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

by Victor Gischler

No. It hadn’t occurred to her, but of course, why not? It’s not like Gant had been saving himself all his life waiting for Rina Veraiin to show up. How common could she be, Rina wondered. Chambermaid? Kitchen girl? Rina brightened suddenly at the thought they were both in the same situation. Maybe they could figure a way out of it.

  “Your granduncle is the king,” Rina reminded him. “Just have her raised to the nobility.”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  “Does it have to be?” Rina asked. “Grant her family some lands far away. Very far away. Make her father baron of the swamp or something. It’s cheating a bit, but then she’d be nobility.”

  “That’s not the problem.” Gant set his goblet aside, a serious look on his face. “He’s already noble.”

  “Then what’s the problem? You can—” Her eyes widened as she replayed Gant’s words. “He?”

  Gant nodded.

  “Oh.”

  Rina grabbed the goblet again, took a long drink to give herself time to think.

  “I hope what I’ve said isn’t offensive to you,” Gant said.

  “No. I’m just . . .”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Surprised,” Rina said.

  “He means a lot to me,” Gant said. “But obviously not what King Pemrod had in mind.”

  “That’s not a secret someone shares lightly,” Rina said. “What makes you think you can trust me?”

  “We should probably trust each other if we’re going to be married.”

  “I think you lost me there. I thought we were figuring out how to get out of being married.”

  “Think about it,” Gant said. “I’m stuck, right? Sooner or later I’ll be expected to produce an heir. That’s down the road, but it’s coming. So I need a wife whether I want one or not. Better one who knows what she’s getting into than some poor girl who can’t understand why her new husband has no interest in getting under her skirts. We’d make a good-looking king and queen, Rina Veraiin. We’d attend royal functions, smile and wave, then adjourn to our separate bedrooms at night.”

  “But don’t forget,” Rina said. “Sooner or later people will be expecting an heir.”

  “Ah, yes.” Gant tugged at his ear nervously. He seemed embarrassed. “I was thinking . . . uh . . . that might be where your stable boy could be useful . . . I mean . . . you know.”

  “What?”

  “I would raise the child as my own,” Gant said. “He would want for nothing. And of course you would be there to mother him.”

  Mother him? Suddenly she was queen with a child and married to a man who wasn’t the father.

  “Stop,” Rina said. “You’re forgetting something. Not even the king can force me to marry against my will. All I have to do is say no.”

  “True. Up to a point.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Pemrod is brilliant and experienced,” Gant said. “He is also devious and vindictive. Really the worst combination of personality traits. It means that he’ll get back at anyone he thinks has wronged him, and he’s good at it. With a wave of his scepter, Klaar might as well be a plague zone. All trade will stop. You won’t be able to buy anything, or sell your timber anywhere in Helva. If you get your mines going again, nobody will take your silver.” Gant shrugged apologetically. “These are just the measures that occur to me off the top of my head. Pemrod will likely think of worse.”

  “All because I won’t marry you?”

  “Because you’d be defying him,” Gant said.

  “Is he really so vain?”

  “Oh my, yes.”

  “This is madness.”

  “I can’t disagree.”

  “I don’t want to be queen.”

  “That’s refreshing,” Gant said. “You can’t swing a cat at court without hitting some dizzy girl who’d stab her sister in the eye to become queen herself.”

  “Choose one of them.”

  Gant chuckled. “I know the marriage will be a sham, but I’d still prefer it be to somebody I can stand. Anyway, none of those women would satisfy King Pemrod. He’s looking for more than just a broodmare. You’ve proved yourself a capable woman. As a duchess, you outrank most other women at court. And then there are the tattoos. You’re powerful, but the king isn’t sure how powerful. You intrigue him, Rina.”

  “It sounds like I’m just one more thing he wants to control.”

  “Doubtless,” Gant agreed. “But there’s more. In his own way, he truly does care about Helva. He wants to leave a strong kingdom behind him when he passes. That his heir should marry well is a part of that.”

