by Holly Lisle
Chapter 18
The woman who walked into the tavern where Ian Draclas sat sipping bitter mango beer with three outrageous liars caught his attention more for what was wrong about her than what was right. She strode to the bartender without bothering to acknowledge the interested glances she got from the men at the tables, which was odd enough; most of the women in the tavern at that time of night wanted the glances, and the money they could make from the men who gave them. Additionally, this woman looked like she’d been dunked in a well, then dipped in dirt; but nothing about her said “poor” or “in hard times.” Her clothes, entirely wrong for the area and the time of night, were outdoor garb made for protection from the elements and for durability. He studied them with a practiced eye; they were well made. Absolutely top quality. As were the sword she wore at one hip and the dagger at the other.
Her bones were delicate, her hands slender and long-fingered but strong-looking, her wrists thick enough with muscle that he suspected the sword was no decoration conferred by her Family status. And she was lovely, though her beauty hid itself behind her tangled hair and water-damaged clothing. Even the way she stood and walked spoke clearly to him of breeding. He would guess she belonged in the highest echelons of local society—in the parlors and salons of the Families, dressed in diaphanous silk, sipping nectar. She no more belonged in a dockside tavern than . . . He smiled inside, considering, and arched an eyebrow. She no more belonged than he did.
An enigma. He did love an enigma. His smile moved to the outside as, with a brisk nod, she turned away from the barkeep, scanned the room, and looked straight at him. She turned once more to the barkeep, said a few words, got a nod in affirmation, and began working her way through the tables toward him.
“. . . an’ all three of them were begging me, but I . . . I . . . wanned ’em hungry . . . if y’ unnerstan’ me . . . so I . . .”
Ian decided a liar telling his tale of sexual adventuring with three Manarkan princesses was less compelling than a dark-eyed enigma. “Later,” he said, and left them. Meeting her in a slight clearing between two tables, he said, “I saved you the trouble of presenting yourself at a table full of boors. From the look of you, your night has been interesting enough already.”
Her half-smile of agreement never reached her eyes. “Captain Draclas?”
“I serve you.”
“I’m given to understand, by some asking about, that you not only have a fast ship available for hire, but that you might not be averse to a rapid departure . . . and perhaps even, if the incentive were right, to sailing light.” She kept her voice low and her eyes focused on his face. He found her intensity unnerving. Deliciously so.
He nodded quickly, so slightly that only she could see it. Then he spread a drunken grin across his face and said, “Why din’ you say so, Leeze?” He let his voice sound a little too loud, a little drunk. “If you need a place to sleep for a night or two, I’m . . .” He giggled. “I’m sure we can find you a bed . . . someplace.” He looked around the room, trying to catch the attention of the men at the tables; they reacted by turning away, envious, or by hooting encouragement. Ian grinned and swaggered; he slid an arm around her waist, neatly catching her sword between her thigh and his as he did. Better, should anyone come asking later, that they not remember that sword. “Outside,” he said under his breath.
She slid her own arm around his back, and dragged her fingers from the nape of his neck down between his shoulder blades in an intimate gesture that felt entirely too good. Almost as loudly, and in an accent he would have sworn was born and bred dockside, she said, “Should’na say such things t’ a good girl like me, you. I’m na’ that kinda girl.” She managed a predatory smile and a laugh as professional as any in the room. She squeezed his buttock, and they walked out together. The attention of the room no longer fixed on either of them, since the nature of their association had been classified, in the minds of the other patrons, as business of a personal kind. Nothing worthy of further thought.
Outside, the act dissolved like a spun sugar treat in summer rain. The woman pulled gracefully out of his reach, turned to him, and smiled—this time a genuine smile. “Nicely done. You think well under pressure.”
“Necessary in my line of work.”
“Reassuring to one in my position.”
“And what position might that be?”
Her teeth flashed—the grin broad and dangerous. “There are some powerful people after me for a manuscript that I . . . acquired. Bought. From a dealer. These people got hold of information regarding the contents of the manuscript, and now they want it—and me with it.”
