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

by Victor Gischler

  But nothing lasts forever.

  The aboriginal tribes of the eastern continent had united to overthrow the Perranese, who’d become complacent over the centuries. The Perranese had been driven back into the sea, many ships left to burn at the piers before they’d had a chance to launch. The day would go down in Perranese history as the Red Retreat.

  The southern continent was made up of rich farmland and had become the breadbasket of the Empire. The locals had been enslaved to work the fields, but those lands were now entering their twentieth straight year of drought. The harvest ships that had once sailed the seas by the hundreds had dwindled to a trickle.

  The Empire had receded to its home islands, overflowing with an out-of-control population, one the Empire could no longer feed. The emperor had cast his eyes west toward Helva. To him the equation was simple. Conquer or starve.

  The emperor concocted a cunning plan with his generals to send a small invading force to gain a foothold in Helva. Once dug in, like a tick behind a dog’s ear, he would gradually send more troops until the Empire’s presence on the Helvan mainland was an undeniable fact of life.

  When the Perranese fleet had returned in disgrace, defeated by the least significant duchy in Helva, the emperor clutched his chest and dropped dead in the middle of the imperial throne room.

  His wife, Her Imperial Highness Empress Mee Hra’Lito, had put down nine coups in the ensuing weeks, the last of which was so bloody and brutal that all other pretenders had decided to shelve their ambitions until better opportunities presented themselves. Bodies had been removed and burned. Lesser ranks promoted. The hierarchy restored. Now that internal matters had been settled, Mee turned her attention again to problems of empire.

  She stood in her room atop the Imperial Tower of the Heavens, the highest point of the imperial palace. She stood on the balcony, looked at the sprawling city below. According to imperial mathematicians, the city of Klaar would have fit inside the imperial city limits fourteen times over, and yet the empress’s citizens lived on top of one another in the most crowded conditions imaginable.

  The footsteps echoing behind her drew her attention.

  Mee turned to see her chief advisor crossing the high-ceilinged chamber, his boot heels clacking on the polished floor. Hanging lamps lit the area.

  Mee gathered her silken robe in one hand, and her long braid in the other. The robe was aquamarine with a pattern of sea waves, adorned with little blue fish around the belt and sleeves. It was her family pattern, her people having originally come from the fishing fleet hundreds of years ago. Her braid, even draped over one arm, still dragged across the smooth floor. She was young, just thirty, and her hair was still jet black, white skin perfectly smooth, dark eyes deep and mysterious. Her lips and eyelids were stained a blue that matched her gown. She appeared regal and lethal and cold.

  The emperor had been eighty-one when he’d died. If Mee planned to make it that long, she would need all of her skill and intelligence.

  Her advisor stopped five feet from her and bowed in half from the waist. He held the bow until addressed.

  “Rise, General Thorn.”

  The general stood straight. He wore no armor or weapon here in the imperial palace, only a simple black robe with the emblem of the imperial army over his heart, a golden serpentine dragon wrapped around a silver sword. “Your imperial majesty.”

  “The preparations?”

  “Precisely as intended and on schedule,” Thorn told her.

  “Excellent. Your service to the Empire will not be forgotten.”

  “Thank you, highness, but my own glory means nothing. I do all for the throne and the Perranese people.”

  “General Thorn, if this invasion fails then the Empire fails.”

  “I know,” Thorn said. “I promise you it will not fail.”

  “Then there is nothing more to be said,” Mee told him. “You sail with the tide?”

  “At first light, highness.”

  “Then go,” Mee said. “And take my blessings with you.”

  Thorn bowed low again, held it for a moment, then rose, spun on a heel and stalked away.

  Mee went back out onto the balcony. A cool wind struck her from the north, raising goose bumps on her skin. She turned her gaze toward the Golden Harbor, named for the way the sunlight hit the water at dusk.

  A chill went down her spine. She’d not gotten used to the sight of ten thousand ships. The harbor was practically choked with them. Men swarmed the docks loading last-minute supplies. Every ship in the Empire. Every soldier, save her household guard. Everything.

