Then Istvhan had released her and smiled and sauntered away and left Clara ready to scream.
Calm, she thought. Calm. Blessed St. Ursa, grant me your peace…
It hadn’t felt much like peace lately. The fear and the frustration had felt like she was swallowing bile and it was hot and roiling under her breastbone. Lust warmed her more kindly than the fear did, but she still felt too full of emotions she didn’t dare let out. She’d slipped a little when fighting him. It had felt too good to strike out and she knew better than to go too far down that road. You got in the habit of releasing your anger with your fists and things went bad quickly. Thank St. Ursa it had been Istvhan, who was big enough and tough enough to take it, and to keep himself safe in the process.
Maybe berserkers understood these things better than other people.
She would have liked to be the bear for a little while. The bear was easy. The bear didn’t feel these things. But she couldn’t very well sneak away in the dark without Istvhan noticing, and what was she going to say? He’d probably insist on guarding her in case someone in this well-settled land happened to wander past and saw a giant bear and ran screaming for hunters to come and deal with it. It wasn’t even a bad idea to do so. If one of her sisters had planned to do it, she’d have insisted on coming along in human shape to make sure nothing went wrong.
It just wasn’t fair. He was lying beside her and…and breathing. Well, of course he’s breathing, what do you expect him to do? It was just that every breath reminded her that he was right there and alive and she could roll over and grab him by the hips and drag him on top of her and say…well, probably not “Take me now” although that had a certain straightforward appeal to it.
No. No, it’ll just be more feelings. More emotions. You’re nearly in Morstone. You can’t afford more of this. Your sisters need you to be strong and calm.
Clara thought fixedly of her sisters and mostly what came to mind was Sister Sigrid whacking her across the back of the head and yelling, “You’ve got a good-looking man right there and you’re not doing anything about it?”
Yes, Sigrid, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Or not doing, in this case.
She’d genuinely thought he wasn’t interested. All those moments of closeness where she was suddenly very aware of the width of his shoulders and the thickness of his thighs, the way his eyes were as dark as fine chocolate…she’d thought those were all one-sided. Men didn’t want to bed the beast. The fact that she still wanted him and he couldn’t possibly want her had joined the other emotions stewing in her chest, being shoved down as far as they could go.
And then he’d kissed her hand and breathed against her fingers and saints have mercy, you didn’t do it like that if you weren’t interested in someone. Which meant that he still wanted her. Even knowing about the bear.
He’d kissed her up after the battle and it had been good—much, much better than anything she’d felt in a long time—but he hadn’t known then. Which was probably why she was still reliving the sensation of his lips moving over each knuckle because it was more than any man had ever done, knowing the truth of what she was.
A man who could see past the beast was a man that she could fall in love with far too easily.
The thought stabbed her like a knife. She could not be falling in love. Not right now. Not with her sisters in peril. Gods and saints alive and dead, how could she even think such a thing when her fellow nuns had been dragged to Morstone in chains and were probably being driven into a gladiatorial pit to fight to the death? What kind of…of…utterly self-centered, irredeemable ass would pick this moment to go mooning after a man?
Another stab inside her chest. She wanted to scream or weep or howl or explode. None of those things would help.
The beast sensed her torment and half-roused, but saw no enemy. Hurt? Where?
No, she told it. Not hurt. Hush. Not now.
It settled, and she fixed her mind firmly on meditations, wishing for prayer beads. She counted catechisms on her fingers instead, until the beast slept and her tension eased.
We reach Morstone tomorrow. And then I need to put this man aside and focus on my task, because saint help me, I think I may already be falling in love.
Twenty-Seven
At first glance, Morstone looked like a junk heap built on a dock.
Water slapped against immense pilings and gulls swirled through the air overhead. The city itself was almost impossible to take in at first glance, a jumble of architectural styles and materials built on top of each other in layers that looked more like debris washed up on a water grate than like deliberate building.
“I don’t see much stone,” said Clara.
“You won’t,” said Doc Mason. “Morstone is a corruption of mori-stone, from mori, meaning salt. Salt is their biggest export. They had to import the actual stones from a quarry. The high-rent districts are all on islands in the river.”
“There’s a river?” said Istvhan doubtfully. Clara could understand his doubts. It looked more like a lake.
“It’s high tide,” Tolly said. “Be grateful, at low tide the smell will knock your socks off. Coming in like this, you get a little time to get used to it before you get the full experience.”
Clara wiped her nose. She could smell the mudflat smell of rotten fish and seaweed from here. She couldn’t imagine how much worse the smell was at low tide.
Particularly since they’re probably using the river as a sewer, too.
“It’s a river delta,” said Doc Mason. “Very fertile soil, I’m told, if you like that sort of thing.” He waved his arm upriver, and Clara could just barely make out the distant squares of fields, already harvested for winter.
“It would have to be, to sustain a city this size,” said Istvhan. “I suppose they control the trade down the river, though. Archon’s Glory does that as well, where we are, and Anuket City, across the river. They have a fine old rivalry about it, too.”
“No rivals here. It’s the only navigable river for miles. And they don’t allow anyone else along the coast to sell salt, either.”
