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

by Victor Gischler

  Rina, Talbun, and Bishop Hark broke off from the main group and left Crossroads, heading south. They promised Becham they’d catch up with him on the King’s Highway after they’d fetched Brasley.

  The road was wide enough for the three of them to ride side by side. Hark’s squire rode several yards back to give the trio privacy.

  “Now that it’s just the three of us, Bishop Hark, I’d like to hear more about those dreams,” Rina said.

  Hark glanced at Talbun.

  “She knows,” Rina said. “I’ve already told her about my own dream.”

  “You’ve had them too, then,” Hark said.

  “I thought you knew that already.”

  “I suspected,” Hark said. “I don’t know anything. May I be frank?”

  Rina laughed. “You mean you’ve been holding back all this time?”

  Hark reddened and looked abashed. “Again, I apologize, your grace. I’m embarrassed by my behavior.”

  “Forget it,” Rina said. “With gods throwing tantrums, we all agree we’ve got bigger worries.”

  Hark cleared his throat. “Tantrums, you say. I was thinking world-shaking catastrophe, but I will of course yield to your grace’s assessment.”

  Rina turned her head to hide a grin. She couldn’t help it. She was warming up to the burly bishop.

  “I believe you were about to get frank,” Rina reminded him.

  “There are only seven bishops in the Church of Dumo in all of Helva,” Hark said. “I rank least among the seven, but as you can imagine, I keep rare company within the hierarchy.”

  “If you’re trying to tell me how important you are, I believe you,” Rina said.

  “No, that’s not quite what I mean.”

  “He means he is more in touch with his god than the average parishioner,” Talbun said.

  Hark nodded acknowledgment to the wizard. “Perhaps a bit oversimplified, but yes. As the fifth son of a lesser noble, I was trundled off to the priesthood at age eleven. I’d resented it actually and had planned to run away but soon found I had an aptitude for religion.”

  “They don’t groom you for bishop just because you show a knack for the clergy,” Talbun said.

  “No,” Hark agreed. “I see milady has some knowledge of church hierarchy.”

  “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you pick up a few things.”

  “I imagine I have a few years on you, milady,” Hark said.

  “You’d be surprised.” A sly smile.

  Curiosity briefly passed over Hark’s face before he went on. “When I was fifteen, I blessed a village well in which the water had turned sour, and it cleared the next day. Things I did seemed to always go right. As a priest, my sermons seemed to lift the masses. Often when I touched the sick, they seemed to heal more quickly. Please understand that I had no control over these things. Months or years would pass as I went about my normal duties at the temple, and then out of the blue, Dumo would guide my hand.”

  Rina and Talbun traded looks.

  Hark saw the exchange. “Yes, I know how it must sound. Please trust that I have no interest in self-aggrandizement. But miracles aren’t the important thing, not really. For as long as I have served Dumo, I have always felt his presence. And that feeling has always provided a confidence that I was doing Dumo’s work.”

  In another time or place, Rina might have scoffed at Hark’s claims, but she remembered how High Priest Krell had magically etched the Hand of Death tattoo onto her palm. If Mordis could grant special powers to his servants, then Rina supposed Dumo could do the same thing.

  Rina guessed what Hark was getting at.

  “Something’s changed,” Rina said. “Hasn’t it?”

  Hark sighed. “For the past couple of weeks I’ve felt that Dumo has withdrawn from me, that he’s no longer close and isn’t listening when I pray. There’s no way to prove this, obviously, but when you live with a feeling for years and then it’s no longer there, you notice. I thought I’d displeased Dumo in some way and he was punishing me, but then I had the dream.”

  They rode a few moments in silence, and Rina wondered whether the bishop had changed his mind about sharing the dream with them.

  “A shadow within a fog,” Hark said at last. “Large but shapeless with glowing red eyes. I ran, but you know how it is sometimes in a dream. The faster you try to run, the slower you go. Quite frustrating, really. Just when I felt that this shapeless dread was upon me, I burst through the fog into a clearing. Across the clearing I saw a temple with wrecked gates. You were there, your grace, talking to a priest in a black robe.”

