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

by Victor Gischler

“I’m throwing up things I don’t even remember eating,” she said.

  “Tosh is sick too,” Alem said. “If that makes you feel any better.”

  “As sick as me?”

  “Nobody is as sick as you.”

  Maurizan vomited again.

  The trip from Klaar to Kern had been a quick and uneventful four days. They’d spent another day in the town of Kern itself, making sure the Witch of Kern was properly provisioned and to comb drunken sailors out of the dockside taverns in time enough to sober them and set sail. Spending a day in Kern revealed to Alem that the town was not significantly any more interesting than Klaar, the chief difference being that he didn’t know a soul.

  And really, what was the point of running away from Klaar only to end up in a place exactly like Klaar? Likely he’d end up getting some drab job shoveling shit in a stable. When Tosh said he could come south on the Witch of Kern to Sherrik, Alem jumped at the offer. An exotic city in warm climes? Why not?

  “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” Alem said.

  Maurizan looked daggers at him. “If there were any justice in the world, you’d be the one puking, not me.”

  “Can I get you some water or something?”

  “No,” Maurizan said. “Just let me sit here.”

  Right.

  Alem moved down the deck where the captain stood at the railing, hands shading his eyes as he looked back north and east. To Alem, Captain Barazz looked less like a sea captain and more like a pit wrestler, powerful arms and legs, thick neck, tall and broad shouldered. Black skin, head shaved except for a black topknot.

  It occurred to Alem he’d never met a sea captain or a pit wrestler.

  But he’d heard stories.

  “What are you looking at, Captain?”

  “A ship.” Barazz’s voice sounded like something from the bottom of a deep well, with a strange accent Alem had never heard before.

  “I don’t see it,” Alem said.

  “That’s because it’s far away.”

  “But then . . .” Never mind.

  “Is it another merchant ship using the same shipping lanes we are?”

  “Maybe,” the captain said.

  Alem scanned the horizon for a full minute but still couldn’t see it. “Could it be a pirate?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “How would I know?” the captain asked.

  Alem frowned. “Because . . . you’re the captain?”

  Barazz turned his head slowly until his tired eyes met Alem’s. “Boy, go away.”

  Alem went away.

  He met Tosh coming up from belowdecks. He looked green and drawn but better than he did yesterday.

  “You okay?”

  Tosh nodded. “Not so bad nothing coming up at least. Have you thought about what you’re going to do when we reach Sherrik?”

  It was all Alem had thought about. The Witch of Kern would stop at Sherrik for provisions and news and to offload cargo before heading due south to the Red City, and the Red City was as far as Alem could go. Tosh hadn’t told him what errand they were on for Rina, and Alem hadn’t asked. He was just along for the ride.

  And anyway, if Rina needs favors she can damn well ask her new husband.

  Alem winced at his own pettiness. He couldn’t help it. Thinking of Rina put a knot in his gut every time. Instead he thought about the sea and the salt air, what he might do in Sherrik, and the Red City. He would go out into the world and make something of himself.

  Yeah, and how do I do that exactly?

  He really had no idea.

  “I thought I’d wait until we hit port,” Alem said. “Sort of size the place up.”

  “I’ve heard it’s a sizable city,” Tosh said. “Oh, not like Merridan or Tul-Agnon, but big. Twice as big as Klaar, I guess. Anyway, like you said, you’ll see it when we get there.”

  “Yeah.”

  Alem emptied Maurizan’s vomit bucket again. She mumbled something that might have been “thank you” but could just as easily have been “fuck you.”

  He returned to the railing, where the captain was still looking back at the other ship. This time, Alem strained his eyes and made out a vague dot on the horizon that might have been a ship or could have been his eyes playing tricks on him.

  “It’s probably just a merchant following the same trade route, right?” Alem said.

  “No,” the captain said. “It’s following us.”

  Alem frowned. “How do you know that?”

  “I changed course, and it changed course to match ours,” Barazz said. “It is gaining but slowly. Tomorrow afternoon. Before supper, I think.”

