, hung with airy curtains, opened onto a terrace. Fragments of voices fluttered in from the world beyond.

  The woodsy spice of sabet vine oil lingered on the air. Tucked to the side of the tapestry, she found a small altar to the Fates. Three tiny bronze figures stood arm in arm. Beneath them tiny clay lamps sat unlit, flames died away. Erelah traced a fingertip over the head of each woman: Nyxa. Metauri. Natus.

  Miri was missing, of course.

  The prayer came to her, a rote memory since childhood. I thank you for the light of this new day—

  She froze. A squat table nearby was burdened under platters and bowls of food.

  Was that here last night?

  It alarmed her that someone had come and gone from the room as she lay asleep and vulnerable. Erelah went back to the bed and found the gun beneath the pillow, just as she hidden it.

  For a moment, she considered tucking it back into her belt. Then left it on a small table in easy reach.

  Her gnawing stomach drew her back to the table of food. How long had it been since she’d last eaten?

  Some of the dishes she recognized, others were a mystery. There was a bowl of candied sabron figs, a decanter of red-melon juice, dainty pastries that resembled the thumb cakes Old Sissa would make. Erelah took an experimental nibble of one. She shut her eyes. Ambrosia. The delicate crumble of the crust and the overpowering sweet of the honey and citrus.

  Shameless, she stood at the table, crunching through two more and showering the floor with crumbs. She slowed long enough to swallow some juice before eying the candied figs. Scooping one out of the bowl, she munched on it and set out to explore the rest of the room.

  There were other pieces of mismatched furniture beside the bed and chair. Most of the pieces were once fine, ornately carved wood or artfully worked metal. All bore some mar: a dent here, a scratch there. The overall impression was one of careworn elegance. These were relics of another time, but cherished. Here and there, she spotted the same Kindred crest. Uncle would have been able to identify the heraldry right away.

  Movement in the corner of her eye. Erelah startled. She caught her reflection in a silver quartz mirror. Is that me?

  It had been ages since she had last seen her reflection this way.

  She stepped closer. A painfully thin figure clad in a dingy shipsuit with sunken cheeks and dark shadows beneath her eyes mimicked her moves. She smoothed the tangled mass of her hair and pulled it off her neck into a loose knot. It was a mild improvement.

  Pushing aside one of the gauzy curtains, she emerged under a full torrent of sunlight and made her way to the balcony’s rail. The view was staggering in its openness, as if she had dwelt in a cave for eons and only now saw the sky. A vista of buildings in varying shapes and ages clustered along a terraced, rocky hillside encircling a bustling harbor. Like tiny children’s toys with white sails, the water vessels glided over its emerald water. Verdant flowering gardens crowned the roofs of buildings. A street stretched down the slope of the hill and past a curve, its destination obscured by smaller buildings painted in faded pastels. Sleek birds darted and hovered, their cries adding to the noise of the bustling streets below. Figures spilled off the pavement into the road in a moving open-air market. The occasional ground car, as old as the one from last night, wove through the crush of bodies.

  Narasmina. She rolled the fabled name against her tongue. One of two lovers from a long-ago tale. Ismenio, a brave ship’s captain and Narasmina, his lady-wife. She lost him to the pitch and froth of stormy sea. In the end, she gave her body over to the gods of the water that lived beneath its inky depths. A sacrifice so that no other lovers may bear the same lament.

  Someone is watching.

  Erelah whirled.

  A young girl stood in the middle
of the room. Perhaps seven or eight, she was slim with yellow-gold hair that hung to her shoulders. A wizened gaze regarded Erelah with more maturity than any girl her age should have. She was dressed in a simple white tunic and leggings, similar to the valet’s garments, with the same Kindred crest on her shoulder.

  “Hello.” Erelah thought about moving toward her. The girl tensed, ready to flee, but she kept her hands tucked behind her back. “Who are you?”

  The eyes that regarded her were the same rich maroon as Asher’s. A Binait.

  Erelah stepped closer. The girl took a wary step back, but answered, “Mim.”

  “I’m Tilley.”

  The girl smirked. “No. You’re not.”

  Definitely a Binait.

