Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One)

by James Maxwell

  "Dawn. Sometimes after dawn. Sometimes through the next day. And because tomorrow is the Chorum and there are newcomers in the city, I’m thinking there’ll be more revellers out than usual."

  A party of young men walked past, swaggering and pointing things out to each other, laughing raucously. They seemed to find Miro hilarious. One of them tugged on his simple jerkin. Miro frowned.

  "Don’t worry about them," Tuok said.

  Miro turned at a scuffle in an alleyway nearby. A fat man had a young woman by the hair, pulling her down to the ground. She screamed as he twisted her arm behind her back and lifted her skirt above her waist, displaying a pair of white buttocks.

  "Help! Please, help me!" she cried.

  Before Miro could react, Tuok gripped him by the arm and walked with him away from the alleyway. The woman’s cries followed them.

  Miro pulled away from Tuok angrily. "What? You can’t tell me you didn’t see that! He was—"

  "Miro, you take one step into that alleyway and four of his mates will step out of the shadows and you’d be dead. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the book."

  "You can’t be serious."

  "I am serious. She’d probably be the first to slit your throat. It was a set up, Miro."

  "You think…" Miro bit the words off.

  "I’m sure of it."

  "But what if it wasn’t? What if we just walked away from someone in trouble, serious trouble?"

  "Trust me, Miro. It was a set-up."

  "But what if it wasn’t!"

  Tuok sighed. "If it wasn’t, then she should have known better than to get herself into that situation. A woman shouldn’t be out without company, not in Seranthia, and especially not anywhere near the Tenamet. Miro, if I was in Altura, or Halaran, or any of a number of other nations, I would be there in a flash. But not in Tingara. And especially not in Seranthia."

  "I don’t understand, why doesn’t the Emperor do something?"

  "It’s the way of the people here. What would you advise the Emperor to do?"

  Tuok stepped over a comatose body on the ground. Miro put his hand to his nose as the smell of faeces and vomit rose from the prone figure.

  "Make some laws!"

  They entered the Tenamet proper now. Miro had never seen so many bars, saloons, taverns, gambling houses, food stalls, beer halls, and other places less readily categorised. The sounds, sights and smells were an assault on the senses. Music, singing, talking and cheering echoed around the streets.

  "What kind of laws?"

  "I don’t know. What kind of laws do they have now?"

  Tuok chuckled. "In Tingara? None really. It’s punishable by death to insult the Emperor or the Primate. Denigrating the Evermen on one of the holy days results in a public flogging. All business with the raja must be conducted in the market houses — it’s illegal to sell goods or services involving lore anywhere else in Seranthia. Possession of essence will see all your possessions taken and have you thrown out of the city. Distribution of essence will see you and your entire family executed. Other than that, no laws."

  "What about murder?"

  "If the person murdered had rich or powerful friends or family, one of the streetclans will see justice done. If not, nothing."

  "The streetclans?"

  "They act for the businesses that can’t afford their own guards. They provide a loose set of rules and protect those too small to protect themselves. They charge for the service, of course. The number of clans changes all the time but last I heard the Melin Tortho were dominant."

  "At least there’s someone to keep order," Miro grumbled.

  Tuok barked a laugh. "Sometimes the streetclans are worst of all. They’re a law unto themselves; the Emperor lets them be so long as they don’t interfere with areas like Fortune or the Imperial Quarter. They have terrible wars when one clan seeks expansion into another’s territory. The winner wins protection rights for all the businesses in the new area; the losing clan is broken up and absorbed by the other clans — the survivors at least."

  Miro frowned for a minute.

  "So why does the Emperor let the clans run things?"

  "How would you do it?"

  "Well, to start with I would make new laws to make crimes like murder illegal."

  "And how would you enforce the laws?"

  "With soldiers like you and me."

  "And who would pay the soldiers?"

  "The Emperor, of course."

  "And where would the money come from?"

  "From taxes."

  "I see. And who would you tax?"

  "People like the merchants who had those great houses in Fortune. Anyone wishing to do business in Seranthia must pay a tax."

