A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  The two ink mages sat glaring across the table at each other as Maxus read the scroll, his eyes slowly growing wider and wider. Rina didn’t know the wizard well enough to get anything out of his reaction. Maybe he was pleased. Maybe frightened.

  Maybe anything.

  “This . . . this is amazing.” Wonder and awe in Maxus’s voice.

  “What does it do?” Maurizan asked.

  “Can you put it on us?” Rina asked at almost the same instant.

  The two women shot each other hard looks.

  The wizard’s eyes came up from the scroll, landed briefly on the stencil and inkwell before looking at the women. “Before we proceed I feel I should say two things.”

  “Go on,” Rina said evenly.

  “The inkwell is small,” Maxus said. “If I try this and botch it, there might not be enough ink for a second attempt.”

  Rina wanted to tell him just to try his best. That’s all anyone can do. Instead she said, “So don’t botch it.”

  Maxus cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh . . . right. Good advice.”

  “What’s the other thing?” Maurizan asked.

  Rina shot her another look. Why don’t you keep your damn mouth shut and let me ask the questions here? She hated her, hated the sight of her, hated the sound of her voice. She indulged in a brief fantasy where she leapt across the table and took Maurizan by the throat, choking the life out of her.

  Except Maurizan had the Prime now too. She was an ink mage. Was she as strong as Rina, as fast? That Maurizan also had the Prime infuriated Rina as much as seeing her with Alem.

  And that should be a warning sign, shouldn’t it? Come on, act like a duchess. Act like an adult.

  “The other thing,” Maxus said, “is that such a small amount of ink makes it quite obvious I’ll only be able to apply the tattoo once. To one of you.” His eyes flitted back and forth between the two women, as if knowing this news would not elicit the happiest of responses.

  Rina and Maurizan stared at each other for a long time. The gypsy girl wouldn’t give in and returned Rina’s hard look without flinching. Maybe Rina didn’t blame her. How many hundreds of miles had Maurizan traveled, what had she gone through to recover these items that would give her a brand new tattoo? The woman across from her was an ink mage. There was nothing Rina could do that would intimidate her.

  Rina relented, turned back to Maxus. “What does it do?”

  “Ah.” Maxus brightened as if comforted to be turning to another topic. “The tattoo is called the Breeze and the Gale. An inelegant translation but close enough. The tattoo goes on the back of your hand. It lets you control the winds.”

  “The winds?” Rina didn’t immediately see how that was useful.

  Maurizan’s reaction was blunter. “What use is that?”

  “Well, if you were becalmed at sea, you could fill the sails of your ship,” Maxus said. “How far you could sail depends on the ink mage, I suppose.”

  “What do you mean?” Maurizan asked.

  “Remember, these tattoos are fueled by the store of spirit within you,” Maxus said. “One ink mage might be able to power it all day. Another perhaps only a few hours. I’ve studied ink magic for years, and one thing is clear: many of these tattoos are only as strong as what you put into them.”

  Maurizan nodded as if she understood.

  But as Rina let the wizard’s words sink in, she realized the gypsy didn’t understand, not fully.

  A long moment stretched, and then Rina said, “You have to give the tattoo to me.”

  “What?” Anger flared in Maurizan so brightly, it was almost as if there were heat coming off her. “Just like that? Because you say so?”

  “You can’t do what needs to be done.”

  Maurizan pinned Maxus with her eyes, half demanding, half pleading. “You can look at the ink and figure out what’s in it, right? And then you can make enough for both of us.”

  Maxus scratched his chin, considering. “It’s possible.”

  Maurizan turned back to Rina. “You see?”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Maurizan said. “You don’t know what I went through to get that tattoo. And now you’re just going to take it away?”

  “Yes. Because I can use it better than you can. Because it’s the only way.”

  “Fuck you!” Maurizan barely kept her fury in check. “It isn’t fair. I’m the one who found it.”

