The Tower

by Jean Johnson

  “Actually, I’m looking forward to seeing how he’ll handle this,” Nafiel returned calmly, picking up his own mug. He did so in the same dry tone he often used during a gauntlet run to describe encountering yet another very lethal trap. Myal recalled him having used it once to describe the Scales of Justice, in fact.

  “Adventurers!” she huffed, unable to believe that he could be such a danger-addict as to taunt the most powerful mage in the land.

  Nafiel, in the middle of a sip of his cider, choked on it with a laugh, and started coughing. Apparently, he hadn’t expected her, a fellow adventurer, to be so scornful of her own profession. The Hall worker, Salonnei, reached over and whacked the large man on the back a couple of times, hard enough to rock his torso. “—Enough! Gods above, woman! They should put you in the Tower as one of the dangers. Zevra, I hope you have some good healing talismans in your home, with her strength to deal with.”

  The commotion drew Sylva’s attention as well as Kerric’s. She glanced their way, studied Myal, Nafiel, and the others, then looked back at Kerric, only to swiftly follow his frowning gaze back to Myal seated on Nafiel’s lap among the others. Her brow furrowed as well, clearly not happy that her companion’s attention was more focused on another woman than on her.

  The gossip level intensified around them when the other patrons in the tavern noticed that as well. A modest distraction for Myal came in the form of the tavern maid heroically making it back to her table in record time with a tray of plates and baskets of the sweet, moist squash-bread that everyone locally liked. She gave Myal her plate, accepted the handful of coins thrust her way without being counted, and waded off to deliver other food to other customers. Leaving Myal to sit there on another man’s lap and pick at her meal while her man didn’t have to share a chair while he conversed and dined with another woman.

  A nice woman, whom she honestly could not hate or even think of harming, though Myal heartily wished she were gone.

  Halfway across the room, Kerric dragged his attention back to the woman seated at his own table. He did not like seeing Myal seated so . . . so acceptingly in the big adventurer’s lap. Why isn’t she elbowing him, or walking off, or . . . Well, it is very crowded in here, he acknowledged, watching her accept her plate of food, barely able to make room for it next to Nafiel’s. And there are two others sharing seats, though it looks like they’re actual couples . . . and I really wish she had a seat of her own, dammit. They look far too good together like that.

  I also wish he were wearing some actual clothes, dammit—even in the winter, he barely puts a fur throw on his shoulders. But now it’s summer, and with all those enchanted amulets and such to keep him safe and warm or cool, whatever the weather, which means she’s sitting there on his naked thigh, and . . .

  “Kerric?” Sylva asked, her tone edged enough to recapture his attention. Turning back to the burgher, he offered her a polite smile.

  “Sorry—I knew it’d be crowded when I brought you here, but I didn’t think it’d be quite this crowded,” he apologized. “Any time I take a woman out for a meal, everyone always speculates on whether or not I’m developing a love life.”

  She smiled again, mollified. Bracing her elbow on the table, Sylva rested her chin on her fingers in a flirtatious pose and purred, “Should we give them something to really gossip about?”

  Stifling the urge to wince, Kerric shook his head. “I’d rather not give them that kind of speculation. You and I are colleagues, and one day you will be the mayor of Penambrion. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize such a good working relationship between the Tower and the town.”

  Her smile fell. Straightening, she picked up her fork and stabbed at her mashed roots, before asking, “Yes, well . . . surely you do want a personal life, yes? With the right woman? Someone intelligent, and cultured, and . . .”

  “And I have found that woman,” Kerric told her quietly, aware that the men and women seated at the two nearest tables to theirs had fallen quiet, straining to hear their words. “She is the right woman for me, and I am the right man for her.” Even if she’s sitting in the wrong man’s lap, a corner of his mind snarked. Kerric kept his expression and his tone gentle. “But as much as many people out there could try to wish it otherwise, I am not the right man for you, and you are correspondingly not the right woman for me—you want children, Sylva,” he reminded her. “You’ve alluded to offspring at least three times so far this evening.

