‘Marlam!’ Oris said with audible relief, turning to his brother.
‘Marlam Silversmith? You are the master of the house, I presume?’ said the brown stranger. ‘Your hospitality is much appreciated by the Emperor, blessed be his name. This is Fileleader Soron Shal –’ he indicated the officer, who turned briefly from looking out of the window into the courtyard, glanced once at Marlam as if to fix his face in memory and then turned away again without the slightest acknowledgment ‘– and I am Tarkelion Dirskis. I have the honour to be attached to the Empire’s legions as a specialist adviser in siege engineering.’
Marlam looked at him, jaw set.
The fileleader said something in the Empire’s choppy language and Tarkelion Dirskis nodded. ‘I think some food and drink would be appropriate at this point,’ he said. ‘We must celebrate our arrival at your warm hearth.’ He raised one eyebrow ironically.
Marlam looked over at the kitchen doorway. ‘Get food for them,’ he commanded. ‘And for the soldiers.’
Reluctantly, as if breaking free from the hypnotic gaze of a serpent, the others moved to obey. Elgith pulled down a ham from a hook and began to carve it, glancing back into the dining hall whenever she dared. Marlam walked stiffly out of the front door and stood upon the step, staring into the red sky.
Tarkelion Dirskis pulled out one of the chairs and sat down at the table, putting his feet up on another and pulling an eating knife from inside his tunic. Elgith studied him covertly. He was a man of only middle height – Elgith would have been as tall, eye-to-eye, for she was not short for a woman – but broad of shoulder, broad of face and broad of hands. These moved deftly and his eyes were equally quick and keen, lined with casual good humour in a coppery face. His beard was a half-hearted stubble. He did not look anything like his compatriot of the Empire who joined him at the table, but then the Empire took its soldiers from across the width of a continent and counted them all equal so long as they were loyal. Fileleader Soron Shal was far more striking in appearance: muscular with an easy litheness, pale, with cheekbones that might have been carved with a knife. But it was his eyes that were extraordinary, their irises nearly white surrounded by black rings, visible even indoors under lamplight. A glance from him was like a slap in the face. His hair, caught high at the back of his head, fell past his shoulders in a black sweep so straight and glossy it looked like water. But both men wore the sigil of the Shining Mask upon their tunics and on bronze amulets strung around their necks.
Elgith wondered if Marlam would stoop to crafting these symbols for the new inhabitants of the city, or for those old ones who chose to embrace the Empire. There was bound to be a market.
The kitchen was soon an ant-hill of activity. The two house-servants were busy reheating what scraps they could find and stretching the stew with pared vegetables and fat pork. Sermil bustled about cursing under her breath and frying slices of coarse bread in dripping. Elgith finished slicing the ham and began to prepare the spiced fermented sauce that accompanied every meal she had eaten since coming to the city. Only Oris stood idle, digging bitterly with his knife-point into the wood of the chopping-block. No one dared raise their voice or shut the door between them and their guests. Those two sat quietly throughout the preparation, talking between themselves in low tones and the foreign argot of the invaders, Tarkelion Dirskis cleaning under his nails with the point of his knife.
When the stew was ready one of the yard-men was summoned to carry it across to the stable, accompanied nervously by an old maid-servant with two pitchers of sour beer; younger women could not be risked in the presence of the soldiers. Elgith poured better beer into pot flagons for the higher-ranking occupiers and placed them on a tray.
At this point Sermil pressed up to her side, smelling rankly of old clothes and rotten teeth. ‘You can serve,’ she hissed spitefully. ‘You never know, they might come from your home town.’
Elgith glared back at her, wanting to spit into that sneering face, but did not dare protest. The servants watched knowingly. She picked up the tray and a loaf of bread and carried it through to the table.
Both men fell silent at her entry and turned their heads idly to watch her. Elgith did not look at them. She glanced towards the front door, which was ajar, but Marlam was blocking the narrow slice of the opening from outside, only his back visible from the room. Elgith placed her burden down on the corner of the table between the two men, forced to stand where one was on either side of her, each within an easy arm’s length. The tray rattled in her unsteady grasp. She could feel their silent inspection, but she gave no sign that she was anything but alone in the room. Straightening, face still averted, she made it back to the sanctuary of the kitchen. Only then did she realise that she had been holding her breath.