  “You found it because I sent you to find it,” Rina said. “You got the Prime. It’s what your mother wanted for you. Whatever else you found was to come to me.”

  “That’s because you stole the Prime from me. If Weylan—”

  “If Maxus tries to duplicate the ink, it might work or it might not,” Rina said. “Either way, I doubt he can do it fast. And if he fails, he might ruin the ink and then nobody gets the tattoo.”

  “It’s true, I’m afraid.” Maxus looked embarrassed to admit it.

  “This is because of Alem, isn’t it?” Maurizan squeezed her fists so tight, some of the knuckles cracked. “You just want to hurt me back.”

  Yes.

  “No,” Rina said. “The fact is you can’t use this tattoo, not in a way that will make a difference. I can.”

  “How do you know?” An edge of desperation crept into Maurizan’s voice. “How can you even say that?”

  “Because”—Rina tugged the glove off her left hand, showed the palm to Maurizan, the skeletal tattoo, the mark of death—“I have one of these.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Maurizan watched from the shadowed alcove at the other end of the hall. How long had it been? Going on two hours maybe. It didn’t matter. She’d wait forever if she had to.

  A few minutes later, Rina Veraiin emerged from Maxus’s workshop, pulling on her gloves. Maurizan pressed herself back against the stone wall of the alcove, but the duchess didn’t even turn her way, heading instead for the stairway down.

  A sigh eased out of Maurizan. She waited another minute, then went to the door and knocked.

  Maxus opened the door almost immediately, maybe thinking it was Rina returning. The surprise was plain on his face when he saw it was Maurizan.

  “I want you to put a tattoo on me,” she told him.

  “I’m sorry, child,” Maxus said. “As I told you, there was only enough ink for one.”

  “I want to offer you a trade,” she said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Not in the hall.”

  Maxus stepped aside, gestured she should enter.

  She pulled a scroll case and stencil from the satchel around her shoulder. The scroll case was a glossy, jet black. She handed it to the wizard.

  Maxus turned it over in his hands, handling it with reverence. “You kept this from her.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that the inkwell for this one is just as small as the other inkwell,” Maurizan said.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Maxus said. “Not enough for two.”

  She watched him open the scroll case with care and take out the rolled-up parchment. He read slowly, nodding, seeming intrigued.

  He looked up at her. “You said something about a trade.”

  “Once you’ve put it on me, I won’t need the scroll anymore. Nor the stencil either.”

  Maxus chewed his bottom lip, thinking. “But without ink . . .”

  “You’ll have time to figure out the ink,” Maurizan said. “Are you a wizard or not?”

  Maxus glanced back at the scroll in his hands, up again at Maurizan. He started nodding, decision made. “We’ll need to wash your feet.”

  Alem looked out the window, paced, returned to the window again. It would normally have been a spectacular view of Sherrik’s harbor, the sea stretching beyond, so many lights twinkling in the darkness.

  Too bad each of those pretty lights represents an enemy ship full of people who want to kill us, Alem thought.

  And yet with ten thousand shi
ps on the city’s doorstep, there were other worries uppermost in his mind. Every time he remembered the look on Rina’s face, it made him queasy. He couldn’t help but think it had been unfair for her to see him with Maurizan suddenly like that. His feelings for the gypsy girl were strong and real, but she had an undeniable vindictive streak, which had reared its ugly head at the exact wrong time. For days, Alem had felt like the injured party, knowing that Rina was arranging a marriage behind his back, but now he felt like he needed to find Rina and apologize.

  He had been told she was busy.

  So Alem had waited. He’d been given a chance to bathe. The duke’s servants had brought him a new set of clothes, a black velvet doublet and matching breeches, high hard boots polished to a blinding shine. He’d probably never looked so good in his life, and with his new sword buckled around his waist, he thought he cut a rather dashing figure in the mirror.

  He wished Maurizan could see him. But then he wished Rina could see him too.

  Neither of the women was to be found.

