Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 (20 page)

Publius frowned.

“It would be a terrible shame if my powers of divination were to diminish because I had not spent enough time with my familiar,” Valdis said. “Besides, it is dark enough now—who will even know Loki and I have visited the garden?”

Publius said nothing, obviously wavering. He waddled to the large open window and peered into the empty courtyard.

“You did tell me to ask for whatever I wish,” she said, pressing her advantage.

“It's not as though you are one of the master's concubines, I suppose. Very well, go. But go veiled and go quietly.” He grasped her arm with a grip that was surprisingly strong for one with such a soft-looking countenance. “But if you cause me a moment's concern I will see you whipped, Valdis. Don't think I won't.”

“I will return before you know I am gone.” She slipped a dark cloak over her light palla and adjusted her veil to cover the lower half of her face.

Valdis padded swiftly along the open corridor. The women of the
zenana
had retired for the night, except for the chosen one. From the master's chambers on the second level, she heard the sounds of a woman wailing and pleading in what struck Valdis's ears as feigned passion. If the woman indulged in harlot's tricks, Valdis couldn't fault her for it. The women of the
zenana
did what they must to survive.

As Valdis crept down the steps to the lowest level, her soft-soled slippers made no noise on the polished marble, but Loki's claws clicked a pattering rhythm as they descended. She made a mental note to trim them lest she lose this privilege. Being allowed to leave the third floor on her own was a breath of freedom, a small taste of what she so earnestly desired.

She found a sheltered alcove near the deep pool and settled on a stone bench to watch Loki investigate the flowerbed in the moonlight. The air was heavy with the scent of lotus blossoms and Valdis breathed deeply, taking pleasure in the moment, as Chloe had advised.

The thought of pleasure inevitably led to Erik and she wondered which of the rooms in Mahomet's stately house had been allotted to him?

Suddenly, the shrubbery near her cursed. Loki scurried away from it to huddle by her ankles.

Erik pushed through the hedge to stand before her. “That damn dog finally succeeded in pissing on my boots.”

Valdis covered her mouth to stifle her giggle.

“It's not funny.”

“No,” she agreed. “It's not.”

“Single-minded little bugger.” She heard his low chuckle and joined him. After the stress of her first day in Mahomet's house, she needed to laugh.

He put a finger to his lips, then took her into his arms. Slowly he unhooked her veil from behind her ear. He traced her lower lip with his fingertips, sending shivers of anticipation over her. Erik pressed fevered kisses up the side of her neck and finally claimed her mouth as his possession. Pleasure washed over her. Her whole being thrummed with life. If they died for it, she wouldn't have broken off this kiss for all the nine worlds.

“I'm sorry, Valdis,” Erik whispered when he finally released her lips. “I shouldn't endanger you this way, but I can't help myself.”

“Me neither,” she mouthed into his ear. “But what are you doing here? How did you manage to insinuate yourself into this household?”

“The same as you. By guile,” Erik said. “But if that hadn't worked, I'd have swum beneath the walls from the river Lycus to this pool through the underground conduit.”

“The river is a good distance from here. You'd drown.”

“I'm a strong swimmer. Back in the North, I could hold my breath longer than any other man in Hordaland.” A grin creased his face, a perfect match for this boyish braggadocio. Then the grin dissolved into dead seriousness. “There's nothing I wouldn't dare to be near you.”

Loki whimpered softly and Erik released her. Usually, the little dog growled at Erik, but after urinating on his boots, Loki wasn't about to push his luck. He'd let Erik into the alcove with his mistress without a sound. Now the dog was looking in the direction of the main gate. Valdis froze.

In the dark alcove, she and Erik were all but invisible, but they had a clear view of the rest of the courtyard. The Greek Valdis had seen at Mahomet's dinner was being helped onto the back of a small donkey. The man was weaving, obviously the worse for something far stronger than pomegranate juice.

“My imperial frien ... friend will be grateful," he said, his words slurring. The massive gates creaked open to allow him to depart. A link boy with a torch to light his way across the city stood waiting to lead his donkey home.