Clara raised her eyebrows. “Don’t allow?”
“Morstone’s fortune is built on salt,” said Doc Mason. “You’re allowed to dry salt. And you are graciously allowed to sell it to Morstone, at any price they choose to give you. If you do not wish to accept that price, you are allowed to watch them take it anyway, and burn your town in the bargain.”
He sounded tired, and Clara suspected that he knew a little more about burning towns than he might wish to. What had he said earlier? ‘I drive away, and in my head, they are always just as I left them.’ Except at least once they didn’t stay that way, did they? Morstone came after them.
“And no one can stop them,” said Clara thoughtfully. “Can they?”
“A great navy might,” said Doc Mason. “But there are no great navies volunteering to do the job. One of the great merchant consortiums might be able to challenge them, but they dare not risk being cut off from the salt trade. I suspect that if change comes to Morstone, it will come from inside.” He slapped the reins across the necks of the mules and they picked up the pace.
“The world runs on salt,” said Istvhan, nodding. “Where I am from, there are two city-states who control a tributary each of the great river between them. Both of them well-located, both of them wealthy, but one has a salt mine upriver and the other one does not. So Anuket City is by far the more powerful of the two now, and I suspect the mine has something to do with it, even if the ruler that actually controls the salt charges Anuket City a criminal amount for their wares.”
Traffic increased as they approached. At first it had only been occasional farm wagons coming back from early morning deliveries, but now there were carriages and oxcarts and rickshaws. Clara had never seen so many different kinds of carts. There were large trade towns on the canal and sometimes they had two or three different styles of transport, but nothing like this. She counted eight different designs of horse
cart alone before she gave up.
“No walls,” said Istvhan, gazing ahead. “No fear of invaders, I take it?”
“If an enemy got close enough on land, they would fire the bridges,” said Doc Mason. “You note how the road starts going up ahead of us? It becomes a causeway at high tide. If an army tries to invade, they will be up to their armpits soon enough, and then the archers could stand on the ring road and rain arrows down on them. And most of their food comes from the sea, so burning the farm fields won’t starve them out.”
“Navy or nothing then.”
“Indeed.”
“I hate boats,” muttered Istvhan, to no one in particular.
“Do you get seasick?”
“No. I just hate them.” He avoided Clara’s eye. “They’re on the water.”
“That is what makes them boats, yes.”
“You can’t deal with water.”
Clara raised her eyebrows. Doc Mason put his chin in his hand and leaned forward. “Whatever do you mean, my boy?”
Istvhan looked over, clearly saw that all three of them were looking at him, and hunched his shoulders. “You can’t fight it. You can’t talk to it. You can’t bribe it or negotiate with it. You can’t even run away from it. It’s like an earthquake, except all the time.”
Clara smothered a laugh. It was hard to imagine gallant Istvhan, who had faced a wedge of men on horseback with only his sword, being afraid of the sea. Then again, you’ve seen him talk his way or fight his way out of everything. He is very confident in his ability to do those things. Perhaps it would be unsettling to have a foe that responds to neither, and doesn’t even know it’s your foe.
Which was interesting. And perhaps said a lot about what someone like Istvhan feared most of all.
The causeway split into three parts as they approached the city. Two fanned out in a broad circle around the outside of the pilings, and the center one went straight up a bridge and into Morstone. There was an enormous open space here, full of wagons being turned, wagons being unloaded, horses being watered, and money changing hands. A forest of stalls sprung up around the edges, some of them built out over the water on pilings of their own. Tolly pulled the mules up near the edge.
“Here we must part ways, my friends.” Doc Mason helped Clara down from the wagon, which she didn’t need but pretended to anyway. “Our business is not in the city proper, but on the ring road.”
Istvhan pulled his pack from the back of the wagon and shouldered it. Clara, with no possessions to worry about, settled for fending off the hawkers who descended on the wagon, trying to sell trinkets, cure-alls, and dried cheese on a string. “We don’t want any,” she said, folding her arms. “We’re in the business ourselves. That one’s a fake. So’s that one, but it’s a better fake. No. Go fleece someone else, gents.” The crowd retreated reluctantly, but fortunately a mail coach appeared and spilled its occupants and the hawkers abandoned Clara and Istvhan for new marks.
“It has been a pleasure,” said Doc Mason, shaking hands with both of them. “Istvhan, should you ever decide to quit the ecclesiastical lifestyle, I would be happy to have you accompany me again. Domina Clara, I hope that you find what you are looking for.”
She smiled at him. “I hope that you sell an extraordinary amount of tonic. And Tolly, if you find yourself on the far side of the Arrals, give my name to the merchants along the canal. They won’t cheat you.”
Tolly kissed Istvhan on the cheek and hugged Clara, then scrambled up on the wagon seat. She clucked her tongue at the mules and they ambled off along the outer road, leaving the two standing in front of the gates.
“Well,” said Clara. “I suppose that’s that, then.” She turned to Istvhan and took a deep breath. “Thank you, too, Captain Istvhan, for all your help. I hope your men arrive safely.”