  So he’d gone to dinner with Tosh and Kalli. He’d almost mistaken Tosh for a lord. A shave and a new set of clothes had done wonders for the man, although he slouched around in the new garments as if he were embarrassed. Likewise, Kalli looked elegant in a green dress with lots of lace and a neckline that left little to the imagination. But her scar and gruff attitude kept wandering eyes from lingering on her cleavage for too long.

  A number of the lesser local nobility had joined them for dinner. Mostly young men who fancied themselves heroic and had stayed to weather the siege. They displayed a uniform inability to recognize that he, Tosh, and Kalli simply wanted to dine in peace before retiring for a long sleep. They’d pressed the trio for stories of their adventures.

  Tosh had scowled until they’d left him alone.

  They’d decided to leave Kalli alone after the third son of a minor baron had tried to slide his hand up under her dress. A fork in the man’s thigh had set him straight.

  After much badgering, Alem had agreed to “regale them with a tale of his journeys,” as they’d put it. He told them about being washed overboard and finding himself on a humped-up bit of rock in the ocean and then swimming to another island—only slightly bigger—and having to find food, water, and shelter and eventually discovering a magical sword.

  They’d gone nuts at the words magical sword and had demanded to see the blade in question. Alem drew it from its scabbard and held it aloft to the appreciative cheers of the onlookers, who ordered an alarming number of wine pitchers so they could toast him appropriately. This was followed by many slaps on the back and compliments for the intrepid “Lord” Alem.

  There was nothing Alem could do to disabuse them of calling him that. It was the first time Alem had heard Tosh laugh in days.

  It had actually been a pleasant distraction. For a while.

  Now Alem paced the room, pausing to look out the window.

  He needed to talk to Rina.

  He wanted to see Maurizan.

  Where in blazes were they?

  When he heard the knock at his door five minutes later, he almost broke his neck tripping over himself to open it.

  Maurizan entered.

  “Where have you been?” Alem demanded. “I’ve been waiting hours.”

  “You know what I found in the fortress was important. That wizard and Rina—” Then she broke off, looking Alem up and down. “Wow.”

  “They’re just new clothes.”

  “You look like a lord.”

  Alem frowned. “Don’t say that. What were you doing?”

  “The tattoos were important,” Maurizan said. “Never mind. I’m here now.”

  “I think I need to talk to Rina.”

  Maurizan’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “You saw how upset she was,” Alem said. “I need to explain to her.”

  Maurizan put her arms around Alem’s neck and pulled him close. “And who explained to you when she was finding a husband?”

  “I just—”

  “I just think you should remember what’s right in front of you right now,” she said. “I think I’ve been very patient.”

  One hand trailed down his chest, started to unbutton his doublet. She leaned in, kissing him softly on the lips. She finished with the buttons, slipped a hand inside his doublet and ran it over his chest. Her next kiss was firmer, and with the next she slipped her tongue into his mouth.

  Alem’s arms went around her, pulling her body against his. She felt him grow stiff through his pants.

  Her hands fell to the laces of his breeches, frantically tugging them loose. “Very patient.”

  They pulled at each other’s clothing desperately. Alem lifted Maurizan’s shirt over her head and tossed it aside. He bent his head down and took a nipple into his mouth, sucking sharply. She gasped, ran fingers through his hair. She grabbed a fistful of it and moved his head over to her other breast so he could suck that one.

  She hooked her thumbs into her breeches and pushed them down, grabbed Alem’s hand and pulled him to the bed. He kicked off the rest of his clothing and crawled in between her legs, kissed her stomach. He kissed lower and she gasped, a shiver rolling through her body.

  “Come up here,” she said. “Come on.”

  She rested one of her ankles on his shoulder, reached down and guided him inside.

  He pushed inside, so slowly at first. Then he rocked back and forth, picked up speed, found a rhythm.

  “Alem.” Her voice was hoarse. She closed her eyes. “Alem.”

