Authors: Victor Gischler
Alem looked at the men atop the wagon. “I don’t know. The men driving the wagon don’t seem alarmed. Like everything is normal. Maybe she got through okay.”
“Maybe.” Maurizan put her hand on his shoulder. “Maybe not.”
“You know what she can do,” Alem said. “I can’t believe—”
“Against a wizard?” Maurizan made a disgusted sound of disbelief deep in her throat. “Pull the other one.”
“You want to abandon her?”
“Of course not,” Maurizan said. “But how long do we wait? Anything could have happened.”
Alem didn’t have an answer. “We wait.”
She squeezed the hand on his shoulder. “Come back with me. Our people can take care of us.” Something in her voice grew tight. “You and I, together.” She frowned, her eyes intense. “Do you think she is for you, Alem?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” But his voice was so tight not even he would have believed him.
“Rina Veraiin will never know happiness,” Maurizan said. “She is consumed by her own potential, by what she thinks fate has destined for her. She wears her destiny around her neck like a lead weight. It will drag down anyone who tries to hold her up.”
“She’s trying to right what’s gone wrong,” Alem said.
“Yes,” Maurizan agreed.
An awkward silence.
“We’ll wait a day,” Alem said. “Maybe two.”
* * *
Rina was cleaner than she’d been in days—body bathed, hair washed and rinsed in scented oils. She wore an ankle-length loincloth of shimmering silver material lighter than anything she’d ever felt. All of the servants in attendance were female, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to go topless like her host. She wore a sleeveless shift of the same material which fell to her navel.
She touched her side again where the wound had been.
It’s a miracle.
No, it’s magic.
So what’s the difference?
“You look quite stunning, Rina Veraiin.”
Rina turned to see Talbun approach, walking between two blazing braziers. They’d been stoked as night had fallen.
“Thank you,” Rina said.
“Do you have a man?”
The vision of Alem’s face came to Rina unbidden. “No.”
“Shall I arrange one for the evening?” Talbun asked. “In case you’d like the additional warmth?”
Rina went red. “What? I … I mean no thank you.”
The wizard grinned. “My apologies. I forget how young you are.”
Rina smiled awkwardly. “No it’s just … maybe some other time.”
“Of course.” Talbun motioned to one of the servants. “When you’re more in the mood.”
The servant handed Rina a silver goblet and filled it with dark red wine.
Talbun saluted Rina with her own goblet. She gestured at the nearby table. “Sit. Be comfortable. The cooks have been hard at it most of the day.”
That sat on soft cushions at a low table. Servants filled the plates. Roast goat, glazed and spiced as Rina had never tasted. Something not quite like rice. Rina caught the words
curry
and
couscous
but they were as foreign as Weylan’s arcane gibberish. She never seemed to be able to get to the bottom of her goblet. The servants scurried fast to refill it. Dessert was a cinnamon pastry so light it was like chewing a cloud.
A servant refilled the goblets.
Wizard and Duchess reclined in their pillows, satiated, sipping wine.
“Why are you here?” Rina asked.
“Here?”
Rina felt warm, light-headed. “In this tower. You serve the Kashar?”
“I’m not a member of the cult, if that’s what you mean,” Talbun said. “I’ve exchanged my services for a favor.”
Rina drank wine. “Tell me. I’m curious.”
“The high priests have gone into the Long Dream,” Talbun said. “There they will commune with Kashar, their deity. They wait a century, sleeping, to ask their god the questions of the universe. In exchange for my keeping strangers away from the mountain, they will ask a question on my behalf.”
“You’ve waited a century?”
“Almost,” the wizard said. “Two more years.”
“So long.” Rina shook her head. “How do you stand it?”
“It is but a fraction of my life,” Talbun said. “I have walked these lands for ages, since before Weylan was born.” She saw Rina’s incredulous expression. “It’s true, I swear. Remember what I told you. My powers maintain my youth. The world passes under my nose, and I care not. My ambitions are my own, and I have a question for one of the gods.”
“And what would someone like you ask a god?” Rina asked.
“Well.” The wizard grinned and sipped wine. “It’s a long story.”
“Who … I mean what.…” The wine was in her head. Her thoughts swimming. She had trouble wrapping her mouth around the words. “What kind of god is Kashar?”
