One Velvet Glove

by Dave Duncan

  The inner door was conventional, with a latch that moved at his touch. It opened into a stable, with a high ceiling, eight or ten stalls, and one horse, a sizeable black stallion. He was a beauty, the sort of mount that only a nobleman would ride, and the tack hanging on the post beside him was worthy of him, every buckle shining like gold. The stable itself was quite the cleanest and grandest Spender had ever seen. The windows, in the wall opposite the stalls, were too high to see through, so he limped—on both legs—all the way to the far end, and opened the door there. He was not in the least surprised to find himself emerging close to the black-and-white Time Tower in Desidéria’s magic palace.

  Everything was just as he remembered it: the great grassy quadrangle with its well-disciplined trees and hedges, its flowerbeds, and its many raised statues of the marquisa herself. Thirty years... No, thirty-two years had passed, and yet the trees looked no higher, the statues remained shiny and free of bird droppings, all just as he remembered them. Did Desidéria’s spirituality banish Time from this place, or did her human servants preserve everything unchanged—pruning, polishing, replanting, as required to keep it all as it had been in her youth? Spirits! Nostalgia enveloped him like a blanket, making his eyes prickle and bringing a lump to his throat.

  There was no living person in sight, but he did not doubt for a moment that Desidéria was somewhere nearby and knew that he had returned. The northwest tower, the Time Tower, was her domicile, where she had her bedchamber and reception hall. That velvet glove had been an invitation to call, and however long he had taken to respond he ought now to pay his respects to his hostess. He limped around to the front and was about to make his way up the steps to the door when he noticed the nearest plinth, the black one, on the far side of the access road. In his youthful days, it had supported nothing but a golden snake, he recalled. He had joked that it ought to stand outside the Death Tower. Now the snake had gone, and there was a statue on it, one that was larger and shone brighter than all the others: gold, not bronze or marble. The subject was male. All the others still depicted Desidéria herself, so far as he could see.

  Intrigued, Spender hobbled over to it and stared up, wondering why it seemed so strangely familiar. The subject had been very young, but well-built and probably handsome, although the features and the way it held its head suggested more than a trace of the arrogance that those qualities could justify. They reminded him of some of the Ironhall friends of his youth. But who, who? Whom had she honoured with a statue of gold?

  “A very good likeness, we’d say,” said a voice behind him.

  Spender turned as fast as he could without tripping over his cane and looked in surprise at the man who had so quietly crept up on him. He was around his own age, wearing hunting leathers and an expression of sardonic amusement. “Of course,” the newcomer added, “I can judge only by the face—and one brief encounter.”

  That affected drawl? Oh, spirits! Spender snatched off his hat and bowed low. “Your Grace... I did not realize—”

  “Of course you didn’t. Welcome back to our realm, Sir Spendero.”

  “I am greatly flattered that you remember my name, sire.”

  “It was easy. Desidéria has been talking of nothing else for weeks.”

  When kings smile, you either return the smile or quake in terror. In this case Spender returned the smile. “I have always been very grateful to you for returning Fortune and my brothers’ swords also.”

  King Rodrigo nodded gracefully. “I did not see the battle myself, being somewhat indisposed at the time, but it was the talk of the court for years. Three swordsmen held off the entire Royal Guard and slew a score of them!” He eyed Spender sardonically. “And you must have made a great impression on Desidéria also. She assures me that this statue is solid gold.”

  Then it must weigh tons. Rhys risked a second look at the image, although this required turning his attention away from the king. Him? He? He had been this cocksure pompous young exhibitionist, thirty years ago? He recalled how willingly he had stripped at her command. At least she had not had the sculptor depict him in rampant tumescence, although there were hints.

  There had been no sculptor, of course, only Desidéria’s spiritual powers.

  He looked back to the king, knowing that his face must now be redder than fresh blood. “Those were the days, sire. It is a very flattering representation, even for back then.”

  “That is not what she says. Come, she is anxious to meet you again, Sir Spendero.” King Rodrigo led the way, but walking slowly to accommodate his lame companion—not the sort of favour that King Ambrose would be likely to extent to a commoner, no matter who he was. “You have skinned your knee, I see. Desidéria will cure it for you.”

  “She is an incredibly skilled conjurer.”

  The king smiled. “Yes indeed.”

  And what else was she? Thirty years ago, rumour had termed her King Afonso’s mistress. Now his son came calling on her without a single companion, judging by that solitary horse in the stable. Kings never ventured out alone! What were the gossips saying now?

  Five... Six... The top of the steps... And there she was! Marquisa Desidéria da Eternidade, aged about sixteen, not an hour older than she had been thirty years ago, standing just out of the sunlight, smiling at him with her crimson lips and golden cat eyes. Her gown was cloth of gold, fitting like paint over her high breasts and down to her graceful hips, then flaring out in glittering pleats to her shoes. Her hair was piled high and held by amber combs. Now she wore no gloves, just black lace cuffs. Could this possibly be the same woman, ageless? Or a daughter?