  “Did you do this? Bring this?” Erelah gestured at the table of food. “It’s very nice.”

  Mim half-shrugged. Her eyes measured Erelah. Hands still tucked behind her back, hiding something. Erelah took a few more slow steps. The girl shied away, drawing even with the doorway.

  “What do you have behind your back?”

  A frown wrinkled the porcelain of the child’s forehead. Another shrug.

  Erelah glanced back at the dressing table. The pulse gun was gone. Her attention snapped back to Mim. But the girl was a blur of white disappearing around the doorway.

  66

  The house was a maze. It could have easily fit two of her home on Argos. Erelah lost the girl immediately as she rushed from empty room to room. The whole time she cursed her stupidity, fearful the child would hurt herself or someone else with the weapon. She called out in a hushed voice: “Mim!”

  The rooms she passed through were heavy with age and seemed to demand reverence.

  Passing through a heavy set of doors, she entered a large room dominated with shelves along its walls. Each surface was crammed with books and maps, trinkets and sculptures. It was lovingly disorganized. Two great windows allowed more of Narasmina’s single yellow sun to peer into the dusty air. Erelah breathed in the warm smell of age and old tomes.

  No sign of the girl.

  She paused in her search. To her right, a portrait of a young woman graced the wall above the hearth. Her rich auburn hair framed deep brown eyes glinting with mischief. The artist had captured a playful smile that belied the staunch severity of the woman’s high-necked dress. There was something in the portrait’s challenging expression that seemed familiar.

  Erelah squinted, canting her head.

  “You’ve found my Ravinia.”

  A matronly Eugenes woman glided into the room with a grace that defied her aged appearance. A wimple covered her head, its ends brushing the shoulders of a heavy blue dress. Everything in the woman’s bearing spoke of refinement. There was an underlying shrewdness to her. The warm brown eyes in that time-worn face caught every detail.

  “Fates blessings.” The greeting in High Eugenes spilled out of Erelah. She chewed her lip. An ingrained habit of childhood that had just disclosed volumes about her. So much for caution.

  “And with you, my lady,” the newcomer replied in the same tongue, holding her hands out to her sides. For a surreal moment, Erelah thought the woman was about to embrace her. Then she dropped her hands to squeeze Erelah’s shoulders in greeting.

  “I am Kelta pra-Corsair, Mistress of this house. Please forgive me for not seeing you sooner, my lady…”

  Her voice trailed off as she waited for an answer. The woman’s avid gaze told her that the tired lie about her name would not serve here.

  “Erelah Veradin.”

  “Ah. A Kindred of the Miri sect.” Kelta nodded. “Rare as an honest Rhobgic.”

  Erelah released a single perplexed laugh.

  “There was a little girl in my room…Mim.” Erelah blurted. “She took—”

  “Your weapon. Yes.” Kelta held a hand up. “It is in a safe place now. I apologize.”

  Erelah sagged with relief.

  “Mim knows of my dislike of weapons,” Kelta tsked. “Doubtful she would have harmed herself, considering her wretched life before coming here.”

  “Oh.” Erelah stammered. “That’s—I wouldn’t...”

  The skin around Kelta’s eyes crinkled. “I understand your need for caution, my lady. I suspect you have been through much, considering Asher’s condition. Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

  “Is he alright?” Then she frowned. “Home?”

  “He sleeps now. Back to himself, Fates help us.” Kelta turned her palms to the heavens. “It’s as if he never left.”

  A tightness loosened in Erelah’s chest. Thank Miri.

  Kelta gestured to the portrait. Her voice softened with heartbroken pride. “So much like his mother. Willful girl. A wild streak as wide as the days were long. I was her mother’s handmaid, then became Ravinia’s, you see, as was the custom of the time.”

  Erelah gave a shallow nod. She did not really see, but was content to feel the scrutiny drift from her. She never had a handmaiden. There had only been Old Sissa and Uncle’s valet, Somvel.

  Her confusion must have shown. Kelta patted her arm. “I see Asher told you nothing. Fates knows what he let you think.” She shook her head. “I love him like my own. Practically raised him. But he is only a male after all.”

