by Jean Johnson
Again, he glanced at Myal. She had her thinking look on, and nodded within a few moments. He did as well. “She is willing, and the scheduling of it would give her plenty of time to rest between runs and still finish her evaluation of the newly proposed rooms. Veto her place in the first list, and draw up the standard adventuring and scrycasting contracts for the second.
“Remind the requesters in Senod-Gra that all adult-oriented gauntlet runs require at least three days’ notice to track down and receive responses from all requested participants, and that participation of any one particular adventurer is not guaranteed. Tell Grador that if they have a problem with that, he can transfer their scrycall to me, and I’ll handle it,” Kerric finished.
That made his Topside Control lead chuckle. Jessina shook her head, her teeth white against her dark lips as she grinned. “I suspect they won’t have any problems with it. Not when you put their City Hostess in her place. I’ll handle this before I go—and take heart, Master Kerric,” she added. “I can finally see the top of the task pile from here, which means we’ve been making excellent progress in catching up.”
“Most thanks to you and the rest of the team. And I’m very grateful everyone, except the idiot Torven and his friends, passed their interrogation tests,” Kerric added. “I was hoping everyone would, and am deeply grateful they did. I’ll have to figure out what to do to thank all the staff for such strong loyalty.”
“Invite them all to the Banqueting Hall for a feast,” Myal offered, speaking up. “A feast, and a food fight. Offer to scrycast it as a bonus free present to all the patrons who lost service while the Tower was shut down.”
Overhearing Myal’s comment, Jessina widened her grin. “I like it. And I think it’ll work. If you don’t hire her for Tower Staff soon, Master, I’ll have to smack you on the head. I’ll chat with you tomorrow. Jessina out.”
Kerric chuckled. It wasn’t often the unflappable woman issued a threat toward him, but then it wasn’t often he was idiotic. And he wasn’t going to be an idiot. “Well, you heard the lady. She’s the smartest person on my payroll. Care to work for the Tower, instead of just in it? At least, for part of the time?”
“I’ll consider it,” Myal murmured, though she smiled as she said it, warmed by the welcome and the admiration from both him and his colleague.
SEVENTEEN
Myal hated everything in her clothes chests. It was not a happy thought; she was not normally a woman to fret over how she looked, but here she was, fretting. At least, outside of a scrycast she normally didn’t care. During a gauntlet run, she wanted to look strong, competent, and a little bit sexy, since that contributed to her popularity, but this wasn’t a run through the Tower meant to be viewed by hundreds, if not thousands, of wealthy patrons—she wasn’t really sure how many people watched each individual mirror scrying, but she knew at least that many mirrors were involved.
Instead, this was a . . . well, she wasn’t going out to dinner with Kerric, so it wasn’t a dinner date. But she was determined to show up at the Honey Spear. To reassure herself that Kerric wasn’t . . . That he wouldn’t . . .
Just admit you’re jealous! She finally demanded of herself, scowling at her dimly reflected image in the windowpanes of her bedchamber. Admit you are jealous, Myal, that he’s taking Sylva to dinner, and not you. And . . . and then admit you told him to do it, so it’s your own fault.
That was the worst of it. She had poured the salt of this evening onto her own wounds herself. Kerric had said he wasn’t interested in Sylva, and that he was interested in her, Myal. He had all but whined about having to honor his bargain with the burgher of Penambrion, and showed enthusiasm for the adventurer with whom he had just run the worst of Tower gauntlets. Her brain, calm and logical in the face of danger, understood that Kerric wanted to be with her, not Sylva or someone else. That he’d had plenty of opportunities to pick someone else, yet had not, until her.
Her heart wasn’t nearly as big and tough and brave and strong as her physical self. Nor as wise as her head. Proof of it lay in her acceptance of the serial scavenger hunt gauntlets. She should have taken an extra day of rest, but the bonuses for her patron-requested appearance this morning had been too good to turn down. There had been a few tense moments earlier in the day when she had worried as much for what Kerric must be thinking of the risks she was running—and almost distracting herself dangerously by it—as she’d been worried herself for her actual safety. She still had a mottled patch of bruises along her left side from catching an ogre’s club, though the bruises would be gone by tomorrow.
