by Damien Lake
Ilona waggled her head, waves of crimped hair framing her amused face. She wore the pants with the cuffs tied shut as whenever they walked the streets, though this time she matched it with an expensive silken blouse. No less captivating for her oddly matched attire, she gazed at him from the stool sitting before the long mirror. “The cityguard will be happy to put the iron collar on the group who dared attack a noble, and inside the Inner Circle no less. I know they went to ‘question’ that slug of a shopkeeper while you went after the gang’s hideout.”
“Oh? How do you know that?”
She arched a delicate eyebrow, as if he should already be aware of the answer. “I told you I would inform them of the bracelet’s origin to clear the Spell’s name.”
“I thought you were going to wait until after, so the thieves wouldn’t be tipped off. If Jenni were arrested, they might have bolted!”
“How would they have learned so quickly, so far away from the city?” At his frown, she added in an acidic tone, “It was my decision to make. The affairs of the Standing Spell are of no concern to you. Besides, the cityguard came back for another round of questioning yesterday afternoon. I had to set them a different path.”
“I didn’t know that,” Marik admitted. Nearly everything he said fouled her temper, and he wished it were otherwise. She watched him with the one eyebrow still arched, as if waiting to attack the next comment he made, whatever it might be. In an attempt to steer around the moment, he broke eye contact with Ilona, laying back flat on the bed to stare up at the plain, white ceiling. “To tell the truth, I’m surprised the guard came back so quickly.”
“They’re under pressure,” she replied from beyond his knees. “They answer to the city heads, who are all Inner Circle residents. A theft or a burglary is an entirely different matter than a murder attempt. With half the kingdom’s nobles in Thoenar for the tournament, and half the apparent population, they need to be seen catching anyone so brash.”
“And have a body to hang, I suppose,” he added in a musing tone. “Make an example for anyone else with similar ideas.” Marik closed his eyes. Her bed was a very comfortable resting place. He luxuriated in it.
“Exactly. When you don’t have any leads, you have to keep beating the bushes you can see and hope something pops out sooner or later. But one thing you told me still confuses me,” Ilona stated flatly, returning the discussion to the offensive against the refinery. Marik heard her shifting and assumed she went to retrieve her wine goblet from the window ledge where she had left it earlier. It shocked him when her weight landed atop him. Knees to either side of his chest, she sat on his stomach, peering down at him amidst a weeping-willow of dangling tresses. Her full-weight landing winded him.
“Oof,” he grunted, then peered up into an eternity of crystalline brown. “Uh…uh…” He knew he needed to speak, to demand an explanation, to say anything at all, damn it, but his mind felt as a hinge gone rusty from years of disuse and rainfall.
“What confuses me,” Ilona queried, her voice emerging in a lower register, “is that.” She turned her head, the falling locks tracing feather touches across his burning face. With dazed thoughts, hardly daring to breathe lest the closeness of her prove a dream, lest her slender body’s weight be no more than a fabrication of his preoccupied mind, Marik shifted his gaze to follow hers.
In that corner rested only, if one discounted the messy piles cluttering the room, her standing wardrobe and his sword, which he had relieved himself of once she offered him the privacy of her room for this conversation. “What?” Comprehension eluded him.
“That,” she gestured with her chin, dancing her long hair across his cheek. “Why do you carry that sword around with you? You haven’t explained that at all yet, not from last night nor from the days before. You say you fought your enemies last night as a swordsman rather than the magician you are.”
“Uh, mage, not a…magi—”
He lost track of his words when she returned her gaze to him. She leaned closer; he could feel her breath across his lips, see her narrowed eyes as she searched his own.
“Call it what you want. It amounts to magic all the same. You always shy away from it. Why wield a chunk of lead when you have the powers of magic at your command?”
Her closeness unsettled his rational mind…and he suddenly realized she was perfectly aware of it. No doubt she, for reasons of her own, was intentionally using the power of her beauty to prevent him from evading the answer. An answer she strongly desired.
“Because I’m a swordsman,” he delivered, the truest answer he could offer.
That did not satisfy Ilona. “Why be a swordsman?” she insisted. “You were a fighter when you discovered your powers, weren’t you? That’s the way the story usually unfolds. But why stay one with so much more available to you?”
He needed to think, so he lightly pushed against her shoulder. She withdrew only a foot, maintaining the pin of her body against his. “Why? Why? Why not? A swordsman is what I’ve always wanted to be. It’s who I am, all through me. And who would want magic if they could avoid it? At any moment it could go horribly wrong in ways you probably wouldn’t want to imagine, and no sane person in all the kingdom could trust a magic user who wants power. Everyone I meet these days looks sideways at me when they find out about my talent. I wish I’d never been born with it!”
“But all the wonderful things you could do! If I…”
She trailed off, her eyes filming over with dreamy quality Marik had never seen in her before. Memories swelled. Of the times she had forced him to demonstrate his powers. Of her sudden change in attitude toward him after their individual situations forced them to visit alchemy shops together.
“I see.” His voice dripped with implied knowledge.