  "And what if the merchants decided they would simply do business outside Seranthia? Put up stalls outside the walls?"

  "I wouldn’t let them."

  "So you would make that against the law? And enforce this law also with your new soldiers?"

  "I guess," said Miro.

  "And if they left Tingara altogether? Would you go to war against the country that harbours the merchants who used to live so happily in your city?"

  "Hmm. I see what you mean," Miro sighed.

  "Don’t worry, Miro. To me, you’re making sense. But the people here have a great distrust in what they see as intervention from the Emperor — new taxes, more soldiers, trade laws."

  "Even if the laws are protecting people? Stopping people from getting murdered, or swindled?"

  "That’s right."

  "It’s a strange place."

  "That it is, young lord. That it is."

  They rounded a corner, past a motley group of women who called out and tugged on the clothes of whoever passed by. One of them tried encircling Miro in her arms. Close up he could see she had a nasty rash on her neck. Another of the women itched incessantly.

  "Get away!" Miro pushed the woman.

  "You’re catching on," Tuok chuckled. "Don’t ever touch one of the street whores, not if you’ve spent the last five years at sea with only fish for company. No, there are far finer establishments where the company of a beautiful woman can be had, for the right price. Or even just a refreshing beverage after a hard day’s work."

  Tuok stopped to sweep his arms grandly at the building in front of them. A hanging wooden sign proclaimed it the Gilded Remedy. An attempt at the fluted and intricate style of Seranthia’s classical architecture had been badly botched, with pockmarked columns and an upper level that leaned heavily on the building beside it. The second ‘e’ in ‘Remedy’ was missing.

  Miro grinned. "A mug or two of cherl could definitely be in order."

  "Cherl! We can do better than that."

  Miro followed Tuok into the bar.

  Miro could barely see through the smoke. The bar was terribly crowded, the combined body heat hitting him like a wall. The gentle murmur of conversation he’d heard from outside became a roaring din as he passed through the swinging door and the acrid stench of sweat and stale beer assaulted him.

  Miro followed Tuok through the crowd and over to the bar, Miro looking appreciatively at the bartender, a young girl perhaps his age, with flowing brown hair curling past her shoulders. Her bodice was laced up tightly over her breasts and her pleated skirt showed the swelling rise of her hips, stopping well above her knees.

  Tuok yelled something at her, Miro didn’t hear what, and in a moment Tuok turned to Miro, grinning and holding two tiny glasses.

  Miro remembered one of the few pieces of advice Brandon had given him, "The smaller the glass, the stronger the drink."

  He sceptically took the glass from the bigger man. Tuok clinked his glass against Miro’s and yelled "To your health!" into Miro’s ear.

  "To yours!" Miro yelled back, following Tuok’s lead by tipping the glass into the back of his throat.

  It was like fire, burning acid that tore at Miro’s throat as it wended its way painfully into his chest.

  "Ahh," Tuok’s mouth moved in
obvious satisfaction, as if sipping at a cold stream after ten days in the desert.

  Miro began to choke but kept from obviously spluttering. He kept his face carefully calm as sweat beaded at his forehead.

  "Very nice!" he shouted at Tuok.

  "Well done, young lord." Tuok grinned back.

  Tuok leaned in to speak into Miro’s ear. "How much money do you have?"

  Miro felt into the pocket inside his jerkin. He carefully recounted. "Three deens and fifty-two cendeens."

  "Good! Your round — ask for two large measures of Whitehaven."

  Beginning to feel the effects of the drink, Miro grinned and turned to the bar, pleased to have an opportunity to look at the serving girl.

  ~

  THE first few drinks passed pleasurably. Tuok and Miro withdrew further into the back of the bar where they could speak more easily. It took some time but they were eventually able to beg two stools and seat themselves up against the wall where there was a thin shelf.

  Miro asked Tuok when it came to his companion’s round to get him a mug of cherl. Tuok laughed and came back with a huge pitcher of a dark, almost black, beer, with a crest of white foam. Tuok bought himself the same.

  "Try it! It’s called Rootslinger."

  It looked and smelled awful.