She was lying. He could see it in her eyes. He knew it as surely as he knew the sun would rise soon. She hadn’t gotten her manuscript from any dealer—she’d stolen it. And why would a woman who gave every indication of being Familied steal a manuscript of any sort? Why not buy it? Hells-all, why not simply command that it be given to her, for that matter? If she was of Family, she had that right. An enigma within an enigma—and only one way he could see to solve the puzzle. Ask. “So what’s in this manuscript that people want so much that they’d come after you?”
Her voice dropped to a whisper and she moved closer to him. “The location of an undiscovered Ancients’ city.”
Taken aback, he laughed. “There’s no place left on this continent to hide such a city—at least, no place that you or I could reach. Maybe in Strithia, or deep in the heart of the Veral Territories . . . but I’ll not go there for any treasure.”
“Agreed. But it isn’t on this continent.”
His heart started to pound. “Where, then? Manarkas?”
She smiled. “North Novtierra.”
He took a step back from her and stared, his heart skittering at the thought of such a treasure. “North Novtierra?” Virgin land—unclaimed, uncharted, ripe for the taking. Hard to reach, hard to explore, vast beyond all imagining. Three months of sailing just to get there—and that wouldn’t include any time crawling up and down the unexplored coast trying to find her city. No doubt a hundred undiscovered Ancients’ cities lay within the fertile, forested slopes and broad plains of North Novtierra. A man could spend a lifetime trying to find just one, and fail. But if this woman knew the location of such a place . . .
Ah, shang! Such a place would be worth the risk of life, fortune, Family—anything at all—to the finder. With the fortune this woman could make from the spoils of an untouched Ancients’ ruin, she could buy herself the paraglesiat of one of her Family’s smaller cities . . . have enough money left over to build a solid standing army . . . take any technology she acquired from the site and either develop it herself or use it as leverage to an even higher position of power. . . . One good city could take her into otherwise unreachable spheres of power. Make her the equal of any paraglese in Ibera.
Of course, what would be a treasure for her would be a treasure for anyone else involved, too, including him. She didn’t strike him as stupid, so she knew that. He wanted to know what she’d done to protect her interests. “North Novtierra. That’s half a world away, and a hellish dangerous voyage into the bargain.”
“Yes. But your ship could make the trip. It isn’t a coast-hugger. I checked.”
“You’re right. It isn’t. And it’s seaworthy, and fast. Right up there with the newest caravels in the Family fleets. And I’ve crossed the Bregian before—I could probably get you there. But what’s to prevent me from taking the treasure and stranding you once we arrive . . . or, for that matter, from dumping you overboard once we’re well at sea and finding and claiming the city for myself?”
She chuckled, and something terrifying crept into the sound. The hair on the back of his neck stirred, and his gut twisted. “You wouldn’t want to try stranding or dumping me, Captain. I assure you I can take care of myself. As for you using the manuscript to find the place, you couldn’t unless you happen to be a Family translator, and unless you happen to specialize in the Ancients’ languages, and unl
ess you can specifically read Tongata Four in Brasmian script. I’m betting you can’t. Further, I’m betting that you won’t find anyone else besides me who can. As far as I know, I’m the only one who has deciphered it.”
He could no more read Tongata Four than he could flap his arms and fly. And wouldn’t know Brasmian script if someone tattooed it on his nose. Which made her as valuable to him as the city itself—and guaranteed her safety at least to the city. Which she obviously knew. Beyond that . . . well, he thought he believed her when she said he would make a mistake trying to strand her. Why he believed, he couldn’t say. Perhaps it was the danger in her smile.