  He leaned down, kissed her hard on the mouth, thrusting faster, his body trembling.

  Her body began to shake. “Alem.” She arched her back, thrusting her hips to meet him. “Alem!”

  He shuddered, grunting.

  She wrapped her legs around him, finishing next, tears running from the corners of her eyes. “Alem, I love you.”

  They lay next to each other, tangled in the sheets. Maurizan on her belly, hugging a pillow, Alem next to her, trailing a finger down her spine. The tattoos were exactly the same as Rina’s and yet looked completely different on Maurizan. Maurizan’s skin was different. Her back and hips were different.

  Alem kissed her on the hip. Her legs were different too. He kissed them.

  She giggled. “What are you doing?”

  He kept kissing down the length of her, kissed her ankle. He took her by the heel, lifted her foot, and kissed her toes. She sighed.

  He looked at the top of her foot. There was a tattoo there. The same tattoo on top of her other foot also.

  “How long have these been here?”

  “Something I found deep in the old fortress,” Maurizan said. “Before you saved me.”

  He ran his hands lightly over each tattoo. The skin was smooth and soft, as if the tattoos had always been there.

  “Do you like them?” she asked.

  He looked closer, realized there was some trick to them. At first, the tattoo looked like an image of swirling smoke. But when Alem turned her foot one way or the other, the smoke gelled into a figure of a person in a robe, hood up to hide the face, his pose a stealthy crouch. When he turned the foot again, the image dissolved back into smoke.

  “That’s incredible,” Alem said. “Rina doesn’t have these. I would have seen.”

  “Do you really think I want to hear about which of Duchess Veraiin’s body parts you’ve seen?”

  “Sorry. What do they do?”

  “Maxus says the tattoos are called the Phantom Walker. They’re supposed to let me—”

  Somebody shouted something just outside the door. It was followed by the jangle of metal, like men running in armor.

  Alem sprang from the bed and pulled on his breeches. “Something’s happening.”

  “Go look.”

  Alem threw open the door. Men rushed down the hall, hastily buckling on armor and sword belts with a palpable sense of urgency.

  “What’s happening?”

  O
ne of the men turned to shout back at him without pausing. “It’s started! The Perranese are assaulting the harbor wall!”

  Alem turned back to Maurizan. “It’s started.”

  She’d already pulled on her clothes. “Get dressed.” She belted on her daggers and grabbed her boots.

  Alem reached for his doublet. “Okay, after we’re dressed, then what?”

  “Damned if I know,” Maurizan said. “But if there’s a war, I’m sure they’ll find something for us to do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  General Thorn watched the assault from his flagship, moored just beyond bow range.

  Preparations had taken far too long. The ships with the assault gear had fallen behind on the crossing and had arrived last. By normal standards, the wharves and docking facilities were huge, no surprise for a port city like Sherrik, but for landing fifty thousand fighting men, support units, gear, and supplies, the place got very crowded very fast. The docks roiled with chaotic activity, officers screaming into the turmoil, trying to bring some kind of order to the mess.

  At last, the companies had been organized and order established. The blare of multiple horns rolling over the wharves sounded the charge, and the troops with the scaling ladders ran screaming for the walls, covered by several companies of bowmen. A flight of arrows returned from the men on the wall, taking a tithe of death from the Perranese troops.

  In some ways, Thorn had been fortunate. Sherrik had enjoyed such rich trade with so many other lands for so long that the notion of siege had only been addressed as an afterthought. The walls were high and strong, but they had no catapults or ballistae that could harass the ship from the walls.

  A junior officer ran across the deck to intercept him, red faced and puffing. He looked barely old enough to shave. Probably his first action. He snapped off a smart salute.

  “Report,” Thorn told him.

  “A signal from the battering-ram squad,” the boy said. “They are in position.”

  “Is it really a better choice than assaulting one of the landside gates?” Thorn mused out loud, but already knew the answer.