“And what did we learn?” said Brea.
“Do not annoy the Brea.” Kozog sighed, wiping his sweaty brow on his sleeve. “So, did you at least find out what’s going on?”
Chapter IV
Kozog
“SO, I GUESS WE ARE breaking into your family home,” said Brea, for about the fifteenth time in as many minutes.
“Shut up.” Kozog groaned and peered through the iron fence, trying to put his earlier words out of his mind. No such luck.
“Aww, poor Kozzy is all mad because his mummy told him to break the law.” Brea deepened her voice, grunting and scratching under her arm. “Urgh. Me Kozog. Me no break into family home!” Her voice returned to normal. “That’s you. That’s what you sound like.”
He stared at her. “Are…you okay?”
“Yes, of course. I’m imitating you.”
“But I don’t sound anything like that.”
Brea put her hands on her hips, the way she usually did when she wanted to argue an annoying point. “Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
Kozog didn’t have the energy to argue with her. His chest hurt something fierce; he concealed the pain from Brea, but it came through in…frustration. “If you say so.” He gestured to the wall. “Let’s go.”
Brea climbed it as though it were the easiest thing in the world, practically walking up it like a spider, straddling it at the top. Kozog dug his fingers in, strained his muscles, and hoisted himself up—teetering at the top before falling head first, crashing onto the grass on the other side.
Brea seemed very amused atop the wall, stifling a giggle. She waggled her eyebrows, flipped off the edge and landed in a crouch beside him.
“Don’t say anything,” grumbled Kozog, climbing up to his feet. His chest wound stung, but he grit his teeth and kept his composure.
He did not want to appear weak in front of Brea again.
“I didn’t say a word,” said Brea, cracking her back and casting a curious eye towards the manor. Now they were inside its walls, the size and beauty of the garden seeming to give her pause. “You grew up here?”
“Not really,” said Kozog. “My family and I moved here a few years before I went to the church. The other place was much nicer.”
Brea swept a hand around the yard, at the topiaries and the manicured grass, to the water pond and the stone garden. “Nicer than this?”
Her question didn’t make sense. “Of course. That’s what I said.”
Brea’s eyes seemed like they would drop out of their sockets. She opened her mouth to speak, shook her head, and then closed her mouth, slipping across the grass towards the border hedge, making her way to the house.
Kozog ambled behind her. There was no sense in being stealthy just yet; he could never be as soft-footed as Brea could, even on his best day, but he tried to keep up, using the various bushes and trees for cover.
“Which way?” asked Brea, her voice low.
“The side will be easier,” he said. “If the Lords did secure the property, they would be unlikely to secure the servant’s quarters. We may be able to gain entrance that way.”
Another look of disapproval crossed Brea’s face but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Fine. Where is it?”
Kozog gestured to the smaller building off to the side. “There.”
The two crept over to the servant’s quarters. The windows had been boarded up. Brea tried the door; it was locked. “Can we break it down?” she asked.
“That thing is solid darkwood,” said Kozog. “Unfortunately I neglected to bring any siege weapons.”
Her eyes flicked to him. “Why would you need such security to contain free employees?”
“It’s not designed to keep them in,” Kozog said, blowing an exasperated sigh. “It’s to keep other people out. You know. Burglars. Burglars like us.” He ran his finger along the crack of the door; it was flush with the wall. “See? Hinges on the inside. That’s how you can tell.”
“Fine,” Brea grumbled. “Even if we had a really big axe, breaking this will take too long and make too much noise.” She turned her eyes to the main building, to the smoking room.
Kozog followed her gaze. The smoking room’s windows were likewise boarded, but there were vents at the ceiling which were closed with glass louvres to keep the rain out. There was enough space for the two of them to get through.
“We could pry off one of those bars,” said Brea. “Then break a window.”