Abruptly what she’d told him fitted together, pieces of the puzzle falling neatly into place; in that moment he knew not only how she’d come upon the manuscript, but who she was. She hadn’t bought the thing, of course; however, she hadn’t stumbled across it accidentally and stolen it on a whim, either. She was one of her Family’s lesser daughters, relegated to the dry and dusty translation of Ancient archives, pushed aside because her branch of the Family lacked sufficient pull to get her a good marriage or a good post. She would have been just a link between the will of her Family and the craftsmen and artists who used her translations to re-create Ancient technologies. She’d been given a manuscript to translate; had come, at some point in it, to a mention of the location of a city that she felt would be both reachable and worth finding; and because she had ambition and a hunger for a life better than the one she’d landed in, she’d leaped at the opportunity, snatched the manuscript, and fled into his life.
Which, of course, she would never admit.
He liked her. By all the gods, he liked her. She reminded him of himself. Even that dangerous little burr in her voice when she told him that trying to get rid of her would be a bad idea appealed to him. He decided that if—no . . . when; after all, why not have faith in his windfall?—he decided that when they found the city, he wouldn’t waste his time trying to dump her or kill her. Why kill a woman worth marrying? Marrying power, after all, was more efficient than earning it.
And she was a good-looking woman. From her height and coloring and build, of either the Galweigh or Kairn Families, and since she was on Goft, he’d bet Galweigh. Galweigh would be very good, if she could win her bid for power. Even a moderate position in that Family was worth a paraglesiat in the Dokteeraks or the Kairns or the Masschankas. The only other Family equal to the Galweighs was the Sabirs. Sabir would have been bad—he had solid reasons for avoiding them.
He regarded her with proprietary pleasure. His future wife. His future ticket into wealth, power, luxury. No sense letting her know he’d undertake the trip for free to have the opportunity to win her and through her claim her city. He needed to let that part unfold slowly. So he gave her his best hard-nosed trader impression and said, “What’s in it for me?”
“The transit fee there—you give me a reasonable price and I’ll pay it. A fair percentage of the cargo we find—I’ll make it worth your while. My patronage on any return trips. A place in . . .” She reconsidered what she’d been about to say, and smiled and shrugged. “Well, let’s say for now that anything else I can offer would be even more speculative than the city and the cargo. But as I said, I’ll make it worth your while.”
He nodded. “For the transit fee . . .” He didn’t want to ask so much that she couldn’t pay it, and how much could she possibly have, anyway? But he didn’t want to ask so little that he raised her suspicions. “Ten solid large. Up front.” It was a lot, but it was also within reason for the distance and the danger of the journey.
She winced.
He waited. If it was too much, he’d see it and lower his price a little at a time.
She sighed, stared at her feet, finally nodded. “You have a preference for any one mint?”
“The Dokteeraks cut their gold coins with silver sometimes—don’t pay me in stamped daks. Farnes and preids spend best, but gold is gold.”
She nodded. “Done.”
Well enough. She didn’t argue, so he might have gotten more. Still, if he got the city, what more did he need? “So what must I know to get us out of the harbor alive?” he asked.
She didn’t waste his time pretending she didn’t understand what he meant. “We need to move fast and we need to leave a false trail. We can’t supply here if you aren’t already stocked. Mentioning what we’re looking for or where we’re looking would probably be fatal.”
He shrugged. “I figured that. Anyone in particular you need to avoid?”
Her laugh was so harsh it startled him. “If you maintain close associations with the Five Families, don’t mention me, eh?”
Now he truly was startled. “All five?” Not even he had managed to get himself that deeply into trouble.
“To Galweigh, Sabir, and Dokteerak, my life is . . . forfeit. To Masschanka through their association with the Sabirs and the Dokteeraks, probably the same. And Kairn, through their alliance with the Galweighs, might also take me in for any offered reward. Avoiding all five would be best.”
He felt a measure of admiration at that. He didn’t know anyone who could honestly claim to have made enemies of all the Five Families. “I’ll do my best.”
“How early can you be ready to leave?”
“Meet me on the beach by the wharf as the bells ring Huld.”
The woman looked at the sky, and he saw her picking out the White Lady from the other stars, and measuring her distance from the horizon. The Red Hunter, which would signal the passing of the station of Telt and the arrival of Huld, would not join her for some time.
