The Tattooed Duchess (A Fire Beneath the Skin Book 2)

by Victor Gischler

  “Send her in, Arbert.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “Arbert?”

  “Milady?”

  “About a hundred years ago, Lilly went to the kitchens to arrange some breakfast. Can you send somebody to check on that? If Lilly’s wandered off again, just have them send somebody with something. Anything hot will do.”

  Arbert bowed slightly. “Of course, milady.”

  Arbert left, and a split second later, Bruny walked in and approached her desk. The woman was sturdy, hair streaked gray, ruddy cheeks.

  Rina glanced at the brief schedule Arbert had organized for her. The first appointment of the day said Bruny: Kitchen and pantry.

  “Good morning, Bruny.”

  Bruny dipped a brief curtsy, the effect somewhat spoiled by the woman’s hands nervously wringing the apron she wore. “Milady.”

  “I understand you have some kind of complaint.”

  Bruny’s eyes shot wide. “Oh no, milady! Not a complaint. Never a complaint. I love it here in the castle, of course.”

  Rina smiled tolerantly. “Perhaps complaint is not the right word. You want to bring a concern to my attention, yes?”

  Bruny nodded. “That’s it exactly, milady. An important concern.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “The winter stores have held well,” Bruny reported. “But with the thaw coming, we obviously need to make the usual preparations.”

  Rina rubbed her eyes and muttered, “If I have to hear about the damn thaw one more time . . .”

  “Milady?”

  “Nothing.” Rina pasted a fake smile to her face. “Please continue.”

  “Continue?” Bruny blinked. “Well . . . that’s it.”

  Rina blinked back at her. “What’s it?”

  “As I said. Preparations. If we keep going as we are, we’ll be fine another three weeks,” Bruny explained. “Six if the thaw is delayed and we go on half rations.”

  One of Rina’s eyebrows shot up impatiently. “And?”

  “Well, we need to restock the pantry, milady.”

  “Oh. Well.” Rina shrugged. “Fine. Restock it. You have my permission.”

  Bruny wrung the apron with renewed vigor. “Thank you kindly, milady, but it’s not a matter of permission. It’s a matter of money. I can make the lists, but the purchases . . .”

  “Arbert!” Rina called.

  The secretary rushed into the room, stood next to Bruny before Rina’s desk. “Milady.”

  “Is there money in the treasury?”

  “Certainly, milady.”

  “How much?”

  “Should I . . . I mean, is that the sort of information . . .” Arbert’s eyes darted to Bruny and back swiftly to Rina.

  “Is there enough to replenish the castle pantry?”

  “I would think so, yes, milady.”

  Rina looked at Bruny. “Problem solved.”

  “But . . . I mean . . . it’s just . . .” Bruny had gone red, looked like she might dissolve into some kind of fit.

  “It’s okay, Bruny. Just explain yourself. Go slowly. Take a breath.”

  “Well, the Perranese were murdering savage bastards, of course—begging your pardon, milady.” Bruny paused to look embarrassed. “But General Chen did retain a proper chamberlain. I mean, he was slain, naturally, when you took back the castle, not that we’d want one of those foreign sons of—”

  Rina slapped a palm to her forehead. “A chamberlain. Of course.”

  “The chamberlain always knew which merchants offered the best prices,” Bruny said. “And for some things he’d make them put in bids. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  Rina nodded. Giffen had been a devious traitor, but he had kept the castle running smoothly. The whole place had been operating with a skeleton crew since they’d taken the duchy back from the Perranese. Something would have to be done.

  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Bruny. I’ll take care of it.”

  Bruny nodded, backing away. “Milady.”

  Arbert followed her out of the room.

  The door had barely closed behind them when it swung open again, an old man with a tray of food.

  “Thank Dumo,” Rina said. “What is it?”

  “Eggs, milady. Sausages. Biscuits.”

  “I’ve not seen you before.”

  “Lots of new people coming to the castle for work,” he said. “Word’s out you’re shorthanded.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to be chamberlain.”