The kitchen, still full of people, was as silent as the other room, faces turned towards her watchfully or away in deliberate lack of interest. Sermil stood with her hands on her hips, expression caustic, and Elgith matched her gaze with open contempt. She balanced a line of platters down her left arm, seized two wooden bowls and two skewers in her right hand and marched back to the dining table.
The diners were engaged with cutting up the loaf and trying the beer when she arrived. She laid the dishes before them, the meat steaming in its sauce.
‘Thank you,’ said Tarkelion Dirskis softly.
She made the supremely foolish move of glancing at him. He smiled at her – and he had one of those smiles that lights up a face and makes dark eyes shine. Instinctively she smiled back, only a flicker, the curve of a lip which she damped down instantly. But it was too late. She had sprung the trap. As she put the last of the bowls down he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her, not roughly but quite firmly, into his lap.
Elgith gave one muted gasp and went rigid. The world shrank down to a tiny sphere that included only her, bolt upright with her back to one man’s chest, and the other man sitting facing her. Panic soured her throat; she was an expert in male humiliation and this scene was familiar in its ugliness.
Soron Shal smiled.
‘Hello, Copperhead,’ Tarkelion Dirskis murmured in her ear. He smelled travel-worn and slightly, pleasantly, of male sweat. His thighs under hers were very hard. ‘You don’t come from this city, do you?’
Elgith shuddered. ‘No,’ she breathed, her breath so shallow she felt faint. Her heart was racing; he must be able to feel it, his arm was around her ribs and his left hand up under her right breast.
‘Hmm?’ he said. ‘Where from?’ His voice was still full of his smile, though the mockery was subdued.
Soron Shal began to pick absently at his food, but his eyes never left her; he was clearly enjoying the floor-show immensely.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘Raurinel.’ It was an independent kingdom – and a Protectorate of the Empire of the Shining Mask.
‘Really? One of our beloved allies … How did you get here, then?’ her tormentor asked. His breath was warm on her neck.
Elgith tried to muster her thoughts. ‘I – my father was a silver-trader. We travelled. He died of fever while we were here.’ Her palms, clenched to either side, were slippery.
‘Ah. Peace to him. He was blessed with a lovely daughter.’ The teasing was quite gentle, as if he were not doing this entirely to discomfort her. ‘This smells good,’ he added, his free hand indicating the plates. ‘Did you cook it?’
‘Hh,’ she nodded.
‘And what’s this?’ He pointed at a pale, wet dish full of small lumps.
‘That’s, um, himmir; flour dumplings in spiced sauce. You eat them with a skewer. There.’
‘Well, let’s try them,’ Tarkelion Dirskis said, taking up one of the Y-pronged wooden skewers and spearing a dumpling. He conveyed it over Elgith’s shoulder to his mouth. ‘Very nice,’ he commented after swallowing. ‘You like them? Have one.’
He raised the next little dumpling to her lips. Elgith tried to shy away from the sloppy morsel, then realised that struggling would be even more
humiliating. She tongued it from the skewer clumsily and it tasted like glue in her dry mouth. The white sauce had dribbled down her lower lip and chin; she had to reach up and catch the smear, sucking it from her finger. Her heart thumped then and the arm around her tightened, pulling her harder into Tarkelion Dirskis’ lap. She could feel his arousal.
She saw Soron Shal’s smile widen to a grin. He shook his head in amusement. His teeth were unnaturally sharp.
‘Now that’s a sight for sore eyes,’ Tarkelion Dirskis breathed, his lips brushing her burning cheek. He was not only jesting, nor simply trying to shame her. The physical evidence of his sincerity was pressing painfully into her backside. Elgith had to strangle the impulse to wriggle. And then into their small and deadly world broke the figure of Marlam, fists clenched as he stood before them and stared.