The colour drained out of Kozog’s face. “Those sheets of glass took months to arrive! They were shipped in from the north at vast expense, and—”
“They don’t call it breaking in for nothing,” said Brea, idly playing with the tip of a braid. “You got any better ideas?”
He didn’t. “Fine, fine. C’mon. You have the sharpest eyes and I the strongest arms. I’ll give you a boost. Once you get inside, I’ll follow you. When we go to leave, the servant’s quarters should open from the inside.”
Brea regarded the vent. “I can’t reach it. I could jump but I’ll need both hands to pry the grille off.”
Kozog intertwined his fingers. “I’ll get you up high enough.”
“Not too high,” she said, glancing up at the overhang. “I don’t want to hit my head.”
“Just sit,” he said.
She sat in the offered hands, settling against his fingers, her chainmail clinking as she got comfortable. Kozog lifted her up over his head, his face only inches away from the wall.
“Higher,” said Brea.
Kozog stretched, shifting his feet closer together. He wobbled precariously.
“Higher. I’m almost there.”
Groaning, Kozog extended his arms and legs as far as they would go, standing on his tip-toes and pressing his fingers into her backside to get a little more height.
“Enjoying yourself there?” Brea snipped, squirming.
Kozog’s arms trembled. They were fully extended. “Believe me, I wish I were holding your backside under better circumstances. Hurry up and pull off the grate before I drop you.”
She wriggled around in his hands. It made holding her even more difficult. “You just be careful where your fingers are going,” she said.
Kozog teetered unsteadily. “This is a very awkward position and your posterior is covered in metal, in case you forget!”
Brea craned her neck, trying to see in the window, but she was still too tall. “Oh, boo hoo. Suck it up you big broccoli face.”
He snorted in shock. “B-broccoli face?”
“Hey! Keep me steady, why don’t you?”
Kozog inhaled and focused, groaning in pain. “I’m trying!”
“Yes, you definitely are trying. Trying my patience!”
“Your patience?” He puffed, the ache in his arms intensifying, his wound on his chest burning. “Knife ears!”
Brea gasped. “Knife ears? I beg your pardon!”
“You called me a broccoli face!”
She twisted, slapping at his wrists. “That’s because you. Are. One!”
“And you’re a knife ears, so shut it! Just hurry up!”
Snap-crack went the grate. Brea tossed it over her shoulder. She reached down for her tool kit. “Hey,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “Are you looking at my butt?”
Kozog swiftly dropped his eyes back down. “No.”
That answer seemed to offend her. “Why not?”
He nearly dropped her. “Wait, what?”
“I’ll have you know, my backside brings out the best in everyone.”
How was that even possible? He would have to ask his mother. “…noted?”
“Good.” Brea inhaled, squinting up against the frosted glass. “Coast is clear inside. Hold on and I’ll break the glass.”
“You don’t have to sound so happy about it.” Kozog grumbled loudly. “That’s my house.”
“Oh, wait, is smashing windows…illegal?” She put her hands
to her cheeks in faux-shock.
Kozog rolled his eyes, adjusting his footing. His fingers were completely numb. “Yes, as a matter of law! This isn’t easy for me, you know.”
Brea laughed. “I know! But it’s just so entertaining watching you squirm!”
“Urgh…” Kozog groaned. “If you don’t move, we’re going to get spotted. Just hurry up and break it.”
Her voice became sing-songy. “But that’s prop-er-ty damage!”
“It’s my house.”
Brea puffed out her chest. “Technically, it’s your mother’s. It won’t be yours until she’s dead.”
“Great,” Kozog groaned. “Out-lawyered by the elf.”
“Technically,” Brea said, her tone thoughtful. “It’s not even hers, since it got seized by the city. This is the property of the city.”
With absolutely nothing else to add, and completely out of rebuttals, Kozog blew a raspberry.
Brea laughed, and a crash followed a shower of glass all around him. “In we go,” she said, pushing the last shards away.