  The old man chuckled. “Such things are beyond my ken, milady.” He set the tray on her desk and began to unfold a napkin.

  Rina smiled. “I’ve been thinking the same thing all morning. Maybe if—”

  A glint of metal. From beneath the napkin as the old man’s hand came up fast.

  Rina screamed, flinched back, and barely had enough time to tap into the spirit.

  Immediately the world slowed. Or rather, it went along as it always did, but Rina’s reflexes and perceptions were now lightning fast. She felt the Prime tattoo humming with power down her spine. Each of her other tattoos gave her a specific ability, but none of them would be possible without the Prime, the tattoo that allowed Rina to unlock the full potential within her, the one that let her tap into a well of spirit that fueled her powers.

  The point of the dagger was a half inch from Rina’s left eye when she dodged aside, the blade thrusting past her. She grabbed the old man’s wrist and twisted, the strength of the bull tattoo kicking in. There was a sickening wet snap. The old man grunted, and the dagger clattered across the desk.

  The old man was fast. His other hand came around quickly with a small gentleman’s blade that had been hidden in the waistband of his breeches.

  Rina blocked the strike easily, rose from her chair, and thrust her head forward.

  The head butt flattened the old man’s nose. Blood exploded from his nostrils.

  Rina struck the man’s chest with the heel of her hand. He flew back, landed hard, and skidded along the stone floor, his mouth working for breath.

  Rina vaulted over the desk after him, her dress billowing and flapping.

  The old man tried to sit up as he held the broken wrist tight up against his chest. The other hand had already dipped into his boot. It came out with yet another blade. He cocked it back to his ear, then let fly.

  The stiletto tumbled end over end toward Rina’s face. She snatched it midair and tossed it back without thinking.

  It buried to the hilt in the center of the old man’s forehead.

  His head bounced off the stone floor as he sprawled back. One foot still twitched as the door flew open and Tosh rushed inside, Arbert behind him, peering with concern from the safety of the hallway.

  Tosh held a short, broad-bladed sword in his hand, but his eyes shifted from Rina to the dead man on the floor. “Ah. You’ve handled it then.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alem climbed the steps of the front porch of the large hunting lodge that faced Hammish Lake. On the other side of the lake was the village of Hammish, where he’d visit his grandmother after completing his errand.

  He’d been scared to death last time he’d been here, on the run from the Perranese with a duchess in exile by his side.

  He knocked and waited.

  And waited.

  Alem was about to knock again when the door swung open, and he was greeted by a young blond woman, slightly built, fair skin with fresh pink in her cheeks, pretty. Her hair was mussed and she seemed slightly out of breath.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting . . .” She looked Alem up and down. “Sir.”

  “Alem. Stable master of Klaar,” Alem announced with mock haughtiness. “Here to call on Baron Hammish.” He bowed deeply.

  The maid’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

  “Is that Alem?” came a voice from within the lodge.

  Brasley Hammish appeared behind the maid, his hair equally tussled, loose white shirt unbuttoned halfway down hi
s chest. “It is you! Elza, go fetch us some wine.”

  “I’m just here to deliver a message,” Alem said quickly.

  “You’d let me drink alone? I expect better manners from Klaar’s master of horse,” Brasley grinned crookedly, flashing perfect white teeth.

  Elza half curtsied and turned to go fetch the wine. Alem saw that the laces up the back of her dress were half undone.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, Baron.”

  “Nonsense. I always have time for a friend,” Brasley said. “And knock off this baron rubbish. We’ve been through too much together.”

  Alem smiled and followed Brasley into the lodge.

  When Alem had first met Brasley, he’d been determined not to like the man. Brasley was spoiled, a rake, drank too much, and avoided anything resembling work, danger, or responsibility. But the man had a seemingly effortless charm that won everyone over eventually. Brasley could have a monk of Dumo, sworn to vows of silence, drunk and singing bawdy tavern songs in an hour.

