Thief of Light (5 page)

The first notes rang out, building a perfect framework, all he had to do was slide into it and over it, as warm and smooth as heated caramel. Seduction, pure and simple—and when sung with the Voice, well nigh irresistible. But seduction with music was permissible, a spoken command was not. Erik touched his talisman as a reminder, took a breath and let the notes flow forth.

Casually, he strolled a little closer, watching her out of the corner of his eye, enjoying the warmth and weight of the crowd’s attention. Hell, he couldn’t quite see her face.

When he leaned carefully against the first of the fake columns, it creaked a bit, but it held. Women smiled and nodded in time with the music, their eyes intent. Brightly colored gowns swayed toward him, rustling like blossoms trembling beneath the caress of a summer breeze. No one spoke or even coughed. They were his, all of them in the palm of his hand, including the one he wanted most. Shit, it was fine! The best feeling in the world.

Slowly, he turned his head. Ah. She was pretty enough, in a plump, round-faced sort of way. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet he liked the fresh, clear-skinned look of her. It gave her an air of grave innocence that was oddly tempting. Still, it was odd. He’d never had much of a yen for small brown hens before.

Her eyes were her most distinguishing feature—almond-shaped under strongly marked brows. But they weren’t dark as he’d expected. They shone a pure blue green, bright with interest and open admiration. Like most of the females standing around her, her mouth hung slightly open, her lower lip sweet and full, so cushiony, he had to smile as he sang the next line.

She had a dimple, quivering in one soft cheek. What other parts of her would be tasty? Dimpled? His hungry gaze traveled over a rounded bosom, the hint of cleavage in the modest black gown.

He couldn’t be much more than ten feet away now. Erik straightened, pushing away from the pillar. He took a step closer. Another.

He drew the last syllable out forever, making the air throb with unrequited passion.

A storm of applause rolled past Erik and away.

She blinked, once, twice, as if emerging from a dream. Her mouth shut with an almost audible click, while those vivid eyes scanned him from the top of his blond head to the soles of his boots in a single comprehensive glance. No longer clouded with desire, they were intelligent, measuring. The dimple flashed in her cheek as if at a wry, private joke.

She turned away.

Well, hell. What was that about?

When a tall, saturnine man tapped him on the shoulder, Erik said, “What?” with a good deal less than his usual easy charm.

The man inclined his head. “I am the Queen’s Entertainment,” he said, as if it were a matter of grave import. “At other courts, I would be known as the Master of Ceremonies. Her Majesty wishes me to convey her apologies and her thanks for your performance.”

The man indicated the queen, who was leaving the theater surrounded by a gaggle of serious-looking people, including a man and a woman in elaborate uniforms. “She’s been called to an emergency meeting of the Cabal. Trinitarian corsairs again, I’m afraid. I’m sure you understand.”

Erik raised a brow. “Not really.”

The Queen’s Entertainment huffed with impatience. “Her Majesty wishes you to enjoy your stay. Allow me to introduce you to a number of nobleladies who have expressed the desire to meet you.”

Erik stared at the courtesans, now the center of a chattering, laughing group. “That’s the one I’d like to meet.”

The man’s gaze followed Erik’s, and his expression lightened. His mouth trembled on the brink of a smile before he got it back under control. “The Dark Rose?” he said. “She’s not a noblelady, though Her Majesty did offer to elevate her.”

“What? It’s the other—Hell, never mind.” Erik took the man’s elbow in a grip as unbreakable as it was friendly. “Introduce me.”

The Necromancer’s lip curled. Killing a single doxy, no matter how bedable, was nothing—a mite, a speck, in comparison with the dark triumph ahead. The Royal Theater and the thousand people in it meant no more to him than a nest of bitemes. Already, he held the queen and her Cabal in the palm of his hand, though they were blissfully unaware, the fools.

A satisfied breath whispered out of him. Life didn’t get much better than this.

The Technomages now . . . The Necromancer rubbed his chin. On every known world, the political landscape was a three-way struggle for power between State, Science, and Magick, though in Caracole, Sikara was canny enough to hold her own.

Whereas on Sybaris, the State was nonexistent and the wizards were as weak as water, Technomage Towers everywhere. But the Technomage Primus of Sybaris had come all the way from her home world to find him. Exactly as he’d intended she should. His smile congealed. A pity she was such an irritating woman. If he could refrain from killing her before their work was done, it would be a miracle. Nonetheless, just as he’d planned, he had a tame Scientist of his own now, puddling about in the secret laboratory he’d built for her in his grand palazzo.

That left only the Wizards’ Enclave. The Purists might pose a problem, they weren’t all stupid—Magick was their business, after all—and he’d heard rumors . . .

The Necromancer frowned.

He’d missed the fire witch by the merest fraction, Shaitan take it.

Knowing she must be an integral part of the great Pattern, he’d scryed for the shape in blood still warm, seen it swirling, swimming out of the murk of causality, shifting and blurring. At the moment, all he had was an inkling, he couldn’t make out the precise shape, the formless stuff of the universe too vast and complex for him to quite comprehend.

Yet.