  The silence stretched between them for a long moment. It was a lot to take in. Rina’s head swam with the implications.

  Gant pushed back from the table and stood. “It was rude to barge in at such a late hour, but I hope you can see it was important to talk to you alone. And I hope we can keep each other’s secrets.”

  Rina stood. “Of course. We should trust each other. As you say . . . we’re in the same fix, aren’t we?”

  Gant smiled politely, turned, and went to the door. He paused before opening it, looked back at her. “One final thing. I hesitate to alarm you needlessly, but I’ve come this far, so you might as well know it all.”

  Rina sighed. “Dumo save us, there’s more?”

  “As a duchess you have rights and protections a commoner doesn’t,” Gant said. “If your stable boy got in the way of Pemrod’s plans, the king would simply make him go away. I think you know what I mean.”

  Rina felt her stomach twist.

  “You said we should keep each other’s secrets, and I agree,” Gant said. “I don’t mean to be harsh, but you don’t keep your own secrets very well. Your people love you, but they whisper. Peasants love their gossip. Sooner or later those whispers always reach the wrong ears. Look to your own, Duchess Veraiin.”

  “Thank you for your advice, Sir Gant.” The words felt leaden in her mouth. She could hardly breathe.

  “I hope we can speak again soon.” He turned without another word and left.

  Rina followed slowly, sliding the door bolt shut.

  She turned and sagged back against the door, sighing long and tired.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Torchlight cast jagged shadows on the rough cobblestone alley.

  Prinn was looking for a tavern called the Drunken Imp. She caught site of the sign, a pop-eyed, pointy-eared imp with a mug in his hand and a silly look on his face. She ducked under the low arch and found herself in a small courtyard.

  As had been described to her, the tavern was off to the right, and the small stable was on the opposite side of the courtyard to the left. Prinn was here for the second half of her payment. The bag of silver had been the first part. The horse was the second. Horses were in short supply in Klaar. It would have cost her entire bag of silver to buy one for herself, and she needed that horse to follow through with her plan to flee the city.

  I can’t stay around here after releasing that thing in the castle. Thank Dumo it didn’t kill the duchess. But if people find out I had anything to do with it . . .

  Laughter and boisterous conversation spilled out of the tavern. She turned her back on it and headed for the stable. She still hadn’t decided if she’d ride out over the recently repaired Long Bridge or take Back Gate and the Small Road.

  Prinn swung open the stable’s wide wooden door. It creaked on rusty hinges. She stepped inside, let her eyes adjust to the shadows within. Three empty stalls. Old, dry hay in the corners. A cracked leather saddle hung on the wall.

  No horse.

  Sons of bitches.

  “Boss wants to see you, Prinn.” A voice behind her.

  She turned slowly and saw Garth standing there. He had a wicked grin on his face and a tankard in his hand. She understood now. He’d been waiting for her in the tavern, probably keeping watch at the window. There’d never been a horse. Her hand fell to her sword hilt.

  Gut him, then run for it, a voice
in her head screamed.

  Three more men came out of the tavern, cudgels leaning lazily on shoulders. Two more stood in the archway of the courtyard, leaning there and grinning. She suspected they were all greasy alley bruisers, not trained swordsmen. Still, six of them. As plans went, drawing her blade was probably a loser.

  “Where’s my horse?” Prinn asked.

  “Never mind that now,” Garth told her. “Boss wants to see you.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to see him,” Prinn said. “I fulfilled my part of the bargain. I’m done.”

  Garth shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him about it.”

  Fight or play along? She scrambled to think of a third option but came up short. “Where?”

  Garth jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the tavern. “In there.”

  “Lead on, then.”

  Garth headed back inside the tavern, and Prinn followed. The other men closed ranks behind her, and Prinn tensed. She didn’t like feeling surrounded but didn’t let the fear show.

  The dank interior of the tavern smelled like stale beer and man sweat. The only light came from a small oil lamp over the bar and a modest blaze in the stone fireplace across the room. The ceiling was low, the room smoky. Men sat at tables drinking, their heads turning upon Prinn’s entrance. All faces unfriendly.

