"But Minara said..."
Hearing the pout in her voice, he extended his hand toward her, offering two gold coins. "For you. Keep them for yourself, I won't tell the madam. Now, please just let me keep watch."
She took the coins, planting a tender kiss on his hand.
The delicacy of her kiss surprised him, but he refused to be distracted. "Cover yourself." His words were harsher than he intended. Turning back to the window, he resumed his vigil. Leaning against the wall, he pondered the riddle of the dwarf. In his dash through the back alleyways, he'd recalled a vague rumor in the monastery, something about a creature who sniffed magic. He shuddered at the thought, making the hand sign against evil. Such an ability would make any disguise impossible, destroying the Order's hidden ways. Enemies came in many guises, even dwarves. He wanted to believe the dwarf's nearness to his focus was only a coincidence, but wishful thinking could be dangerous, even deadly. Either way, he needed to know.
For the turn of an hourglass, he kept watch. Just when he thought it was safe, he saw the dwarf slink into the alleyway, his head slewing back and forth, his nostrils flared.
So it's true!
The dwarf crept to the very door of the brothel, sniffing the handle like a dog on a scent. For a handful of heartbeats, he crouched by the door, and then he looked upward, toward the master's window.
The master jerked backwards without disturbing the curtains. Did he see me? Counting to a hundred, he stayed pressed to the wall, and then he cautiously peered back through the window.
The little man was gone, no longer by the door.
Puzzled, the master scanned the alleyway. He found the dwarf sitting cross-legged in the shadows, his gaze fixed on the brothel's door like a hound awaiting its quarry.
The master fingered his focus, considering his choices, but magic of his sort should never be wielded lightly. His gaze snapped to the girl. "Does the brothel have a back door?"
She nodded.
"Good." He explained the favor he needed. "Now get dressed and take me to the madam so I can pay her fee. Then show me to the back door." He looked away while she pulled on a faded red robe.
"Come." Her gaze was downcast, her brazen gestures fled.
Clothing transformed her, instead of a wanton whore, she appeared demure, almost shy. Perhaps clothing brought out her true nature, a pity she'd been ensnared by a brothel. The master followed her down the stairs and found the madam waiting for him, her hand extended. He paid the promised three golds. "Thank you for the use of your window. The girl will show me to the rear door."
The madam gave him a lewd look. "Come again, your gold is always welcome."
Anxious to be gone, he said, "I won't take any more of your time."
The girl showed him to the rear door, opening the heavy bolt.
He peered out, blinking at the bright sunshine. Instead of an alley, the door opened onto a narrow bolt-hole, a backdoor escape path threading between buildings. "This will serve." He handed the girl two more gold coins. "Pay the madam your fee and then find another life. You don't belong here."
The girl looked startled as a deer, as if she'd forgotten kindness. Taking the coins, she secreted them in her robe and then dropped a curtsy towards him. "Thank you, m'lord."
"I'm not a lord, child. Now close and bolt the door after me."
He waited till he heard the bolt slide shut and then he hurried down the narrow walkway. Barely more than a shoulder-width wide, the back way stank of refuse and stale piss. He reached the end, the cleft between buildings opening onto a wider alley. Turning left, the master made his way back to the lane that fronted the brothel. Crossing to the shady side, he cautiously peered down the alley. The dwarf was there, crouched in the shadows, keeping watch on the brothel door.
Shifting his own gaze to the door, the master tightened his grip on his quarterstaff, waiting.
Nothing happened.
Perhaps he'd taken too long, but then the brothel door eased open.
The dwarf rose from a crouch, his gaze locked on the door.
"Come again, m'lord."
Hearing the girl's voice, the master took three quick strides towards the dwarf, wielding his quarterstaff in a lightning strike. The dwarf turned, but not fast enough. The quarterstaff struck him a numbing blow on the right shoulder.
The dwarf yelped, falling backwards on his butt, his right arm dangling useless.
The brothel door slammed shut.
The dwarf drew a dagger with his left hand.
The quarterstaff whirled in a blur, striking the dagger from the dwarf's hand. "Whom do you serve?" The master held the quarterstaff in a threatening pose. "Name your master."