  “Everything.” She said the word out loud to taste its weight.

  If this endeavor failed, nothing would be left.

  She was too afraid to say the word nothing out loud.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Castle Klaar found itself in an uproar of sudden hospitality.

  Servants scurried to prepare bedchambers and bring refreshments. The visitors explained that fair weather all the way from the capital had hastened their arrival. Count Becham was the official head of the delegation, and he’d dragged along with him a klatch of barons and other nobility, all of whom needed accommodations befitting their stations.

  The slow-roasting suckling pigs would not be ready until the following evening, and there was no help for it, but a number of fat geese were identified for the chopping block. Sailors deserting a sinking ship could not have moved faster or with more purpose than the cooks in the castle kitchen. Casks of the second-best wine—the very best being held in reserve to accompany the suckling pigs—were brought up from the cellar.

  Stasha Benadicta had assured the count that it was no trouble whatsoever, that everyone in Klaar welcomed the opportunity to bask in the count’s presence an additional day. Inwardly, she hoped Dumo would strike the man with a bad case of the runs and that the count would be locked in the privy his entire visit.

  Stasha had sent a kitchen boy to the stables to find Alem. He needed to know Rina would want to see him just before her return from her trek up the mountain. Alem would know to use the secret stairs. This was all accomplished using code language, of course. The last thing Rina needed was to meet her guests while still covered in travel grime and snow devil blood.

  Alem had dutifully arrived with Rina in tow, and the chamberlain barely had said thank you before Alem was sprinting back down the stairs muttering something about forty new horses to feed and water.

  Stasha stood behind Rina Veraiin, tugging like mad on the laces of the duchess’s corset.

  Rina grunted. “It’s been a while since I wore one of these, and frankly, if I didn’t wear one now or ever again, it would be just fine with me.”

  “One never gets a second chance to make a first impression,” Stasha said.

  Rina rolled her eyes. “Wisdom of the ages.”

  “Are we in a cross mood tonight?” Stasha asked.

  “Why do women wear these damn things?” Rina struggled against the corset.

  “Men, I suppose.” Stasha tugged harder on the laces.

  “Just stop,” Rina snapped. “Any tighter and I can’t breathe.”

  “I’ll fetch your gown.”

  “Thank you.”

  The gown was a deep and vivid purple, cut in Rina’s preferred style: high collar, long sleeves, and matching gloves.

  Stasha frowned at the dress. “That’s wonderful fabric, but fashion today is to show a little more skin. Especially in Merridan, where cleavage is all the rage.”

  “Fuck what they do in Merridan.”

  Stasha cleared her throat and took a step back, waiting patiently.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard worse language at the Wounded Bird,” Rina said.

  Stasha, stoic, didn’t respond.

  “Oh, fine. I’m sorry,” Rina said. “To answer your earlier question, you’re fucking right. I’m—ahem—that is to say, yes, I am cross. Very.”

  “Try to control yourself. You have guests.”

&
nbsp; “The damn guests are half the reason I’m cross! A day early, and dragging the king’s stupid grandnephew along to look me over like I’m a hog at market.”

  “It’s the way of things,” Stasha said calmly, bending to place Rina’s shoes in front of her.

  “I almost told Alem all about it.” Rina stepped into the shoes. “But . . . well, I didn’t want to upset him until I found out more.”

  “Alem already knows.”

  “That’s impossible. Wait, does he? How could he?”

  Stasha shrugged. “I know men, and I see the way he looks at you and how he’s been sulking. He knows.”

  “No, he . . .” Rina snapped her fingers. “Brasley. Son-of-a-bitch idiot.”

  “And how did Baron Brasley Hammish know?”

  “Because I . . . uh . . . told him.”

  Stasha said nothing in that exact way that says everything.

  “Okay, so I’m the idiot.”

  “I said no such thing, your grace.”