  “I do not. And I would never limit a woman’s right to choose for or against such things in a matter as important as that, or force her to change who and what she wants herself to be, just as I wouldn’t care to have a woman try to change me so radically.” Picking up fork and knife, he cut into the last few bits of beef on his plate. “Each of us deserves a partner in our lives with similar viewpoints and goals. There will be a man out there who is perfect for you—many men who would be perfect.

  “I, however, am not listed among their number, and never will be. Our most basic preferences are too different,” he asserted as Sylva drew in a breath to protest. “I respect you too much, Sylva, to demand anything less than your happiness with the right man.”

  She subsided, scowling a bit, though her distress didn’t last long. “Well, I can honestly say I tried. I’ve had feelings for you for quite some time, Kerric. A pity they’re not returned.”

  “If they’re feelings of admiration and respect, they are,” he pointed out, popping a forkful of beef into his mouth. An expressive shrug dismissed any chance for more romantic-type feelings while he chewed.

  Sylva sighed and toyed with the remains of her meal. “I suppose I’ll die an old maid, then.”

  Kerric snorted, coughed, and cleared his mouth with a sip of his cider. Like many mages, particularly powerful ones, he avoided drinking much in the way of alcohol for the sake of self-control. A small beer here, a light ale there, a single glass of wine sometimes, but tonight, nothing but fresh-pressed cider from the apples grown here in Penambrion. “The only thing you have to worry about, Sylva, is making sure that you can get along for the rest of your life with yourself. Once you take care of that part, you’ll be happy no matter who comes or goes in your life.”

  “Hmphf,” she scoffed, though she didn’t otherwise protest. Eyeing the rest of the crowded tavern, her gaze fell on Myal, seated on Nafiel’s lap. This time her frown was a puzzled one. “Wait . . . you said you thought you’d found the right woman for you . . . and you’ve been rather close with Myal the Magnificent ever since your Tower run . . . but she’s cuddled up with Nafiel. If she’s the one you’re interested in, how could you hope to compete with him? No offense,” Sylva added quickly, looking back at Kerric, “but he is the dreamiest man in the whole region.”

  Kerric knew Sylva had a point. He also knew Myal’s feelings on the other man; she had sworn she and Nafiel were merely colleagues and friends, nothing more. Pricklings of jealousy bothered him every time he glanced their way . . . but the mage knew that he had to trust her word. She believed in giving one’s word and following through on it, which was why he was here dining with Sylva instead of with her.

  Shrugging, he switched the topic back to the needs of the region, avoiding that particular subject. “Speaking of Myal, she did put up a good suggestion yesterday. With so many people in the Tower and the Hall and the town itself working hard to set everything back to rights and on schedule again, it was suggested we hold a big feast-and-food-fight in the Banqueting Hall in the Tower to celebrate their efforts, and to turn it into a free bonus scrycasting—hence the food-fight scenario—to make up for all the lost entertainment time.

  “Obviously we cannot get everyone into the actual room itself in the Tower, but there is the Penambrion Market Hall. If we pick a few days before the Spring Planting Festival next month, would it be permissible for us to hold the feast-and-fight in there? With the appropriate spells for safety, pre – and post-cleanup, and a brief suspension of the anti-scrying wards, I think it could be
managed,” Kerric offered, “but I wanted to know what you think of the idea. Using the Market Hall for public events is your area of expertise, not mine.”

  Perking up a little, the burgher considered his request with a thoughtful look while she sipped her wine. A sidelong glance showed Nafiel once again leaning his brutish barbarian head far too close to Myal for Kerric’s comfort, murmuring something in her ear. Something which made her laugh. He knew he didn’t have exclusive rights on making her laugh, but Kerric didn’t like watching another man managing it.

  Myal, halfway across the room and snickering so hard she snorted, quickly covered her nose and mouth. Panting to recover her breath, she twisted just enough to elbow Nafiel subtly in the chest. He grunted and winced slightly, but otherwise didn’t register the hit openly. “That is a terrible pun,” she admonished, trying to sound stern instead of silly. “Stop trying to cheer me up just to make Kerric jealous!”

  “It does seem to be working, though,” Nafiel pointed out. “He keeps glaring at me between ogling you and trying not to frown at her.”