  Leaning on his cane, Spender bowed, feeling his face flame hot again. If the king was not now certain that this doddering old Chivial swordsman had once been Desidéria’s lover, then he must be exceptionally obtuse.

  “Welcome back, Spendero,” she said softly, her seductive smile mocking his absurd shyness. “We have missed you, thinking of you often.”

  Shyness was a wise precaution for a commoner being vamped by a great lady. “Your Grace is most kind to say so.” But then he had to say it. “You haven’t aged a day!”

  “That’s not true, Spendero.” the Cobra held out a hand to be kissed. Snake eyes, not cat eyes.

  He had rejected her once. He knew he would never do so again, were the offer repeated. Then he had been a bound Blade, dedicated to his ward’s well-being, and also deeply in love. Now he was an unattached and aging widower. He limped forward and raised her hand, feeling the thrill of spirituality in her touch. It had not been the glove he had detected back on that fateful night so long ago, it had been her flesh that was enchanted, and the power surged stronger when his lips touched her fingers.

  “Come,” she said, taking his arm. “You must be hungry for some proper food, if you came so far in that cockleshell. Rodrigo?” She reached out to the king with her other hand and walked them over to the great spiral staircase.

  “My lady,” Spender said as they climbed, “my companions outside will be worried about me. The door did not let them in.”

  “I know.” Irrelevant. The door had done exactly what she had told it.

  “May I not at least inform them that I am well?”

  “But perhaps you are in mortal danger?” asked the king on Desidéria’s other side. “Our hostess can be very unpredictable.”

  “You will be the one in danger if you say such things about me, Rodrigo. We will deal with your companions tomorrow, Spendero. They won’t leave without you.”

  As they arrived at the reception hall that doubled as a dining room, Spender tried protesting that he was not dressed properly for such formality, but a single glance from her golden eyes was enough to silence him.

  “Neither is Rodrigo, and kings set fashion.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Call me by my name.” Her meaning was less in her voice than in her eyes.

&n
bsp; Mentally leaping off a cliff, he held her gaze and drew out her name sensuously. “De...si...dér...ia? It is very appropriate.”

  She smiled approval, and now he was committed. Whether she was, or was still just teasing, he would discover later, much later. He wondered if her heart was racing as his was.

  A page was offering him water to wash his hands. That well-remembered cheeky grin?

  “Joel! You look no older than you did that winter when you nursed me.”

  “I believe I am actually a year or two younger, Senhor Spendero.”

  “Would not surprise me. It seems that anything is possible here. I never had a chance to thank you for all your—”

  “Joel!” That one peremptory word from Desidéria ended the discussion.

  He flinched, mumbled, “Sorry, Mom,” and made himself scarce.

  The food was worthy of a king: an endless train of dishes, tantalizing tastes, wines like liquid starlight, innumerable servants. After the excruciating sameness of Sea Devil’s menu, it was utter bliss. Desidéria ate sparingly, but tasted every dish on offer. A few times she leaned over to pop a special morsel in Spender’s mouth. This was flagrant flirting, of course, but might be intended to taunt the king. He showed no signs of jealousy.

  When even Spender could eat no more, Rodrigo beckoned to a servant and ordered his horse saddled.

  “So soon?” Desidéria said. “I thought you would want to stay and talk man stuff with Spendero—politics and taxes and the best ways to torture spies?”

  Rodrigo laughed and rose, which brought Spender to his feet also.

  “No, my lady. I must make sure that the arrangements for tomorrow are complete. I’m sure I will have many chances to talk with Sir Spendero in future. And besides, the best way to torture a man is to do to him exactly what you have been doing to him for the last hour. Spendero,” he added, acknowledging the Chivian’s bow. And then he strode off.

  The servants had disappeared. Desidéria refilled Spender’s golden goblet with wine, so he sat down again.

  “His Grace is going to ride all the way to Casa Marítima? By himself?”

  “Oh, no. There’s a royal hunting lodge in the forest, not far. They ride over here when they want to consult me.”

  How many generations of “they”? This might explain ancient gossip about the king’s mistress. A king who rode off alone to visit a lady would be assumed to have only one purpose in mind.

  “Tomorrow?” That word had been mentioned twice. “What happens tomorrow?”

  “A surprise. A pleasant surprise. You are bursting with questions. Get them off your chest... That is the expression is it not?”

  “It is. Who are you?”

  “I am spiritual protector and advisor to the kings of Fitain, an office I have held for many centuries. It helps to pass the time.” She cocked her head as if daring him to comment.

  “An immortal governess? And where do your powers come from?”

  She studied him for a moment, as if wondering how much she dare tell him. “You have heard Baelmark being referred to as the Fire Lands? Every one of the elements has a source, somewhere in the world.”

  “And you?”

  “I am what my name says I am, the mistress of eternity. I rule time.”

  That explained some things, like how Graça had been waiting for him at the cottage when he was wounded. He switched to a topic that might be even more dangerous.

  “Who killed Master Robins?”

  “I did, of course. I had to. He was meddling in my affairs. Not personally, though. I posted the bowmen, two of them. Had they not had a clear shot at Robins, I would have made sure that he met with another accident very shortly. We had all of you worked out by then.”