The relief in those gray eyes when the Master of the Tower had congratulated her team via mirror upon their return to the Adventuring Hall told her he had fretted quite a lot during her trip. If she kept doing it, she’d keep worrying him. Yet Myal wasn’t quite ready to retire yet. She wasn’t entirely willing to continue running the riskiest excursions anymore, but she knew she’d miss the excitement of it. Some of that could be soothed by Jessina’s suggestion this afternoon, by test-running the new gauntlet sections the Tower’s research mages have been creating. She thinks I’d be a perfect test-adventurer for such things, since I’m still young and fast enough for it, and Kerric did admit there’d be many safety features lined up to protect me from any malfunctioning traps or spells . . .
In the light of the expensive but worth-every-thronai lightglobe illuminating her tenement bedchamber, Myal stared at her reflection in the glazed window. He was trying hard to be encouraging and supportive in spite of his concerns . . . and I threw him into a dinner-date with a woman he’s not interested in. I should go be there to support him . . . except I still don’t know what I should wear.
Mindful of the passing of time, Myal finally gave up and drew out one of her older outfits, a Mendhite style vest and kilt set. Both were woven from silk, a little creased with age, though at least the laundry shop two streets over knew how to keep them bleached white. They were rather daring for Aian society; the vest had no sleeves, showed off a good portion of her cleavage, and didn’t quite meet the waistband of her kilt, which in turn just barely covered her from waist to knees. But the outfit was flattering, and made her colorful tattoos stand out in contrast to the plain white fabric.
A pair of white—well, almost white, slightly scuffed from use—knee-high boots completed the outfit, covering just enough of her legs to satisfy most Aian sensibilities. Not that Penambrion was very conservative; the entire region depended upon the scrycastings of the Tower, a very visual medium, for its best source of income, but Myal didn’t want to offend. Or attract the wrong attention; some male adventurers assumed that if a woman showed up in a less-than-conservative amount of clothing, they were looking for an adventure of an adult nature.
She didn’t want to attract the wrong attention. That would be disruptive for Kerric’s meal, which wasn’t the point of going to the Honey Spear at the same time as his dinner with Sylva.
She almost left her apartment with just her clothes and a belt with a coin pouch attached. But when she went to fill it with enough silver scepterai for her supper, Myal found the necklace she had salvaged from the Tower. Glittering rows of diamonds had been chained together between three large pearls, all of it strung together with links of white gold. The necklace would not clash with her outfit, and actually didn’t look bad when she checked her reflextion.
A bit flashy, perhaps, and very wealthy-looking. Myal added a dagger in a gray-dyed sheath to her belt as a visible warning she wasn’t to be trifled with, then checked that her braid was still neatly plaited down to her waist. Ready, she left her tenement. As she walked down the steps, the folds of the kilt brushed against her thighs and knees, giving her an extra touch of confidence. The knife in its sheath was a familiar weight, counterbalancing the coin purse strung opposite it. And the necklace drew startled, appraising looks from the adventurers exiting the Honey Spear when she reached its entrance.
Confident in herself—she was a popular, wealthy
adventurer, filled with stories both written and verbal waiting to be told—she pushed open the door and stepped inside. The noise of the place washed over her, not as a babble of voices, but rather as a rushing tide of whispers. No one spoke above more than a murmur, but it seemed as if everyone had an opinion to share, however hushed that sharing might be. Seated off to one side at a table just big enough for two, the Master of the Tower and the burgher of Penambrion were the focal points for all those whispers, and their accompanying stares.
Until she walked in. After no fewer than five people did a double take, glancing her way in idle curiosity, then whipping their heads back and forth between Kerric and her, Myal decided someone had spread a rumor that her trip into the Tower with the Master had ended up being a romantic one. It was the only reason why she could imagine people being so keenly interested in, yet wary of, her reaction at seeing the Master with the burgher. Unfortunately for them, she already knew, so she really didn’t have a reaction for them to gossip over. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t know who had started the rumor, so she didn’t know who to thump for their impertinence.