“And your friend will be even more grateful if you keep your teeth together,” a gruff voice said.

Valdis didn't recognize the speaker, but Erik did.

“Barak, head of security for Mahomet,” he whispered. “Till I came.”

As the
clip-clop
of the donkey's hooves faded, Barak signaled one of his underlings. “Follow that Greek fool and see that he does not reach his home this night. Kill the link boy too. Better yet, run ahead of him and lie in wait at his home. It will appear he interrupted a robbery. We want no true tales spread to Leo. Don't return until it is done.”

“Why the boy?”

“You do not question me. Just do as I say. Now go.”

Valdis had known she was going into a dangerous situation when she entered this household, but the casual bloodthirstiness in Barak’s order was still a shock.

“Wait here, till I draw them away.” Erik pulled her close and whispered into her ear. “Which room is yours?”

She pointed to her corner apartment, where sturdy vines rose from the courtyard to the roof garden.

He smiled. “I think that trellis will hold me.”

“We shouldn't meet again like this,” she said, still shaken by Barak’s murderous order.

“Leave a runic message here on this bench, then. I must know how it is with you.”

“I will,” she promised. “Oh! Find out what you can about the Frank who dined with you tonight.”

“Why?”

“There is someone in the
zenana
who wants to know. His name will do for a start.”

“That I can already give you. Bernard of Cologne. He is a trader of glassware seeking an alliance with Mahomet.”

“That's not all he's seeking,” Valdis said. “His betrothed is an odalisque in Mahomet's harem.”

“Then he and I have much in common. I shall have to see what I can do to help him.”

Barak turned and seemed to look right at them. Valdis knew the darkness hid her from his sight, but his eyes blazed feral in the night like a wolf's. He cocked his head as if straining for a sound, something that would betray her.

Fortunately Loki crouched by her ankles and would not move. The dog must have sensed her trepidation.

Then Barak turned away and cast his gaze along the roof of the villa.

“Wait till all is clear.” Erik pressed a kiss into her open palm. “I'll distract the guard for a bit, then I'll find a secret way out of this house.”

“Where are you going?”

“To stop a murder.”

He moved away with amazing stealth for a man of his size, silent as a cat when he wished to be. If Valdis hadn't known it was Erik in the garden, she'd have thought it was merely the soughing of the night breeze that rustled the greenery.

“Ho, Barak,” Erik said loudly from the far end of the courtyard. “Near the second watch and you still haven't found your bed?”

Valdis couldn't make out the grumbling reply, but the man took several steps toward Erik.

“Since neither of us is sleepy, now's as good a time as any for you to show me the provisions for security you have made,” she heard Erik suggest. “We both want the same thing, after all. Continued safety for your master.”

Couched in that language, it was a request Barak couldn't refuse, and he wandered off with Erik to inspect the perimeter safeguards.

Valdis scooped Loki in her arms and made a dash for the stairway. She crept up to the third floor, her heart hammering against her ribs. She and Erik were walking a knife's edge with disaster looming on either side.

And she saw no way to stop.

Erik disentangled himself from Barak with very little effort. The man really wanted nothing to do with a Varangian interloper. But finding a way out of Habib Ibn Mahomet's house other than through the large front gate proved a more difficult problem. He finally managed to wiggle out the chute in the kitchen, the one used to deliver charcoal for the braziers that would chase away the winter chill.

He had a pretty good idea where the Greek was heading and he doubted it was to his own home. Erik had met the man once before on a hunting outing with the emperor for which Erik's cohort provided security. The man's name was Marcus Trophimus, chief advisor to the emperor's young niece, Zoe. The girl was another hopeful heiress in the making, one the Empire recognized as "purple-born." Trophimus was obviously looking for supporters for Zoe's claim once the unthinkable happened and Basil the Bulgar-Slayer was no more.

Marcus Trophimus would not go directly to his own home, but to Zoe's sumptuous quarters in the Palatine district. Erik's first impression of the man was that Trophimus was a capable bureaucrat, if devious in typical Byzantine fashion. He hoped the Greek wasn't as drunk as he'd seemed.