“Three felonies and a misdemeanour before breakfast.” Kozog took a deep breath, wrapping his arms around his chest to try and restore circulation. “I can worm us out of this one, no worries, no worries…”
Brea pulled herself up. “Just give me your hand and stop being such a big green baby.”
It wasn’t childish to consider their actions. Kozog scowled and folded his arms. “I should have let you fall on your head.”
“Mmm, giving a little kiss to the ground? Pass.”
He shook his head in confusion. “You can’t kiss a planet, Brea. It has no lips.”
Brea’s voice was muffled as she stuck her head through the broken glass, inspecting the building beyond. “I’ve kissed far more interesting places than one’s lips, Kozog.”
More interesting? Intriguing. “You have?”
“Oh, you have no idea what it’s like.” Brea’s head returned, her smile positively impish. “You take some guy’s manhood in your mouth, and even the mightiest warriors are completely at your mercy. Every little twinge, every flick of the tongue, becomes ecstasy to them; you control their every ounce of pleasure, you set the pace, you master their whims. They beg and whimper and they are yours.” She smacked her lips. “And, of course, the finale is remarkably tasteful as well.” Her tone shifted in some subtle way “Never had an orc before…”
What in Drathari did any of this have to do with anything? “That shouldn’t be a problem at all. The city has a fine array of courtesans, male and female. Probably more than one orc. After we’ve retrieved the book we could find one.”
The teasing turned frosty and the edges of her mouth turned down. “I’m sure we could. In fact, one could say there’s one quite close that would do nicely.”
Kozog scratched his head, glancing over his shoulder. “I think the slave markets are some distance that way, if you wanted to go back there. It’s not close though.”
“I know what way it is.”
“Then why did you—”
Brea’s face looked like she had inhaled a lemon. “Urgh.”
Kozog closed his eyes. “I’ll take that as a never mind.”
“Oh,” Brea snipped, “he does learn.”
He extended his hand and Brea practically yanked him up the wall.
Brea
The moment Brea’s feet hit the plush red rug and sank in a full inch, she knew she was stepping into another world.
Every part of the Kozog family manor oozed wealth. The walls were plaster, decorated with thick drapes from distant lands. At least one was elven in styling; the others, she had no clue. The floors were a sturdy hardwood, polished to a mirror shine, with a rug carefully laid out around each window. The walls were dotted with cupboards. Several chairs, the rich leather dyed a royal blue and trimmed with gold, sat around a circular table that was lavishly furnished with a bright red cloth. A huge sword made from obsidian glass hung on the wall.
Aside from the glass, and a layer of dust that coated everything, the place was immaculate.
“And I thought it looked fancy from the outside,” she said, her anger forgotten. Her rump stung from Kozog’s fingers digging into it; she stretched, working out the aches, and then helped Kozog ease down from the window. “This room alone must be worth a fortune.”
“We’re just here for the book,” cautioned Kozog. He ran a finger along the windowsill, scowling darkly at the large amount of dust he gathered.
“Actually, your mother said I could help myself, within reason, to whatever I wanted. As part of my fee.”
Kozog narrowed his red eyes. “Is that in the contract?”
“Verbal agreement.”
“And therefore not enforceable in any court of—”
Brea stopped listening at this point, although Kozog droned on in the background, a white noise to her search that was oddly calming. She crept across the room toward the only exit, testing the door. It was unlocked.
“—section J, paragraph two, line one, with-regard-to marine salvage law. A person who recovers another person’s ship or cargo after peril or loss at sea is entitled to a reward commensurate with the value of the property so saved. The concept has its origins in antiquity, with—”
“Shh,” said Brea, holding up a finger.
“What?” asked Kozog. “This is relevant.”
“It’s not relevant,” hissed Brea. She put her ear up against the door, straining to hear anything. Nothing from the room beyond.
Kozog ambled to one of the cupboards, opening the wood with a creak that was too loud to her ears. Within were several bottles of golden alcohol.
