by Sam Sykes
The roof of his room was leaking. Rain came through on a tone-deaf chorus, a dozen little tin notes ringing out as drops fell into tin mugs, pans, other things that didn’t matter.
The sheets of his bed were of poor quality. Overeager, inexperienced bed mates, they scratched at his naked flesh, brushing passionlessly against old scars, enthusiastically groping new wounds that aspired to be as old, as twisted.
He hadn’t bothered to turn off the lamp. It sputtered out on its own ages ago. He didn’t care. He didn’t mind the dark. Or the rain. Or the itchy sheets. Or the way his body ached and begged him to just lie back and stop thinking.
He didn’t have the sense to mind.
He rolled onto his side and stared at the corner where he’d propped his sword, the tatters of his tunic hanging from the crosspiece like a blindfold. It didn’t matter. The sword could still see him, blind and in the dark. The sword was still staring at him, looking at him as though it was the answer to everything.
It didn’t talk. Of course it didn’t talk. That’d be stupid.
Talking implied that there would be a rapport. Swords didn’t do that. Swords made statements. This one’s was very simple, very clear.
Pick it up. Put it in something warm and screaming. No more thinking. No more problems.
Thinking was a problem. Swords were answers.
He rolled away from the sword, lay on his back, and tried to hate himself for thinking that the sword was actually making a lot of sense.
He stared up at his weeping ceiling in the dark. He listened to the bickering rhythm of the falling droplets. Thunder muttered somewhere in a murky city alley. He closed his eyes and tried to drift off into a numb, senseless sleep.
Tried.
His eyes twitched behind his lids. His nostrils quivered. The scent of rain grew strong, odorous. It carried with it the smell of sunbaked earth, of night skies stained by fire, of sweat and cinders and…
And…
Something wet brushed against his cheek.
He opened his eyes.
And there she was.
Looming over him, legs straddling his, hands placed firmly on his shoulders. Her fingernail scraped with a rhythmic fondness against an old scar near his throat: a scar she had given him. He didn’t feel it.
Rain mixed with sweat upon her brow and trailed across her cheek to travel the slope of her neck, slide beneath her tunic and down the center of her belly, falling to dampen already moist sheets. He didn’t notice.
The smell of her hair was thick and wet as damp braids hung about his face in long blond curtains, drawing him into a world that consisted solely of her as she leaned forward. But he didn’t care.
He had only enough left of himself to look up and see her eyes, bright and vivid and wild with green, and convince himself he wasn’t dreaming.
“Hey,” Kataria said.
“Hey,” he said. “When did you get in?”
“Just now.”
“How?”
“I’m very clever.”
“How’d you find me?”
“You’re not.”
“Where did—”
Two fingers pressed against his lips. Two green eyes bade him to be silent.
“I need to tell you something,” she said. Her voice was slow, halting, raindrops in a tin cup. “I’ve been thinking about it all day and I’ve been walking back and forth between here and Shicttown and I keep thinking how I’m going to say it or what’s going to happen when I do and I know that I’m either going to say it or hit you, so I need you to just… shut up for a bit.”
She looked intently at him.
“All right?”
He nodded. His neck ached where she had scratched.
“I came back,” she said, “for you. But not because of you.” She looked past him, to the scar on his neck, to her finger retracing the groove in his skin. “Not because of them, either. It’s not going to be about you or them anymore, choosing between you. I don’t… I can’t…”
A sigh shook her. In the fading light of a storm-shrouded moon, Lenk saw the tremble of her body, skin painted silver by the rain clinging to her skin.
“When you’re here, I feel like… like we have to keep running. Like if we stop, we’ll start thinking about everything we’re doing and we’ll realize how stupid it is and we’ll just die. So when you say you want to sit here and live like this, then… I don’t know.
“But when you’re not here, I feel sick.” Her voice stopped quaking. She spoke with certainty and with sadness. “And I thought that was going to be my choice. I was going to choose which way I was going to die. But then, when I was out there with them, with Kwar, I… they told me…”
She clenched her teeth, shook her head, as though words were something she could force out of her mouth if she merely tried hard enough.
He said nothing. He had not the sense to. His senses were filled with her, with her scent and her touch and the warmth of her body as she leaned closer and pressed herself against him and lay her hands on his cheeks and drew him close, pressing her forehead to his.
“I’m not going to choose anymore.” She spoke the words into him. “No one’s ever going to make me. I’m never going to be afraid and I’m never going to be sick and I’m never going to run.”
She drew in a sharp breath through her teeth. He felt her body shudder against his, felt her draw tense upon him, felt her hold her breath in her belly like it was all she could hold onto.
“But if you want to,” she whispered, “you should do it now.”
The dark shroud of the sky shifted outside his room, casting a few scant traces of blurred moonlight through the window. Caught between shadows and silver, she looked like a beast from a dark wood: tense, wide eyes watching him.
Without knowing quite why, he lay a hand upon her naked side. She grew tight beneath his hand, her muscle bunching beneath her skin. He could feel her warmth, fever hot, following his hand, muscle twitching beneath his fingers as they ran up her side, past a subtle swell of trembling breast.