  The lodge’s great hall was much as Alem remembered it. Weapons—mostly spears and bows for hunting—entirely covered one wall. An enormous bearskin rug covered the floor in front of the huge stone fireplace, where a modest blaze warmed the room. A chandelier of elk antlers hung low, but none of the candles was lit, a few oil lamps sufficing to illuminate the room.

  Brasley gestured Alem to a stuffed chair covered with some animal hide, and Brasley flopped into a similar chair just as Elza brought a pitcher of wine and two goblets. She set them on a table between the two men before scurrying away.

  “What’s it like being baron?” Alem asked. “Does it suit you?”

  Brasley frowned and shrugged, reached for his goblet of wine.

  Brasley’s uncle, father, and older brothers had all been killed defending Klaar during the Perranese invasion and subsequent occupation. The title of baron had fallen to him. The loss of his family had hit Brasley hard, and he’d handled it in his own typical way—by drinking and whoring until Alem had literally found the man in the gutter, picked him up, cleaned him off, and had one of the castle kitchen girls spoon chicken broth into him until he felt almost human again.

  Brasley still drank too much and liked his women, but at least he paced himself now, walking the path to self-destruction instead of sprinting down it at full speed.

  “With the inheritance I was at least able to pay off my gambling debts,” Brasley said. “So I have something of a clean start. Not everyone gets a second chance. I suppose I should put my mind to making the most of it.”

  “You’re not upset with Rina?”

  Another shrug. Brasley sipped more wine, smacked his lips.

  When it came time to drive the Perranese from Klaar, the gypsies had sent a small force to help Rina sneak into the castle and take it back. In return, Rina had promised the wandering gypsies a permanent homeland. Accomplishing this meant Rina had confiscated a small portion of the holding from three different barons—including from Brasley Hammish.

  “She’s duchess and within her rights,” Brasley said. “And anyway it’s not such a bad deal. The gypsies will manage the timber across the lake and send me a tithe. Also, Rina plans to reopen the silver mines up in the mountains, and I’ve been offered a share as compensation.”

  The abandoned mines were largely thought to be played out, but Alem decided not to bring that up. Instead he said, “What about the miners? I hear they won’t go near the place because of the snow devils.”

  “Rina is sending hunting parties to drive them back into the wilderness. I’m sure it will all work out.”

  “Yeah.” Alem hoped so, but even if it didn’t, Brasley wasn’t going to suffer. Anyway, it wasn’t Alem’s job to worry about the man.

  Alem reached into his pocket and came out with the message, handed it to Brasley.

  “Do you know what’s in it?” Brasley asked.

  “It’s sealed.”

  “Yes. But do you know what’s in it?”

  Alem smiled. “The castle will have some visitors soon. I imagine Rina wants you there to class up the place and impress everyone.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Also the visitors include a delegation from the gypsies,” Alem said. “You’ll probably need to sign something with a big feathery quill and make proclamations of a new lifelong friendship between our two peoples and other such horse dung people like to hear at ceremonies.”

  “Dumo help me. Anything else?”

  Alem spread his hands. “That’s all I got.”

  Brasley ran a finger under the edge of the folded parchment, breaking the wax seal. He unfolded the message and began reading. “‘Baron Brasley, your presence is requested at Castle Klaar to help welcome the gypsy blah, blah, blah.’ Yes, you were right, Alem. Let’s see what else Rina has to say.” Brasley kept reading down the page. “Ah, here we go. ‘Brasley, I wanted to give you fair warning. My sources tell me’ . . .” Brasley’s eyes moved more slowly down the page as he read to himself.

  Brasley went pale before Alem’s eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure,” Brasley said.

  “What is it?”

  “The king is sending a delegation to Klaar. Some nonsense about renewing old ties and becoming closer allies with the crown’s country cousins.”

  That was a surprise. Alem hadn’t heard a thing about this. “Well, I mean, is that so bad?”

  “One of the members of the delegation is Count Becham.”

  Alem searched his memory for the familiar name. Ah, yes. When Brasley had been in the capital, Rina had tasked him with getting her an audience with the king. Brasley decided the quickest way to do that was to seduce the daughter of one of the city’s most important men. What was the woman’s name again?