  “You exaggerate,” Myal stated, forced by honesty to admit that much. She picked up her mug for another drink between bites of tender beef. “He’s just frowning slightly. That’s hardly a glare. And there’s no need to make him jealous. I’m pretty sure he’ll still like me more than her when his dinner arrangements are done.”

  “Ah, but it’s not just for your sake,” Nafiel sighed, resting his chin on her shoulder for a moment, staring in the same direction as Myal, though not at the same target. “I’d very much like to date our Town burgher, if I could. I do love older women . . . so sexy, so confident, so ready to be loved thoroughly by the right man . . .”

  “Why don’t you marry her?” Myal quipped dryly. Hearing his sigh, a sincerely regret-filled sound, she realized why he couldn’t in the next moment. “. . . You’re serious about her?”

  “I’d like to be,” he murmured, picking up his own mug. “But if I did that, my career would be over because I couldn’t be an effective husband and father if I kept risking my life and limb every day . . . and she’d be fielding death threats from outraged patrons. For that matter, you might have taken yourself off the Seraglio list, but I’m firmly on it. That’s too much money to pass up, and I have a whole village with serious problems I’m trying to support, back home.”

  That was the first time she’d heard him mention such a thing. Myal gave him a curious look. Everyone knew Nafiel loved his home village and spoke proudly of the people he had grown up with, but this was the first time he’d mentioned any difficulties among them. “Is everything alright, back home?”

  “You didn’t hear?” he returned. At the shake of her head, Nafiel shrugged. “The old king of Pasha is dying, and his sons and nephews are all fighting to be named his next heir. Literally fighting. My home village has been raided three times this winter by the so-called armies the various factions have been raising. They’ve been forced to eat the grain set aside for seed just to survive, they have so little left, so I’ve been buying extra food and seed and shipping it to them under armed guard . . . but there’s only so much I can do from several hundred miles away. I may have to leave the Tower to go home and fight, if it comes to an actual succession war. So it looks like I might lose my favorite job anyway.”

  “I can’t imagine the Tower without you, Nafiel,” Myal murmured. “But I do understand why you’d have to go. If Mendhi were as close, and my family were threatened, I’d be heading home, too.”

  He smiled wistfully at her understanding, then pulled her into a hug. Not a romantic one, just a thankful one for her sympathy. Myal couldn’t quite hug him back in her current position, but she did curl an arm up around his, squeezing the muscular limb in return.

  A moment later, the Master of the Tower stood . . . and the tavern fell deathly quiet within the span of three heartbeats. Dozens of eyes flicked between the short but powerful mage, and the tall, muscular warrior. Myal stiffened, worried, but Nafiel didn’t let her go. “It’s okay,” he breathed in her ear, mindful of the sudden silence. “It’s just that they’ve finished their dinner. He hasn’t seen this little hug. Yet.”

  The amusement in the barbarian’s voice told her he was looking forward to the explosion when Kerric did. Rolling her eyes at Nafiel’s addiction to adrenaline, Myal waited to see what Kerric would do. As she—and the whole of the crowded tavern—watched, he bowed to the burgher and spoke. “Thank you for a lovely dinner, Sylva. Your company, as always, is most enjoyable. I’ll look forward to the arrangements for renting the Market Hall for that party.”

  With another slight, polite dip of his head, he turned as if to leave, though his gaze swept through the silent, watchful crowd and spotted Myal snuggled in Nafiel’s burly arms. One brow lifting silently, he headed their way.

  Chairs scraped and bodies shifted, clearing a better path between the Master of the Tower and his target. Some of the mage-adventurers whispered under their breath, auras lighting up with protective shieldings, clearly getting ready to defend themselves from the impending fight. No fool, Kerric knew they had seen his many glances at Myal, both happy and unhappy, during the meal. He knew what conclusions they were drawing, and how most of them expected a fight, or at the very least a challenge to a duel of some sort. Or maybe they’re secretly taking mental bets on how quickly I’ll get him fired from the Adventuring Hall roster . . . or how fast I’ll strike with a ball of fire or something.

