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

by Victor Gischler

  “Lost good men taking that opportunity.”

  “Then I’d think you’d cherish our prize more highly,” Tchi said.

  Yano grunted. He wasn’t sure if Tchi had made a good point or not.

  The three riders had almost arrived. They didn’t look particularly harried, and Tchi took heart in the thought.

  “She’s dangerous.” Yano was evidently not quite prepared to let the subject go.

  “Yes,” Tchi said. “Otherwise she would not be the object of our attention.”

  Another grunt.

  “The wizards have her under constant observation,” Tchi said. “They’ve bound her and have spelled her to sleep. We’ll take her south to Sherrik and turn her over to the commander of the invasion. They’ll have people who can interrogate her properly. More important, the girl possesses a unique magic. The imperial sorcerers will want to examine her.”

  When Tchi didn’t even get a grunt, he figured the matter must be at last closed.

  The riders reined in their horses before Tchi and saluted.

  “Report.”

  “No pursuit, sir,” said one of the riders. “We stung them badly, I think. Caught them utterly by surprise.”

  “Well done, Corporal,” Tchi said. “Pass the word that we’re moving out again in an hour.”

  They saluted again and galloped away.

  “Sergeant, take two squads and scout the roads ahead,” Tchi said. “I want the fastest path south possible, but obviously we need to avoid towns and large villages. We’ll be spotted eventually. There are too many of us. But later is better than sooner.”

  Yano hesitated.

  “You have your orders, Sergeant.”

  “Commander Tchi, I would like to go on record as saying I don’t agree with the order to keep the woman alive. She’s an unknown. Maybe our wizards can keep her under wraps. Maybe not. It’s a bad risk.”

  Tchi’s back went stiff, the muscles in his jaw working with anger. “Your objection has been noted. Shall I call back the corporal so you have a witness?”

  Yano grinned crookedly, showing yellow teeth. “Don’t bother. I trust you, Commander.” The sergeant spurred his horse left at a trot.

  ***

  A two-wheeled cart had been hooked to one of the packhorses, Rina Veraiin dumped in the back. She’d been gagged and blindfolded and bound by heavy chain. Prullap and Jariko had been ordered to stay with her around the clock, to use their magic to keep her asleep and alive.

  “A simple sleep spell.” Jariko tsked. “Here we are summoning demons and great winged beasts, and one of the most basic incantations was all that was needed.”

  “Not quite,” Prullap said. “You have to be within sight of your target to cast it, and let me tell you, that was no fun.”

  “I know,” Jariko said. “I was there.”

  “You fell off your horse,” Prullap said.

  “I know,” Jariko said. “I was there.”

  “You didn’t see the murderous look in her eyes,” Prullap said dramatically, reliving the encounter. “She was coming right at me. I almost soiled myself. If the spell hadn’t worked—”

  “But it did work,” the older wizard said. “Calm down. You’re making me nervous.”

  “I’m making you nervous. I saw the woman break a man’s neck with one hand.”

  “If she stays asleep, she can’t hurt anyone.”

  “I’m not sure we should keep her like this,” Prullap said. “I can keep spelling her to sleep, but what if something goes wrong and she gets loose? The woman is a bloodthirsty animal.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Jariko snapped. “Look at the woman’s back.”

  Prullap already knew what he’d see but looked anyway. They’d ripped her shift halfway down her back to expose the tattoos. The wizards had looked on with wonder, but only Jariko seemed to fully realize what it meant.

  “You’re looking at power, Prullap. A rare and amazing power that many thought was lost. But it’s not lost. It’s right here. In our hands.”

  “In her hands,” Prullap said. “Which is exactly why I don’t want her to wake up.”

  “Some wizard had to ink those tattoos on her,” Jariko said. “She knows who. If we can ferret out the secrets, the potential is unlimited.”

  “I suppose you could ask her if she were awake,” Prullap said. “Oh, wait, then she’d kill us.”

  Jariko frowned. “Sarcasm ill suits you.”

  “Death ill suits me.”

