Authors: Victor Gischler
She opened her mouth to say something but suddenly felt a lump in her throat.
“What’s all that business?” He gestured at her eyes with a backhanded wave.
“Tattoos, Majesty.”
“Is that what all the young people are doing now? Can’t say as I care for it. Never mind. You took your sweet time getting here.”
“Majesty?”
“To Merridan,” he said. “With invaders at the door I thought maybe you’d have gotten here a little sooner to ask for my help. That is what you wanted, isn’t it? For the king to send along his soldiers and chase the savages back into the sea?”
“Yes, Majesty, something like that.” It made her suddenly feel like a beggar. Is that what the king wanted? To make her understand she’d come begging, that his aid could be given or withheld on a whim?
Rina’s eyes flicked to Brasley’s. The frown on his face was a clear
I told you so
.
“Well, they are on Helvan soil, so as king, it’s my business, I suppose. Especially now that they’ve come down from Klaar to make incursions into the lowlands. Oh, didn’t you know that?”
She hadn’t known. She didn’t know anything. She was a stupid girl with tattoos on her face.
There was a moment of silence where he seemed to take her measure.
“You’re of marrying age, aren’t you, Duchess?”
She blinked. The question had caught her by surprise. “Very soon, Your Majesty.”
“I have a grand-nephew,” The king said. “So young to be a duchess. Klaar would benefit from a bit of experience. Somebody solid. Wouldn’t do to send my armies up there to shoo the Perranese away just to have them come back next season, now, would it?”
Uh …
“That’s a most generous thought,” Rina said. “Perhaps I could meet your grand-nephew …
after
the current crisis in Klaar has been resolved.”
Pemrod pursed his lips, nodding slowly. The silence that stretched this time was twice as uncomfortable as before.
He turned to his Lord Chamberlain. “Kent, I suppose we must
officially
address this matter. What’s the wait for an audience now? Three months?”
“Four, Your Majesty.”
“Four is it? My goodness, this is a busy time of year. The wheels of government turn slowly, don’t they?”
There was not an ounce of warmth in the smile he offered. “The crown will be only too happy to grant you an audience to discuss your problem, duchess. In four months.”
* * *
“Four months! That oily son of a—”
“Will you keep your voice
down
, please,” Brasley whispered.
They were in the hall just outside the lounge and walking away quickly, the angry clack of Rina’s shoes on the tile like reproachful
tsks
.
She fumed. Imagine suggesting the only way Klaar might get timely aid from the crown was if she married the king’s fat, ugly grand-nephew. She actually had no idea what the man looked like, but with her luck …
“You could have at least
met
his grand-nephew,” Brasley said.
“Shut up.”
“We’ll have to pack quickly when we get back to the manor,” Brasley said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Klaar’s line of credit at the Royal Bank suddenly dries up.”
“Damn, I didn’t even think of that,” Rina admitted. “Would he really—”
“Duchess Veraiin,” a voice called after her.
She turned to see Kent approaching. She composed herself and lifted her chin. “Lord Chamberlain.”
“Might I have a word?” Kent turned and looked pointedly at Brasley.
Brasley bowed to Rina. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ll arrange for our driver to bring the carriage around front.” And he left.
“If you’re leaving town and on your way back to Klaar, there is a certain temple not far out of the way,” Kent said. “The Temple of Mordis. I think you and the high priest there might find it interesting to meet one another. I can give you directions.”
“I’m not very religious, Lord Chamberlain. And in any case, I was raised in the Temple of Dumo, like most people.”
“It’s just that I happened to take an interest in your tattoo.” Kent pitched his voice lower. “And I assume you have the Prime inked down you back.”
Rina’s eyes slowly widened. “On second thought, Lord Chamberlain, yes, I think I would like directions to this temple.”
The fist came up so fast, Alem almost didn’t see it. The flesh on flesh
smack
spun his head around, knocking him across the table, scattering beer mugs and patrons. And then he was on the floor. Lots of arms grabbing him, pulling him to his feet again. Hoots and jeers. What was happening?
Oh, yeah. I’m in a fight
.
The arms that had lifted him pushed him back toward the big man who’d hit him, which was actually the last thing Alem wanted.
