He nodded. “Not with their sanity intact, no,” he acceded. That she knew. Gods, did she know.
“Five years, then.” She pressed a bead of sweat dotting her brow.
Silence descended as he looked her over. She didn’t know what he was looking for, but when his eyes met hers once again, she held still, refusing to break away first. Finally, he took a deep breath and held the feather out to her.
“Five years,” he said. When she reached for the quill, he held it back slightly. “But,” he warned, “if I am not satisfied at the end of those five years, you will be in my service for ten more uninterrupted years, understood?”
His tone was hard, his gaze cold—eyes devoid of any sympathy she may have attempted to prey on. Not that she would have. Quinn wasn’t one for taking people’s sympathy. And since she didn’t have many options, she nodded and agreed to the terms. He handed it over.
“Okay, what do I do with this thing?” she asked.
“You will write your name on my wrist.” Lazarus moved the sleeve of his tunic up and her eyes widened. Dark scales of something peeked out from beneath the fabric. It wasn’t completely uncovered, but it was strange looking. Her eyes were drawn to the edge of whatever was etched into his flesh, but he leaned forward and tapped the strip of bare skin at his pulse point.
Quinn looked from the pen to his wrist. “There’s no ink,” she pointed out.
“You won’t need any. Write,” he commanded.
Quinn was surprised. When she reached out to do as he bid, her hands didn’t shake. She was signing her life over to a man she knew little to nothing about, and there were no trembles. It was then she realized that she wasn’t afraid. Her fear had dispersed. She quickly wrote her name on his flesh and after a brief moment, her eyes widened as drops of blood and scratches rose where the end of the pen had pressed into him. He whispered something in a low language she vaguely recognized, but couldn’t place, and the tanned surface around the scratches of her name began to glow before the name sank deep beneath his skin, turning black.
“Now you,” he said.
Quinn handed the pen over and jerked her sleeve up as well, sticking her arm out. Lazarus’ gaze landed on one of the many slave brands. This would not be the first unwanted symbol etched on her body.
Lazarus took her hand in his, twisting it so that he could press the end of the pen to her wrist. When he stroked it over her, she didn’t feel a thing. It wasn’t until he removed it that she gasped and snatched her hand back, turning it so that she could watch the process as a fire blossomed under the skin and spread.
“Myori’s wrath!” she hissed under her breath as it reached her veins. “You didn’t say it would hurt,” she snapped as she wiped away the blood.
Lazarus tilted his head to the side. “You didn’t ask.”
She glared at him as he recited the incantation again. Once it was done the scratches of his name—Lazarus Fierté—settled under her skin and rose once more in curved black lettering. Quinn stared at the name. It was one thing to have a noble seal branded on her, it was quite another to see someone else’s full name there. It was odd, to say the least.
“So, what now?” she asked, rubbing her wrist.
“Now, I make sure you understand that should you attempt to break this binding, you will die.”
Quinn jerked her head back and gaped at him. “Die? If I break this I would die?” Her voice rose an octave and shadows flickered. “Shouldn’t you have mentioned that earlier?”
His eyes tracked those brief flickers. A slow smile curling around his full, masculine lips with amusement. The darkness in that smile struck her silent.
“What’s done is done, Quinn,” Lazarus replied as he raised his hand and one of the guards approached with a set of keys. “In the future, however, I would make sure that you understand the fine print of a contract with someone before signing it.”
As the cell door swung open, Quinn stared at the man in shock. He turned around and headed down the hall, towards what she presumed to be the exit.
Just who in the dark realm have I signed my life over to?
The Weeping Eye
“Pain is the body telling you that you’re alive; that you survived to make whoever hurt you pay.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, ex-prisoner, definitely deranged
The carriage shuddered along the road as Quinn stared at the man across from her. When she had first climbed inside there had been another person waiting. Lazarus hadn’t introduced them before he had sent the man away. She had to wonder if he was planning on keeping her away from his other vassals.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked after several minutes of mind-numbing silence.
