Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 (21 page)

The man stood in the shadows of the pergola, waiting to kill a boy and a man whom he believed were in no state to defend themselves. And if he didn't kill them this night, he'd get them the next. His quarry only had to be unlucky once. Surely the assassin deserved no mercy, no quarter. He certainly would offer none.

Erik was close enough to hear the man's breathing, to smell his stale sweat. Close enough to slip his gladius through the grape vines and pierce the man's ribs before he even knew Erik was there. One thrust and it would be done.

Erik started to draw his blade.

And found he couldn't do it. His arm was too heavy to lift to kill by stealth.

No, he decided. Even if he died for it, he would take the risk. In his time of exile, he'd rebuilt his tattered honor into a covering his soul could live with. How could he shred that fragile integrity now with a calculated murder?

He purposely stepped on a dry vine. The crackling sound brought the man in the arbor to full alert. Erik wished suddenly for his battle ax. Its smooth handle always felt more comfortable in his big hand than a Roman short sword, but he'd taken to carrying the gladius when he was in the city.

No point it stewing over it now.
It was past the time for worrying over his choice of weapons. He was already committed to this course and he must see it to its end.

The man moved from his hiding place into the open. His blade was already drawn. Even in the dim starlight, the sinuously curved blade glinted a warning.

Erik moved forward, his gladius flashing quickly from his scabbard, but the other man met it with his blade. The sharp edges grated as the men tested each other’s strength. Erik was surprised by the resistance in the assassin's sword arm and had to leap backward when the man swiped at his midsection with a second blade.

Erik sidestepped, looking for an advantage. His opponent countered each move, his dark eyes slitted in concentration. At least the man hadn't cried out, as Erik feared he might. It was in the assassin's interest to kill him quietly so as not to warn away his true quarry.

He swallowed the battle cry that rose in his throat. This dance with death would be unaccompanied by a
berserkr’s
feral howl.

Blood pounded in Erik's ears, drowning out the small sounds of the night, the insect chorus, the whine of a dog in the next block. Erik was acutely aware of each breath, of the way each hair on his body stood at full attention as he waited for his opponent’s next attack. He marveled at the way his muscles and bones obeyed the dictates of his will, moving with the grace of a tried warrior.

And he knew those same muscles and bones might be no more than a heap of cooling meat in a few heartbeats.

The assassin brought his curved sword forward in a glittering arc.

Erik braced himself for the blistering attack.

Valdis woke with a start, thrashing wildly. Her violent movement sent Loki into a yipping fit as he tumbled off the end of her bed. She jumped up and scooped the little dog into her arms.

“Shh! If you make too much noise, they may take you away from me and I couldn't bear to lose you too.”

She settled back into the linens, patting and soothing Loki. Once she was satisfied the dog was only startled, not injured by the short drop to the floor, she breathed deeply, willing her heart rate to slow.

Sleep had eluded her for hours after Erik left to stop the assassination last night. Then when she finally drifted off, the evil dream returned. It had been weeks since the vision had haunted her last, but it was the same dream. Erik was stealing down the same shadowy corridor and Valdis was forced to helplessly watch as he was struck down. His assailant's face was still obscured, but the blood trickling from Erik's hairline was clear enough to set her into a frenzy. She didn't for a moment believe she possessed any of the prescience Damian attributed to her, but this recurring dream was so vivid, it made her wonder if someone from the realm of spirits were trying to warn her.

There was one difference in the dream she couldn't quite put her finger on, but it troubled her more than anything else about the apparition. If only she could see the face of the one who struck Erik down.

Her belly clenched with fear. Why was she given this horrific peek into the future, if that's what it was, without the information that would help her avoid the outcome? Somehow, she must make sure her dream never came true.

She needed to see Erik right now.

She rose from her bed and pushed open the shuttered window. The pale gray sky was tinted rose with the breaking dawn. Down in the courtyard, a few servants busied about. The aroma of baking bread wafted up from the kitchen. In the garden, a serving girl clipped flowers for use in the master's sumptuous rooms.