Which apparently was the wrong tone to adopt. Her gaze flashed with that familiar fire and she refocused on her captive. “You see what? You think you know me, do you?” Ilona straightened so she no longer leaned over him, sitting upright atop his stomach, arms folded under her bosom.
Marik advanced cautiously, sensing he’d claimed a tenuous grip on understanding her, though he could scarcely credit it. “You actually want magic? You want to be a mage?”
Ilona frowned down on him. “What do you care? And it is forever beyond my reach, anyway.”
“Why would you ever want to be a mage? You can’t trust any of them! They’re freaks who want to lord it over everyone else! They take what they want and don’t care how much it costs you!”
Her amusement returned. “And yet you want me to trust you. Are you saying you’re a power-hungry tyrant out to enslave the rest of us?”
“That’s…No, I—”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m not a mage! I’m a swordsman!”
“So you think you’re the exception to the rule, eh?” Her humor increased as he grew flustered. “How many mages can you name who act like that?”
“How many? Listen to all the tales!”
“Old tales from a dead past. Go on and tell me how many of the mages you’ve ever met live up to what you just said about them.”
Marik considered mentioning Celerity, about that old hardened matron who expected what she demanded and held no brief for excuses. After a moment in thought, he admitted she had only acted so in service to the crown. Ten heartbeats of non-response passed before Ilona harrumphed in triumph.
“I take it you can’t come up with many.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“All it takes is one bad seed to set the entire population against a class of people. With magic users it’s even easier. Everyone is always ready to believe the worst about them because they can perform such miracles as the ordinary crotches living their ordinary lives can’t. And because of the old tales.”
“You dodged my question. Why would you want magic when no one trusts magic users?”
He expected her to lash back at him with her frozen glare. This time she only looke
d down on him with an expression close to longing. “How many poor magicians have you ever seen?” She rushed forward before he could form any mistaken opinions regarding her desires. “But coin doesn’t have anything to do with that. The Spell generates more than enough of that to keep us comfortable.”
“Then why?”
“Because nothing is beyond a magician.” Wistful airs laced her soft words. “They can perform the most wondrous miracles. And gender means nothing in magic. Men and women both command respect equal to their abilities. But only to be able to work the magic…”
It unnerved Marik to see the hard, take-charge woman looking so poignant. Still, the odd sensation drowned beneath her sheer beauty, and he drank deeply of the vision atop him. He jerked when she glanced down at him, afraid his open stare had revealed too much of his captivation.
Unsure what to say, he remained silent. Ilona rested one hand flat against his chest. “I should have been born with it, but I wasn’t. Daddy was a magician.”
“He...uh…he was?”
“Yes.” She watched him intently, for what reaction he knew not.
“I guess, that explains…” Explains what? He almost said ‘obsession’. That would surely fan the blaze of her irritation anew. No question.
“I didn’t inherit his powers,” she continued. “I remember every little spell he used to amuse me with while I was small. I wanted to hurry and grow up so my own magic would awaken, but I’ve never once been able to cast them. Working with mother to run the Spell effectively takes talent of a sort, but if I’d had the choice…”
What could he say? Ilona’s revelations left him at a loss. Grasping for anything, he offered the only response floating through his thoughts. “If I could, I’d give you my talent.”
Ilona gazed down. After a moment, she replied, “You actually would, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve never wanted it. It’s done little but bring me troubles I never would have had otherwise.”
“That’s quite an offer.” The hand resting on his chest began describing circles between her knees. Her next words changed the subject and rekindled the flame burning behind Marik’s cheeks. “Hmm…not as broad across as I usually like.”
“Br…uh, usually?”
“And less muscle bulk. But then the bigger men usually get tedious quickly, no matter how much fun they are in bed. It’s always the big sweaty ones who think we can’t live without them.”
Marik held his lip, his face a brilliant scarlet under her casual talk.
“Now that’s cute.” She touched a finger to his flaming blush. “Cuter than persistence in a man. I’d say you don’t have much experience in the world outside of your little mercenary band, Master Swordsman.”
His head whirled in a cyclone of raging emotions and tortuous hope. “No, not…not much.”
“Then what you need, you vexing country bumpkin, is a person wise in the ways of the world who can teach you about what you’ve been missing.”
For the rest of the night, she did exactly that.
Chapter 21
If life could improve by any measure beyond this, Marik lacked the imagination to conceive it. The contract to safeguard Hilliard Garroway had shifted from being hunted prey to living the high life. No longer confined to the cloistered rooms of the Swan’s Down Inn, the small group spent their time outside Hilliard’s training schedule wandering Tourney Town’s raucous alleys.
Dietrik, his arm bothering him hardly at all, and Marik roamed the districts devoted to separating a man from his coin via the transfer of pleasurable luxury items. They found no mirrors Marik felt inclinations toward. Still, he picked up a smaller handheld version he thought Ilona might like, though with the large mirror reflecting half her bedroom, she probably had no real need of it. But he wanted to buy it for her, so he laid down the coin.