  “We are intelligent men,” Jariko insisted. “We could figure a way.”

  “Count me out,” Prullap said.

  Jariko opened his mouth to say something cutting but held back. Count him out? Yes, why not? Why should someone with so little ambition share in the power? He’s weak. I don’t need him.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Jariko said. “I have heard some of the warriors express similar sentiments. Just her presence among us makes them anxious.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Prullap said. “Many of their friends and comrades died at her hands.”

  Jariko sighed elaborately. “Well, so much for dreams of power. Perhaps it is better we focus our efforts on keeping her enchained and asleep. Let others worry what to do with her.”

  But already the wheels were turning in the old wizard’s mind, for the secrets of the ink mage were too tantalizing to resist.

  ***

  The beef jerky was terrible.

  The sergeant in charge of the king’s stores had been willing to part with a bag of beef jerky, some hard biscuits, and a skin of weak wine. Hardly gourmet fare, but it would last long and travel well.

  Bishop Hark sat on his horse just inside the tree line. Low-hanging branches hid him well enough. He held the reins of Rina’s horse also, her armor and weapons packed on its back against the chance he actually found her alive and managed to rescue her.

  He watched and chewed.

  The three Perranese riders galloped across the open land in front of him. Scouts. Hark would need to hang back and stay out of sight until the enemy force felt comfortable they weren’t being pursued. He waited a bit, then clucked his tongue, his horse breaking into a trot. He kept to the shadows of the tree line.

  Hark uttered a brief prayer to Dumo, nothing deeply personal, just something simple and comforting from one of the novice prayer books.

  He hoped Dumo was listening.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The sun sank into the ocean, the waves pink and orange in the dying light. The sea was strangely calm, but Alem couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t get the images of the desperate citizens out of his mind, how they stood there on the pier, screaming for the ship to return and take them away. He’d killed enemies who’d been trying to kill him. It had been unpleasant, but it also couldn’t be helped. Alem had no problem defending himself.

  That’s what Tosh had suggested they were doing when they left those people, men, women, children. Defending themselves. Couldn’t take them all. Barazz had his own crew to think of. It couldn’t be helped.

  But to Alem, it just felt . . . bad.

  It felt wrong.

  It couldn’t be helped.

  They’re not dead yet, Alem thought. They might be locked out of the city, but they can still leave on foot. There are options. He wondered how many would be killed in the chaos at the waterfront. The war had started and the enemy hadn’t even arrived yet.

  Alem put his hands on the rough wooden railing, leaned, and watched the sun disappear.

  Maurizan appeared at the railing beside him. “It’s too hot belowdecks.”

  Since they’d come south, the heat had amazed them. They’d only just eased into spring, but compared to the bitter Klaar temperatures, the weather was a startling contrast. Alem sweated even in his lightest shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  “You seem better,” Alem said.

  It took the gypsy a moment to understand his meaning. “You mean the vomiting. Yes, I think I have my sea legs now. Still a bit woo
zy, but not so bad, really.”

  She leaned against the railing next to him, her hand an inch from his. The last of the sun was a garish orange blur on the horizon.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I’ll be fine,” Alem said. “I just . . . I wasn’t prepared to look so many people in the face who were fighting for their lives.”

  “No,” Maurizan said. “I mean, yes, of course. That’s terrible. How could it not be? But that’s not what I meant. I meant me. How I’ve been to you. I mean, damn . . . this is harder than I thought. I mean, yeah, you deserve a good slap, but I should have known, right? I mean, you and me. I wanted it so bad I refused to see it. It was her that you always really wanted.”

  Alem closed his eyes, felt a weight descend upon him. “Maurizan.”

  “No, it’s true,” she said. “I knew. I knew and pretended not to know because I loved you.”

  A long moment passed. The sound of the ship carving a path through the salt sea.

  “I should have known better,” Alem said. “A duchess. Who was I kidding? I should have . . .”

  “Settled?” Maurizan asked. “For the cute gypsy girl who was more in your league?”