  He did none of those things, however. Stopping next to the couple, he bowed slightly to Nafiel and stated clearly, calmly, and almost cheerfully, “Thank you, Nafiel, for keeping my beloved company while I was occupied with town and Tower business. I trust I can call on you again, should another such need arise?”

  Nafiel first grinned, then chuckled, then laughed heartily. He released Myal, holding out his large, callused hand for the shorter man to grip. “If she doesn’t find me too boring! I can hardly compare to you, milord. Myal, I’ll see you tomorrow at the Adventurer’s Hall. Master Kerric, I’ll see you for the debriefing on that Seraglio run.”

  That little comment reignited the gossip mill, and Kerric almost could have kissed the other man for it. Now all the whispers were about the salaciousness of a Seraglio gauntlet, and the fact that the highly eligible Nafiel had agreed to compete . . . though there were still several murmurings discussing the diffusion of tension between the two men. Those who had expected a fight relaxed their bodies and their powers with relieved looks. Others—mostly women, but a few men—gave both Kerric and Myal dirty looks when she placed her hand in his, allowing him to assist her to her feet.

  “If you’re done with your dinner, my dear lady,” Kerric stated, not bothering to hide his words, “I’ve prepared a special dessert for you in my quarters. Would you care to partake?”

  “Always,” she replied, deeply relieved there wouldn’t be a fight. She liked but didn’t love Nafiel—not like she loved Kerric—but she didn’t wish him to be hurt, either. There was no doubt in her mind who the winner would be in a fight between the two men, even accounting for all of Nafiel’s enchanted charms and baubles, each of which was meant to either level the playing field or give him an advantage in a fight, much like her more visible tattoos.

  Gossip followed them as Kerric entwined his fingers with hers and led her out of the tavern. Once they were outside in the cool night air, the noise of everyone whispering and murmuring swelled into outright, open talking. The Master of the Tower sighed and said, “They’re taking bets on our relationship, you know. It’s like a regular Senod-Gra in there.”

  “They can take bets all they want. I’m the one who’s going to win,” Myal stated. She had seen how Sylva looked at the end of their meal, a little disappointed perhaps, but not at all devastated or resentful that she’d been turned down. Somehow, Kerric had dealt with the burgher as gracefully as he had dealt with the barbarian. That satisfied her, though she did have one comment to make. “I do wish to change
my bet, however.”

  “Oh? You mean the forty-three years bet, on how long we’ll be together?” he asked, wanting confirmation they were on the same topic.

  “Yes. I want to make it sixty-three years. Three years longer than your bet,” she stated.

  Kerric laughed and shook his head ruefully. “You’re making it very difficult for me to out-bet you. Not even the most powerful mage in the world can make himself and his beloved live forever, you know.”

  “True, but I do like the odds of living a very long and very happy rest-of-my-life with you,” Myal stated.

  “Mm, yes,” he agreed, loosening his grip on her hand in favor of slipping his arm around her waist. She draped hers around his shoulders. “In that case, I’ll make my bet for Happily Ever After.”

  Myal started to sigh happily, enjoying the night with her beloved at her side. Then frowned. “Wait, I thought you wrote technical books, not romantic stories.”

  “True, but I’m willing to give it a try—and, dammit, I knew there was something I forgot to do,” he groused under his breath. Giving her waist a squeeze, Kerric said, “Remind me after we make love to start reading your story booklets.”

  “What, you’re not going to read any of them for at least a week?” Myal mock-worried.

  Kerric chuckled and hugged her close as they walked side-by-side. “Silly woman, you’re under contract, remember? I’d have to stop making love to you for at least a few hours every day for your scrycastings. Though I won’t stop loving you, just to warn you—and let me tell you, my heart was pounding when you faced off against the Choking Shadows trap. Could you please move a little faster when facing off against such things?”

  “I was worried about whether you would be worried, and that distracted me,” Myal admitted. She shrugged and added, “Now that I know you’ll be worried about me, I can relax.”

  He snorted. “Oh, is that how that works? I sit there in the Tower fretting over you being harmed, like that horrid whallop you took this morning, and you’re happy about it?”