“I didn’t come to work,” Aidane said, lifting her chin defiantly. “I just wanted to keep on breathing.”
“Her…‘gift’… helped us get out of an ambush,” Kolin said. “If you’ve any question as to whether or not it’s genuine, the spirits that spoke to her in the glade were real enough.”
Suspicion and skepticism glittered in Jolie’s light-brown eyes. “What do you say for yourself, girl?”
“My name is Aidane.”
The corner of Jolie’s red-tinged lips quirked upward, but it was not a smile. “Aidane, serroquettes often think themselves better than common whores. What do you think?”
Aidane forced herself to meet Jolie’s eyes. “I think a whore is a whore. I had no choice in the matter. The spirits took me and I did as I was bid. Why others choose this life, I don’t know. But the end result is the same.”
“Spirits or no, most had little more choice, if any, than you,” Jolie said. “And in my house, there is no shame. We’re entertainers, companions, and confidants. My girls come of their own will and stay of their own will. And when they will it, they leave, with a purse and skills if they choose to do something else. Most who claim to be serroquettes are frauds. They beggar the desperate and the grieving. If you’re what you claim to be, there’s comfort to give in that.”
Jolie sighed. “Margolan’s not a good place for us right now. Kolin vouches for you. I won’t object if you want to travel with us. On the road, you see people as they are. If I like what I see, I’ll make a place for you.”
“Thank you,” Aidane said raggedly.
The vibrancy seemed to return to Jolie’s face as she turned back to Kolin. “Well now, that’s settled. When are you planning to head for Dhasson?”
If Kolin was taken aback by the sudden shift of subject, he did not show it. “The vayash moru are healed, but some of the vyrkin could use a day’s more rest. Since we’re not hunted in Margolan—at least, not yet—there’s no hurry. When will your people be ready to travel?”
“We’ll be packed by sunset tomorrow,” Astir answered. “And don’t fear—we travel light. The girls will take only what they can carry themselves. I’ve arranged for some of the local vayash moru to watch the place while we’re gone.” He frowned. “Although while King Martris would never sanction it, there have been incidents between mortals and vayash moru, even in Margolan, that worry me. When people start to die of plague, they look for someone to blame. And we are, always, among the usual suspects. So I’m none too sorry to spend some time in Dark Haven, and none too sure our friends here will be able to carry out their charge.”
Kolin grimaced. “Even in Dark Haven, there have been… incidents. Jonmarc’s intervened himself, as has King Staden’s guard. But nowhere is ever truly safe for our kind.”
“Or mine,” Jolie agreed, taking Astir’s hand.
They seemed to have forgotten all about Aidane for a time, which suited her fine. She watched the conversation, trying to understand the companions she now found herself among. It was clear that Kolin and Jolie were of long acquaintance, though there did not appear to be anything more than friendship between them. Jolie was a formidable presence, but despite her cool reception, Aidane found herself trusting Jolie. At least I know where I stand with her. In Nargi, serroquettes were outlaw by definition, which precluded them from working in the brothels and taverns where the other whores made their way. Technically, the Crone priests disapproved of any sold sex, but they were receptive to bribes. But while the priests were willing to ignore the common strumpets and streetwalkers, the presence of magic in a serroquette’s favors was too much to overlook.
She’d take a cut of my pay, but on the other hand, I have a feeling Jolie might also watch my back, Aidane thought. Or at least, Jolie’s hired muscle—much of it vayash moru by the look of it—would keep danger to a minimum. It could be worth a percentage, especially if protection included reining in the drunks and angry patrons who so often dealt with their women with their fists.
“Here, try these on. Jolie sent them.”
Aidane startled and looked up. A dark-haired young woman stood in front of her. The woman was close to her own age, just a bit over twenty summers old, Aidane guessed. She had the coloring of a Margolan native and wore a plain linen shift. Her long, brown hair was tied up in a functional braid. Although Aidane surmised that she was one of Jolie’s girls, the young woman wore no makeup or jewelry tonight, and she had a hurried look.
“Thank you,” Aidane said, accepting the pieces of clothing.