  Rina and Talbun exchanged looks again, no hint of amusement this time.

  “I see I’ve hit on something,” Hark said. “Your grace, my dream. It felt, well, almost as if Dumo had been in hiding but showed himself briefly to guide me in this dream. I’ve done a good bit of traveling in my years, and I think I recognize a temple of Mordis when I see one. I also note that our road to Merridan takes us fairly close to this temple.” A noncommittal shrug. “You know the rest of the story. I quickly climbed into my armor and hastened to offer your grace my services. I hope we strive in common cause.”

  When Rina and Talbun exchanged looks this time, the wizard said, “Tell him.”

  Rina told the bishop about her own dream. Her visitation from High Priest Krell. The eyes in the fog. Everything. She related her story in flat, businesslike tones, avoiding drama, and Hark grew more ashen with each word she spoke.

  “It’s changing,” Hark said gravely. “The whole world is going to be different.”

  “You said it was as if Dumo were hiding,” Talbun said. “You might be right.”

  Hark sighed heavily. “When your god runs and hides, what hope is left for mere mortals?”

  “Come on,” Rina said. “The path splits off from the road just ahead. Through the forest in the fastest way to the Hammish Lodge. Let’s surprise the baron, shall we?”

  ***

  Fregga kissed the back of his neck, scooted right up against him underneath the blanket, one soft hand reaching around to find him, rubbing and then tugging until he was fully erect.

  Brasley turned over to face her. “This will make four times.”

  “Are we newlyweds or not?”

  She threw a leg over him, positioned herself, and guided him in as she lowered onto him, taking him in all the way. They found a steady rhythm. His hands gripped her plush backside. Fregga was soft all over, and it hadn’t taken Brasley long to appreciate it. Fregga tended toward the plump anyway, and the pregnancy wasn’t showing yet. He wondered what she would look like at nine months, huge and ready to pop. Well, in the meantime . . . it wasn’t like she could get any more pregnant.

  “You feel . . . so good,” Brasley said.

  She laughed. “I’m a good cook too. I’ll make you something later.”

  “We have a cook.”

  “I sent her away.”

  “Oh, well . . . wait . . . what? You sent away . . .” Damn it, what’s that girl’s name again? “You sent away the cook?”

  “And the maid. They were both a little too pretty,” Fregga said.

  The maid too? Brasley hadn’t even had a chance to try her yet. “You fired them?”

  “I made other arrangements in Klaar for them,” Fregga said. “Don’t worry. They won’t starve.”

  “We still need servants,” Brasley insisted. “You’re a baroness.”

  “You do intend to let me run the household, don’t you?” Fregga redoubled her rhythm, her ass making slapping sounds against his thighs.

  “Of course.” Brasley grunted. “What’s there to run?”

  “I have a new cook coming from Crossroads. She’s seventy.”

  “I’m sure she knows her way around a kitchen.”

  Fregga threw her head back. “Oh. Oh, Brasley. Oh, yes.”

  He moaned and she did too and they finished at the same time. She fell across him, panting, their hearts beating together. Brasley
closed his eyes. The woman had taken a lot out of him the past twenty-four hours.

  The distant sound of a neighing horse popped Brasley’s eyes open again.

  He eased out from under Fregga and went to the window, peeked through a crack in the shutters. Four people on horses headed straight for the lodge. Too far to make out whom they might be, but Brasley was definitely not expecting company.

  He quickly pulled on his breeches and tied the laces. He snatched a shirt off the floor and put it on. He sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed his boots.

  “What is it?” Fregga asked from the tangle of sheets, voice sleepy and content.

  “Somebody’s coming. Don’t worry. I’ll go see who it is.”