His fingers found her face, cradled her jaw, thumb brushing gently against her cheek. Even here, she seemed far from delicate. She pressed into his palm and seized his fingers in her own; and he could feel the same fever heat in her face, in her fingers, in her hair. He found a single, damp blond lock hanging before her face, took it between his thumb and finger, and gently ran them down, raindrops on his fingertips.
She needed more than rain.
As did he.
His free hand slid beneath his pillow and scrabbled across itchy sheets until he felt the prick of a sharp quill. He withdrew it and held before her, between his fingers, a single, white feather.
She leaned down. His hand welcomed her, drew her face to his. She hesitated just a hairbreadth over his lips; the warmth of her cinder-scented breath fell over him for but a moment.
Her lips found his, hesitantly at first, a light kiss, as though she wanted to see if he would run. Then deeper, her tongue sliding out to brush against his. He returned the favor, his tongue brushing against her canines. Her lips twitched, she bit down. A faint copper taste filled his mouth.
And then, he knew her. As though his senses had been waiting for him to wake up in case this was some terrible ale-soaked dream, they sprang to life.
He knew the fever of her flesh beneath his fingers. He knew the scent of smoking fires and rain-soaked sand flooding his nostrils, making him dizzy, making him fight to hold onto her scent. He knew her taste on his lips, on his tongue, and it was of blood and sweat and hunger.
And he forgot how long it had been since he had lain with her.
And soon, he forgot everything else but the need to be here, for this not to be a dream.
He felt cold metal against his belly as her hands were at her belt, fumbling with the buckle, tearing it from her waist. He felt her wriggling against his body as she slid free of her breeches. He felt the sudden blast of cold, rain-soaked air as she pulled the sheets from him and exposed him to
her.
Nothing was left of him to know what was happening, what it all meant. No more fears to tell him that this would end badly as she spread her legs to straddle him. No sense left in him to feel her knees digging beneath his ribs as she tightened her thighs about him and guided him into herself. Nothing left for love or hate or thought or sense.
Only need.
Rabid and desperate and nothing else.
She rocked upon his hips. He arched beneath her. He felt her warmth in her hands as she pressed them upon his shoulders, pushed him into the bed, as she brushed past the old scars and dug her nails into his skin and began to make new ones. He jerked beneath her, the pain acute.
She let out a sharp gasp, and a growl caught in her throat as her head snapped back. In the silver, wavering light of the rain-soaked night, her canines were big and white and animal. She drew tighter about him, knees in his flanks, nails in his skin, scent in his nose, and snarl in his ears.
And he could not lay still.
He had to move. He had to seize her. He had to hold her or else he might simply slip away.
His arms shot out and wrapped about her middle. He drew her close to him, felt her fire blaze against his skin, felt her breasts press through the coarse cloth of her tunic against his chest. He stood, felt the cold floor beneath his feet, the sheet about his ankles, her legs wrapped around his waist. And a moment later, he felt the impact of the wall shuddering as he pushed her against it.
There was blood. There was pain. The sounds they made were of hunger, of need, of thoughtlessness. He knew none of this as he pressed against her, hips bucking forward, feeling himself thrust deeper inside her. He didn’t feel the blood drawing beneath her nails. He didn’t feel the chill of the air or the rain falling upon them as his movement sent a tin cup spilling to the floor, the water pooling around his feet.
Raindrops fell upon them from the roof, between them, mingling with their sweat and disappearing where their bodies clung together. His hands were shaking with their grip upon her. His knees were bloodless, numb beneath him and propped up only by need as he thrust inside her, pressing against the wall, feeling her tighten against him, around him.
The growl in her throat shook through her body, into his skin, into his blood. He could feel her voice inside him, as he felt him inside her. He could feel her breath on his ear, her warmth on his flesh, her fingers knotted in his hair, jerking his head back sharply to expose his neck.
And her teeth were there. And he was growling as well. And he didn’t care that it hurt. And he didn’t care that she burned at his touch. And he didn’t care that when this was all over, everything that had driven her away before would still be there.
Swords.
Blood.
Bodies.
Problems for a thinking man.
Not for him. Not for the creature driven by need, holding onto her as if she was all that was keeping him here on the ground. Not for the man who felt himself erupt inside her, who felt his knees turn to liquid and fall to join the rain splashed upon the floor.
This man would have problems later. For now, he had her. For now, he had her hair in his fingers and her scent in his nose. For now, he had her warmth burning him and the cold biting him and her lips whispering soundlessly words that he could hear inside him.
For now, he had her.
And her fingertip on his back, tracing the old, jagged flesh of the first scar she had ever given him.
ACT THREE
A GOLD COFFIN FOR A POOR MAN
TWENTY-NINE
BAIT FOR A TWO-LEGGED FISH
Cier’Djaal
End of the first week of Yonder
If not money, Miron, or self-respect, we at least have a plan.
As it’s been made known to me, parties aren’t a matter of celebrations for the wealthy of Cier’Djaal. Celebrations are for poor people. People with money throw parties purely for business. Well, in the same way that a dog humping a man’s leg is purely business.