Finding an unoccupied seat was a bit difficult, even though a handful of men and women had left when she entered. Even just wading through the tables, trying to look, was hard; Myal had to back up and detour a few times. A large hand lifted and waved as she came close to one table, beckoning her over to it. The hand belonged to Nafiel, who removed his leg from the seat next to his and gestured for her to take it instead. Also at the table were two others she knew. Shalia Truehand, her downstairs neighbor, was one. She was seated on the lap of the other, Rick the Archer of all people, the most laid-back, yet second-most successful, adventurer in the Tower’s history.
That was the face she hadn’t been able to place, the evening Kerric had come to visit both of them in his quest for a gauntlet partner. Normally, the man smiled a slow, goofy, relaxed grin at best; he didn’t leer. Except he was leering openly at Shalia now, and she was smirking right back. But as much as she was curious about the pair—Shalia was infamous for being rather intense and Rick famous for being very mellow—Nafiel’s choice of a greeting snagged her attention.
“Ahhh, Myal the Magnificent! Marvelous to meet you this evening,” the large, muscular, bare-chested male stated. He grinned at her, no doubt amused by his alliteration. The same hand that had beckoned her close slapped one meaty thigh below his fur-covered loincloth, a garment shaped something like a kilt, only scandalously short by anything but swimming standards. “If you sit on my lap, we can get in another one, maybe two people at this table, yes? Everyone wants to be here tonight.”
“No, thank you,” Myal replied dryly. Her gaze wasn’t on the handsome, overly muscular, brown-haired man next to her, tall and gorgeous and barely dressed just so he could show off all those carefully maintained muscles. It lingered instead on the handsome, modestly muscled, brown-haired man about five tables away, who was fully clothed from the neck down.
Kerric had decided to dress in a deep blue tunic accented in swirling patterns of silvery gray and black silk, with black cloth buttons-and-loops for the closures, local-style. She couldn’t see his trousers from here, but she knew the outfit from seeing it in formal scrycast announcements in the past; the trousers would be a solid blue, the boots and belt black accented with silver trim. His shoulder-length hair had been pulled back on the sides and top with a silver clasp, leaving every expression on his face fully visible as he chatted animatedly with the burgher.
It was not the outfit she had last seen him in, post-gauntlet. That had been shades of dark to medium gray, and made out of high-quality but common linen, not expensive imported silk. A twinge of jealousy stung at her thoughts the moment she realized he had actually dressed up for his dinner with Sylva. Of course he dresses up when I tell him to dine with another woman . . . I shouldn’t have told him to do this.
Naturally, she dressed up, too, Myal acknowledged silently, cattily. Man-thief, baiting her trap with no doubt her best outfit. Part of her wanted to find something wrong with the woman’s choice. Unfortunately the shades of deep rose, light pink, and subtle accents in pale blue on her chosam, the local formal tunic-dress for women, actually flattered her light complexion and her feminine curves. With her blonde hair piled up on her head and her expression delighted in whatever they were talking about, she looked very beautiful. Alluring, even.
Except Sylva’s delight was too genuine to really feel catty over it. The woman was sweet, and competent, and nice, and . . . Myal couldn’t hate her for capturing Kerric’s attention. In their conversation. Just in their conversation, she struggled to reassure herself. He’s just being nice because she’s a business colleague, a fellow leader of the region—no, he’s being nice because he is nice, and she is nice, and I really need to stop thinking catty thoughts.
Nafiel leaned in close enough that she could feel his body heat. “You really shouldn’t look so jealous in public,” he murmured in her ear. “People will start taking bets on whether you’ll try to pick a fight with Sylva over the Master. As much as we’re in the business of entertaining, that sort of public spectacle wouldn’t be scrycast, so you wouldn’t be getting paid for it.”