Cold lead filled Elgith’s stomach. She could see only Marlam’s eyes, flat and dark as chips of stone.
‘What do you want?’ Tarkelion Dirskis asked, dragging his attention from the woman on his lap. Soron Shal made a small but significant movement, invisible from where Marlam stood, that put his hand on his sheathed belt-knife.
‘That is my wife,’ said Marlam. His face was still closed, his voice low. It was a narrow, lined face devoid of any warmth, even hatred, the hair grizzled and lank. Elgith saw the scene with an outsider’s vision and wondered at the contrasts.
Tarkelion Dirskis certainly sounded surprised; ‘Really? I would have thought you were too old for her.’ He looked again at Elgith. The blood was running from her pointed face and the freckles that dusted her skin stood out against her paleness. ‘Very pretty, your wife,’ he mused. ‘Well, you tell me, Copperhead; shall I put you down?’
Elgith shut her eyes so that she could not see Marlam and whispered, ‘Please.’
He sighed in her ear and then, to her utter astonishment, he released her – though his movements were slow. She could hardly believe it was that easy. She stood up and took a step away from him, her legs feeling like pieces of cut rope about to fall. When she looked back he was still watching her, his disappointment clear, no longer smiling. Marlam just stood and glared. Then, with a short dismissive movement, the siege engineer dropped his attention back to the food before him.
Marlam turned after Elgith.
‘The fileleader has asked me to state,’ Tarkelion Dirskis said clearly, ‘that the accommodation for his men is adequate. We will be expecting better, however. Your best room will have to do. I like a view from my bedchamber, personally.’
Elgith fled into the kitchen through the brittle silence. She did not hear Marlam’s reply because, as she got into the other room, Sermil pulled her into a corner, hissed ‘Whore!’ and grabbed and savagely twisted a handful of the bright hair at her temple. Tears of pain sprang to Elgith’s eyes but she gasped only silently. Sermil yanked her daughter-in-law to the ground. ‘Little trull!’ she whispered to the willowy girl, then released her and stepped back.
Marlam was standing in the doorway regarding the scene. He closed the door behind him and Elgith staggered to her feet, panic rising. Everyone in the room waited for Marlam to move.
‘Our guests have decided to take the best room in the house,’ he announced. ‘Elgith and I will be moving into your room from tonight, Oris. You will be sleeping down here in the hall. You had better make preparations.’ His gaze lingered on his wife.
Oris stepped forwards, protesting, ‘What do you think I am? A –’ but, before he could complete his sentence, Marlam brought up one fist to his angry face, faster than anyone could follow, and knocked him across the room.
‘I think you forget what I am,’ he told his brother.
Oris could only cup his broken nose in one palm and try to staunch the flow of blood.
Preparations were made, as instructed. While Sermil tended to Oris, Elgith silently cleaned up the cooking utensils, sprinkled sawdust on the bloody patch of floor and eventually stepped nervously into the dining hall to retrieve the last of the crockery there. The Empire men had gone, leaving the door swinging open upon the blue night. She gathered up the empty plates and took them back in to wash. She felt cold now. Retribution had been delayed, but it would fall.
The two women worked to rearrange the rooms, taking Oris’ kit from the windowless back chamber, down the stairs into the hall and leaving it by the hearth. His bed was too difficult to move so they made up a heap of sheepskins and blankets on the hearthstones. Then they shifted everything from the master bedchamber that they could into Oris’ room, leaving only the bare bed, the piss-bucket and one chest that was too heavy for them to lift. It was hard work and took hours. Sermil grumbled throughout and sometimes wept angrily. They took down even the woven hangings that draped the walls and left the faded woodwork naked. The room seemed bigger when they had finished, the corners uncluttered by boxes or pots. It retained no reminder of Marlam. Elgith rather liked the place.
They were installing an extra pallet-bed below the shuttered window when the room’s new occupants returned from the tavern or wherever it was they had been, booted feet thumping up the steps and clattering on the floorboards. Sermil threw back her head and stalked out, bristling like an offended cat. Elgith slunk at her heels – but was stalled, as she had expected, by a hand on her arm.