  “Forget it,” Rina said. “You’d better go get changed while there’s still time. They’ll be serving the wine soon.”

  “Actually, uh . . .” Stasha looked away awkwardly. “I hadn’t planned on attending the dinner tonight.”

  “Are you kidding me? I need you there.”

  “There’s such so much to do around the castle. The guests and all the—”

  “Horseshit!”

  “Your grace, please. I don’t think it fitting—”

  “I’m a fucking duchess in my own fucking private room of my own fucking castle, and I’m about to have a panic attack,” Rina shouted. “I can’t face the king’s delegation without some backup. I don’t need you to face a hunter pack of snow devils, but for this, I do need you.”

  Stasha flushed, her feet shifting nervously. “I’m simply concerned that my presence might do more harm than good.”

  “I just told you I need you. I don’t see . . . oh.” Rina calmed herself. “This is about what the bishop said.”

  The chamberlain opened her mouth then shut it again, simply nodding.

  Rina put a hand on her shoulder. “I am Klaar. We are Klaar. You’re my choice. We do things our way here. I might be so nervous I’m going to sweat through this gown, but that’s okay. Because you are going to get dressed and come with me. We’ll face these people our way on our terms, or at least fake it the best we can. Yes?”

  Stasha nodded again.

  “Good.”

  “Thank you, your grace. It . . . it means a lot.”

  “Thank you. Count Becham will have his people there. I need you and Brasley to be my people.”

  “Oh, uh . . .” Stasha looked embarrassed. “As you might guess, Baron Hammish had his own misgivings about Count Becham.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I believe it’s quite possible Brasley won’t be joining us tonight,” Stasha said.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  ***

  Brasley Hammish walked fast down a dim castle hallway, saddlebags thrown over one shoulder, as he pulled on his riding gloves. It was a hallway generally used by servants, and it led to a door that opened to a courtyard near the stables. Then it would be simplicity itself to hop on his horse and steal away for an extended holiday. Some place obscure and far away.

  Some place warm.

  And Count Becham could just chew on that.

  He rounded a corner, and big hands grabbed him from all sides.

  Brasley kicked hard, caught one of the men in the balls, and heard an anguished grunt. He threw an elbow, tried to pull free of the hands holding him.

  A punch in his gut doubled him over, then something heavy hit him in the back of the head, and he dropped to the floor, trying to blink away the stars in front of his eyes. The hands picked him up again and dragged him down the hall and into a storeroom half filled with sacks of potatoes and grain. They dropped him on the stone floor. He heard a door slam, rolled over, his eyes trying to adjust to the dim light. Somebody held a small oil lamp.

  “Sit up and look at me, boy,” said the man with the lamp.

  Brasley did as he was told, sitting up and scooting back against a stack of flour sacks. He squinted past the gleam of the oil lamp to see who was speaking.

  Count Becham.

  Shit.

  Brasley’s eyes darted quickly around the room. Five other men, all big and all wearing Becham’s livery.

  “Count Becham.” Brasley attempted to muster some charm. “I was just about to come pay my respects.”

  “With your saddlebags and riding cloak?”

  “I must ride to some minor errand.” Brasley smiled. “After I came to talk to you, of course. Naturally, I’ve been eager to ask about the welfare of my beloved Fregga.”

  Becham scowled. “You’re smiling, Baron Hammish. Evidently you find something amusing.” The count turned to one of his men. “Remove the smile from the baron’s face, please.”

  The man leaned in, punching down hard across Brasley’s mouth, snapping his head around. Brasley tasted blood. Bells rang in his ears.

  “Your beloved Fregga is swelling rapidly with your child,” Becham said. “She’s been wearing her clothing looser and looser to cover up, but soon everyone will know the shame on my family. Do you really believe I intend to suffer such shame quietly without exacting retribution from the one responsible?”

  “I promise you, sir, my intentions—” Brasley coughed, spit blood. “Nothing but . . . honorable . . .”