  “By the fireplace,” Garth said. “He’s waiting for you.”

  The drinkers went back to their tankards and their conversations as Prinn headed for the fireplace. There was a figure there in a cushioned, high-backed leather chair. She circled around, looked down at the man sitting there.

  She’d never met the traitor Giffen but recognized him from his description. A pushed-in face, sparse but pointy beard with no moustache, thin and greasy hair spread across a sweaty pate. Prinn hadn’t expected Giffen to look so gray and shrunken. It looked as if the man had been ill for a while.

  “What is it you want, Giffen?”

  “Lord Giffen.” He sneered up at her. “And I’ll ask the questions, thank you. Now pull up a chair, you stupid slut, and pay attention.”

  Prinn’s grip on her sword hilt tightened.

  It would be easy. Draw the blade and lunge. Right through the throat.

  Her eyes spun once around the room, counting men and looking for other exits. If she killed Giffen, she’d never make it out of the tavern. She swallowed any retort she might have made, pulled up a wooden chair, and sat.

  “I need an informant in the castle,” Giffen said without preamble. “You.”

  “We had a deal,” Prinn said. “I kept my end.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” Giffen said. “The king has sent a delegation to Klaar. So have those miserable gypsies. I need to know what’s going on. You will be my ears and eyes in the castle.”

  “No.”

  Giffen sighed. “Don’t be tiresome. How is your aunt, may I ask? Her bones still ache? We can put her out of her misery, if you’d like. And your cousins, the oldest is Loreena, yes? Thirteen and fast becoming a ripe young woman. I can arrange to have her passed around to every man in this room, and if there’s anything left of her afterward, maybe she can follow in your footsteps at the Wounded Bird. Have I made my point? I grow weary of wasting time.”

  Prinn trembled, half from fear and half rage. Her stomach felt sick. “You’ve made your point.”

  “Good,” Giffen said. “Now listen closely.”

  Giffen was especially interested in anyone coming and going from the castle. He wanted to know why the gypsies were relocated to the shores of Lake Hammish and what the duchess expected in return. He wanted confirmation of a rumor that Rina Veraiin was carrying on with a servant, what was the lad’s name, and what was the best way to get to him. Anything that might be used as leverage against the duchess interested him keenly. The king had sent a delegation. What really was their mission here in Klaar? Who was this woman from Merridan that Baron Hammish was marrying?

  To Prinn, Giffen seemed like a man frustrated that he had to rely on a spy for this sort of information. He was close to the duke for years, had his finger on the pulse of castle intrigue. Now he sulks in some low-class tavern, snatching at whispers and rumors. A rat trying to remain relevant.

  “And try to get close to the servants,” Giffen said. “They hear everything.”

  Giffen dismissed her, and Prinn stood to go.

  “One more thing,” Giffen said. “I have hiding places all over the city, so I’m seldom here. Nevertheless, if we see any of the Duchess Veraiin’s soldiers here or any of those whores she’s deigned to give swords, if you disobey or attempt to cross me in any way, then all the terrible things you imagine and more will come to pass. Prove useful to me, and you can expect more bags of silver. Is this clear?”

  “Yes. Perfectly.”

  “Just remember that I own you.” Giffen’s words dripped contempt. “You’re still a whore as far as I’m concerned, selling yourself at the Wounded Bird. I’ve bought and paid for you.”

  And that’s when Prinn decided she’d have to kill him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  They’d pushed the dishes of half-eaten eggs and potatoes, a pot of strong, hot tea, to one side of Rina’s desk. They hadn’t lingered over breakfast. They both wanted to get to the business of Klarissa’s gift.

  Klarissa unrolled the parchment, spread it on the desk. A map.

  “The Scattered Isles?” Rina looked up at the gypsy woman.

  “Precisely,” Klarissa said. “Do you know how they became scattered?”

  Rina searched her memory. There was a vague recollection of a tutor boring her numb as a young girl. Her father had been right. She should have paid better attention to her lessons.