“The snake and the eye,” Talbun said. “Knowledge and the ability to put it to use quickly. To strike at the right time. A god for thieves and gamblers and opportunists.”
“What about exiled duchesses?” Rina smiled crookedly, drank wine and spilled some down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“The gods aren’t so generous,” the wizard said, “but I am.”
“Are you?”
Talbun laughed softly. “No. Not really. But I owe Weylan. And I’ll honor his memory.”
“You have a tattoo for me.”
“Yes.”
Rina sobered, or tried to. “Tell me.”
“I can make you fast” Talbun said. “Faster than a deer escaping a hunter. A tattoo that goes on your ankles. You could outrun an arrow, a flood, an avalanche, and the world would be a blur in your eyes.” She shrugged. “But I need the components. Some very rare ingredients. If you want the lightning bolts, you’ll have to fetch them.”
“Just tell me. I’ll get them.”
“Will you?” The wizard’s face was a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Not the sort of thing you can pick up at the local market.”
“Tell me how.” Rina felt like she was floating. She sipped wine, felt it burn warm down her throat.
“We need the ash from a holy tree,” Talbun said. “There’s one at the top of the mountain. An ember from the fire of a lightning strike.”
Rina laughed. She understood the wine had taken over but didn’t care. “So you’re saying I have to wait for a storm. Sit around here until lightning strikes?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Talbun said. “I’ll
call
the storm. We’ll have lightning by tomorrow afternoon.”
Brasley thrust himself savagely into the woman on all fours in front of him, shaking the feather bed so hard he thought it might rattle apart. She squealed sharply with each thrust, pushing her soft ass back at him in perfect rhythm, flesh slapping flesh.
To Brasley’s pleasant surprise, Elise’s cousin Fregga was an absolute animal in bed.
“Take me, Sir Brasley,” she grunted breathlessly. “Faster! Harder! Make me your wench!”
Brasley thrust harder.
Fregga had a long, dull face and bland eyes, but underneath her dress she had a curvaceous body with a round, plump ass and large heavy breasts that swung beneath her as Brasley took her from behind. Her body began the slow tremble that signaled her approaching climax.
Fregga had been surprised and grateful when Elise told her that a handsome, young nobleman had wanted to meet her. That gratitude had manifested itself three hours later with Fregga’s head between Brasley’s legs in the back of a closed carriage, her warm, wet mouth eager to please.
Afterward, she’d been bewildered anew when Brasley had said he simply had to meet her again the next day. She’d smiled so broadly it had almost split her face in two. Had love at last found plain, dull Fregga?
The guest quarters above her father’s carriage house provided a much more comfortable and private spot for a rendezvous. It simply wouldn’t do for the Minister of Trade’s daughter to be seen climbing the stairs to a young nobleman’s room in some low-rent inn.
Brasley held her hips, fingers sinking into soft flesh. A glowing sheen of sweat covered both of them. He pulled her back into him as he thrust. He was getting close now too.
Fregga grunted through gritted teeth, guttural. A spasm shook her body and she went rigid. “Yes, oh, yes!”
That sent Brasley over the edge, and he finished inside her. They collapsed together, panting.
She curled next to him, purring. “Tomorrow. We have to do that again tomorrow. That was … amazing.”
“Actually,” Brasley said, “I thought I’d quite like to meet your father tomorrow. If it can be arranged, I mean.”
Fregga gasped, and Brasley was suddenly concerned he’d overplayed his hand.
She propped herself up on one elbow, looked straight into his face. “You want to meet my father? You’re serious?”
“Well …” Brasley shrugged. A crooked smile. “I mean, if we’re going to carry on like this …” He let the suggestion hang there. It was a way of suggesting something without promising anything, and Brasley felt suddenly like a bit of a bastard.
He shoved the feeling away and kissed her on the forehead.
“Oh, Brasley!” She threw her arms around him and pulled him close, burying her face into his neck. “Oh, my darling Brasley. I love you. I love you so much.”
Yes, I was afraid of that. I really am an utter bastard, aren’t I?
* * *
The next morning Brasley put on his best outfit, a black doublet with silver piping and a scarlet cape worn off one shoulder. Black pants tucked into high black boots. He’d polished the boots. He was freshly bathed and shaved. His polished sword and scabbard hung from a braided leather belt.