  “Baron Hammish likes to spread his seed around,” Becham said. “I think we can do a favor to all the women of Helva to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Brasley blanched. “Wait—”

  Two of Becham’s men grabbed Brasley’s arms. Another two grabbed his legs and spread them. The fifth man drew his dagger, the point aimed at Brasley’s groin.

  Brasley struggled. “Wait. There’s been a mistake. Count Becham, please.” A pathetic edge of cowardice had crept into Brasley’s voice. “We can fix this. Please!”

  Becham grinned. “Say good-bye to your balls, Baron Hammish.”

  Brasley’s desperate screams echoed down the castle hallways, but nobody else heard them.

  EPISODE THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Brasley screamed again.

  “Will you cease your wretched caterwauling, please?” Count Becham said. “Nobody’s even done anything to you yet.”

  The man who held the dagger against Brasley’s balls turned back to Becham. “You want I should slice him, milord?”

  “No!” Brasley screeched.

  “Hold a moment,” Becham said. “Baron Hammish, if there’s some convincing reason we shouldn’t cut off your balls and feed them to you, I’m all ears.”

  “It’s true that you caught me trying to sneak out,” Brasley said. “But that’s because I was rushing home to fetch my dead mother’s ring. My intent, as it has always been, is to beg for Fregga’s hand in marriage . . . for which, I’d like to point out, I would very much need my testicles.”

  Becham scratched his chin, considering. “To fetch your mother’s ring, you say. A lie, obviously, but the sort of lie I can warm up to. Go on.”

  “A quiet ceremony,” Brasley said hurriedly. “She can stay with me at my lodge, away from prying eyes until the child is born. Put the word around Merridan that she’s off with her new husband, and she can come home later at some appropriate time.”

  Count Becham nodded slowly. “Put him on his feet.”

  The count’s men obeyed, set Brasley on his feet. His knees were watery, and for a moment, Brasley thought he might collapse. His heart was still hammering away inside his chest at the thought of the dagger cutting into his scrotum. His hair was matted with fear sweat, damp under his arms and behind his ears.

  Becham stepped forward, smoothed the wrinkles down the front of Brasley’s tunic with the palm of his hand. “Now there’s a bright fellow. I knew you had it in you. There’s also the m
atter of the line of credit you opened with the Royal Bank to open Klaar’s consulate in Merridan. We don’t really like it when people skip out on their debts.”

  Brasley swallowed hard. His reason for seducing Fregga had been to get to Count Becham and his connection with the Royal Bank. The line of credit Brasley had established had enabled him to open the Klaar embassy, all part of the ultimately successful plan to get Rina in to see the king. Brasley had felt pretty clever and pleased with himself at the time.

  And now I’m just trying to save my balls.

  “But never mind the debt for now,” Becham said. “There are ways around such things.”

  Brasley managed a sick smile. “That’s most generous, Count Becham.”

  “Now, here’s what I think best,” Becham said. “You ride off and get your mother’s ring. I think Fregga will be delighted. But there’s no hurry. Tomorrow is soon enough. Duchess Veraiin has arranged a dinner. What a wonderful opportunity to announce your engagement.”

  Brasley turned green. There was a very real danger he would vomit.

  “They’ll be serving the wine just about now, so we should probably move along,” Becham suggested.

  Brasley nodded, tried to speak but was still too stunned. Dumo, yes, wine. All I can get.

  “I thought you might come you to your senses.” Becham put a fatherly arm around Brasley’s shoulders. “She’s following by wagon and should be here in two days. Your idea of a quiet ceremony sounds perfect. Welcome to the family . . . son.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Not bad for short notice, Rina thought.

  Rina stood at the head of the long dining table in the formal dining hall. The table had been laid with the best silver. Servants circled the table with wine pitchers, making sure goblets stayed full. The chandeliers glittered with hundreds of tiny candles in glass globes. Everyone wore their best finery. In the corner, a trio of musicians—mandolin, pipe, fiddle—played soft music that just about everyone ignored.