One day, he too would see it clearly, every curve and node intimately known, mastered.
His
. He’d be a god, more than a god . . . Death Incarnate, the end of it all, the black hole at the center of existence . . . He’d take the universe apart, dismantle it, piece by piece, until its workings were exposed like a stripped clock and there was nothing left to defy him, nothing he did not control.

Rising, the Necromancer walked slowly to the door and paused to look back at the animated throng on the stage. He didn’t regret missing the party; such human foolishness had always bored him. But there was something there, hovering like smoke around the crowd, the merest taste of it in the air. He inhaled.

Yes, Magick.

But different, elusive. Intriguing.

His gaze flicked over a pair of soberly dressed Purists, a man and a woman. Bartelm was staring across the stage, looking down his high-bridged nose as if something rotten had appeared right underneath it. Old Nori’s hands were clenched around the handle of her cane. The Necromancer knew the flavor of their wizards’ Magick almost as well as his own. It wasn’t them.

No, it felt . . . decidedly odd.

Interesting.

Someone laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “Come, old friend,” said the queen. “Don’t concern yourself, Entertainment will make our apologies. Time for the Cabal to go to work.”

The Necromancer bowed his head lest she see the disgust and contempt in his eyes. His skin crawled. She couldn’t keep her hands to herself, the silly bitch.

“Yes, Majesty,” he said dutifully.

Erik the Golden worked the crowd like a master, she had to give him that. Rose herself could have done no better. Every now and then, his deep chuckle would ripple beneath the shriller sound of feminine laughter, and all the hair on Prue’s arms would rise. The singer had the philanderer’s gift of immediate empathy, his head bent attentively as he conversed with an elderly, well-dressed couple and their plump, flustered daughter. Prue watched out of the corner of her eye as he set the girl at ease, made her smile and flush with pleasure.

Nothing was as flattering as genuine interest. Nicely done.

A final bow and Erik detached himself, tapped Entertainment’s bony shoulder and nodded in Rose’s direction.

Praise be to the Sister, now he was no longer singing, the spell of that sumptuous voice had broken. She couldn’t believe it—Prue McGuire,
languishing
over a pair of pretty blue eyes and a feckless grin
.
That way lay disaster.

Never again
.

She shook her head. His voice had been a dream, nothing more, but wisps of its sensual beauty lingered like a lover’s touch, a deep internal stroking. She could only be grateful that as Erik had finished the song and strolled closer, the mists had cleared and she’d
seen
him.

A great golden bear of a man, glowing with confidence and strength and health. But just a man, no more. Funny, she could imagine him working the land, those massive shoulders flexing as he tossed bales or whatever it was farmers did, mud caking his big boots. There were shadows beneath those bright eyes. The singer was tired, but still exalted by the performance, riding high on the applause, the approval. She could see the shine of it all over him. Ah well, she’d allow him his professional pride. He deserved it.

Her equilibrium restored, Prue blew out a breath, smiling a little. Nonetheless, she wasn’t inclined to add to Erik’s high opinion of himself. Every woman at the reception was more than prepared to do that in her stead. Life with men and women whose livelihood depended on their charm and physical beauty had taught her all there was to know about self-absorption. He was undoubtedly more than a little spoiled, Erik the Golden.

Charmers might be a waste of time, but business wasn’t. Over there, gathered around a decidedly gothic wishing well, were three merchants Prue dealt with on a regular basis. An excellent opportunity. The temperamental artist responsible for The Garden’s famous gourmet cuisine was dissatisfied with the quality of the fresh produce in his kitchen. Sometimes he threw objects. Sharp ones.

Prue’s heart lightened. A problem she could fix right now. Unobtrusively, she detached herself from Rose’s side and drifted toward the merchants, happily preoccupied with the coming battle of wits. But as she did so, the tide of conversation ebbed and the men strolled away to reveal two Purists, absorbed in a serious, low-voiced discussion. The dignified, dark-skinned Bartelm Prue knew by sight and reputation, the most senior wizard in the Enclave. The other, a crone who appeared to be older than Time, was not familiar.

“Imagination,” Bartelm was saying as Prue approached. “Nori, this is foolish. I’ve never—” His head jerked up and his gaze collided with Prue’s. For an instant, his eyes went wide, then his lips tightened and he gave a short, curt nod.

“Good evening,” he said. “Mistress . . . ?” A snowy brow rose.

“Prue McGuire.” Prue offered her hand. “Financial manager of The Garden.”

The wizard took a half pace backward, leaving Prue’s hand to dangle unwanted on the end of her arm, but after an instant, he recovered himself and extended his fingertips, the merest disdainful brush.

It was so breathtakingly rude Prue could feel the heat rise in her cheeks, her eyes narrowing with irritation and hurt. But before she could speak, Purist Nori said in her creaky voice, “I’m sorry, Mistress McGuire, but it’s difficult for us.”

“Difficult?”

“To touch,” said the old woman, more gently.

“I don’t understand. You were presented to the queen.” More than a little puzzled, Prue turned to Bartelm. “You kissed her hand, Purist. I watched you do it.”

Bartelm’s dark eyes studied her, uncomfortably keen. Eventually, he said, “We are so old, Nori and I, that Magick is pretty well all that holds us together. Do you believe in Magick, Mistress McGuire?” He stroked his grizzled beard.