  Miro cautiously took a sip. It actually wasn’t bad. The white foam tasted creamy, almost milky, and the dark liquid was surprisingly sweet.

  "Not bad!" Miro said.

  "Get caught drinking cherl around these parts and you’ll be called a woodskin or worse!"

  Miro laughed. He had no idea what it meant to be a woodskin but his head was buzzing and he felt warm.

  The next drink was another beer, much lighter in colour and with a bitter, slightly sour taste. It was served with a rough chunk of lemon in the tankard.

  They then drank a thin fluted glass of honeywine, sparkling like the foam churned up by the crystal clear waters of the Sarsen.

  Three big men who obviously worked at the Gilded Remedy cleared a patch of floor raised slightly higher than the rest. Presently two sober-faced men arrived, bowed from the waist in the eastern manner, and sat down on two squat stools facing the crowd. One of the men carried an immensely long flute that rested its base on the ground, while the other carried an instrument with a single string. He lengthened and shortened the string using a series of clamps and levers, causing it to emit a high-pitched warble.

  The crowd seemed to know many of the tunes, almost everyone making some kind of effort to tap along to the beat, whether it was stamping their feet on the ground, clapping their hands together, or thumping their tankards on the bar.

  Miro smiled and clapped along with the rest, often missing the beat but laughing his way through the songs. He particularly enjoyed the trills and low notes of the flute, so different from the chiming music of Altura.

  He noticed Tuok chatting amicably to a Tingaran, the man’s broad face and shaved head giving away his identity. Tuok seemed to be telling a story, both men pausing occasionally to laugh uproariously.

  Then Miro’s attention was completely refocused when a weight landed on his lap. It was the brown-haired barmaid, undeniably pretty, with a twinkle in her green eyes. Miro fought valiantly to keep his gaze away from the cleavage displayed under his very eyes.

  "Oh, my pardon, young sir."

  "Quite all right," Miro said, with an attempt to sound gallant.

  "I seem to have slipped. Hmm, it is comfortable here though, am I bothering you?"

  Miro fought to keep his voice casual. "No, not at all."

  She snuggled further into his lap, her round bottom resting close to his body. "Perhaps a drink then?"

  "Ah, of course. A glass of honeywine would be nice."

  She laughed — a soft, girlish, tinkling sound. Miro had never been happier. "No, silly. A drink for me?"

  "Oh, I’m sorry."

  She laughed again, leaning in to speak close to his ear, her sweet breath tickling him. "How much money do you have?"

  He felt around in the inner pocket of his jerkin. "Umm. At least two deens."

  "Good." She smiled. "My name’s Esmara."

  "Esmara," said Miro. It was the loveliest name he had ever heard.

  She waved at someone, Miro didn’t see who. Presently a thin man arrived, with white hair and a hooked nose. He looked Miro up and down, before handing Esmara two glasses of honeywine.

  "Mmm," she said, taking a sip. "Aren’t you drinking yours?"

  He hadn’t realised he was holding a glass. "Oh, of course." He took a sip, hardly tasting the drink. It felt warm in the bar, almost too warm. He felt like he needed fresh air; the smoke was irritating his eyes, but he didn’t want to move. Not with this wonderful creature so close.

  "It’s good, isn’t it?" she said, smiling up at him. She leaned back into him as she watched the musicians. Cautiously Miro lifted his arm and awkwardly placed it over her lap. She smiled and firmly grabbed his arm, putting it around her waist. He could feel the curve of her hip, the softness of her skin beneath the thin material. Her bodice rose and fell with every breath. Miro’s heart raced, his breath growing short.

  "You are not from around here?" Esmara said.

  "Umm, no," said Miro. "I am of Raj Altura."

  "An enchanter! How exciting!"

  "No, no — nothing like that. I’m a soldier, here for the Chorum."

  "Such a strong soldier too," she murmured, running her hand idly over his bicep. He blushed.

  "I hope to become a bladesinger one day," Miro said. "I’m actually very good with a sword."

  "I’m sure you are." She looked up at him, her lips parted. They were as red as rubies, glistening with moisture. He badly wanted to kiss her. What if he was a bad kisser?