Lazarus looked up from the small booklet he had pulled out from beneath his clothes earlier—first a magical quill, then a booklet—Quinn wondered if he had secret pockets under his garments. He glanced down at her bare arms and then to her neck. Quinn stiffened, but didn’t cover the slave brandings.
“We’re going to get those removed,” he stated before going back to the pages of his booklet.
Quinn frowned. Not that she didn’t want to get her slave brands removed—it was an expensive process that she hadn’t been able to afford—but it was interesting that removing her brands was the first thing he wanted to do. She wondered if they bothered him. “Why?” she asked.
Lazarus sighed and closed the book before tucking it away once more. “Because,” he said, “as my vassal you will be in front of people of nobility. I have not and never will approve of the slave trade in Norcasta, nor any other country. You will be expected to attend certain functions with me and the clothes you will be provided for those functions would reveal them. I cannot have a vassal of mine running around wearing the slave brands of a dozen masters.”
Her eyes widened for a brief moment before a snort overtook her. Quinn looked away, amusement still twitching at her lips. Someone thinks highly of himself, she thought. “It’s actually seventeen,” she corrected him. “Not a dozen.”
His expression didn’t alter. “Either way, I cannot have you representing me looking like that.”
Quinn wondered if she would meet his wife. If narcissism ran in the family.
The coach turned a corner and came to a wavering halt alongside the road. Quinn moved to stand. “Wait,” Lazarus commanded.
“Aren’t we here?”
He shot her a dark look. “When you are in a carriage, you wait until the driver has descended to open the door.”
“I don’t need anyone to open my doors for me,” she said brazenly. “If you’re too delicate, I can surely take care of it for you.”
Not even a muscle moved in his face. He didn’t reply. Quinn sat back with a huff and waited. The door opened not long afterwards, and Lazarus gestured for her to get out. She did so with pleasure—anything to get away from his condescending presence.
Quinn stood on the cobbled sidewalk and stared up and down the alley they had parked in. There was a sign above them, swinging back and forth on squeaky iron hinges. The sign read “Oculi Flere.” Across the way, a street beggar hobbled onto a nearby doorstep and collapsed, grunting and groaning. An empty bottle of spirits rolled away from him.
Lazarus strode towards the door to the shop and pushed it open, holding it for her. Instead, Quinn pointed to the sign. “What does that say?” she asked.
He looked up. “It says Oculi Flere,” he replied. “Let’s go.”
“What does it mean?”
He sighed. “It means ‘The Weeping Eye,’” Lazarus said. “Now, come. We have a schedule to keep.”
“We do?” Quinn asked as she entered the small, narrow shop, but Lazarus didn’t reply.
The interior was just as rundown as the outside. The wooden floorboards creaked under their feet, several spots rotted through and sagging inward. The shelves surrounding the front room were dusty and the baubles and bottles that lined them all appeared as though they held some strange substa
nces—like animal livers and eyeballs. As Quinn wandered farther inside, the bottles appeared newer, lighter.
She stretched out her hand to touch one of them when Lazarus stepped up and grabbed her wrist. “Do not touch anything,” he commanded, quickly releasing her as if her skin had burned him. She wished it had.
Quinn rubbed her wrist as she took in the rest of the room. A crusty older woman with a hunched back and protruding lower jaw hobbled in from a doorway leading deeper into the shop.
“Ma’ lord, so good ta see ye’ again. ‘Ave ye’ come fer a solution today?” she asked politely, her voice hoarse from age.
Lazarus nodded. “I was wondering if you had any sanitatem in your shop, Driselda.”
The woman’s eyes turned to Quinn and then trailed down. “We do, ma’ lord. Fer bran’ removals.”
Quinn didn’t move or flinch as the old woman examined her from across the room. She crossed the creaking floorboards to stop before Quinn and lift her sleeves. “I suspect ye ‘ave more?” she inquired, releasing her.
“Yes,” Quinn said through gritted teeth, readjusting the sleeves of her shirt.