“I hope they do too,” said Istvhan, “but I imagine you’ll find out when I do. If you think I’m leaving you to rattle around in this city alone, you’re out of your mind, Domina.”
“I do not recall asking you,” said Clara. She squared her shoulders. “You’ve been an extraordinary help, but I can no longer impose upon your time.”
“You’re not imposing,” said Istvhan. “And we’re not discussing this here where everyone and their god can hear us.” He caught her forearm and felt the muscles tighten under his hand, but she let him pull her aside, out of the street, and into an alley.
She shook him off once they were out of the street and settled back against the wall, arms folded across her chest. “Captain, I appreciate that you wish to help, but—”
“Domina, for god’s sake. Drop this captain nonsense. You’ve called me Istvhan for weeks now.”
She glared at him. “If we’re doing that, then my name isn’t Domina either.”
He gritted his teeth. She was right, dammit. “Fine. Clara…what on earth do you plan to do alone in this city? Do you even know where to start making inquiries? You’re going to bring the raiders and their bosses straight down on your head.”
“And I suppose you have a better plan? You’ve never been here before either.”
Istvhan put one hand on the wall next to her head and leaned forward. He couldn’t loom much, but he did his best with what he had to work with. “I have contacts at the Temple of the White Rat. The Rat gets everywhere. They will help us. They’ll know who to ask, or at least where to start asking, and how to do it without getting people’s backs up.”
Clara seized her lower lip in her teeth and worried at it until it seemed it might bleed. Istvhan reached out without thinking and ran his thumb across her chin. “Don’t,” he said. “You’re hurting yourself.” His voice was still too angry and he tried to gentle it, but…just… dammit. What do I have to do? What am I doing that’s wrong?
Stop thinking with your cock, he told himself, and start thinking like a paladin. You were one once, if you haven’t completely forgotten.
Her eyes were full of shadows. He shoved down lust like he shoved down the battle tide and focused on his voice. Careful. Soothing. Kind. A brother’s voice, although he was not feeling the least bit brotherly. “Clara,” he said. That was better. That came out correctly. “Clara, you don’t have to do this alone. Let me help.”
She swallowed hard. In another woman, he would have expected tears in her eyes, but she was fighting them back, he was sure of it. She would not show weakness, no matter how much it cost her.
One of her hands moved. She rubbed her knuckles against her sternum as if it pained her, then winced almost imperceptibly and stopped. Her injured hand, of course. Istvhan laid his hand in the center of her chest, his palm between her breasts. A great intimacy, but for once he had nothing carnal in mind, only comfort.
She inhaled sharply. He searched her face, not looking down, and then her hand crept up and covered his. He could feel her breath catching, as if there was something in her chest that strangled her.
“You keep trying to leave me behind. Have I offended you so badly?” He felt himself smiling, because it hurt when he said it, and sometimes you smiled so that no one would know how much you hated the pain.
She took another halting breath and her fingers laced tightly with his. “No,” she said.
“No?”
“I try to leave because I can’t think straight when I’m with you.” She smiled a little too, and Istvhan suspected it was for the same reason. He could feel her heart beating against his fingers. “You see? I forget that I don’t know who to ask or where to go. I think only that if you’re not here, maybe I’ll start thinking clearly again.”
“It seems like neither of us are thinking clearly,” he said. And then, because there was really only one way to follow that sentence, Istvhan kissed her.
It was far more hesitant than the first time or the second. He only brushed his lips across hers, like a question—Do you feel this too? Is it only me?
Against his palm, her heart began to pound. He rubbed his hand in the tiniest of circles, as if soothing
an ache, and her lips parted under his. Another brush and another, soft and careful, and it felt like the answer to his question was right there, but he would have had to deepen the kiss to learn it.
No. Let her decide what she wants, because she wants it, and not because you’re kissing her senseless.
He pulled back, searching her face. “If you truly cannot bear my company, then let me take you to the Temple of the Rat.” It would kill him to walk away, but he would if he must. If he was overwhelming her, it was safer for her and her sisters for him to be elsewhere. “I will speak to the priests on your behalf and then, if it is what you wish, I’ll leave you to them.”
A shudder went through her. He felt it, though he could not see it. He stepped away, letting his hand drop. “Come along. Let’s find the temple.”
It was never hard to find the Temple of the White Rat. Everyone in the poorer parts of any city knew where it was. You went there for food or healing or simply because you had a problem and there would be someone who could either help you, or point you in the right direction. Of all the gods that Clara had encountered in her travels, the White Rat’s people came the closest to genuinely making the world a better place.
Istvhan asked for directions twice from beggars and dropped coins in their palms afterward, and that was enough to set them in the right direction. Clara followed close behind him, keeping an eye on his back. She had never been in a city this size before and the smells and the sounds formed a multi-layered din that left her squinting, despite it being an overcast day.
Istvhan seemed to have no trouble with it. That surprised her. Somehow he seemed like a creature too large to live in cities, as if he would constantly be ducking doorways and turning sideways through alleys. She kept catching herself hunching her shoulders, even when she was in no immediate danger of running into anything.
“Big place,” she said, when they paused at the corner of an intersection.
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