  Alem went red, face hot. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I don’t care,” Maurizan said. “I don’t care if I’m second choice. It hurt so much to see you with her. I’d take any chance to get you back. If she’s a fool, then why shouldn’t I benefit? I don’t care why. Pride isn’t the choice for happiness. I hate to say this, it sounds terrible, but I can’t help it. I’ve started talking now and I can’t stop no matter what.”

  Alem desperately wished she would stop.

  Desperately wished she wouldn’t.

  “It’s almost better this way,” Maurizan said. “Because you left me for her, and now you’ve come back to me broken, and that’s easier. Because I can save you and comfort you and make you forget how badly you hurt. That’s terrible, but I don’t care. I can be the one who picks up the broken pieces she left behind, and I’m so selfish that all I can think is that I’m glad. Glad she hurt you, so I can be here for you now. And I have to say this so you know. So it’s honest.”

  Alem felt sick and dizzy and couldn’t believe that feeling this way wasn’t all bad. He didn’t really know how to feel at all.

  She moved her hand a fraction of an inch so her pinky finger intertwined with his on the railing.

  And he didn’t say a thing. What could he say?

  But he didn’t move his hand.

  EPISODE EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  At first, Alem thought the sun was rising in the wrong place, but the bright blur on the horizon was the Red City catching the morning light. The collection of low buildings spread along the coast had been constructed of some native stone from a quarry inland that was red like clay but hard like granite. The city’s original architects had favored broad blocky buildings, squat pyramids, and wide domes over soaring towers and spires.

  Strong winds and fair weather had carried them south from Sherrik in just nine days. Everyone’s mood had brightened considerably. Alem found himself eager for dry land. When he’d boarded the ship in Kern, some vague feeling of adventure had stirred in him. Now the vessel was simply a small, claustrophobic place with bad food. He watched eagerly as the shore drew closer.

  Whereas Sherrik had one huge centralized waterfront, docks in the Red City could be found all along the coast. Barazz had told Alem that the city was long and thin and spread along the sea. As the only civilized place in the Shattered Isles, it depended on sea trade as its life’s blood. There were quarries and some minor agriculture inland—mostly fruit groves—and a decent fishing industry, but the Red City imported the vast majority of its food.

  The Witch of Kern tied up at the very end of a long pier at the northern tip of the city. The docks were bustling, much of the traffic refugees from Sherrik or ships that had been bound for Sherrik that now had to change plans.

  Alem was considering heading down the gangplank when Tosh caught up with him.

  “Decided?” Tosh asked.

  Alem turned his head to look at the Red City, at least what he could see from the deck. The people hustled along the walkways. They wore loose light clothing because of the warm weather, sleeveless in some cases. Women wore silky, billowy pants bunched at the ankles. Footwear consisted mostly of sandals with lots of leather straps. Some carried baskets balanced on their heads. Men seemed to favor close-cropped beards without moustaches. Hats ranged from turbans to big felt thimbles, perched at jaunty angles. The place and its people looked exciting and mysterious and exotic.

  It seemed like a place to visit, not to stay.

  And anyway, his friends were going off to do something that would help Rina. Putting their lives in jeopardy for her. How could he not lend a hand?

  Because she could give a damn about you.

  Don’t be a petty, pig-headed thicko.

  He turned back to Tosh. “I want to come.”

  “Then don’t go far.” Tosh gestured at the smaller boats along the dock. “As soon as I hire and provision one of these little island hoppers, we’re going.”

  “How long?”

  Tosh squinted at the sun. It was still fairly early. “I’d like to be out of here by lunch.”

  “Okay. I’ll have a look around and be back by then.” After all, to come all this way and not at least have a quick look seemed a waste.

  “Take somebody with you.” Tosh grinned. “Take Maurizan.”

  Alem frowned.

  “It’s a strange city. Safety in numbers.”

  “My bodyguard?” Alem said.

  Tosh laughed, and Alem went in search of the gypsy.