The dwarf snarled, flinching away.
"Whom do you serve?"
The little man's eyes blazed with hate. "Not tell you, never tell you."
Impatient for answers, Master Numar twirled the quarterstaff, striking two solid blows on the dwarf's ribs. "Speak the name and you shall live."
"You fight with sticks...the master fights with...pain." Sneering, the dwarf flicked his wrist, hurling a dagger towards the master's face.
Flinching backwards, Master Numar narrowly avoided the blade.
The dwarf used the diversion to scuttle away, running down the alley. The master leaped after him, desperate to stop him. The dwarf was quick, but the quarterstaff's length shortened the gap. Wielding the polished ironwood in an overhand strike, the master landed a solid blow. The dwarf buckled to his knees and then dropped like a heavy sack. Skidding to a stop, Master Numar crouched beside the crumpled dwarf. His hand searched for a heartbeat, but he'd struck too hard. The dwarf's skull was caved in, felled by a killing blow. Struggling to regain his breath, Master Numar slumped beside the dwarf, bitten by regret. "You should have told me the name." Rolling the little man over, he searched his clothing, but found no clue to his master's identity. Dead and forever silent, the master knew he needed to get away from the corpse. Seeking the subterfuge of age, he leaned on his quarterstaff, using it like a walking stick, and made his way back to the cobblestone streets.
A magic-sniffing dwarf...and vile lies levied against the queen. Darkness had come to Pellanor. He needed to warn the others. He needed to keep vigilant and unmask the enemy before death came calling to his very doorstep.
15
The Priestess
Forsaking her queen’s crown, the Priestess rode south in search of immortality. Leaving Rhune in General Tarmin’s capable hands, she traveled to Pellanor in the guise of a wealthy noblewoman. Steffan rode by her right side, her consort bedecked as a wealthy lord. Braxus rode to her left, serving as her handsome seneschal, while faithful Hugo rode point, her steadfast captain of the guard. Her two handmaidens, Lydia and Tara, trailed behind wearing modest attire. Thirty plain-dressed soldiers, loyal swordsmen who’d come with her from the Oracle Isle, surrounded her small party with a protection of sharp steel, discouraging robbers and cutthroats. A pair of pack horses carried two wooden chests, both laden with her womanly wiles. The larger cedar chest held elegant silks, and jewels, and scents, her trappings of seduction, while the smaller rosewood chest held her harvest of deathly delights. Armed with her best weapons, seduction and poison, the Priestess set a fast pace, eager to claim her destiny.
They rode south, passing beyond her small kingdom and into Lanverness. The countryside bloomed bright green in the full throat of spring, yet the signs of war were legion. For every thriving village, the next was burned and blackened, abandoned to crows. For every two fields tilled by farmers, a third lay fallow. The Priestess counted the scars of war. Death and destruction lay like a heavy yoke across Lanverness, yet the queen’s people struggled to rebuild their lives. The villagers and farmers put up a brave fight, determined to recover their prosperity, but a far greater danger stalked the Rose kingdom, doomed by the Mordant’s attention. Lanverness was fodder for the gods, though few mortals knew it.
They trotted past another burnt farmhouse, the timbers bl
ackened, the roof caved in like a toothless mouth. The Priestess watched Steffan, seeking signs of shame or pride, but he showed neither. Instead, he grew more sullen with every passing league. Brooding beneath a hooded cloak, he kept his face hidden in shadows.
The Priestess matched her stallion's pace to his gelding’s stride. “What troubles you?”
He flashed an angry scowl, spitting the name like a curse. “Pellanor.”
Nothing more needed to be said. She knew he loathed returning to Pellanor, to the place of his defeat, but every game of power had its price, and this was his. Her own price hung around her neck. Shuddering at the horror of her last scrying, she reached within her bodice to touch the remnants of the Eye. Her most powerful magic sundered by the Mordant, yet she'd refused to relinquish the remnants. She'd had the three pieces of the great moonstone fitted together and bound with a cage of silver wire. An ancient relic entombed in silver, she wore it on a chain around her neck, a memory of power lost and vengeance vowed.