  Alem swallowed hard. “That’s rude. They could at least let us eat first.

  The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Barazz’s mouth.

  “Master Nork,” Barazz shouted. “Front and center.”

  A wiry little man, shirtless, ran barefoot across the deck and came to attention in front of the captain. First Mate Nork’s skin looked like a withered brown apple. His arms and legs looked made of old rope. “Sir?”

  “Tell the master-at-arms to open the weapons locker and pass out spears and cutlasses,” Barazz ordered. “Tell the men to keep their weapons close but not to get jumpy. Who has the best eyes?”

  “Bosun Figg,” Nork said.

  “Into the crow’s nest with him, if you please, Master Nork,” Barazz said.

  Nork saluted and ran off screaming for the bosun.

  “Can you fight, boy?” Barazz asked.

  No. “I’m okay with a crossbow.”

  “Do you have one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Draw an extra quiver of bolts from the master-at-arms,” Barazz said. “And pass the word among your friends.”

  ***

  Three days of dropping copper coins into the beggar’s cup, and Darshia still had nothing to show for it. A dank little alley, an archway into a courtyard and an even danker tavern beyond called the Drunken Imp. That’s what the beggar kept an eye on, sitting just outside the archway in his rags, holding his little keep.

  And he smelled.

  Yeah, well, you were a whore, Darshia. Nobody’s perfect. Let’s be a bit more tolerant, shall we?

  She bent to drop another copper into his cup and was surprised to see a small, folded piece of parchment. She palmed it and moved on even as the “Thank you, generous lady” followed her down the alley.

  She paused at the other end of the alley, stopped and pretended to adjust a boot to give her a chance to glance backward. Nobody followed her. The alley was empty, save for the beggar, motionless in the same spot.

  Darshia left the alley and strolled along with the flow of pedestrian traffic, glancing back a few times but seeing nothing amiss. She considered the folded piece of parchment in her closed fist. Stasha Benadicta hadn’t actually said Darshia couldn’t read it.

  She unfolded it and read. One word: Tonight.

  Darshia couldn’t remember the last time a single word had made her so nervous.

  ***

  Rina sat astride her horse, eyes closed, tapped into the spirit.

  Brasley, Talbun, Hark, and the squire sat on their horses twenty yards away so as not to disturb her. They were in a quiet glade just inside the edge of the forest, the only sound the leaves rustling in the cool breeze.

  The day had turned gray with the gathering clouds.

  They’d caught up with Count Becham and his party after picking up Brasley but had broken off again to detour to the Temple of Mordis.

  “Explain to me again what she’s doing,” the bishop said.

  “She has a familiar,” Talbun said. “That’s what the tattoos on her face are for. A forest falcon. She can see through its eyes. She’s sent it to scout ahead.”

  “Please don’t take it as disrespect, but the tattoos make her look a bit like a jungle savage,” Hark said.

  Talbun smiled. “You have a wide experience of jungle savages, Bishop Hark?�
��

  “I have a wide experience of many things,” Hark said. “I’ve also been known to read a book now and then.”

  “Sailors have tattoos,” Talbun said.

  “So I’ve observed,” Hark said. “Although I’ve never seen them on faces. Seems an awkward place for one.”

  “I think it’s quite exotic and attractive,” Talbun said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Baron Hammish?”

  “I suppose,” Brasley said.

  “Pardon me for saying so, Baron,” Hark said, “but you seem a bit sullen.”

  “Could you both call me Brasley, please?” he asked. “Whenever you say baron, I keep looking around for my uncle. And yes, I am sullen. Also anxious, nervous, unhappy, and afraid. You weren’t at the temple last time around. It was a slaughter. I’ve never seen anything so bloody in my life.”

  “But you were victorious, weren’t you?” the bishop asked.

  “Yes.”

  Hark frowned. “Then why—”

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Brasley said. “And anyway, here she comes.”

  Rina approached, reined in her horse next to theirs.