  She was tempted to tap into the spirit. Doing so would give her perfect control of herself, inside and out. If she’d ever been taught the history of the Scattered Isles, she could search through the corners of her mind to find the memory. Rina felt herself reaching, eager to tap into the spirit, to feel the power and control.

  No! The more you do it, the more you’ll keep looking for excuses. Weylan was right. You’ll want more and more until you’ll burn yourself out.

  “I think you’d better remind me,” Rina said.

  “It happened in the ancient times,” Klarissa said. “During the Mage Wars. It had all started with so many factions, petty spell casters, all trying to grab power and get the upper hand. Eventually, two opposing wizards rose to dominance. The lesser wizards across the land made their choices, flocking to one banner or to the other. As you can imagine, many wizards were slaughtered. That’s what happens when you toss around so many dangerous spells, I guess. Anyway, the wizards began to wise up. They wanted to send others to do their fighting for them, so they invented ink mages. They tattooed spells into the skin of their warriors and sent them into battle.”

  “This sounds familiar now,” Rina said. “I thought most of it was legend.”

  “I’m sure fact and legend have become tangled over the centuries,” Klarissa said.

  “You were explaining how the Scattered Isles became scattered,” Rina reminded her.

  “They didn’t used to be islands at all,” Klarissa said. “It was the southern part of the continent where one of the wizards ruled. The other wizard won the war by calling a great fiery rock from the sky. It smashed the southern lands, and the ocean rushed in. The islands were created.”

  “A great fiery rock from the sky?” Rina’s face was deadpan. “Seriously?”

  “I’m just telling you the story as it was told to me,” Klarissa said. “What was left after the rock smashed the land became known as the Scattered Isles. There are three main islands and about a dozen lesser islands and thousands of other tiny islands. Some are not really islands at all, just clumps of rock to rip the bottom out of a ship.”

  The gypsy woman gestured at the map where a dotted line threaded its way in a roundabout way from a city on the northern coast, past a number of the smaller isles to an obscure islan
d in the middle of the cluster. “This map has come to us after years of searching, chasing rumors, and trading favors. The wizard who ruled this place was a master of inking the tattoos of power. There is a fortress on this secret island, long abandoned. A stronghold of the master wizard. If there is a place in all the world where we might find more tattoos, it is here. Clues, ink, stencils, scrolls. They may have survived the ages.”

  “Or maybe they didn’t,” Rina said. “It was a long time ago. And it’s a faraway place.”

  “Nothing like this is ever easy.”

  Rina thought about it. Both she and Klarissa had the Prime tattoo down their spines, both put there by the same wizard. Weylan’s death meant one fewer person in the world who knew how to ink such a tattoo. It made the women rare individuals. All the other tattoos of power were useless unless a person had the Prime also. Thinking about it that way, Rina almost felt like having the Prime was a responsibility, like searching for this secret fortress was an obligation.

  Almost.

  “What do you plan to do?” Rina asked.

  Klarissa gestured to the map. “My gift to you. And all the knowledge that comes along with it.”

  Rina had been afraid of this. Now it did feel like some kind of obligation. “I have no gift worthy to give in return.”

  “It is a gift, Rina Veraiin, not a trade,” Klarissa said. “Nothing is expected in return.”

  Rina kept herself from sighing. Stupid gypsy customs. Of course the woman wanted something in return. Why did they have to go through the motions of friendship? Or maybe they weren’t just empty gestures. Maybe Klarissa believed in the custom, actually thought this was a legitimate way to strengthen her relationship with Rina.

  “I’m not sure what to do with a gift like this,” Rina said. “It’s a long way to go just because somebody found an old map.”

  “There are legends among the Red City fishermen,” Klarissa said. “The fishermen sometimes venture into the waters of what they call the Lost Islands, where nobody goes unless the fishing is poor and they’re looking for a catch. The fishermen say they’ve seen something swimming with the dolphins just below the surface of the water. Something in the shape of a person. This person never surfaces, and streaks away before they can get a better look.”