Both men smelled of beer. She did not look up at them, though that refuge had long been overthrown. She was surprised that they had come back alone. Tarkelion Dirskis, glib and charming and mundanely handsome, was the kind of man she thought would never have to sleep by himself. Soron Shal was different, his beauty so marked it was almost discomforting.
‘We want,’ said the military adviser, ‘a drink before we retire. Something stronger than beer. I’m sure your delightful husband has some hidden about the place.’ Elgith nodded and he released her arm. ‘Nice room,’ he added. Soron Shal laughed and threw his swordbelt on the bed.
She hurried from the nice room down to the kitchen and unlocked the cellar door. The ground floor was deserted now, the servants having retired to their beds, so she jumped when she heard a footfall behind her and whirled about. Marlam stood in the doorway, arms dangling loose by his sides. He rubbed fingers and thumbs together caressingly, a familiar habit that made her shudder inside. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘The fileleader wants some drink. There’s a bottle of apple brandy in the cellar, isn’t there?’
He considered. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Don’t take too long.’
She found the small stone bottle by the light of her candle-stub and climbed back up to the kitchen wiping off the cobwebs. Marlam had waited for her in the dark. He watched her find two small horn cups suitable for the liqueur then followed her back up the stairs. She felt sick under his gaze, tense as a thread pulled against a knot, her legs and stomach weak. The stairs seemed unbearably steep. When they reached the landing, Marlam stopped. Their new room was just there at the head of the stairs.
‘Hurry up,’ he said to her.
She walked away down the passage to the door of the master bedchamber, feeling him watch her. His gaze was like chains on her skin – rusted chains from an oubliette full of rotting bones. She reached the door and turned to look at his waiting figure. She knew that she should leave the bottle and cups, knock and walk away. Her husband was waiting for her.
Instead she knocked, held her breath, and when the door was opened slipped into the room.
Tarkelion Dirskis was holding the door ajar; he looked at her with an expression of surprise and pleasure. Elgith stepped out of the line of sight of the corridor and mouthed, ‘Shut the door!’, at which he looked just as pleased, but more surprised. However, he shut the door obligingly and for good measure slid across the latch so that it could not be opened from the other side. Elgith put the bottle and cups on the floor and raked her hands through her hair, her head swimming.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Copperhead,’ he hazarded. She noticed that he had stripped down to shirt and hose
, his feet bare on the wooden boards. Elgith looked around the room and saw Soron Shal reclining on the larger bed, hands behind his head, watching them with a look of sardonic amusement. He had gone further and discarded even his shirt. His chest was perfectly hairless, and the sign of the Shining Mask gleamed at his throat.
Her heart was racing. They had the undisguised predatory innocence of lions; her instinct was to turn and run. But there are worse things.
‘I want to stay here tonight,’ she said. Her voice was hoarse and high. She forced herself to meet the tanned man’s eyes. ‘With you.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Tarkelion Dirskis replied. ‘Won’t your husband have something to say about it, though?’
‘No. Forget him,’ she instructed with audible desperation. She looked quickly aside at Soron Shal but found no help there and was forced to stumble on; ‘There’s no problem. You can … do what you like. Have me.’ Despite her words, when Tarkelion Dirskis took a step towards her at that moment she backed off. The movement brought her up against the wooden pillar in the centre of the room.
‘Actually,’ he said quietly, ‘since you walked into my bedchamber after midnight I had rather taken that for granted.’ The remains of his smile still lingered at his mouth but had drained from his eyes as he added, ‘I would like, however, to know what is going on.’
Elgith cast about her, searching vainly for sanctuary in the bare room, but in the end was forced to admit, ‘Marlam … my husband enjoys hurting me.’
A cat squalled in the courtyard below.
‘And you, I take it, don’t enjoy being hurt?’ His tone was grave, but Soron Shal gave a quiet derisive snort that made Elgith start; she had assumed until now that he could not follow their conversation.
Cruel Enchantment (Black Lace) Page 18