  “Zin circled the temple three times,” Rina told them. “It looks deserted. And the gates haven’t been repaired.”

  “That’s a shame,” Brasley said. “Nobody home, you say? Looks like we’ll just have to turn around and head home.”

  “No,” Rina said. “We’ve come this far. I want to see for myself.”

  Brasley sighed. “I just knew you were going to say that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  She’d always wanted to be the prettiest.

  Except now.

  It was because Darshia was competitive. When she’d worked at the Wounded Bird, it had never much mattered what the men thought, but she’d always been competitive with the other women, the best clothes, the best hair, the best makeup, the best figure. She realized now how small her life had been at the brothel. That trying to outshine the other girls was the only way she could feel good about herself was proof of this.

  Now there were other ways. She was good with the sword and getting better every day. She had a purpose she was proud of. She didn’t need to be the prettiest anymore.

  But Stasha, Carrine, and Becca all agreed she looked best in the dress. A vivid green, cut low enough to be fashionable without going overboard. Her ample figure, bright white skin, and red hair against the dress made her irresistible bait.

  I don’t want to be bait. I want to strap on a sword and armor and cut open the bastards who killed Prinn.

  But a sword and armor would ruin the effect. She walked down the alley in a white fur cloak, hood thrown back and red hair loose and flowing, gleaming like a beacon. There was a thin stiletto tucked into her fur-lined boots, her only weapon.

  She turned into the courtyard of the Drunken Imp.

  Yellow lights and bulky shapes in the tavern windows. Raucous laughter from within signaled the night’s festivities were already well under way.

  Darshia drew a deep breath, gathered herself, and entered.

  The laughter died away immediately, all eyes turning to her.

  She scanned the place. No other women. Darshia thought there might at least be prostitutes, but no. It would work to her advantage, but it still made her feel uncomfortable. She tried to remember how the noblewomen carried themselves around court.

  Darshia smiled. “Gentleman, please go about your business and don’t let me disturb you. I took a wrong turn, and I’ve just popped in to your establishment briefly to refresh myself.”

  There was an empty table across the room, and Darshia went to it, not too fast, head up, confident, like she came to this squalid place every day. She felt the eyes on her and ignored them. She sat herself at the table, took off her cloak, and hit them with the dress.

  An emerald tossed into a pile of cow shit. That’s how she must have looked sitting there among the denizens of the Drunken Imp, shining and clean in an expensive dress and smelling of Stasha Benadicta’s best soap. Even with a roaring blaze in the big fireplace across the room, the dress’s thin fabric did little to fend off a chill, and Darshia’s nipples strained against the material. When she’d worked at the Wounded Bird, she’d pinch her nipples before entering the common room to achieve just such an effect, but now she felt only self-conscious.

  Get over yourself. They’re just nipples.

  She waved a handkerchief at the squat brute behind the bar. “Barkeep, could I have something warm? A pot of tea perhaps?”

  Every man in the room gawked at her, none trying to hide it.

  Nobody in the tavern noticed the two others who entered quietly and took the seats in a darkened corner.

  Darshia made a quick count. Eight men in the tavern, nine if you counted the barkeep. Another door just to the right of the fireplace was the only other exit besides the main entrance. Low ceiling, a gray layer above them from pipe smoke. A cramped place for a fight. Knives and fists better than swords.

  A greasy man with a five-day beard plopped down in the seat across from her, splashed purple wine into a wooden cup and slid it across the table to her. “Can’t let a pretty thing like you drink alone. Have a cup of this then. Do you better than tea.”

  Darshia fluttered her eyelashes, one white hand going delicately to her chest. “Oh my. How . . . generous.”

  A man twice as big and twice as greasy came up behind the first one, swatted him on the shoulder. “Shove off, Rory. Real woman like this wants a real man.”

  “Shove off, yourself,” Rory snarled over his shoulder.

  “You’ve got pox on your cock.”

  “That’s a damn lie!”

  There was the scrape of chairs as others rose to come join the scene or gawk at it. Men crowded closer from all sides, the sweating smell of them cloying and foul. Darshia wondered how fast she could draw the stiletto from her boot.