  ***

  Merridan’s southwestern suburb stretched shabby and poor to the docks along the river where the paddle-wheel boats tied up. River traffic to and from Tul-Agnon to the north accounted for both a steady flow of commerce and passengers. The river was also a connection to the villages and towns south.

  The paddle-wheel boat was a century-old invention of the Tul-Agnon scholars who’d figured the best way to configure the gears to allow four or five men to turn a capstan and sufficiently power the paddle to propel a large boat upriver against the stiff current. An arrangement with the nobles who ran the capital’s dungeons provided the manpower. Those convicted of lesser crimes could work off their time on the boats.

  Count Becham had used his authority and influence to secure space on the next outgoing boat. Doing this involved putting off a couple of very cross spice merchants, but Brasley couldn’t quite bring himself to feel bad for them.

  My father-in-law is an important man, after all, Brasley thought smugly. Rank hath its privileges.

  Brasley watched the boatmen push away from the deck with long wooden poles, and four shirtless men in ankle chains shuffled to the capstan, took their positions, and started turning it, walking a slow circle. It was tough at first, but then the paddle wheel at the stern of the thirty-foot boat began to churn and a minute later, they were slowly making their way upriver.

  The boat was flat bottomed, half as wide as it was long, with a low pilothouse in the center. The captain manned the wheel from the flybridge atop the pilothouse. He was an unshaven, spindly man who smelled like cheap wine and hadn’t been pleased about putting off two legitimate passengers to make room for Brasley and Talbun.

  Brasley didn’t think the captain really cared so much about the other passengers. He just didn’t like being pushed around by a count and a baron. Tough shit. What’s the point of being a baron anyway if I don’t get my way once in a while? Although Brasley had to admit it had been Becham’s clout that had done the trick, not his own. He’d caught the captain shooting him dirty looks more than once. Some people simply don’t respect authority.

  They weren’t advertising that Talbun was a wizard, but Brasley suspected the captain wouldn’t much like that either.

  Most of the deck was crowded with
various cargo, crates, and canvas bags, stacked and lashed tight. There were a dozen other passengers aboard, all currently claiming a spot, unrolling bedrolls or finding a quiet nook between stacks of cargo. These were people who’d paid the cheap rate for deck passage. The weather was mild this time of year, so it was a good bet, but if it rained, then these people would be in for a miserable voyage.

  Brasley followed Talbun belowdecks. There were three cabins. The two forward would have been considered closets in Castle Klaar. One belonged to the captain, the other to the first mate. Brasley and Talbun headed to the third cabin aft.

  Small. Very small. A bed barely big enough for two. A narrow desk that folded up into the wall. A three-legged stool. At least they had a porthole. Some fresh air would definitely help.

  Brasley gestured extravagantly at the tiny cabin. “Your first-class accommodations, milady.”

  “Don’t knock it,” Talbun said. “It beats walking, and my ass is so sore, if I never see another horse again it’ll be too soon.”

  “I suppose I get the floor.”

  “Don’t be a prude,” she said. “Share the bed if you like.”

  “You trust me?”

  Her smile was cold, didn’t touch her eyes. “I don’t need to trust you. I’m old enough to be your great-grandmother. I have no fathers or brothers to worry over my virtue, and I don’t particularly care what people think. I’m also one of the most powerful wizards in Helva. Try to guess what I might do if you annoyed me somehow.”

  Brasley raised an eyebrow. “Turn me into some sort of newt or frog, I expect.”

  “Slightly cliché, but you get the gist. Did you pack something to drink?”

  “Several somethings,” Brasley said. “It’s four days to Tul-Agnon. This tub makes a number of stops I’m afraid, cargo and whatnot.”

  “Well, whatever you’ve got, break it out,” she said. “Because I’m bored already.”

  ***

  Darshia chased him down the narrow alley, Lish close behind her.

  Lish was young and gap-toothed, skinny. She hadn’t really been Wounded Bird material in Darshia’s opinion, hardly pretty. Cute in the right light maybe, wild and frizzy brown hair. But she was quick with the sword and liked to practice, and seemed more comfortable holding a blade than holding a man. A good companion for this kind of work.