The man was barrel chested, with a red, sweaty face and sparse black hair slicked back on a melon head. Five days of stubble on his face and teeth like little yellow pebbles.
Alem threw a watery punch. The man batted it aside, and stars exploded again in front of Alem’s eyes as he was struck again. The next thing to hit Alem’s face was the floor. Bells rang. How had this started again? Oh, yes. They’d come to the inn to get out of the rain, for food, a room for the night. The drunk had gotten too aggressive with Maurizan, hands going everywhere, not taking no for an answer. Alem had leapt in to defend Maurizan’s honor.
And how’s that working out for you, thicko?
Alem tasted blood, spit a red glob onto the floor. He shook his head and looked up.
Maurizan leapt on the man’s back, and everyone in the common room laughed. Maurizan and the big bruiser twirled a little circle as she pounded on his shoulders with her little fists. The man’s friends called out insults—some to her, some to him.
Maurizan reached down, nails digging in, and scratched three deep rents across his face. Blood. He screamed.
The laughter stopped.
The man roared, reached back and grabbed two handfuls of Maurizan’s red hair. He dragged her off of him and slammed her against the floor, knocking the wind out of her. She writhed there, mouth working, trying to get a lungful of air.
“Leave her alone.” Alem’s voice sounded weak in his own ears.
The bruiser loomed over Alem, reached down and grabbed his tunic. Alem flopped, his limbs like lead.
“First, I’m going to cave your head in, lad,” he said. “Then I’ll show your girl a fine time. After you, she’s probably yearning for a real man who’s got more than peach fuzz on his nuggets.”
More laughter.
Alem pawed at the man’s fist, tried to get loose.
A slim hand appeared on the man’s shoulder.
He started to turn to see who was behind him, but then he was off his feet, flying through the air, tumbling and rolling and smashing through a wooden chair, his comrades scrambling out of the way.
Alem looked, blinked his eyes back into focus.
She stood there like a stab of darkness, back straight, eyes flashing, black armor dripping, hair wet and matted. The eye tattoos added to her sinister appearance. One hand rested on the hilt of her rapier.
Brasley came in behind her, quickly surveyed the situation. “Typical.”
The bruiser stumbled to his feet, shaking his head. He focused on Brasley.
“No, no, not me.” Brasley pointed at Rina. “She’s your problem. Good luck.”
The man growled, charged forward and swung at her, his fist coming around so hard and fast he might have been trying to knock her head clean off of her body.
Rina’s hand flashed up, and she caught his fist.
The room went stone quiet.
The two of them stood frozen like that a moment. The man stared wide-eyed at her little hand holding his meaty fist. He licked his lips nervously, obviously wondering where things went from here.
Rina squeezed.
The
crack pop crunch
of the man’s fingers and knuckles made Alem wince.
The lummox screamed and went down, rolling into a fetal position. He cradled his hand as tears welled in his eyes.
“If any of you people are friends with this man, you might want to get him out of here,” Rina said. “Now.”
A trio of drinkers came forward to scoop up the man and made a hasty exit, dragging him out.
Rina walked slowly to Alem, bent, offered a hand to help him up. “Miss me?”
* * *
The innkeeper fell over himself getting them rooms, but even though they were all exhausted, they were also restless and so found themselves around a table near the common room’s big stone hearth. The fire was low but warm, and they exchanged stories. Maurizan seemed glum for whatever reason but came out of her sulk to listen intently when Rina described her blue ball gown. Alem tried his best—but failed—to hide his pessimism upon hearing the king would do little to aid Klaar.
Brasley sucked the last bit of meat from a chicken leg, tossed the bone onto his plate and stood. “I’m going to chase down the barkeep for more wine. Anyone need anything?”
Rina hunched over a parchment, scribbling with a quill, the chewed stub of a chuma stick smoldering in the corner of her mouth. She held out her mug without looking up. “Beer.”
“Brave girl.” Brasley took the mug and set out to find the barkeep.
“What are you writing?” Alem asked Rina.
“The backup plan,” she said.
“Care to share it with me?”
Rina smiled around the chuma stick. “Too risky. You’d talk under torture.”
“The stink of that chuma stick is torture.”