“It’s not fancy, but we won’t be dressing like peacocks on the road,” the young woman said. “I’m Cefra. Jolie thought I might have an extra shift that would fit you. We do look to be about the same size, though you’re bigger on the top.”
Aidane smiled. “That’s kind of you. I’m afraid I left Nargi with nothing.”
Cefra led Aidane to a small closet and waited outside as Aidane changed. “Is it true that you’re a ghost whore? I’ve never met one before. Thought it might just be stories made up to get more coin for a lay, if you know what I mean.”
Aidane found that Cefra’s shift fit her, albeit snugly in the bosom. She smiled as Cefra motioned for her to use the pitcher and basin that sat on a stand just outside the closet, and Cefra handed Aidane a towel to help her clean up.
“Yes, I’m a ghost whore, and yes, it’s real—at least for me. That’s what got me in so much trouble. A client wanted to be reunited with a dead lover, and we got caught by her husband.” Aidane grimaced, touching the wet cloth lightly to the still-painful bruise on her cheek. “No one told me that was how the dead lover got so dead.”
“You might find yourself popular in Dark Haven,” Cefra observed.
“Why’s that?”
Cefra shrugged. “I’d guess that vayash moru have outlived lots of lovers. Should be more than a few who’re of a mind to see someone again, after a century or two.”
Aidane had to admit that she felt much better in clean clothes and with fresh water splashed on her face. When she turned back, Cefra pushed a small plate of sausage, cheese, and bread toward her, along with a mug of ale. “I doubt you’ll want goat’s blood like Kolin and the others,” Cefra said.
After the pain and terror of the last few days, Aidane had barely realized how famished she was. She gobbled the food quickly, and found that the ale was much better than the contraband spirits in Nargi.
Cefra stayed, and Aidane had to admit it was nice to have company. She still wasn’t sure of her reception from Kolin and the vayash moru, and Aidane had been alone in Nargi for quite a while. “Have you worked for Jolie long?” Aidane finally asked after she had finished her food.
Cefra thought for a moment. “About two years, I guess. When Jared the Usurper, pox take his soul, was on the throne, his guards raided my village. They took grain and women when we had no coin to give for second taxes. After that, I wasn’t quite as marriageable as before,” she said with a grimace. “And the guards had killed most of the young men in the village anyhow.” She straightened her back. “So I went out on my own and found that while a serving wench might keep food in her belly and a roof over her head, favors went further to putting coin in my purse.”
“How did you find Jolie?”
Cefra shrugged. “Oddly enough, my story isn’t too different from yours. I was roughed up by a customer who threw me out on the street to die. When I woke up, I was here. Jolie runs a tight business, but she tends to find her girls among the castoffs and she does her best to give us choices we never had.”
“What’s this place usually like?” Aidane ate as Cefra regaled her with tales of what Jolie’s Place had been like before the plague.
“Even when Jared the Usurper took the throne, we had business,” Cefra sighed. “You know, don’t you, that King Martris and Jonmarc Vahanian took shelter here when they came back to fight Jared? It was right before I came here, but I’ve heard about it.” She grinned conspiratorially. “Jolie even got i
nvited to King Martris’s wedding because she gave him sanctuary. Imagine!” She shook her head in amazement. “So if Jolie says we’re welcome in Dark Haven, I believe it.”
Aidane finished chewing and took a drink of ale, hoping it would relax her sore muscles. Thanks to Varren’s healings, her injuries were nearly gone.
“You don’t mind leaving?”
“Margolan’s gotten scary. I heard that in Ghorbal, so many people died of plague that there wasn’t anyone well enough to bury the dead, and they just stacked the bodies in the street or left them lie where they had died. Even our regular customers aren’t coming in anymore. And it’s true that there’ve been attacks—on vayash moru, on whores, and on minstrels. People blame the plague on folks who travel, like the minstrels, and on the ones they never liked anyhow, like us and the vayash moru.”
Aidane pushed the empty dish away and managed a tired smile. “Thank you, Cefra. You’ve been very kind.”