“Sorry I’m late getting to you,” the tavern maid stated, reaching Myal’s other side. “By the Gods, it sure is crowded in here tonight! Word spread fast that the Master was dating a woman, and everyone wants to come see,” she added in a quiet but chatty tone. “Tonight’s big meal is roasted beef with glazed onions, mashed tubers, and all the buttered squash-bread you could want, but we also have a goose that’s just come out of the baking oven with a nice stuffing, if you’re willing to wait a few more minutes, or a hearty fish soup if you’re not. That, I can get back to you within . . . um,” the woman hedged, peering through the crowd. She chuckled ruefully. “Well, another five minutes just to wade through all the tables, maybe. I think half the town is trying to get inside, tonight.”
“Beef,” Myal ordered. “Please.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can with your plate. Anything to drink?”
“She’ll have cider,” Nafiel stated, upturning one of the clean mugs on the table as he reached for a pitcher. “That way you don’t have to carry extra.”
“That’ll be a blessing—I’ll be back shortly,” the server promised, already wiggling and edging her way back out from between the tables toward the kitchen.
Myal frowned at Nafiel. “I don’t wish to get drunk.”
He leaned in close again. “It’s fresh, not fermented.” He fixed her with a pointed look, his hazel eyes looking more green than blue or gray at this distance. “People like you and me, with all our strengths, should not get intoxicated in public. Particularly when our emotions are running strong.”
“I am fine. I am under complete control,” Myal asserted—and squeaked in shock when the Pashai barbarian reached over and scooped her onto his lap without warning.
“Then you’ll not smack me for this,” he murmured in her ear as she perched there in shock. She didn’t have to worry about him being after her expensive necklace; Nafiel was easily the wealthiest adventurer in the valley, though a stranger would never know it from the way he dressed and acted. Raising his voice, he greeted two people who had moved up to take the barmaid’s place. “Zevra, and Salonnei—Adventuring Hall staff, yes? I thought I recognized your beautiful smile. Come, sit; Myal has generously given up that nice comfortable chair to sit on my lap, just for the two of you!”
“One chair, for two of us?” the stripe-clad Zevra asked, while his companion giggled and blushed at Nafiel’s compliment. The adventurer grinned, seated himself, and pulled her onto his lap as well, though he didn’t nibble on her ear as Rick the Archer was doing to Shalia, both of their dinners all but forgotten.
There wasn’t much Myal could say otherwise; Zevra was a friend and fellow adventurer—as was Nafiel, even though she did want to smack him—and there really weren’t any spare chairs to be had in the tav
ern. She was lucky she could even see Kerric and Sylva from this angle, though she suspected Nafiel had perched her on that leg, facing in that direction, so that she wouldn’t have to strain to see the Master and the burgher enjoying their meal.
Even as she thought about Kerric, he looked around the room in an idle fashion while his dining companion drank from the red wine in her goblet. Their eyes met. A warm, happy smile lit up his face—the previous ones had been honest smiles, but this was a genuine one. Just then, Nafiel leaned forward, cutting off Myal’s view of her lover. When he sat back, offering her the mug he had poured, Kerric’s brow had pinched in a frown. Not an outright scowl, but not a happy expression, either.
The gossiping whispers and speculative murmurings picked up in their intensity as people followed the line of that frown from Kerric to the Nafiel-seated Myal and back. That did it. Myal was no dunce when it came to public entertainment. She was now the focus of far too many eyes, far too many thoughts, and far too much potential for harmful gossip to dare push off the showman barbarian’s lap, or slap him, or stalk out of the tavern . . . or confront Sylva in anything but the most polite of fashions.
“Good girl,” Nafiel murmured in her ear, praising her. He almost sounded like Kerric when he said it, but his voice merely irritated her. “Nothing stirs a man’s resolve like thinking another man is courting his woman.”
He’s deliberately provoking Kerric with jealousy? Myal realized with a shock. Turning, she eyed the strong, powerful, highly skilled fighter. Hissing into his ear to keep their conversation as private as possible, she demanded, “Are you insane? You do not provoke a fight with the Tower Master!”