  Informed by spies, including Graça. “Who are ‘we’?” Spender asked.

  She shrugged gracefully. “King Afonso, Prince Luis, me. Chivial is famous for its enchanters as well as for its Blades, and the one thing we all agreed on was that we did not approve of Ambrose’s brand of diplomacy. I soon saw that Bannerville was a noodle, and the puppeteer was your Master Robins. When you see inside that red bag of his, you will find many vile poisons and other assassins’ tools.”

  On the point of taking a sip of wine, Spender set his goblet back down again harder than he had intended. “No! King Ambrose would never—”

  “No?” Desidéria looked much more like a fairy-tale witch when she smiled. Suddenly he felt like an infant beside her. “You are not such a simpleton, dear Spendero! He had just successfully ended the Baelish War by having the Baels’ King Æled killed. I expect that Robbins’s orders were to try bribery first, but certainly he had the option of disposing of Afonso to solve the trade problem. Ambrose would not be the first monarch to express dismay when some over-zealous servants did what they thought best for his real interests without specific orders from him. You can never rise as a courtier if you can’t read the royal hints.”

  The Dark Chamber certainly could. Spender nodded. He was not really such a simpleton. “You arranged that disaster at the Casa Marítima?”

  “Well, Afonso had to go. I really wanted to maintain the direct line, but Rodrigo wasn’t quite old enough. Luis looked good but I had doubts about his judgment. I decided to dump them all in the same pot and see who came out on top. It’s often the best way. And in this case, dear Spendero, I nearly lost you! I had completely overlooked Gudge, because he wore a powerful masking conjuration.”

  “But why did Gudge try to kill the crown prince?”

  “Out of panic, I suspect. You spotted the bowmen up in the gallery behind you, so he realized that he would not be allowed close enough to attack the king, which was his original intention. His knife was poisoned. Knowing he would be unmasked and probably tortured when that weapon was found, he took what he could get, killing the heir apparent, making his own death count. Random idiocy is the overweening curse of human affairs,” she added sadly.

  “We Blades knew nothing of this! We would have stopped it, had we known, because it would have put our ward in mortal peril.”

  “You would, you mean. Your minions would have waited for your orders. But our spies in the Ernesto house had already reported that you were the real brains of the embassy. The honest part of it, I mean. Even then you intrigued me. A leader normally takes first choice of the women, but you accepted the oldest and left all the others alone.”

  “And you tried to enslave all of us when we arrived here. When they kissed your fingers.”

  Desidéria’s expression registered somewhere between innocent and coy. “The word ‘enslaved’ is too strong. I tried to dull their suspicions of me is all. Bannerville was easy, but your men were protected by their binding conjuration, so my attempted conjuration just slid off them. The valet escaped my attention, as I told you.”

  “And I?”

  She laughed and took a sip of wine. “Yes, you! The lion among the jackals. You are a sensitive, and a remarkably strong one, although untrained. You were also a warrior, which is an extraordinary combination. Your swordsmen were lecherous rakehells, but you were in love! My spirituality did not just slide off you—you threw it right back at me. How old did you think I was that night?”

  “About sixteen, maybe seventeen.”

  She nodded. “And you were only slightly older—a blond, muscular, and ever-so dominant male! Even without that magical riposte, do you wonder that I fell in love with you right there?”

  Dare he believe a word of this? “You are telling me that you were not simply teasing? So what would have happened had you lured me into your bed that night?”

  She drank what was left in her goblet without taking her eyes off him. “I would have been very disappointed in you. But I would have indulged you, and my own desire. By refusing me, you enslaved me.”

  Spender let that thunderous statement hang in the air for a momen
t before he said, “I could never enslave you, but is that offer still open, beautiful Desidéria? Graça died a very long time ago.”

  “Of course.” She licked her lips teasingly. “You are even more attractive now, in some ways, tempered by circumstance. The spirits of chance have treated you most cruelly. I can see the scars, but they are all well healed. You have not let the horrors of the arena embitter you. You are most worthy.”

  He, too, finished his wine. He had named her a cock-tease long ago. Now he must call her bluff or die in the attempt. “I am not the man I was, but if what is left of me holds any appeal, fair lady, it is at your disposal.”

  They walked hand in hand until they reached that huge bed chamber he remembered so well. It had not changed, except that now it was flooded with light from the westering sun. Still it seemed both mysterious and seductive. He eyed the marble bathtub, then turned to face her.

  How could he trust her? Was she about to take her revenge for that insult so long ago? He had long since ceased to be the model for the golden statue, the quintessential lover of her lonely dreams.

  “My lady, I am dirty, ill-clad, ungroomed, and seriously in need of soap and water.”

  She laughed. “None of that matters now, especially the clothing. As I recall, you were standing right there, with nothing on.”

  Obediently he went to his required position and began to strip, while she sauntered over to the great bed. Her gown dissolved into nothing, so that she arrived naked. Still glorious, she turned to look across at his wrinkles, his pink scalp shining through skimpy hair, his sagging musculature.