“Here,” he said. “Why don’t you take these fire-wine bottles instead of the furniture. Also, because that’s technically a gift, it’s better for tax purposes.”
“Hmmph,” said Brea, considering the ‘tax write off’ with suspicious eyes. “Last time I got drunk, back at the Freelands, I nearly sold my soul to Tyranus.”
Kozog laughed good-naturedly, scooping up the clinking bottles and stuffing them into his backpack. “I remember that night. You asked if it was a new job contact and I said no. But then you said you’d sign it anyway. Fortunately my quill was broken after I sat on it. So we used our fingers to write stuff on a parchment until we both passed out.”
She bristled at the memory. Brea had anticipated that, after Kozog had cuddled up to her on the cold floor of the inn, the particular night would go completely differently. Nestled in under his arm, she had told him things; spilt her heart to him, and the whole time he had not said a single thing…quietly and respectfully listening to her every babbling, stammering word.
Or so she had thought. He had not been cuddling. He had been asleep.
“Why do you even carry those things around, anyway?” she said, her tone snippy.
“Oh, you never know when someone is going to go all-out and pledge their souls to my Holy master, Lord Tyranus, God of Contracts and Bindings.”
Brea shook her head. “It’s funny for you,” she said, biting down on her lower lip. “After that, my sex life has never really recovered.”
Kozog chuckled. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that?”
“Yours.”
His expression dropped and he stared. “Mine? What did I do?”
“I’m spending so much time with you that I can’t exactly go off and have a little fun now, can I?”
Kozog, his stupid face all scrunched up from trying to understand a basic concept, held out his hands. “I know you have…needs. I’m not stopping you. I’ve never stopped you from doing what you want.”
Brea sighed, leaning forward to put her forehead on the wood of the door. “No,” she said, “I guess you’re not.”
“But…you don’t want to for some reason?”
“Yeah. For some reason.” Brea straightened up. “Look, we should split up. Check the next room. Try not to let you big dumb orcish feet kick over anything too loud. Or too valuable.”
“My feet aren’t big.” He moved beside her, toes dragging across the rug.
Brea pointedly stepped on his toes. “Too loud!”
“I’m doing my best!” Kozog grumbled. “Anyway, why are we looking in those rooms? Isn’t the ledger in the basement?”
“Because mummy-dearest said that the house was secured. I want to find out in what way, preferably without any of us getting shot by poison darts, or magically shackled, or set on fire.”
“That would be preferable,” said Kozog.
Brea turned the door’s handle and pushed him through. “Go,” she said through clenched teeth. “Search. Find the traps and try not to die. If you do die, try to scream a lot so I’ll know to run.”
They split up, searching first the ground floor of the house, then the upper. All Brea found was wealth upon wealth, gold and silver and precious wood, gemstones, everburning candles, paintings, carvings, busts and artwork of all descriptions and tastes. There seemed to be little consistency in it; apparently orcs had a wide palate for the artistic, stuffing every room with imported fineries.
It didn’t make sense to her, but as she waited by the hatchway that lead down to the basement, listening to Kozog’s heavy boots thump around upstairs, it slowly dawned.
The art was not appreciated for anything other than its value. It was a store of wealth, impossible to tax and too large and heavy to pickpocket, protected securely by the house. In normal circumstances Brea could imagine fifty or so staff dwelling here; cooks, cleaners, maids and butlers. There would be no way anyone could steal a ten foot wide painting.
As a bard, this realisation made her feel vaguely hollow. Kozog’s mother’s words echoed in her ears. Strong but rigid minded.
What were her songs to him?
Subconsciously, as though drawn by some urge she could not contain, she began to sing. It was a light, soft, wordless melody that drifted out of her lips completely unguided; just notes, rising and falling, moving with the ebb and flow of a tune she invented.
She stopped when she saw Kozog out of the edge of her vision.
“That was beautiful,” he said, smiling a half-moon.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 183