  “Fregga,” Brasley said, reading Alem’s face.

  Alem snapped his fingers. “That’s it! I’d have thought of it if you’d given me another second. Do you think Becham being part of the delegation has something to do with her?”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  Alem threw back his head and laughed loudly.

  Brasley shot him an angry look. “You think that’s funny?”

  Alem sobered immediately. “Sorry.” Now that Alem thought about it, the situation could be quite serious. Men had been murdered for less.

  Brasley drained the wine from his goblet, grabbed the pitcher, and filled it again.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m doing it,” Brasley said, draining the goblet again.

  “That seems like a short-term solution at best,” Alem said.

  Brasley returned to the parchment, read further.

  “It might not be so bad,” Alem said. “Marrying Count Becham’s daughter puts you in powerful company.”

  Brasley’s eyes came up from the parchment to meet Alem’s. “There’s more.”

  Poor bastard. Still, Brasley made his own bed. Now he has to lie in it.

  “The delegation also includes Sir Ferris Gant.”

  The name meant nothing to Alem.

  “Sir Ferris Gant is King Pemrod’s grandnephew and only living heir. Which means he’s heir to the throne,” Brasley said. “Pemrod wants to wed him to Rina Veraiin.”

  Alem blinked and swallowed hard. “Oh.”

  It was Brasley’s turn to laugh at Alem, but he didn’t. He simply sighed in a commiserating sort of way and said, “I’m sorry.”

  Alem nodded, tried to summon a weak smile, and failed. Something cold and leaden formed in the pit of his stomach.

  What did you think, thicko? That you’d marry a duchess, have children, and grow old together?

  Alem reached for the other goblet. “I think I will have that drink after all.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “It was a mistake to kill him,” Rina said.

  Servants had already taken the body away, and Rina stood, hands clasped behind her back, watching the maid scrub the blood off the fl
oor.

  “You feel bad about it?” Tosh leaned against the wall behind her, arms crossed and looking sour.

  “I feel bad that now we can’t question him,” Rina said.

  “Good point. I suppose we could take a guess who’d bribe a servant to kill you.”

  “He was too fast to be a servant,” Rina said. “Even for an old man. Some kind of professional, I think. If I hadn’t . . .”

  If she hadn’t tapped into the spirit, she was about to say, but she didn’t want to discuss such things in front of the maid. There were a few—Alem, Brasley, Tosh—who knew about her tattoos and her powers, but it wasn’t something she talked about openly. And only Alem knew the complete horror of the skeletal hand tattoo on her palm. Rina had unburdened herself to him one tearful night. The tattoo was a mistake, a constant source of guilt, a reminder of the consequences of a hasty decision.

  “Servant or professional, does it make a difference?” Tosh asked. “We know who sent him.”

  “Giffen,” Rina said.

  The man who betrayed Klaar to the Perranese. The bastard who’d murdered her father and ordered the execution of her mother in front of Rina’s own eyes.

  “If he’s still hanging around, that’s bad,” Tosh said. “And if he has people helping him and hiding him, that’s worse.”

  “And he apparently has resources if he can afford to hire an assassin,” Rina said grimly.

  “What should we do about it?”

  “What can we do?” Rina asked.

  “Not much,” Tosh admitted. “I’m grateful you made me captain of the guard, but I don’t have a lot to work with. Old men and boys mostly. We’re spread pretty thin.”

  Putting Klaar’s army back together after the departure of the Perranese had been something of a mess. Many had been killed during the initial invasion. The surviving soldiers had been organized into labor gangs, and many had become malnourished and had perished. When the remaining soldiers had at last been freed and nursed back to health, there were barely enough troops and officers to man the walls, walk the watch, and rotate shifts.

  Tossing Tosh back into the army as one of the enlisted men seemed a poor way to thank him for all he’d done, but making him an officer would likely rankle the other officers. She remembered her father talking at length about military code and officers not socializing with the common grunts. It had all seemed unbearably dull at the time.