Cefra blushed and looked away. “Oh, it’s nothing. And if you’re not of a mind to sleep on the benches in here, there’s a spare room upstairs. One of our girls lit out of here a few weeks back, didn’t say why or where she was going. Figure she got scared of the plague, like the customers. But it means there’s a bed upstairs, at least for tonight, and you can sort through the clothes and such she left behind. You might find some things to suit you.”
The unexpected generosity surprised Aidane, but hard as she tried, she couldn’t figure out why Cefra would have cause to lie. “Thank you,” Aidane said, unaccustomed to the kindness. She followed Cefra up the back stairs, too weary to look for hidden motives.
Chapter Eleven
Tris Drayke stood on the balcony outside his rooms. He felt the sun on his face and tried to relax. Thanks to Esme, his shoulder, arm, and chest were nearly healed from the dimonn’s attack. His dogs clustered around him. The two large wolfhounds were nearly tall enough to see over the carved stone railing. Content to press up against Tris’s leg was the ghost of a large, black mastiff. Tris let his hand fall to pet the dogs as his thoughts strayed. With a small brush of magic, even the mastiff felt his touch, and the big dog’s ghost leaned harder against him, a weight that would have caused Tris to change his footing had the dog been solid.
Cwynn had had a hard night, and even with the help of Kiara’s nurses and nannies, the young prince’s agitation was taking a toll. Tris blinked a couple of times and sipped a cup of kerif, wishing the bitter drink could do more to keep him awake. Cerise, Kiara’s healer, had assured both Tris and Kiara that such things were not uncommon with a young baby, but the last time Tris remembered feeling so bone-achingly tired had been in the aftermath of a pitched battle.
Tris heard a knock at his door and turned. Out of old habit, one hand fell close to the pommel of his sword, even here, at home. Coalan, his valet, poked his head through the doorway.
“Uncle Ban’s here to see you. Should I send him in?”
Tris relaxed and nodded, then finished the rest of his kerif. The dogs followed him inside. They sprawled in the sunlight that warmed the floor just inside the balcony, with the mastiff’s ghost curling up next to the two living dogs, just as he had often done in life.
Coalan stepped aside to allow Ban Soterius to enter.
“Rough night?” Soterius said with an appraising glance. Soterius and Coalan were old friends of Tris’s, and their friendship was one of the few remaining ties Tris had to a time before Margolan’s troubles began, and before he had shouldered the burden of the crown.
Tris chuckled. “Just wait until you and Alle have a baby of your own. But not right away—please! One of us should be awake to defend the kingdom.”
Soterius grinned. “I’m still adjusting to being a married man. I have a mind to wait as long as I can before we add to the family.” His grin widened. “Although don’t mention that to Alle, please. She may have other plans.”
Tris sank into a chair near the cold fireplace and motioned for Soterius to join him. “What are you hearing from the barracks?”
Soterius shrugged. “Not a day goes by that one of the men doesn’t hear from someone back home about the plague. And it’s not just folks taking sick. The trading villages are starved for business, since the caravans aren’t traveling and even the minstrels are staying close to home. Between Jared running the farmers off their land and last spring’s rains, planting got a late start. The crops are in the fields, but now there aren’t enough men in a lot of the villages to harvest them.”
Tris closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the cushions. “Can the soldiers help? At least for the farms near garrisons and within a day or two of the palace? How about the vayash moru? It would mean night harvesting, but Margolan can’t afford another hungry winter, and we’ll have one if we leave crops in the fields.”
“Most of the villages are already heavily relying on their vayash moru family members to care for the sick, bury the dead, and help where they can with the farming. There aren’t that many of the vayash moru—fewer since Jared went after them, but they’re starting to trickle back, although the incidents don’t help.”
“Tell me about the ‘incidents.’ ”
Soterius stretched his legs. He was tall, but still a hand’s breadth shorter than Tris, and muscular. His brown hair was cut short for a helm, and his dark eyes hinted at a keen intelligence. “It’s not so much about our Margolan vayash moru as it is the refugees. They’re coming over the border from Trevath and even from Nargi, although why any vayash moru would stay in either of those kingdoms is beyond me, given how the Crone priests treat them.”
