Through the fabric of her tunic Kalena was vividly aware of his touch. His palm glided across her nipple and she felt her own response. An unfamiliar warmth flooded through her body and she knew Ridge was aware of it because he let his hand trail farther down and slide over the small curve of her stomach until his palm rested on the focus of the strange, heady heat that was filling her veins.
Kalena continued to stand very still, not daring to move. Their eyes were locked together and she knew only an outside force could break the contact. From a far corner of her mind, one of Olara’s teachings emerged to taunt and warn her: When perfectly opposing points on the Spectrum are brought into close proximity, the power they generate can be devastating. Kalena knew then that for better or worse, the luck of the Spectrum had ordained that she meet her perfect opposite when she encountered the man they called the Fire Whip.
And that thought was the jarring interruption Kalena needed to break the dangerous contact. Drawing a deep breath, she gathered her senses and stepped back a pace, aware that she was trembling. Her arms fell from around Ridge’s neck. He made no move to stop her, merely watching her with an intentness that was almost alarming.
“I wish you good evening, Ridge.” As if pulling free of a delicate but sticky web, she took another step back. Instinct told her she should run, not walk from Ridge’s presence. She turned away.
“Kalena.” His voice was strangely harsh, deeper and more husky than usual. “There is one other thing we should discuss this evening.”
She didn’t turn around, but she did pause on the rainstone path. “What is that?”
“I am the man you are contracted to marry.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Quintel is not for you. Not for any woman, for that matter. But females are often foolishly fascinated by him. Don’t let your curiosity lead you to try anything reckless or stupid.”
If anything was needed to break the passionate spell of the red moonlight, that was it. Kalena’s chin lifted with cool arrogance. Did this Houseless bastard think he could give lectures on behavior to a daughter of a Great House? Even if she were only the farmer’s daughter she pretended to be, he was still out of line.
“Remember that you are merely going to be playing the role of husband, Ridge. Don’t let your sense of duty go to your head.”
“The marriage might be contracted for only a short period of time,” Ridge said evenly, “but it is very real while it lasts. Do not forget that, Kalena.”
She ignored him, forcing herself to walk sedately along the rainstone path until she reached the shelter of the portico. There, hidden by the shadows of the graceful colonnade, she picked up the hem of her tunic and dashed for the safety of her apartment.
Three
Ripples of brilliantly hued sarsilk floated through Kalena’s fingers. She stared in delighted wonder at the array of fabrics spread before her. The collection of expensive sarsilk brought all the way from Antipodes was only a portion of what was available here on Weavers Street.
Today she had seen velvets in every color of the Spectrum, from fine lanti wool for winter cloaks and tunics to beautifully woven Risha cloth, a fabric made locally in town. Kalena had never had such an array and she was almost overwhelmed by the prospect of choosing her selection. But even more amazing to her was the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to sew these garments herself. For the first time since she had been a child, someone else could be paid to make clothes for her. Kalena wanted to laugh at the small sense of freedom that fact gave her. Not that she minded sewing, but having someone else do it was so much more pleasant. Standing on the threshold of real freedom was a giddy experience.
“The tunics are no problem,” remarked the shopkeeper, a strong-featured woman of middle years and extensive bargaining skill. “I can have those ready this afternoon. The riding clothes will be ready by tomorrow. The trousers should be properly fitted for comfort, you understand.”
Kalena nodded. She wanted the stylish new tunics as quickly as possible, but there was no great urgency about the riding outfit. After all, she had no intention of leaving on the contracted journey with Ridge. She had only ordered the riding clothes because Ridge was sure to ask if she had. Kalena had given much consideration to the matter of who should pay for the riding garments and the wedding cloak. Ridge expected to do so and she had finally convinced herself that there was nothing dishonorable in allowing him to pay the bills.
After all, once Quintel was dead, a journey to the Heights of Variance would be impossible until another trade baron had been approved by the Town Council. With its reason for existing in the first place gone, the marriage contract would, no doubt, by mutual agreement be cancelled. But Kalena could hardly explain to Ridge why the equipment and clothes for the journey were unnecessary, so she really had no choice but to let him pay for them.