  Erelah scoffed, caught off guard by the candor. The woman responded with a mischievous smirk then wove her arm through Erelah’s.

  The presumptiveness of a stranger should have been unsettling, but there was something comforting in Kelta’s presence. Erelah allowed her to guide their stroll into the open sky of a walled garden, rich with flowering vines and diminutive fruit trees.

  “I’m pleased to call you a welcome guest. You are safe here. Feel free to take your rest. Consider this house…yours. I grant you every courtesy and protection of the Corsair Kindred…what is left of it.” Her hand flexed on Erelah’s bicep. She tsked. “We must get you fed. There’s nothing to you.”

  Corsair. An ancient Kindred name. That explained the crest.

  A part of her instantly liked Kelta. Perhaps it was the assumed familiarity the old woman used when addressing her, as if she had been witness to her life and only now decided to reveal herself.

  Erelah found herself feeling guilty about her earlier guardedness. “You’re very kind, madam.”

  “The Fates teach us that kindness to the traveler is rewarded, for we may entertain gods disguised as the godless.” She briefly patted Erelah’s wrist. “Besides, I’m a bored old woman who is destined to ply you for gossip soon enough. Asher tells me nothing.”

  Regardless of the strange circumstances, she enjoyed this woman’s acerbic wit.

  “I have a sensitive question for you, my lady.” Kelta stepped back, sizing her up. “What in Nyxa’s name are you wearing?”

  67

  For two days he had avoided this.

  Asher found her in the room Kelta had always insisted on calling a salon. Even as a boy he knew it for what it was: a place where men went to evade the nagging of women, smoke peppervine and get drunk.

  Leaning in the doorway, he watched Erelah explore the room, now drenched in the deep orange of sunset. Kelta had been fussing over her, it seemed. That battered shipsuit was gone, replaced with new clothes that better complimented her lithe form. A wine-colored blouse in soft-looking fabric and slimmer fitting trousers, boots. Needlessly expensive, but nice, he added begrudgingly. Her dark hair was a smooth cascade down her back. She seemed less like a skinny girl, pretending at being a pilot.

  She’d not noticed him yet, and he was tempted to leave it that way. He could slip back into the hallway. Besides, his ribs still ached. The newly grown skin along his flank pulled and itched beneath his clothes.

  Perhaps tomorrow.

  It was a coward’s way out. He’d done enough that was cowardly. Neesa was right about one thing: he was not a hero. A hero would not look at some lost girl and hatch a scheme to sell her out to serve himself, or have this self-hate twisting in his gut.

&nb
sp; There was such a draw to be near her, like a pulling in his veins. It was stronger in her presence. With it came that queer familiarity, as though he’d lived in her skin. He could never put this into words without dulling it into inane babble. Maybe that is what kept him there, this drive to be near her, with her, the way living things crave light or one body seeks the warmth of another. It was not the same carnal want he knew too well. It was a sense of completion. Another half that created wholeness in him.

  Perhaps he was already doomed to fail her but he was still stupid enough to try anyway.

  She approached the dusty relic of a gaming table and examined the Torquiv tiles that lay scattered on its felt covered surface. Her eyes widened; quickly she put the tile down. Asher stifled a laugh. He had discovered those same etched tiles as a boy: each bore tableaux of a man and woman nude, entwined.

  “Ever try it?” he asked. “I can show you.”

  She whirled, clearly flustered.

  “What?” She swallowed.

  He nodded at the tiles on the cloth-covered table. “The game. Torquiv. Ever hear of it?”

  She ignored his question, her eyes hard. “You’re alive.” It sounded like an accusation.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Is it?” He meant it as a joke. Her mouth compressed as if she were truly considering.

  I deserve that.

  “I’m sorry.” He stepped closer, careful to keep his hands out. As if he were approaching a frightened animal. She did look as if at any moment she’d sprint away.

  “For what…in particular?” He knew she waited for his next awkward comment that would make his apology not count.

  “Everything.”

  A small wrinkle forged between her brows. There was distrust and a healthy dose of surprise behind those haunting green eyes. She took a step to the door.

  I’ve done nothing to earn her trust. Just one bad decision after another.