by T. H. Lain
"So you were introduced," Naull said. "Then what?"
"That was all," Regdar replied, studying his silver teacup.
"More tea?" Naull asked, reaching for the pot.
Regdar grabbed it before she could, though, and drew it toward him.
"I've got it," he said.
"Yes," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'm sure you do."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Regdar found himself asking, against his better judgment.
"Oh, you know what I mean," she replied, looking away and sighing.
"No," Regdar said, "I don't. You're angry with me because I accepted an invitation from the Duke of Koratia himself?"
She turned on him and Regdar almost flinched at the fire in her eyes. He had no doubts about Naull, but had to force himself to understand that she could be angry, even with him, and it was a sign of nothing but her humanity. Considering her recent past, all they'd both been through, Regdar doubted she'd be offended if he occasionally watched her just a little too closely.
Naull folded her arms across her chest and started tapping her foot.
"What have I done?" Regdar asked.
The fighter was suddenly aware of other eyes on him and he looked up. The waiter, a lanky weasel of a man wearing a floor-length tunic in the ubiquitous blue-gray of the Thrush and the Jay, was standing next to their table.
"My apologies for interrupting," the waiter said in an accent Regdar couldn't place. "Is the tea to your liking?"
Regdar looked down at the empty tea cup, realized he was still holding the pot in his hand, and said, "Fine, yes."
"My lady?" the waiter asked, bowing in Naull's direction.
"Lovely," the young woman said, plastering a smile on her face for the waiter's benefit.
The waiter bowed lower and turned on his heel, the clean white towel draped over his left forearm flapping lightly in his own breeze.
Before he could take a step away from them, Naull said, "No, wait."
Like a soldier snapping to attention before a general, the weasely man turned back to Naull and bowed again.
"Lady?" he asked.
"I have a question," Naull said, sitting up straight in her chair. The fine silk of her dress and the finer wool of the sweater that she wore over her shoulders against the cool evening air whispered on the wrought iron. "If someone were to introduce you to a young lady, and—oh, I'm sorry, are you married?"
The waiter went pale, swallowed once, and said, "Yes, my lady."
"Naull..." Regdar cautioned, setting the teapot down without pouring himself another cup.
The young mage paid him no mind, focussing instead on the waiter.
"If someone were to introduce you to a young lady," she continued, "having made some effort to exclude your wife from the meeting, then was careful to inform you that the young lady was in need of a husband and that you would be someone she'd be seeing more of...what would you think?"
The waiter swallowed again and looked around, as if expecting a hoard of demons to appear from the thin air and rip him to pieces.
You should be so lucky, Regdar thought. Both of us should be.
The waiter cleared his throat and said, "A scone, perhaps?"
"No," Naull said, "thank you. What would you think?"
"I'm sure I have no idea what—" the waiter began.
"Of course you do," Naull interrupted. "You would think that, regardless of your wife, dutifully waiting at home for you, washing your blue-gray tunics, feeding your children, serving you in bed like a—"
"Naull!" Regdar blurted.
"Ma'am!" the waiter squealed at the same time.
Naull ignored them both and continued, "You'd think he was trying to arrange a marriage, wouldn't you? Do you love your wife?"
The waiter took a step backward as if slapped by the questions. Regdar sucked in a breath, looked around, and saw a good dozen sets of eyes directed at their table, at the little parlor drama Naull insisted on playing out. The other diners were the finest people of New Koratia, and Regdar doubted they'd ever seen anything like the shameful display.
"Do you?" Naull pressed.
"Naull," Regdar stage-whispered, "for Pelor's sake."
She held up a hand to silence him and lifted an eyebrow at the waiter.
"I...I do," the poor man said, swallowing again.
"And you would tell this match-maker, however well meaning," Naull went on, "that you love your wife, you honor your vows, and have no interest in marrying this home-wrecking little trollop of his."
The waiter blushed and said, "Yes?"
And that was when Regdar said exactly the wrong thing: "But, we're not married."