He presented himself at the front door of Count Becham’s mansion. Fregga had alerted the butler that Brasley was coming, so the butler, accustomed to seeing nobility come and go in the manor, regarded Brasley with mild boredom but didn’t balk at admitting him and escorting him through the ornate mansion and down a long hall to Becham’s private study.
A second before the butler entered the study ahead of him, he glanced back down the hall and spotted Fregga peeking around the corner at him, face nervous.
Brasley summoned a confident smile and winked at her.
He followed the butler into the study.
“Sir Brasley Hammish of Klaar.” The butler bowed and then excused himself.
Count Becham rose from a plush, wingback chair, squinted at Brasley.
“Count Becham.” Brasley smiled and extended his hand, crossing the room.
As he approached the count to shake hands, he took in his surroundings. Shelves lined with leather-bound books. Expensive. Carved knickknacks of rare polished stone. Thick rugs and heavy velvet drapes on either side of a window that overlooked a well-manicured garden. A large desk carved from rich exotic wood. The room seemed pristine, unlived in, as if the owner thought it useful to display the trappings of wealth with little appreciation for the objects themselves.
Becham himself ran to fat, the result of a soft, privileged life, jowls and muttonchop side whiskers the same white as his hair. He wore a long, black coat and a red vest with a pattern of wavy lines, a ruffled silk shirt and house shoes with large silver buckles.
Becham shook Brasley’s hand, at the same time eyeing Brasley like he wasn’t sure
why
he was shaking Brasley’s hand.
“I know you’re a busy man, sir,” Brasley said. “I’m most grateful you’ve made time for me this morning. Very generous.”
“Yes … well.” Becham cleared his throat, pinned Brasley with an openly curious stare. “Who
are
you?”
Brasley blinked. “Uh … Sir Brasley—”
Becham waved away Brasley’s words. “Not your name, boy. I heard my man clearly enough. I mean, why are you here, and what business do we have? I don’t even know how you go on to my daily agenda.”
Brasley felt sudden respect for Fregga’s cunning. Somehow she’d arranged this. Perhaps she had some sway with the count’s personal secretary.
“It is about your daughter. If you’ll allow me to explain—”
“My daughter?” Becham frowned, took a menacing step forward. “What about my daughter? Has something happened?”
Brasley’s hands came up quickly in a placating gesture. “Sir, nothing alarming has happened, I assure you.”
“Talk, boy. I’m losing patience.”
“I met Fregga recently at her cousin Elise’s tea party,” Brasley explained. “I’ve come to ask permission to see her socially.”
“You want to see my daughter?”
“Yes.”
“My daughter
Fregga
?”
Brasley was given to understand that the Count had four daughters, two of whom were younger than Fregga. The other three were already married and had been taken off the Count’s hands.
“Naturally, I intend to pursue the matter with all proprieties intact and to follow all appropriate social customs.” This was as much as Brasley could say without actually declaring his intent to court Fregga for marriage.
And he was not quite willing to go that far.
“Oh.” A slow comprehension dawned in Becham’s face. “Oh!”
The possibility that Becham might be close to unloading his final daughter changed the tone of the conversation dramatically.
Becham slapped Brasley on the back and grinned. “You’ve chosen wisely, my good man. Wisely! Fregga is a fine woman.”
The Count produced a decanter of good brandy and a pair of fat chuma sticks. He filled two crystal goblets and lit the chuma sticks with a candle. They puffed and drank. Small talk. Becham asked about the long trip from Klaar to Merridan. Brasley said it was good to bask in warmer climes.
“What
does
bring you to the capital?” asked the Count.
“I’ve been appointed envoy to speak on behalf of Klaar.” The letter from Rina was tucked inside Brasley’s doublet in case he needed to produce some proof of this claim.
“Ah, a man of importance,” Becham said. “Working our way up in the world, eh? Grooming yourself for his majesty’s diplomatic corps, perhaps?”
Let the man think what he wants
. “For now it is enough to serve Klaar.”
“So what do you have planned for our young Fregga, eh?”
Becham might have been inquiring about Brasley’s long-term intentions.