Near the pool in the garden, there was a unique invention called a water clock. Damian had shown her the one in the Imperial Palace, explaining the intricacies of measuring the passage of time. As if people needed more than their own heartbeat to remind them that life ticked away swiftly enough without wasting time measuring its flight. Despite the fleeting nature of time, she knew it would hang heavily for her till she saw Erik again.

The sense of menace from her dream still hovered in the air. Panic clawed her chest. If she couldn't see Erik, she could at least carve a runic message for him. An urgent one, demanding he come to her so she could warn him. It was a risk, but the evil dream convinced her not to wait.

She had no stylus and wax tablet, so she'd have to improvise. A vase of roses perfumed her room. She pulled out one and began stripping the leaves and thorns from its stem. The rose stem was woody enough for her to slash runes on its curved surface with her eating knife. She'd just finished her cryptic message when her door burst open and Damian Aristarchus entered. Valdis dropped the rose behind her chair and hoped the eunuch's sharp eyes would miss it.

“You've come early.” She stood in deference to her former master.

“I bring the medicinal herbs so that your powers may be kept in check until you need them,” Damian said for Publius's benefit. The fat eunuch lumbered in behind him, not bothering to cover his mouth when it opened in a cavernous yawn.

“I tried to explain to the worthy chief eunuch that we private folk do not keep Imperial hours, but he would not be put off,” Publius explained with a scowl. “Pray do not overtire Valdis. She needs rest today in order to be fresh this evening. The master wishes her to dine with him.” He looked expectantly at Valdis. “You may express your pleasure.”

“I thank the master for this honor,” Valdis said with a sinking sensation in her belly. Dining with the master meant being alone with him. Unveiled. And if Publius was correct, some men found the sight of a woman eating unbearably erotic. Her flesh felt as if a thousand ants marched across it. “But surely I am unworthy of his notice.”

Publius chuckled. “Modest as well as accomplished. That is sure to please him. Not having second thoughts about selling her, are you, Damian?” Publius loosed another yawn and scratched his ponderous stomach. “Well, I leave you to your herbs and potions. You know the way out.”

Publius waddled to the door and closed it behind him, content to return to his sleeping couch satisfied that, as a fellow eunuch, Damian was as incapable of injuring his charges' virtue as Publius was himself.

“Here. Drink this. Truly, I believe it will help you. It's an infusion of mint said to be efficacious for treatment of the falling sickness,” Damian said. As soon as the latch caught, he slipped over to listen for Publius's retreating footsteps before going on. “Good work. You've gained Mahomet's ear in short order.”

“Yes, but what do I fill it with? You and I both know I don't have the gifts he thinks I do. So far, I've been extremely lucky.” Valdis took a sip of the brew he'd brought and found it sweetened with honey and much tastier than she expected. “I can't count on my luck continuing.”

“You'll do what women always do. Listen more than you speak. Then tell him what he wants to hear when you do open your lips.” Damian paced the room. “Now, sit down and give me a full accounting of what happened last night to bring you to Mahomet's attention so quickly.”

Valdis related the tale of her presentation—her dance and the way Mahomet asked her to size up his dinner companions. She left nothing out of her report, save for Erik's presence in the Arab's house. She knew it would displease Damian and possibly endanger Erik.

“Very astute of you to be forthcoming with him about the nature and scope of your supposed powers,” Damian said. “Who was dining with Mahomet?”

“Traders and competitors for the most part, but the emperor's niece, Zoe, sent her emissary last night. He was not well-received.” Valdis told about his inferior placement at the Arab's table. “In fact, I was in garden with Loki and overheard Mahomet's chief of security give an order for his assassination.”

“Did he? I'll look into it. As I thought, Mahomet's support leans elsewhere,” Damian said, tenting his hands, fingertips tapping against each other. His dark eyes flashed with genuine concern. “You weren't seen?”

She shook her head.