"Get those clothes off," Maelani ordered as she slipped off her own delicate shoes.
"Mistress!" her young maid hissed, her cheeks turning red, her hand coming to her chest to cover her heart.
Maelani ignored her. She pulled back the curtains enough to stick her face out of the open window of her coach.
"Driver," the duke's daughter said, "we'll wait here for Theria. I will be napping and will expect not to be disturbed."
"As you wish, My Lady," the driver answered.
Maelani closed first the glass window, then the curtains, so that the interior of the coach was plunged into a perfumed grayness. Her maid hadn't started taking off her clothes.
"I said strip, damn you," Maelani whispered.
Theria began opening the catches on her humble servants' gown, worry turning quickly to panic on her chubby, round face.
"Oh, Mistress," the young girl murmured, "oh, dear. Don't make me do this."
"For Cuthbert's sake, Theria," Maelani replied as she quickly unlaced her own corset, "stop whining and do as I say."
A tear slipped down the maid's pudgy cheek, but she continued disrobing. Maelani did the same and handed her own garment of fine silk and wool to her maid, then collected Theria's less expensive—and less obvious—clothes on the seat next to her.
Soon, the two young women were wearing each others' clothes and though Theria had stopped crying, she was no less beside herself.
"Mistress," she squeaked, "please let me go in your stead. Please don't go out there...oh, Pelor...oh, Pelor protect us all if something were to happen to y—"
The maid squealed when her mistress's warm, soft hand clamped over her mouth like a vise.
The duke's daughter leaned in close and whispered, "Shut your thrice-bedamned mouth, will you? I told the driver I would be taking a nap. You're me, so for all the gods' sakes, will you please take a nap?"
Maelani took her hand away from the frightened maid's mouth and pulled on her simple, homespun cloak.
"Oh, Mistress..." the maid started again.
"Nap," Maelani hissed. "Will you take a nap?"
"But Mistress," the maid persisted.
Maelani pulled the cowl over her head, shielding her face from view, and said, "Will you please just take a nap. Will you? Please, just take a nap."
"But Mis—"
"Take a nap!"
The maid clamped her own hand over her mouth and shut her eyes tightly. Tears oozed from the corners of her eyelids but she made no sound.
"I will be back when my business is finished," Maelani said. "In the meantime, make no noise, open no curtains, and for Cuthbert's sake don't speak to anyone. The driver and the guards won't disturb you if they think you're me, and they think you're sleeping. Sleep if you want to, or just sit there with your hand over your mouth, but wait for me in complete silence. Do you understand?"
Theria nodded and Maelani, opening the door only as far as she needed to, slipped out of the coach.
Without looking at the driver, or the escort of a dozen guards who sat on their horses in front of and behind the gilded coach, Maelani dipped her head and set off along the well-swept sidewalk, heading north. The coach was parked across the street from the front entrance of the Thrush and the Jay, New Koratian society's most oft-visited inn. It wouldn't be unusual at all to see Lady
Maelani's coach parked there. The shops across the street were among the finest in the city, and she was seen shopping there often.
Disguised as she was in her maid's common clothes, Maelani easily slipped into the flow of foot-traffic following the street northward to the first side street. There she turned left, heading east along a street that curved gently to the south, following the contour of the city wall that rose half a mile to her right. On her left hand was the bustling Merchant's Quarter, on her right, the finer establishments slowly faded into the mazelike sprawl of the Dark Quarter. Maelani knew her father would die of heartstop if he knew she was so close to the Dark Quarter—the city's crime-ridden slums—but he didn't need to know, and she was confident that her simple ruse would work well enough that he never would.
Still keeping her head down and her cowl closed tightly over her face, she passed the rolling hills and marble-studded expanse of the city's cemetery. At the second major street after the cemetery, she turned right, moving into the very edge of the Dark Quarter.