  He went downstairs and past the great stone fireplace. A modest fire within had burned low. He opened his mouth to shout for the maid to bring more wood but then remembered the maid had been sent away. Somehow, in a day, Fregga had taken over his whole house.

  And she’ll take over me next!

  Yeah, and what was really so bad about that? The woman did anything—anything—he wanted in the sack and seemed actually to enjoy it. So maybe having a woman in his life to keep him organized and on the right path was exactly what he needed. Maybe settling down with Fregga was the key to Brasley’s happiness.

  But the maid did have great tits. I wish I’d had the chance to—

  He shook his head, banishing such thoughts, and went out through the front door. He stood on the front porch, hugging himself in the cool air, and watched the riders approach. He only had to watch another few moments before Rina came into focus.

  She’s wearing that sinister black armor. That can’t be good.

  The woman riding next to here was stunningly beautiful. He’d never seen her before. Brasley would certainly have remembered.

  The third rider was . . . Bishop Hark? And in full plate armor. The youth riding behind them seemed to be a servant.

  I like the look of this less and less every second.

  He waited until they’d reached the lodge before offering a halfhearted wave.

  “Hello, Brasley,” Rina said.

  “Dare I ask?” Brasley said.

  “Something’s come up,” Rina said. “I need you.”

  “Me? That’s probably some kind of mistake because nobody ever needs me for anything. I’m sure you’ll sort it all out,” Brasley said. “As you know, I’m on my honeymoon, so I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I don’t jump into a full suit of armor and ride off to whatever dangerous thing you’ve got going this time.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” Fregga said coming up behind him. “Invite them in, for goodness sake. I’ll brew us all a nice pot of tea.”

  Somehow Fregga looked perfectly put together, hair neat and combed, dress smooth and unwrinkled. Brasley marveled. The woman had just been sweaty and breathless two minutes ago, hair mussed. Now she looked ready to attend a royal dinner.

  Fregga nodded to Hark. “Lovely to see you again, Bishop Hark. Your ceremony was just wonderful.”

  Hark managed a smile. “Only too happy to be of service.”

  Brasley took his wife’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. “Fregga, my dear, I was just telling Duchess Veraiin I would have to decline her offer to take me on a little camping holiday.”

  “Don’t be silly, Brasley.”

  Brasley blinked. “What?”

  “She’s your duchess,” Fregga said. “If duty calls, then you must obey.”

  Brasley blinked again. “But we were just married. I thought that—”

  “Now, don’t trouble yourself with a bunch of thinking, Brasley.” She brushed past him and gestured to Rina and the others. “Please do come in. You can have your tea while Brasley packs.”

  “You have my thanks, Baroness Hammish,” Rina said. “If we can get back on the road quickly, we should be able to catch up to Count Becham and the others before nightfall.”

  “Even better,” Fregga said. “Brasley, you get to travel with Father.”

  “Yes,” Brasley said. “Even better.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  As steward, Stasha Benadicta decided to set up her office similar to Rina’s. It was smaller, naturally, and didn’t have a window, but she’d found a small, rectangular table, highly polished and sturdily built to serve as a desk. It was important that she project the right sort of authority. In Rina’s absence, Stasha represented the duchess and Klaar itself.

  The air of power she’d hoped to project seemed entirely lost on the young army officer standing before her.

  “Madam Steward.” The officer’s voice cracked, nervous. “General Kerrig sends his compliments and asks what service he might do for you.”

  “He need not trouble himself personally,” Stasha said. “I simply asked for a squad of men.”

  “Regretfully, the general must remind the steward how shorthanded the military is at the moment.” The young officer said this as if he’d rehearsed it. “He says if you’d like to tell him what task you need accomplished, he can tend to it. Keeping the men directly under his command will expedite whatever it is you need done.”

  He means that General Kerrig doesn’t want to take orders from the woman who runs the brothel. She’d reached the highest rank in Klaar possible for someone without noble blood, but to many she would always be Back Gate scum.