Driselda nodded thoughtfully before turning to Lazarus. “T’will not be cheap,” she stated.
“I didn’t think it would be,” he replied coolly.
The old woman nodded again. “Follow me.”
Lazarus eyed her for a moment, watching for Quinn’s response. She didn’t spare a glance in his direction as she followed the apothecarian into a back room. It was tiny. The back wall was made up entirely of shelves, each filled with a strange assortment of bottles that mostly appeared to be collecting dust. In the center of the small space was a water bin used for animals, with a short stool beside it.
The wooden door swung shut and a boney hand prodded her in between her shoulder blades towards the tub. “Strip an’ get in, girl.”
Quinn tugged off her dusty brown shirt, streaked with grime and dirt. The leather pants took a bit more finagling in the small space as they clung to her bare skin. With some awkward bending and enough persistence, they came free. Stripping away her undergarments Quinn climbed into the makeshift tub and settled with her knees together and her chin propped over them. Her arms wrapped tightly around her legs while she waited for Driselda to begin.
“Ta get rid’er bran’s, we usually just smear tha area of skin wit’ sanitatem, but—” the old woman glanced back over her shoulder as she began pulling dusty bottles off the shelves. “Ye’ ‘ave so many. Ye’ need a bath.”
Quinn said nothing as Driselda began dumping the contents of each bottle into a large bucket. The liquid hissed and crackled with each new ingredient added. She was fairly certain there was a light steam coming from the liquid in the tub when the older lady clicked her tongue and nodded. Without any explanation she walked out of the back room, closing the door firmly behind her. Quinn could make out Lazarus’ low voice on the other side as he inquired about something. The woman’s voice was harder to discern as she replied. There was some shuffling about, and a few minutes passed before the door cracked open and in came the stern-faced old woman with her back locked tight, a massive bucket of water swishing side to side. She hefted it up to the ledge of the tub and heaved it over, letting the chilly water fall over Quinn.
She let out a small sigh at the blessed moisture, chancing a quick drink, she scooped some up in her hands before Driselda slapped her palms away. “Tis a ‘ery delicate balance. Could melt ye’ insides if ye’ drink it.” The woman turned to the second smaller bucket full of a grayish-green goop. She picked it up and quickly tossed the contents in. Quinn yelped at the nip of burning heat before it settled into the water, staining it a soft mint green.
“Now what?” Quinn asked.
“Now, we wait. Tha sanitatem will take an hour ta remove tha bran’s, but t’won’t take away ye’ scars,” the women said, plopping down on the short stool. “Sink down an’ let it reach ‘verywhere, girl. Ye’ ‘ave quite a lot—yes, all the way up ta tha back of ye’r neck—‘ere ye’ go.”
“Will it remove this?” Quinn asked into the silence. She lifted her hand where Lazarus’ name was written in black.
“Is’ it a bran’?” she asked.
“Of sorts. We signed a contract.”
Driselda nodded once. “Looks ta me like tha work o’ a firedrake feather. ‘At’s not a bran’ o’ iron, but o’ magic. Neither tha sanitatem nor anythin’ but tha dealer o’ tha contract an’ their desire ta break it will remove ‘at.”
Quinn looked at the inky letters under her palm. The other woman fell silent, leaning back against the wooden panels. She crossed her ankles and interlaced her hands over her lap as Quinn laid all the way back in the sanitatem bath and let her hand fall to her side. Initially the pure stuff had burned like an open flame, but now it was a subtler sort of burn. The kind that slowly ate at a person, moving from lukewarm and a bit tingly to being stimulated all over.
She closed her eyes against the small zings that went through her as the top layer of skin was eaten away entirely.
“‘Ow’s tha burnin’?” Driselda asked some time later.
Quinn cracked an eye open. “I’ve had better days.”
The older woman nodded and smoothed her hands over her wrinkled skirt to rest on her knees. She leaned forward and said, “Folks ten’ ta yelp ‘er cry like children when I remove a bran’ ‘er two. Only had ta do a full body once.” Quinn didn’t say anything, and the woman continued. “He was like ye’. Ne’er made a soun’.”