  “Enough.” A voice from across the room, high-pitched and piercing.

  The greasy men slunk back to their tables like whipped dogs.

  The new voice had come from the direction of the fireplace, and Darshia craned her neck. Two upholstered high-back chairs faced the fireplace. From one an arm gestured “over here.”

  “Bring her to me,” the voice said.

  A man standing next to the fireplace walked toward her. He looked a half cut above the greasy ruffians, clean shaven, with simple clothes that were neat and clean. A short, fat sword hung from his belt.

  He stopped at Darshia’s table, nodded politely. “My lord asks that you join him by the fire. Milady might find it more comfortable.”

  She returned the nod. “Most gracious.”

  He escorted her to the fire, and she sat in the other armchair.

  The man sitting across from her fit Giffen’s description exactly. His smug, leering face made Darshia want to stab him in the eye. And Stasha had been correct that he would not be able to help himself if a pretty girl caught his eye . . . although the same proved true for most men in Darshia’s experience.

  “My gratitude, my lord,” she said.

  “You’re too fine a lady for those brutes. Too fine to be in the Drunken Imp at all,” Giffen said. “I felt it my duty as a gentleman to come to your rescue.”

  Go fuck yourself.

  “Yes, I do seem to have wandered down the wrong street,” Darshia said.

  “Your face is not familiar to me, and Klaar is a small town,” Giffen said. “May I ask your name?”

  “Lady Elris Gant,” Darshia said. “I arrived with the party from Merridan.” The story had been prearranged. Elris was Ferris Gant’s sister, although she hadn’t come to Klaar.

  “Odd,” Giffen said. “I thought I knew everyone who’d come with Count Becham.” Was there some doubt in his voice? Or possibly slime and suspicion were his usual demeanor.

  Darshia was suddenly worried the story might not hold together. Giffen obviously had a better spy network than they’d figured.

  �
�Also, didn’t Count Becham and his retinue already leave to return to the capital?” Giffen asked.

  Now Darshia found herself on firmer footing. “I’m of little significance, so it’s no wonder you hadn’t heard of me, and yes, the count and the others are on their way. I’ve stayed behind to keep the new Baroness Hammish company while she settles into her new home. Likely you heard news of the recent nuptials.”

  “Ah, yes.” Giffen nodded. “That does ring a bell.”

  “As you might know, the Hammish lodge is off in the wilderness somewhere,” Darshia said. “I thought it best to stay in town and shop for a few necessities before making the trip.”

  “Lady Gant, I hope you’ll allow me to offer you some refreshment. I understand you’re used to a better sort of place than this, but as I happen to do some business in here from time to time, the barman keeps a bottle of a tolerable brandy just for me.” Gant gestured to his servant. “Bring the bottle and two glasses.”

  Darshia watched the man with the short sword leave and return with the bottle and two glasses. He might also have been some sort of bodyguard, and Darshia realized she’d have to take him out first.

  The servant filled two glasses and handed one to Giffen and one to Darshia.

  She tossed back the whole glass in a single gulp, remembering only after she’d swallowed that a proper lady sipped brandy. No guzzling.

  She faked a cough. “Oh my, it’s going right to my head.”

  “That’s strong stuff, my dear,” Giffen said.

  She used the cough as her opportunity to give the signal. No point in waiting anymore. Everyone should be in position.

  She brought her handkerchief to her mouth, coughed some more.

  “My dear, perhaps a glass of water,” Giffen offered.

  Darshia held the handkerchief out to one side.

  And let it drop.

  A split second later the tavern erupted in screams of pain and the sound of furniture overturning. Darshia didn’t need to see it. She already knew the sound of mayhem induced by Bune and Lubin.

  Her hand went down to her boot.

  Giffen and his bodyguard turned to look at the uproar.

  Giffen’s eyes shot wide. “What the bloody blazes is—”

  His bodyguard’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. His other hand still held the brandy bottle.