Kalena was relieved by her decision. The issue might involve a fine point of honor, but for the daughter of a Great House, even the finest points were important. Nodding with satisfaction, she turned to the shopkeeper and said, “I will also need a wedding cloak.”
The woman’s eyes lit up with mercantile enthusiasm. This farmer’s daughter did not appear to be wealthy, but even a woman from a farm town would want to spend as much as possible on a wedding cloak. With a little ingenuity it might be possible to coax this client into spending more than she had originally planned. “But of course. I have several suitable fabrics in stock. The sarsilk is considered appropriate. Have you decided upon a color?”
It was the bride’s right to choose the color in which she would be married. The matter was important because the groom was obliged by convention to wear a man’s cloak in a properly contrasting color. Traditionally, brides chose pale colors from the Light end of the Spectrum, making it easy for their grooms to find a suitable counterpoint. But Kalena thought this was as good a time as any to begin her permanent break with tradition.
“Something in red,” Kalena said smoothly, a perverse sense of humor making her finger a piece of scarlet sarsilk. Red was an assertive choice. There was little that could counter it. Kalena looked forward to seeing how Ridge met the challenge.
The shopkeeper raised one eyebrow but said nothing. The scarlet sarsilk was very expensive and she was not about to kill a good sale by reminding the bride that she was flying in the face of convention. “I have no cloak available in this fabric, but I can have it made up by tomorrow afternoon. When is the wedding?”
“The day after tomorrow,” Kalena said, moving along the counter to examine a bolt of green Risha cloth. “Have the cloak sent to the House of the Gliding Fallon. And send the bill for it and the riding clothes to the man named Ridge who works for the lord of that House. I will pay for everything else.”
“The House of the Gliding Fallon?” The interest in the shopkeeper’s eyes quickened. “You are to be married to an employee of Trade Baron Quintel?”
Before Kalena could respond, the wooden door of the shop swung open and a familiar voice answered the question. “I saw the contract, myself, Melita. This farmer’s daughter is indeed going to marry a man who works for Lord Quintel, and her groom is no mere servant of the House, believe me. Ridge is almost a son of the House.” Arrisa turned, a brilliant smile of greeting on her face. “Hello, Kalena.”
Kalena returned the other woman’s smile tentatively. “I wish you good morning, Arrisa. Are you shopping on Weavers Street today?”
Umm,” Arrisa murmured offhandedly. “I need a new pair of boots but I thought I saw you come in here and I decided to see how things went yesterday. What do you think of your future trade husband?”
Kalena hesitated briefly, remembering the scene in the moonlit garden. “I found him formidable in some respects,” she admitted dryly.
Good-natured laughter burst from Arrisa as she sauntered over to the counter. “Formidable. I like that. What a pretty way of putting it. It would be most amusing to discuss the matter with you on the morning after your wedd
ing night when you are serving your husband his yant tea.”
Kalena smiled politely, hiding her embarrassment. It seemed that almost any subject was acceptable on the streets of Crosspurposes. She was aware of the old custom of a wife rising in the morning to brew and serve yant tea to her husband before he left the pallet. Kalena had vague memories of her mother performing the small ritual for her father. No matter how rich a House or how many servants it employed, the wife alone made her husband’s morning tea. The standard joke among married men was that they judged the mood of their wives by the bitterness or sweetness of the drought that was served.
“Has anyone told you yet why Ridge is called Fire Whip?” Arrisa asked conversationally.
“You told me yesterday that he is called Quintel’s whip because the trade baron uses him to clear up trading difficulties on the routes,” Kalena answered carefully.
Arrisa waved that aside. “I am referring to the fire part of his name, not the whip. Has no one told you the rumors?”
Kalena’s mouth curved downward. “I get the impression gossip is not encouraged in the House of the Gliding Fallon. The servants are a very silent lot.”