Rina took the stub from her mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into his face. She laughed.
He coughed, waved the smoke away. “You’re hilarious.”
Brasley returned, set the beer mug next to Rina’s elbow and sat. He drank deeply from his own goblet. “I really love this inn. The beer is warm, and the mead is too sweet. But at least the wine is terrible.”
“Poor Brasley misses his manor house and his servants.” Rina dipped the quill into the inkwell and continued scribbling. Some chuma ash fell onto the parchment. “Damn it.”
“We could be there
now
if you just agreed to be nice to the king’s lousy grand-nephew.” He tilted the goblet back for another big swallow.
Alem looked up. “Who?”
“And you could be in Fregga’s loving arms right now, too,” Rina said.
Brasley choked, some wine dribbling down his chin. “Let’s change the subject. Have you told these two that you’re dragging us off to some death temple?”
Alem blinked. “What temple?”
Rina still didn’t look up. She still filled the parchment, coming to the end of her letter. “They’re not coming.”
“I’m not?” Alem said. “Where am I not coming?”
“Wonderful,” Bradley said. “So you’re just dragging
me
along?”
Alem frowned. “You guys can hear me, right?”
Rina sat straight, lifted the parchment and blew on it to dry the ink. She gulped down a third of her beer, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She turned to Maurizan, face growing serious. “I need your help.”
Maurizan looked up, startled to be addressed directly. She’d been quietly pushing the food around on her plate with a spoon. “Me?”
Rina folded the parchment, leaned across the table to hand it to the gypsy.
A moment’s hesitation, then Maurizan took the letter, unfolded it. She nibbled her bottom lip while she read.
“I don’t suppose I get to read it next,” Alem said.
Maurizan looked up, met Rina’s eyes.
“You understand what I need,” Rina asked.
Maurizan nodded.
“You’ll do it?”
Maurizan nodded again, more slowly this time. “I’ll do it.”
The gypsy looked around the table at everyone. “Well. It looks like I’m in for an early start tomorrow.” She stood. “I’d better pack. I hope the rain stops by morning.”
They watched her climb the stairs, faces long.
Brasley pushed away from the table too. “I’m for bed. See you in the morning.”
Alem turned to Rina. “You have some horrible errand for me, don’t you?”
She smiled. Alem was smart. She liked him so much, she didn’t have the heart to tell him about the horrible errand. Not yet. “I’m working up the courage. Give me a minute.”
“Okay. The horses are still tied up outside. I’ll move them to the stable.”
Rina puffed the chuma stick and watched him go. Whatever she asked Alem to do, he would do it, and for some reason that made her all the more reluctant. The four of them had only been reunited for a single night, and now they’d have to scatter again.
She downed her beer, rose from the table, and followed Alem outside.
The rain came unrelenting and cold. The inn’s front porch had a wide overhang, so the horses tied to the hitching post wouldn’t get drenched. Maurizan’s and Brasley’s horses stood together, ears twitching. Her horse was missing and so was Alem’s gelding. He’d already taken them to the stables. She thought about waiting there for him to come back for the other two horses.
But instead she found herself marching through the rain and mud toward the stables. The stub of the chuma stick had wilted. She plucked it from her mouth and flicked it away.
She stepped in a deep puddle and went down in a splash. Her left boot filled with water. “Shit!”
She got back to her feet and entered the stable.
It was dim inside, lit by a single oil lamp. Alem had already taken the saddles off the horses. He saw her and laughed. “Have a nice swim?”
She glared at him, overturned a feed bucket and sat on it. She tried to pull the boot off, grunting and heaving.
“Let me help you.” He knelt, grabbed the boot and started to pull.
Rina suddenly flashed on a memory. In her room. The boy who had come in for the laundry. She’d made him help with her boots to tease him. She gasped.
“What’s wrong?” Alem asked as the boot came off.
“It was you. With the laundry basket. That day in my room.” The last day she’d been just a girl, just her father’s daughter. The same day everything had changed forever.
He laughed again, shaking his head. “I thought you’d never remember.” He pulled of the other boot. “Usually, the castle people don’t even look at the servants. You probably didn’t mean anything, but it really got under my skin when you mocked me. I sort of thought maybe—”