The trip south seemed to take forever, but on a sunny morning they finally gained the outskirts of the queen’s city. Scaffolding spider-webbed the city walls, workmen scurrying up and down ladders. The central gate was completed, twin towers proudly supporting a crenellated barbican over a pair of ironclad gates. Flanking the gatehouse, stonemasons troweled a white paste of crushed stone over a crude patchwork of cobbled buildings. The Priestess assumed the white paste strengthened the walls and towers while hiding the ugly patchwork beneath. Glistening white, the finished walls sparkled bright in the sunlight, casting an image of enduring strength and prosperity. “Beautiful,” the word came unbidden to her lips, but the walls held a deeper message. Built on cobbled buildings, they bespoke a practical mind hidden beneath beauty's veneer, the hallmarks of a ruling queen. Well done, sister, the Priestess flashed a feline smile, appreciating the double entendre.
The ironbound gates stood open, welcoming the flow of commerce. Guards in emerald tabards watched from above, yet they proved oblivious to the hidden threat riding towards them. Following a merchant's wagon piled high with colorful fabrics, the Priestess and her entourage passed through Pellanor's gates without pause.
Steffan spurred ahead, guiding them through the cobbled streets. The queen’s city sprawled in every direction, dwarfing even mighty Salmythra. The Priestess stared, impressed by the colorful bustle, yet Steffan knew his way, threading a path through the crowds. He led them unerringly towards the wealthy district, to an upper class tavern bearing the name of ‘The Silver Swan’. Lads in gray livery rushed to take their horses. Dust-stained and travel-weary, the Priestess and her entourage climbed the steps to the inn.
Braxus, serving as her seneschal, negotiated for their rooms. Paying extra golds, he secured the entire second floor. The innkeeper, a hooked-nosed man with a bad limp, was lavish in his groveling, insisting on showing the Priestess to her room. “So pleased to have you grace my inn.” He gestured towards the staircase. “If you’d come a few moon-turns sooner, we’d not have had rooms available. The city was bursting with refugees from the war, but the queen’s blight drove them back to the countryside, taking the very bread from my mouth.”
“The queen’s blight?” The turn of phrase caught her attention.
“A bloody tithe squeezed from innkeepers to pay for the queen’s wall.” He ushered her down the hallway to the last room. “They’re calling it a folly, saying it will never be finished in time. The queen sucks us all dry with her tithes and taxes. A bloody great waste, if you ask me.” He unlocked the door, showing her to a well-appointed room. A large four-poster bed thick with quilts dominated the chamber, a copper washbasin sat in the corner, damask curtains hung on the window. The faint scent of dried lavender provided an unexpected feminine touch. “Saved me best room for your ladyship.” Executing a clumsy bow, he handed her the iron key. “Ask for Burt if you need anything.”
“I’ll be needing a tub and plenty of hot water.”
Steffan pressed a gold coin into the innkeepers hand, “And a bottle of your best brandy,” as he ushered the man from the room. The door closed and they were finally alone. Steffan kicked off his boots and sprawled on the bed. “Feather mattress and thick quilts, not bad. The rooms are small, but the beds are comfy and the meals are tasty. As I recall, their roast quail is particularly good.”
The Priestess removed her travel-stained cloak. “Don’t get too comfortable, you’re not staying.”
“What?” He gave her a sharp-eyed glare.
“Remember why we're here. We’re playing against the oldest harlequin, we’ll need every advantage. The Mordant expects me, but not you. You’re our dagger hidden in the dark.”
He gaped at her. "And just what do you expect me to do against the Mordant?"
She bit her lip. "I don't know."
He scowled, “So for no real reason, I’m banished from your side?”
She gave him a coy smile, “Not at night.”
Steffan flashed a wolf's smile. "That's more like it." He prowled towards her, but a knock interrupted.
She forestalled him. “Come.”
Her men entered carrying her two chests, the cedar and the rosewood, seduction and poison sitting side by side. A parade of servants followed bearing an enormous copper tub and buckets of steaming water. The innkeeper reappeared, flourishing a bottle of brandy and two goblets. Steffan nabbed the bottle, ushering the man to the door.