Though the sun was rapidly setting and the shadows growing ever deeper around her as the crowds thinned and the streets became more rugged, dirtier, and more rank, she was not afraid. She'd gone this way more than once, and wealth and station were not without its privileges, even in disguise. The magical trinkets her father insisted she wear would protect her, she was sure, long enough for her to flee at least back into the relative safety of the Merchant's Quarter should something go awry.
Soon she saw the imposing ruin of the Slithraan estate. The ample, walled-in land and the jagged towers of the manor house were out of place there, a relic of a time when this part of the city was home to a better class of people. The surrounding mansions were torn down decades before, some even moved brick by brick to the island or the eastern shore of the river. Only that one manor was left, standing like a decaying reminder of the city's—and her father's—hypocrisy. No effort was made to clean up the Dark Quarter, just contain it, keep it away from the better people and keep the better people away from it.
Well, Maelani thought, this better person goes where she pleases.
She approached a much more modest, single story house directly across the street from the crumbling estate and went quickly to the door. The paint was peeling from the wood, and there were holes and a spot of fresher color where a knocker used to be. A dim glow flickered in the windows but no sound came from within. Maelani reached up to rap her delicate knuckles against the door but didn't quite manage to touch it when she was startled by a sudden click, then a squeak, and the door swung inward on its own.
The space inside was close, crowded with furniture that smelled as old as it looked. A big, old, gray cat sauntered past, paying her no mind as it twisted itself between a forest of chair and table legs. A single candle burned on a tabletop, wax dripping onto the peeling surface. Behind it sat a woman.
"Vrilanda," Maelani whispered, stepping into the house.
The woman smiled, keeping her lips together, and brushed back her long, curly hair to reveal a pointed ear. Her eyes were a pale silver—a color Maelani had never seen in a human's eyes. Vrilanda, of course, was no human. Though her house and the furniture in it were entirely human-made and gave one the impression that the resident was surely of great age, Vrilanda appeared as young as Maelani, though the duke's daughter knew the elf was old indeed, by human standards.
"My Lady," Vrilanda said, her voice ringing with the musical accent of the elves, "come in, sit down, and tell me what you wish of me."
Maelani stepped in, deftly avoiding another cat that gave her an impatient glance as it wandered past. The door swung shut behind her and locked itself with a sharp click that made Maelani jump.
Vrilanda smiled wider, revealing perfect white teeth. She indicated a chair across the table from her. Maelani sat, resting her arms on the rough service of the old table.
"I need a potion," the duke's daughter said.
The elf s smile faded, but not all the way, and she asked, "You have alchemists in the palace, do you not?"
Maelani sighed and said, "You know why I'm here. No one must suspect..."
She stopped, surprised at herself for being embarrassed to tell Vrilanda exactly what she needed, why she needed it, who she needed it for, and why no one must ever know of it.
"You need a...potion?" the elf witch prompted.
Maelani nodded, then met Vrilanda's gaze.
The duke's daughter took a deep breath and, blushing, said, "A love potion."
It was as much the vibration as the sound that shook Regdar from a deep sleep. The low rumble was followed by a clatter of wood that might have been a windblown shutter.
He opened his eyes but saw only the vague outlines of the big, canopied bed, the black shadows of the room's heavy, antique furniture, and the faint bluish glow that crept in under the thick curtains. The whisper of Naull's soft skin on the satin sheets was enough to erase the memory of the sleep-disturbing rumble.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness enough for him to see that Naull was turned toward him. The bedclothes were pulled up just enough to expose the soft glow of her bare shoulder. They had fought, though Regdar still wasn't sure why, and they had made up, and again he wasn't sure why.
Regdar slid the covers up to his own chest, ignoring the chill in the air. Under the covers, he could feel the warmth of Naull's body next to his, then the soft caress of her breath on his cheek.
"Regdar?" she whispered.
He reached out and pressed his big palm gently against the side of her face. She responded by moving closer to him, letting his huge arm drape itself around her slim shoulders.
"It's all right," Regdar whispered. "It's just a storm."
Already asleep, Naull whispered, "Storm..." and melted into him.