Kerwin finally located an architect willing to design the gambler’s roadside inn. He visited with the man every morning to discuss the plans, alter previous requirements or receive opinions from the expert on space functionality. Every afternoon, while wandering with his friends, he scampered around the tournament like a overactive child, flitting from contest to contest, storing away games of chance by the dozens or creating his own on the spot, inspired by what he saw and heard from the crowd around them. The next day he would return to his building planner to alter his future inn, wanting to incorporate new rooms or alter previous ones to take advantage of his newest ideas. Marik secretly believed the man must be earning every copper Kerwin paid him.
Landon evinced little activity toward a personal agenda. An old hand at the mercenary game, he accepted the good times when they came, enjoying them with the knowledge that soon enough they would be gone. He followed Kerwin around the tournament, taking enjoyment from his closest friend’s pleasure rather than seeking out his own. Yet despite their new freedoms, Marik caught troubled expressions flitting across the archer’s face from time to time. Marik took it to mean they should remember that danger enough still existed in the city despite their takedown of the gang harassing them.
Hilliard passed the boxing event by a wide enough margin that Kerwin was spared the nail-biting anxiety of a close victory. The young future baron met defeat in his match, but lasted eighteen rounds. With five of the contestants in his block advancing on wins, the remaining five were placed according to the number of rounds they persevered through. Their charge topped the defeated list, the second nearest, a contender imported to fill Delouen’s slot, only claiming twelve rounds before staying down. In the last advancing slot came a man with ten rounds under his belt, the final two disqualified with six rounds apiece.
For the tournament, in an effort to shorten the bouts, the officials had chosen a fifteen count rather than the normal thirty. As Marik watched the fighting in the oval center of the horse track, he often pondered if the defeated men might not have made a comeback if their time remained the ordinary length. Kerwin shrugged the question off, declaring that if a man wanted to participate he needed to follow the rules in effect. No one had forced any of the contenders to enter.
Still, as much as the officials wanted to arrange the bouts for maximum entertainment value, they could only stray so far from tournament tradition. Each contestant drew lots for this one-on-one event as they had in every boxing trial since the first tournament. This denied Marik and the crowd their much anticipated fight between Ferdinand Sestion and Keegan Gardinnier. Instead each felled their unlucky opponent in six rounds, Keegan’s brawling skills undiminished by his smaller size.
Walsh’s common room had been packed to the rafters that night. The regulars celebrated Hilliard’s advance the way they might have the coronation of a new king. They fought off newcomers with territorial pride whenever fresh faces drifted in, having heard a genuine contender stayed in residence. Many of Thoenar’s citizens considered only the last two events to be the real tournament. That Hilliard had fought his way through the preliminaries to reach them elevated his stature in their minds. Even if he lost the next event, he would remain a true warrior to them, one of the finest in Galemar, and they would talk about how they had stood in this very room with the man until their dying day.
Marik left Hilliard to his adoring throng. Truth to tell, he had not slept in his bed at the Swan’s Down once in the last six days. Dietrik ribbed him endlessly about it, a fact that normally would have irritated him to no end. At present he could hardly care less. His friend could say whatever he wanted. He would never know the endless bliss of Ilona and her wild, limitless expertise at intimate creativity.
When he arrived at the Standing Spell in the midst of a raging argument between mother and daughter, Marik had no idea what the issue at hand might be. Ilona stormed from the building at his arrival, towing him through the crowds of returning tournament goers by one hand.
A firm opportunity to question her about it never presented itself in the mob. He soon recognized that she led him back to Walsh’s inn. In the common room she evicte
d a trio from a booth along the far wall with nothing more than her personality’s raw force. They sat unspeaking, Ilona fuming over her mother, Marik afraid to broach the subject because he feared he might be the issue between Vashti and his new love.
After a stretch made longer by apprehension, she rose without a word. Ilona glared at him when he stood to follow until he sat back down on the bench. She disappeared into the kitchen, presumably to claim a share of food from Walsh’s not-quite-wife, Cook, who ran her kitchen as her private little kingdom. He felt at a loss, sitting alone, waiting for events to carry him wherever they would.
Dietrik popped out from the crowd and refused to accept Marik’s frosty gaze. He forced space onto the bench beside Marik. “There is more room at this table than in the whole rest of the common room, mate.”
“I’m already—”
“I am aware of that, Marik. But you hardly have privacy in this mess anyway, so share a little. There must be two-hundred chaps in here tonight!”
Acquiescing, Marik sighed. “And all for one reason.” He gestured with his nose at Hilliard, who stood near the bar across the room. The regulars had cajoled him into reliving the boxing match for the eighth time Marik knew of.
“Well, no cutpurse in a right state of mind would so much as dream of targeting young Garroway these days. Our job is all the easier. Happy days!” Dietrik toasted with the tankard he’d brought through the press.
Marik nodded absently and craned for a clear view of the kitchen doorway.
“Mate,” Dietrik said somberly after a swallow, capturing Marik’s attention. “I know you don’t want to hear me say this, but as your friend I need to make the point at least once.”
“What?”
“Don’t wrap yourself around her too tightly.”
“I’m fine!”
“Happy days not withstanding, soon enough we’ll be leaving, and she won’t be. She and her mother have a thriving business in the best of all locations. I think you know which she will put first if the decision is you or her venture.”