Her handmaidens came to attend her. Lydia knelt to remove her boots, while Tara added oils and scents to the bath water, creating an alchemy of feminine delights.
Steffan poured himself a large goblet of brandy and then sprawled on the bed, watching as her clothes came off. A lusty smile filled his face, a cat anticipating a bowl of cream.
The Priestess felt his stare, enjoying his rising hunger. She made it a tease, slowly divesting the layers. Naked, she stepped into the tub. Steam rising in curls around her, she gave him a come-hither glance.
Lydia reached for a sponge, but Steffan said, “I’ll do that.”
Her handmaidens retreated with knowing smiles, closing the door behind them.
Steffan knelt by the tub, lathering the sponge. “Am I truly banished?”
“For your own protection. Surprise is our ally.”
He nibbled her ear, caressing her skin with the soapy sponge, lathering all her curves. “Will you really go to him?”
“I must.”
The sponge moved down and around, leaving a soapy trail. She groaned in delight. Abandoning the sponge, he gathered her breasts in his hands, the soap making the orbs slick and slippery. “But I’ll see you at night.”
“Yes.” She groaned with pleasure.
“Will you let him touch you?”
He’d never minded before. “It’s what I do.”
“Must you?” His teeth grazed her nipple, a burst of pain and pleasure.
“You know I must.” She reached for the bindings on his trousers, her hands slippery with soap, yet she freed him from the leather. “I’ll need all my wiles against him.”
He groaned, moving against her. “But will you let him touch you…like this?” Slick with soap, his hand delved down below the water. Finding her hidden gate, he plunged deep.
“Yes!” She arched her back, speared with delight.
He shucked his trousers like a snake shedding skin, and then he was in the tub with her. Sloshing water over the sides, he forced her knees apart. And then he was in her. She shuddered in ecstasy, rocking waves across the soapy water. Her long legs wrapped around him, riding him hard. Lifting her onto his hips, he stood, staying deep inside her. She clung to him, fingernails raking across his back, shuddering with his every stroke. Water droplets fell like rain as they rode their pleasure. He bellowed his ecstasy as they both came.
Stepping from the tub, he carried her to the bed, collapsing on a mound of towels. Wet and slick, he pinned her to the bedding, his voice husky with hidden intent. “Don't go." He tightened his grip. "I d
on’t want you to go. Not to him.”
"You know I must. It’s what I do.”
“Is there no other way?”
“Seduction is my best weapon.”
“And poison is the other!” His voice leaped with fervor. “Why not kill him and be done with it!”
“Shhhhhhh,” she hissed in warning. “We dare not kill him, not without consent of the Dark Lord. Would you risk our god's wrath?”
“No.” His voice was surly but she spied a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“We tread a dangerous path, carving power from the Mordant’s shadow.”
“Can we keep what you carve?” His gaze blazed bright. "Will there be enough for the two of us?"
“The Dark Lord encourages his dedicates to compete for his favors, but to do that, we must enter the Great Dance. That's the real reason we're here. I’ll dance with the Mordant, learn his plans, learn his weaknesses, and then we’ll plot our own moves.”
“So you’ll go to him. You'll bed him.” Bitterness laced his voice.
Perhaps he truly loves me, her breath caught at the thought. Caressing his face, she tried to soften the harsh lash of truth. “I’ll always be the Oracle Priestess, the dark succubus, the queen of sex.”
Steffan straddled her, his face fierce with the need to possess. “Then go to him with my scent on your skin and my seed deep in you,” and then he took her again and again, rough and hard, as if to brand her with his own mark.
16
Tokar
His brother was missing. Three days missing...which meant he was dead, for no snargon of the duegars would disobey the Mordant. Those who could scent magic knew far better than most the awesome power of their dread lord. Tokar shuddered just thinking of it. The Mordant wore magic like a raiment. Being in the dread lord's presence was nearly overwhelming, evoking a strange mixture of heady ecstasy and slavering fear. Their lord trailed a magical scent that was irresistible, forbidden, indomitable. To Tokar, the Mordant smelled like a god.
No, if his brother was missing, he was dead.
The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 9