The relationship between the fashas is quite close, dangerously so. As Denaos phrases it, they all stand in a circle, with their right hands on each other’s genitals and their left aiming a dagger at each other’s backs. When they need to discuss business, they can’t meet privately for fear of inciting suspicion among their fellow fashas and sparking off a trade conflict—or a more old-fashioned conflict, with knives and stuff.
So, they throw massive parties, invite every dignitary, statesman, ambassador, merchant, military man, and, most importantly, each other. They throw these as an opportunity to discuss business while at the same time lording their own wealth over each other.
Fasha Ghoukha has much to lord these days.
It’s said he’s got a new silk, thicker and stronger than his rival fashas’, which has been allowing him to consume the others’ markets. This new surplus in wealth is being dedicated to expanding an already sizable estate and house guard force. While it’s true that a bigger fortune would require more men to guard it, there is a point at which a man ceases to use his men to secure his own fortune and starts using it to secure the fortunes of others… usually, for himself.
It is, in fact, both possible and likely that Ghoukha is in league with the Khovura. If he controls them, after all, he has his own private shadow army with which to strike at the mercantile machinations of his rivals while appearing clean and the Khovura, in turn, have a powerful and wealthy backer.
It’s also possible and likely that having one’s own private army in Cier’Djaal these days is just plain sensible. Asper gave me the gory details, but this morning, news of the conflict between the Karnerians and Sainites was on the lips of every citizen in the Souk. Their battles are becoming more heated, more aggressive. This is fine, so long as they keep to Temple Row, but people are worried that war will strike when they’re out in the taverns, out shopping in the Souk, out traipsing Cier’Djaal.
There will come a moment when a war becomes too big to be contained to one district. And when that moment comes, I suspect an awful lot of people will wish they had the foresight of Ghoukha.
But it’s been said, as well, that Ghoukha has given his full endorsement to the mediation about to take place between the Karnerians and Sainites. He’s even offered to provide the use of his own manse as a staging area for the Ancaaran priest to negotiate between the two factions.
For what purpose?
Maybe that’s just a wealthy man’s concerns.
Mine are simpler. If the Khovura know we’re searching for Miron… Not-Miron… whatever, then they’ll try to protect him. If Ghoukha is in league with them, then his estate makes the most sense to hide Not-Miron at. And if we can’t find him, then we can find something we can use to track him down.
After all, it’d be hard to get into a heavily guarded rich man’s house.
Unless you’ve got someone like Denaos on your side.
As it happens, tomorrow night, Ghoukha will be throwing another party. According to rumor, it’s mostly to showcase where he plans to stage the meditations and court Karnerian, Sainite, and Ancaaran approval. Though, of course, it might also be to flex his gold cock a little and show his rivals what’s what.
Which means that he’ll be seeking new servants.
New, half-naked, subservient people with which to flay verbally, pay scraps, and possibly abuse for his amusement.
I trust I don’t need to expound further; suffice it to say that I understand why Denaos didn’t bother explaining until the day before the feast. There’s just no time left for a better plan.
And if we can go in and find Not-Miron, we can finally figure out what’s going on and how we can get our money.
And yet, the more I think about it, the more it seems like such an awful lot of work.
Admittedly, I had thought it was the only way out, at the time. Without that money, I can’t start my new life, free of bloodshed and killing. But to go in, there will almost certainly be danger, possibly more killing. I tell myself it’ll b
e necessary, the last time, but…
How many times do you get to call it “the last time” before you’re just lying to yourself?
And I wonder if it’s worth it. I wonder if I do need that money. More than I need her, anyway.
We’ve never had money before, after all. Adventurers get by.
But whenever we’ve not had money, we’ve always had killing.
I don’t want that. Money, murder, Kataria; I only get to keep two.
I tell myself that this is why we need to go into Ghoukha’s estate. I tell the others as well. Not all of them believe me.
Gariath refuses to talk about it, but he’s become antsy. The mention of Ghoukha, of gold, of anything civilized makes him angry. Angrier. Perhaps he’s wondering where he, with all our goals in sight, fits into it.
Perhaps he’s wondering what he can force to work.
Asper and Denaos are all in favor, at least. Denaos, for his own reasons. Asper, for finally getting to the bottom of Not-Miron’s identity. At least, she is right now. She’s yet to learn what Denaos has planned for getting into the estate.
Dreadaeleon, too, seems enthusiastic. Not for us, Khetashe knows. But whatever—or whoever—he is enthusiastic for is making him pliable enough to just agree to whatever we suggest. Anything to get more money, he says.
Bless him, the greedy little rat.
Bless us all.
Please.
THIRTY
TRUST THE NAKED PEOPLE
Let me ask you something.
Asper knew that wasn’t her voice speaking in her head. She knew the sound of it from the dreams of unsound slumber, and she knew that she was wide awake. She knew ignoring it wouldn’t make it stop.
Still, what was a religious woman, she asked, without a healthy grasp of denial?
You’re supposed to be the clever one, right? Thoughtful, perceptive, intelligent. The “voice of reason,” if you will.
She closed her eyes and called to mind a meditative hymn. She had recited it often when she was younger, a mental ward against constant stress. It had always been useful for directing frantic thought into something saner.