“Well enough,” the woman said. “That will give me time to do the few things I must do.”
She was already gone when he realized he didn’t even know her name.
* * *
“He believed it.” Kait hurried down to the beach. She had nothing she needed to do so much as she needed to keep out of sight, and by the wharf near where she had dragged herself ashore she’d seen plenty of cover.
Of course he believed it. Tell anyone an implausible lie and build a plausible diversion behind it; he’ll almost always dig through the implausible lie to your diversion, think he’s found the truth, and fail to look further. Amalee chuckled and changed the subject. The captain certainly was taken with you.
Kait reached the beach and moved to a line of low shrubs and grasses that lay north of the wharf. “It’s because I’m Karnee. His interest didn’t have anything to do with me.”
Amalee stayed silent while Kait found a comfortable, hidden vantage point from which to watch the wharf and settled into it. Once she’d stilled, though, her ancestor said, What do you mean, because you’re Karnee? You’re lovely. He couldn’t have failed to notice that.
“Trust me, it wouldn’t matter. One of the effects of the curse is that the Karnee attract members of the opposite sex and of their own sex by some sort of . . . I’m not sure . . . scent, maybe. Like flowers attract bees, I suppose. The bee doesn’t desire the flower, and humans don’t desire the Karnee—they both just want the thing that makes the scent. The effect was well documented four hundred years ago.” Kait sighed. “My parents managed to secretly gather copies of everything that was known about my kind. They had me read them so that I would understand what I was.”
She didn’t bother to add that they had done so at terrible danger to themselves. Or that they had given her every advantage they could to help her survive in the world, risking their own lives and the lives of all their other children in the process. She had known love in her life; her parents and her surviving brothers and sisters had loved her, without question or reservation. She would simply never be able to find such love again.
So all men want you.
“Most. And many women. The effect seems to be stronger on men. Some people seem immune to the scent. Or drug. Or whatever it is that I give off. Not many, though.”
A long silence. Then, Oh, that would be delightful.
“You think s
o? Imagine knowing that no one who wanted you actually wanted you. That wherever you went, men and women would approach you, court you, want to bed you . . . and that if you could get rid of your scent, and dump it on a dog, they would abandon you and court the dog. Now think how delightful it would be.”
And do you ever bed them?
Kait wondered if the woman had been such a prying nuisance in life. Could explain why the Sabirs sacrificed her.
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Another curse of being Karnee is the insatiable appetite. For everything. Sex included. I fight the appetites. Sometimes I lose the fight.” When she did, sex always felt hollow. Empty. A loveless, passionless exercise, in which she constantly had to guard herself against the excesses of pleasure that could throw her into Shift. She came away from each encounter with nothing but guilt and a desire to avoid the next. But like Shift, the sexual hunger of Karnee could only be held in check for so long. Longer than Shift itself most times—that was inexorable as the tide. But sometimes the beast inside of her would not be denied.
Kait yawned. Sitting and waiting began to feel like a mistake. How long had it been since she’d slept? That interlude of unconsciousness didn’t seem to have helped—she’d woken from that tired and drained. Fear and rage and hope had kept the weariness at bay while she’d tried to find a way to help her Family, and then to save her life. Now, however, the exhaustion that weighted her limbs and dragged at her eyelids became unbearable. Sleep beckoned; a god to be embraced, desirable beyond all imagining. She settled lower in the sand, and discovered that one of the branches of the shrub directly behind her curved in an arc that would support her head.
Amalee was oblivious to her weariness. She was nattering on about being Karnee. How marvelous. An enormous sexual appetite and an unending supply of people to fill it. My dear, I wish I’d been born Karnee. All of that power . . . all of that control . . .
Kait felt a moment of sympathy for the long-dead Sabirs who’d sacrificed her ancestor. If the woman were alive, she thought she might have been tempted to follow the same course of action. She yawned again, and realized that her eyes had fallen shut—she had no idea how long they had been that way. She forced them open. “Can you stay awake if I sleep?”