“Family,” Tris replied tiredly. “They stay for their families, or because it’s home. It’s not so different from why the living put up with terrible conditions rather than leave. It’s home.”
Soterius sighed. “Yeah, well, I guess both of us know a thing or two about that, don’t we? Anyhow, I’ve taken several dozen of the vayash moru and vyrkin refugees to Huntwood. You remember Danne, Coalan’s father?”
Tris nodded. “Danne was married to your sister.” When Jared’s troops murdered Soterius’s family because of Lord Soterius’s loyalty to Tris’s father, only Danne, Coalan, and one loyal servant had survived.
“Danne is rebuilding Huntwood. It’s slow going. Jared’s men made a real mess of it. But the walls have been repaired and it’s got part of a roof again. The vayash moru and vyrkin are helping, and they’ve got the forest to keep themselves in deer meat and blood. It helps that Huntwood is out in the country. Fewer people around to get it into their heads that the vayash moru have something to do with the plague.
“We’ve also got as many of them as we can over at Glynnmoor, Carroway’s family house. When he and Macaria get back from Dark Haven, they’ll have a lot of company, but at least the old manor house is livable again. And the rest of the refugees are on Lady Eadoin’s lands at Brightmoor. For now, we’ve been able to keep them out of the way, so that the villagers don’t get frightened about a sudden influx of undead and shapeshifters. You know how that goes—every time a goat goes missing, someone blames it on a vayash moru.”
Tris nodded again, tiredly. “But there are still incidents.”
Soterius took a long breath. “Yes. Mostly over on the eastern side of Margolan. It’s been hit the hardest with the plague. And it had more of the farms that lay fallow this season with no one to work them. The violence doesn’t seem organized. Someone burns out a crypt here or there, tries to burn out a den of vyrkin somewhere else. What worries me aren’t the locals so much as the Durim.”
Tris opened his eyes and sat forward, reluctantly alert. “Tell me.”
Soterius shrugged. “One of the garrisons out toward Ghorbal said they’ve had problems with tombs being looted, even a couple of the old barrows. At first, they thought it might be locals down on their luck, looking for a bit of gold to pawn. But there were some weird things that made the garrison leader look twice. Slaughtered goats and chickens, odd runes, and
a couple of young girls gone missing. Then one night, they caught some men in black robes in the process of trying to hack their way into an old tomb. Put up an awful fight. Even used some magic. Fortunately, that particular garrison has its own battle mage. We think the Black Robes are Shanthadura followers, but they’re not talking.”
Tris smiled thinly. “Put them in magical bonds and have them sent to me.”
“I thought you’d say that.”
Tris pushed out of his chair and began to pace. The dogs roused at his movement, and while the wolfhounds soon stretched back out, the mastiff padded over to pace beside him. “No one’s tried to revive the cult of Shanthadura in over three hundred years. Now, it’s springing up everywhere. You saw what happened in the village, with the boy and that dimonn in the barrow. Now imagine that kind of thing happening across Margolan, across the Winter Kingdoms.”
Soterius glanced up sharply. “What makes you say that?”
Tris walked to his desk and picked up three pieces of folded parchment. He handed them to Soterius. “Those have all come via messenger over the last few days. One came by vayash moru last night from Jonmarc. They’re seeing a lot of the same kind of ‘incidents’ even in Dark Haven—and he’s gone up against those Black Robes himself. He’s positive they’re Durim, and he says Gabriel and some of the other Old Ones who actually remember when Shanthadura was worshipped are not too happy about seeing the cult revived.
“Then I got another note from my cousin, Jair. You know Jair.”
Soterius nodded. “He’s your Uncle Harrol’s son. Next in line for the Dhasson throne. He was at your wedding. Not too bad with a sword, as I recall.”
“You could say that. Under an old agreement, he spends about half of the year riding with the Sworn.”
Soterius let out a low whistle. “Really? The Sworn are a spooky bunch. I tried to recruit them during the Rebellion to fight against Jared, but they said they had bigger monsters to worry about, and I had my hands full, so I didn’t ask questions.”
The Sworn Page 17