  "Ooh, tell me," she said. "Have you ever seen a zenblade? I hear they’re deadly."

  "I’ve seen one, yes," he said. "I’ve never held one though."

  "Oh, that’s a shame."

  Esmara took his hand and surreptitiously slid it onto the skin of her stomach, under the material. Miro thought every person at the bar must be able to see what his hand was doing. He waited a moment, and then began to softly caress her bare skin. It was the smoothest thing he had ever felt. Esmara continued chatting pleasantly as if nothing was happening. Miro wondered how she could keep her composure.

  "Our people think very favourably of Altura," she said.

  He tried to concentrate on what she was saying, rather than what his hand was doing.

  "Really?"

  "Of course, what would we do without nightlamps and heatplates? Prices are always high though. I hope whatever is happening at the Chorum makes prices go down. The Emperor said he was going to try to stop the raja from charging so much."

  "Mmm," said Miro. His hand started to work its way higher. He could feel the underside of her breast, round and soft.

  Suddenly Esmara sat up and Miro’s hand left the confines of her bodice. He tried not to show his disappointment.

  Esmara turned so that she sat astride him, facing him now. She raised herself and leaned in to him, presenting her neck. Miro took the offer, kissing her gently on the neck. She smelled like flowers. Her hair cascaded over his own neck as he moved in close to her. She raised his face up, gently pressing her fingers under his chin.

  Ever so slowly Esmara moved in close, her lips parted, hungry. Miro could wait no longer and moved forward to close the distance, his lips finally touching hers.

  The contact sent a jolt of pleasure through him. Esmara made a soft mewling sound, only perceptible to his hearing because he was so close to her. Her chest was pressed up against his, her breasts so close he could feel their firmness. Their lips parted, and then touched again. This time her mouth opened and he felt her tongue probing gently, trying to enter his mouth.

  Esmara’s soft thighs were on either side of his waist. His mind lost in the pleasure of her taste, Miro started when he felt her hand grasp his, guiding it down, slipping
it under her skirt.

  As Esmara’s tongue moved inside his mouth, meeting his, Miro moved his hand along the inside of the bare skin of her thigh, tracing it upwards, ever further.

  The sounds of the raucous music, the drink, the crowd, the smell of the girl, all combined headily. Miro felt dizzy, intoxicated.

  He waited for her to tell him to stop, to make him remove his hand; she did nothing. He reached the apex of her thigh, feeling a soft flimsy material covering her. He broke the kiss, looking into her eyes, seeing if she would let him continue his approach.

  With a soft moan she pushed her body closer into him, kissing him hungrily.

  Miro began to gently rub her outside the material. He hoped the motion of his hand under her short skirt wouldn’t be visible, that their bodies pressed together would hide it. She felt heavenly, hot. He could swear he could feel moisture building up on the silky cloth. She kissed him with abandon. Miro forgot where they were, forgot everything.

  With final daring he slid his hand slowly inside her underwear, pulling it to the side to give his hand access. His breath was running ragged, his heart beating like he was in a fight to the death. Miro’s tongue twirled against hers; she tasted sweet like honey, her mouth moist. His hand moving ever so gradually, he first felt silky hair, the softest hair he had ever touched. She moaned against him, bucking slightly, daring his hand to go further.

  He slid one finger further, and suddenly felt an incredible wetness, hot and soft. The folds of her innermost being sucked at his finger; it slid in all the way. Her breathing grew heavier, her moans louder. Miro slid in a second finger. He started to move them both back and forth.

  Esmara broke their kissing, leaning in to whisper in Miro’s ear.

  "We need to go upstairs, I have a room."

  "Yes," he croaked.

  She gathered herself, and then slid off his lap. He quickly sat up, not willing to glance around the crowded room for fear someone would meet his gaze. Esmara took Miro’s hand and led him to the very back of the room, where a small set of stairs led upwards.

  He watched the swing of her skirt, the curve of her round bottom as she walked up the stairs, thanking the Lord of the Sky, or the Eternal, or whoever would listen for his luck.