Erik was relieved to find the link boy and the donkey waiting outside the would-be empress's palace.

“You there, boy,” Erik called softly as he approached.

The child startled and lifted the torch as high as his thin arm could reach. “Please don't take the donkey, sir. It belongs to my fare and he'll beat me if it's gone when he returns.”

In the amber torchlight, Erik could see the child was gaunt to the point of starvation and much older than Erik first judged him based on his diminutive height.

Poor food makes a poor boy
. But at least this child was still alive, and if Erik had anything to say about it, would remain so for at least another night. Miklagard teemed with these discarded little souls, abandoned by their families or orphaned. They were tossed into the streets to fight for scraps or sell their young bodies for a thin silver coin. The most enterprising of them served as link boys, lighting the way for well-born night travelers across the dark city. Erik admired the lad's pluckiness.

“I don't want your donkey.” He took a bezant from his pouch and flipped it in the air. The boy's eyes gleamed as he tracked the coin's flight. Erik caught it and then held it out to him. “I want to give this bezant to the boy who can deliver a message and convince the man you led here to heed it.”

“I can do that.” The boy fairly danced with excitement.

A bezant would feed this urchin and twelve of his ragged friends for a month.

“What's the message, General?”

Erik resisted the appeal of this blatant flattery. “Tell Marcus Trophimus not to look to the follower of the Prophet for support. Death waits at Trophimus's home this night. He must lodge in the Xenon of Theophilus if he wishes to see morning. Go with him, boy, for Death has marked you as well.”

The child's eyes grew round as an owl's.

“Can you remember that?” Erik asked.

When the boy repeated the message word for word, Erik tossed him the coin and turned to go. “Show him the coin and he'll take you seriously.”

“But who shall I tell him gave me the message?”

“Tell him it was one of the emperor's pledge-men. A Varangian.” On a whim, Erik added, “Haukon Gottricksson.”

It would do Hauk no harm since when Erik last heard his friend was fighting the Saracens in faraway Antioch. And Hauk's name would muddy the waters if by chance the boy was grilled by inquisitors later.

“Don't fail me, lad.” Erik turned and disappeared into the blackness of the city's narrow alleys.

The moon dropped behind the tallest of Miklagard's seven hills so only pinpricks of stars lit his way. Erik followed the map he carried in his head of the twisted byways until he came to the street where Marcus Trophimus's home sprawled in grandeur, dwarfing his neighbors on both sides.

Erik crouched in the shadows, trying to locate the would-be assassin. Anger raced in his veins. If it had only been Trophimus, Erik might have let the Greek courtier take his chances. After all, the question of who would sit on the Byzantine throne after the Bulgar-Slayer was none of his business.

But what kind of scum lies in wait to kill a child?

As his gaze made a second circuit of the area, it struck him that he too was an assassin this night. The only difference between him and the man he intended to kill was motive. One wanted to take two lives. One wanted to protect them.

Erik had already accepted the label of "murderer." His brother's death grated his soul every day, even though he still had no clear recollection of the actual deed. The
berserkr
rage often left a warrior with holes in his memory. He supposed that was a mercy.

Battle deaths were the easiest to dismiss. In a melee, the only law was kill or be killed. Though
murderer
was branded on his heart, Erik had yet to kill someone by stealth. But tonight, if he issued a defiance and a fight ensued, the noise might rouse the neighbors or the servants of the household. Even if he killed the man, how could he explain what he'd done without compromising his covert position in Mahomet's household? And if the assassin proved a worthy opponent and Erik was sent to Valhalla, what would become of Valdis?

No, he couldn't think on her. If a man pondered what he might lose, he'd never chance a sea voyage, never raise a sword even in defense of right. He must concentrate on the business at hand.

A rustle from the vine-covered pergola in the side yard of Trophimus's estate drew Erik's attention. A flash of metal gleamed. He'd located his foe.

He moved with care, approaching from behind without a sound. He was not a murderer, he reasoned, but an executioner. If a lawspeaker were here, would this man not be condemned?