“Good work, but be careful. I haven't schooled you as much as I should about taking precautions. This is no game.” His lips pressed into a tight line. “Your greatest safety lies in currying favor with your new master. Perhaps you can make use of one of the
seid
craft practices the Varangian taught you. Mahomet might find that entertaining enough to pose some telling questions.”

“I suppose I could toss the knucklebones,” she said uncertainly. It still bothered her to dabble in things of power. If she'd not meddled with magic in the North, perhaps she'd never have been afflicted with her horrible spells. “But I'm not sure how to interpret the fall of the bones.”

“It doesn't matter. Such a display will be novel enough to capture Mahomet's imagination. Every noble in this city is caught up in some superstition or other.” Damian rubbed his hands together. “Get him talking about his plans. Agree with him. Tell him the portents ensure that he will succeed. An overconfident adversary is most easily overcome.”

He stopped by the window and glanced into the garden. Damian looked at Valdis and then back again into the courtyard, a frown marring his features.

“What is he doing here?”

“Who?” Valdis asked with hope.

“Erik Heimdalsson,” Damian said. “I'm not mistaken. That is the Varangian down there, isn't it?”

Valdis joined him at the open window. Sure enough, Erik was kneeling by the pool, splashing water on his face. After the vividness of her evil dream, relief at seeing him well and whole washed over her with such force she was sure Damian must sense it. When Erik stood, she held her breath lest he look up at her window. But he just walked away. Valdis thought she detected a slight limp as he strode to the stables on the far side of the courtyard.

“You knew he was here,” Damian accused, slanting his eyes at her.

“What makes you say that? There are many people in this household. I can't begin to know them all in one night. Why, I've met only one of the dozens of women in the
zenana
. How can I be expected to know everyone who is lodged in this huge house?”

Damian frowned. “You are my eyes and ears here. I do expect you to know everything and everyone, when they come and when they go. And I don't want this mission jeopardized by a distraction. Stay away from the Varangian,” he warned. “Keep your mind on your business.”

“Of course,” she said as Erik disappeared from view. “Earning my freedom is all I care about. As for the Varangian, the
zenana
is as safe a place as you could wish for me. Do you think Mahomet allows just anyone in his harem?”

“Don't do anything stupid, Valdis. Chloe thought she could play fast and loose with the law of the sacred womb and you saw what happened to her.” Damian scowled as if his disapproval alone should be enough to keep Erik at bay.

“I remember. Chloe was very clear on the point of guarding my purity.” Valdis attempted to change the subject. “Is there anything you specifically want me to tell Mahomet when I cast the bones?”

“You might mention the name Leo.” Damian drummed his fingers on the windowsill and pursed his lips as if unsure how much to say.

“What should I predict for him?”

“He's the emperor's nephew. I suspect Mahomet of colluding with Leo Porphyrogenito to hurry his uncle from the throne. Predict a successful outcome for a venture someone named Leo is considering and mark well your master's reaction,” Damian said. “Oracles are by nature vague. You need not be more specific than that.”

“Very well. And then what?”

“Discover the Arab's plan. Remember, the sooner you discover the nature of their plot and we concoct a way to combat it, the sooner you earn your freedom.”

Once Damian left, Valdis veiled herself and took Loki to the garden, where she could leave the runic message for Erik. It occurred to Valdis as she climbed the stairs back to her rooms that Damian was no longer in a position to guarantee her freedom since he was not her master. Unless, even without proof of treason, he'd intended from the very first to do away with her current master.

And if that were the case, she had to wonder which of the two men who'd claimed to own her was the more dangerous. Mahomet or Damian?

Publius oversaw her toilette in preparation for her evening with the master. He made Valdis don a costume similar to the other women of the
zenana
, a long narrow tunic over a sheer skirt and baggy trousers with slits up the sides. She was perfumed and pomaded and bedecked with jewels, even on her toes. The palms of her hands and soles of her feet were stained with henna.

Finally Valdis was escorted, not to the master's formal dining room where she'd met him the night before, but to his private chambers. A shiver of apprehension tickled her spine.