“There are worse pains a slave endures, particularly those of us that never stopped fighting against it,” Quinn said, recalling the crack of a whip before the shredding started. She’d been beaten so brutally by some of her masters, she’d come to the edge of death more times than she could count. She didn’t want to die. She wasn’t searching for a death sentence. Quinn had accepted the life she led, and was prepared for if or when the day came when she couldn’t outrun it. It seemed that with Lazarus, today was not that day—and while she would never tell him—she was thankful, despite the price he’d asked.
“No’one is really free,” the old woman answered. “We’re all a slave ta somethin’. Whether tis a person, a past, our own fears…” The woman rocked forward, and her joints popped as she came to stand. “Freedom’s a myth, one use’ta keep us all ‘n line. E’ry now an’ then, there’ll be one like ye’ that sees tha invisible bars an’ searches fer a way ta break them.” She motioned for Quinn to stand. She did as was requested and reached out, grasping both sides of the tub as she got to her feet. “A word from tha wise, girl. Breakin’ tha bars be ‘mpossible. Decidin’ who holds tha key, though…” She pointedly looked sideways to the closed door that led out to her shop where Lazarus waited. “Lord Fierté’s known fer protectin’ ‘is own, so lon’ as they’re loyal. Jus’ somethin’ ta think ‘bout.” Quinn’s lips parted, trying to think of a response while the weathered shopkeeper dried the mint-colored liquid from her skin.
She felt fresh, cleaner than she had in a long time, when she dressed again in her dirty clothes. Now that she was newly employed, she would be inquiring about what exactly that entailed, and if a second set of trousers was asking too much.
She thought back to his fine-tailored tunic with gold embellishments and snorted.
On second thought, he has the money. I’m asking for undergarments too.
Driselda opened the wooden door and pushed her out, following behind. Quinn looked up, expecting to see Lazarus sitting and instead finding him standing only a few feet away with a grimace on his face. In his fist was a crumpled letter written on fine parchment.
Quinn quirked an eyebrow. “Everything alright?” she asked, testing the waters.
Lazarus pulled a small pouch from his pocket and tossed it to the woman beside Quinn. Driselda reached out with knobbly fingers, catching the coin purse in one hand and tucking it away in one of the pockets of her cloak.
“Pleasure doin’ business, Lord
Fierté.”
“Until next time,” Lazarus nodded and turned for the door. Quinn followed after, hot on his heels, only briefly stopping at the doorway to the alley.
“Thank you,” she said over her shoulder, happy to be free from her past—even if she wasn’t sure what the future held.
Judging by Lazarus’ mood, if nothing else, it would be interesting.
Secrets and Shadow Men
“If you’re going to pull a knife, plan to use it.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, ex-prisoner, definitely deranged, currently employed
Quinn was wrong. So very wrong.
Apparently, the future didn’t hold anything interesting. From the moment they’d stepped into the streets, they were loaded back into a carriage where they rode all through the night and into the next day, only taking stops to relieve themselves. Throughout it all, Lazarus hadn’t said a word or made any move to explain himself, and when she asked, all she was met with was vague notions of danger or silent looks of annoyance.
Quinn settled back into the seat with another huff of annoyance at the crick in her neck and the brooding man across from her who was the cause of it.
“So,” Quinn huffed. “Where are we going?”
“I must stop by my manor in Shallowyn and then we will be on our way,” Lazarus replied gruffly.
“On our way to…?”
He didn’t reply.
Gritting her teeth, Quinn turned and peered out at the passing scenery. Land, land, and more land. A few chickens. A few cows. A country cart filled with marketable wares passed by every once in a while, but for the most part, Quinn and Lazarus were alone on the road. Two days and two nights trapped with this man, they had only stopped to change out horses and drivers once.
“Can we talk about my employment?” Quinn asked, returning her gaze to Lazarus.
Fortune Favors the Cruel Page 5