  She lifted her chin, giving no sign that anything the officer had said flustered her at all. “Please tell the general . . .”

  What?

  If she gave him a direct order and he refused, what would happen? He was the man with all the soldiers. If he refused, it would only highlight Stasha’s weakness. If he resigned, it would hamper the military’s recovery. Rebuilding the army was a slow process. She could report the general to Rina upon her return, but that would only make Stasha look like a little child running to her mommy.

  She needed to handle this herself.

  “Please tell the general that I thank him for his offer and will let him know when I need him.”

  The officer bowed low and left in a hurry, apparently relieved to be on his way.

  Stasha sent a servant to fetch Darshia. She’d already made up her mind how she would handle the situation. Some of the puzzle pieces were already in place.

  A knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  Darshia entered and shut the door behind her. Her red hair had been woven into two tight braids that hung over her shoulders. She wore her sword belt with the Perranese blade. Darshia and the other women from the Wounded Bird never seemed to be without their swords. A symbol of their liberation perhaps.

  Or maybe they just wanted to be ready for anything at any time. Stasha could understand that.

  “You wanted to see me, Mother. Sorry, I mean, Madam Steward.”

  “It’s okay,” Stasha said. “When we’re alone I don’t mind.”

  “Okay.”

  “Prinn sent you on an errand the morning she was killed.”

  “A favor for her,” Darshia said.

  “What was it?”

  She hesitated a moment, then: “She wanted me to take some money to her family. And to tell them to leave Klaar. Prinn was in a hurry and didn’t explain, but I guess they were in some kind of trouble maybe.”

  “And did they? Leave, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Darshia said. “It was a lot of money, and I think it frightened them. They didn’t have much. It didn’t take long for them to pack up.”

  “Do you know where they went?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Darshia said. “I didn’t want to know.”

  Stasha nodded. “Probably for the best. Would you like to help me get those responsible?”

  “Prinn was my best friend.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Stasha said. “I want you to pick two girls and tell them to be ready. Take them off guard duty rotation. Send somebody to the Wounded Bird to bring back Bune and Lubin.”

  “I can fetch them myself.”r />
  “No, I have something else for you to do,” Stasha said. “There’s a drab little tavern down a dark alley. There’s a panhandler there in rags. You will put a copper coin in his cup. If there is a folded piece of parchment in the cup, bring it to me. If not, go about your business. Do this once in the morning and once in the evening every day until I say to stop. Try not to be seen, but if you are, then you’re just a generous passerby giving to a beggar.”

  “Who’s the beggar?” Darshia asked.

  “My eyes and ears,” said Stasha. “I need you to be ready, Darshia. When it’s time to move, it will happen fast. And it will get bloody.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Witch of Kern sliced the foamy waves, bobbing in the emerald sea, its square sails full and white against a bright blue sky. Alem knew nothing about sailing but guessed they were making good time.

  In fact, he’d never even seen an ocean before even though Klaar sat on the icy Northern Sea. He’d never left Klaar before his adventure with Rina and Brasley, and that had taken him west, not east toward the water. He found, much to his pleasant surprise, that he loved the smell of the salt ocean, the breeze in his face, the immensity of the ocean stretching vast to the horizon.

  Alem leaned against the railing, breathed in the air, and sighed with pleasure.

  “Could you at least not sound so fucking happy?” Maurizan said. “I’m trying to die in peace over here.”

  The gypsy girl sat cross-legged, hunched over a bucket in her lap. A second later she vomited into it. She’d felt nauseous almost immediately after the ship left port in Kern and had stood at the railing giving the contents of her stomach to the fish for two hours, before becoming too fatigued to stand anymore. She’d been convinced to sit, and Alem had brought her the bucket. He emptied it over the side for her periodically. She’d tolerated his help but hadn’t actually said thank you.

  Not that I’m expecting an outpouring of gratitude any time soon, Alem thought.

  Each new swell of the ocean pulled another moan out of her. Maurizan vomited again.