Regdar closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her body wash over him, feeling what remained of the tension of the uncomfortable evening dissipate into the warm, perfect darkness under the covers with the woman he loved.
In a room just down the hall, at about the same time, Serge d'Allion was startled awake. He knew instantly what had roused him. He'd cast a spell before retiring, one that would silently alert him if anyone entered the room.
Though both the security and the discretion of the Thrush and the Jay were near legendary in New Koratia, Serge was a careful sort. His dalliances were of no concern to his parents. He was twenty years old, certainly of an age where he could bed whom he pleased. Still, certain things were expected of the heir to the d'Allion fortunes, and his parents were nothing if not traditional. If he was found out, he would be disowned. He could lose everything.
Serge sat up, letting the cool satin sheets fall from his bare chest. The door was ajar, and in the dimness he could make out the form of Zhellian, the young elf he'd come to the Thrush and the Jay to spend a secret night with.
"Where are you going?" he asked, keeping his voice low so as to draw no attention in the quiet inn.
The heavy curtains blew around the open window, letting in enough light for Serge to see his lover's sheepish face.
"Nature calls," the elf said with a shrug, still standing in the open door.
Serge sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I have a spell on the door," he said.
"A spell?" Zhellian asked.
"When you come back," Serge told him, "whisper the word 'starlight,' and you can get back in without waking me up."
"Starlight," the young elf repeated.
Serge smiled and said, "Good lad."
As the door closed behind the young elf, Serge rolled over and dug himself into the thick bedclothes. His arms and legs felt heavy, and his head ached from the bottle of fine neogi rum he'd shared earlier in the evening with Zhellian. He took a deep breath and emptied his mind. Within a minute, he could feel himself drifting to sleep—
—and the alarm spell roused him again. The nettling feeling of the triggered spell made his head hurt all the more, and he sighed in frustration.
"Zh
ellian," he said as he rolled over and sat up in bed, "I told you to say—"
But it wasn't Zhellian.
Standing at the foot of the bed was a huge, looming shadow of deepest black. The thing was vaguely the shape of a man, but its head nearly touched the ceiling—almost eleven feet tall.
Without thinking, Serge reached out for the ring that sat on the polished wood of the nightstand next to him. He didn't so much pick up the ring as let it slide onto his finger in a fluid motion. Keeping one eye on the ring and the other on the looming shadow, Serge saw the thing move. It was leveling something at him—a crossbow? But there was no bow.
Serge did not wait to find out the hard way what was being pointed in his direction in the dead of night. He jumped up out of the bed, his tired legs all but creaking under the strain. Endless hours of physical training held him in good stead for a second—Zhellian might say third—time that night, and he was on the ceiling.
Just as his fingers touched the plaster, a blinding light filled the room. Even through his closed eyelids, Serge could make out the blazing line of a beam of light—magical light if Serge knew anything of sorcery. There was a sort of thump, like something heavy but soft hitting the floor after a long fall.
Though the last thing Serge wanted was to leap, naked, from the window of the Thrush and the Jay in the middle of the night, he made up his mind in the space of half a heartbeat that it was the only course of action open to him. He didn't know what it was he faced, but he was smart enough to know he didn't want to face it anymore.
The magic of the spider climb ring had saved him from the first attack but it would be his own legs that saved him from the second. Scrabbling on the ceiling, Serge faced the window, coiled his legs under him, and launched himself into the air. The arc would take him through the open window. He was sure he was home free when the light flashed again.
It was as if a great, invisible hand reached up from the ground, stopped him in midair, and pulled him to the floor.
The young man opened his mouth to draw in a breath but nothing came in. His body tensed, his muscles all contracted at the same time. He felt one of his ribs snap like a twig under the force of his own abdominal muscles squeezing him. He couldn't see; his vision was a mass of whirling purple and blood-red. He felt his heart stop beating all at once, and pain the likes of which he'd never imagined blazed through his chest, along his arms, into his groin, and down his legs. His bones cracked and snapped, twisted apart by his own muscles.