Arrisa grinned. “That doesn’t surprise me. Quintel can afford anything, even silence from his servants. Well, Kalena; since you are going to be sharing a sleeping pallet with Ridge, perhaps you should be told why there is fire in his name. I feel a sisterly obligation to warn you. Women have to stick together, don’t we?” Her voice lowered and automatically both Kalena and the shopkeeper leaned closer. “It is said that he is one of those rare men who can make the steel of Countervail glow red with the force of his anger.”
For an instant hushed silence filled the shop. Even the woman behind the counter was taken aback. She stared at Arrisa while Kalena frowned, trying to remember the tales. “The stories of such men are just that for the most part,” she finally protested. “Mere yarns woven by the story spinners. It is said there are such men in every generation, but they are very few and far between. The odds of encountering one are unbelievably high.”
Arrisa shrugged. “The stories surrounding Ridge are strong enough to have given him a name. There must be some element of truth to them.”
“It takes little to hang a name on a man,” the shopkeeper pointed out.
“True, but why this name on this particular man?” Arrisa countered.
“Perhaps because the trade master is possessed of a quick temper,” Kalena said placatingly, not wishing to argue over the matter. “Legend has it that the ability to heat the steel of Countervail goes hand-in-hand with a savage temper.”
“Most men have bad tempers,” the shopkeeper pointed out philosophically. “It has always seemed to me that it takes very little to anger a man. Since my husband died I have not been in any hurry to remarry because of that fact. The calm at home has been a relief. And the profits from this shop are all mine to spend as I see fit.”
“The kind of fury it takes to make the steel of Countervail glow with the heat of fire is only distantly related to your average dose of masculine temper,” Arrisa announced. “Personally, if I were you I would be cautious, Kalena. You have contracted a dangerous marriage.”
“It is merely a business arrangement,” Kalena insisted mildly. She turned to the shopkeeper. “Please have the cloak made up in the red sarsilk. I’ll pick up the tunics later this afternoon.”
“And the riding outfit?” the shopkeeper asked quickly, making notes with an ink-filled quill.
Kalena thought about it for a moment, wondering if she would ever wear the garment. “Have it made up in the dark green.”
“Excellent.” The shopkeeper smiled in satisfaction. “I have your measurements. I will set the seamstress to work immediately. Now, the bill for the cloak and the riding clothes go to this Ridge at the House of the Gliding Fallon, but the other garments you will be paying for yourself?”
Kalena caught the not-so-subtle hint. She removed the small wallet from the belt she wore at her waist and began counting out grans. The heavy coins clinked on the countertop under the shopkeeper’s watchful eye. When a suitable stack of them had been set out the woman smiled again and scooped them into a drawer.
Arrisa watched the transaction with interest before falling into step beside Kalena, who made to leave the shop. “What’s next? Boots, perhaps?”
“Yes,” Kalena admitted, “and a couple of shirts for Ridge.”
“Aha. Has you buying his shirts already, does he? The man means to take full advantage of the convenience of a wife. The next thing you know he’ll have you embroidering his initials on his garments.” Arrisa laughed, then turned to Kalena with narrowed eyes. “That business with a cloak…”
“For some reason Trade Baron Quintel wishes to have a formal ceremony to seal the contract,” Kalena explained as they stepped out onto the stone path.
“And Ridge will humor him, of course. Ridge will do just about anything for the trade baron. Remember that, Kalena,” Arrisa said with unexpected seriousness. “Ridge’s first loyalty will always be to Quintel. It’s said that Quintel rescued him from a life on the streets of Countervail and since the day they met, Ridge has repaid him with absolute loyalty.” Then, almost instantly, her mood lightened again. “But if you are to sacrifice yourself on the altar of a contract wedding, you should have a proper trade wife send-off,” she announced with sudden enthusiasm. “Don’t you agree?”
“A proper send-off?” Kalena gave her companion a curious, questioning glance.
“A last night of freedom before you hit the trail. My friends and I will come for you shortly before the evening meal tomorrow night,” Arrisa said decisively. “I have several friends who will be glad to join us. We’ll make certain you enjoy the night, Kalena.”
“The night? We will spend an evening in the taverns?” Astounded excitement lit Kalena’s eyes as she considered the prospect. Such an evening would have been unheard of back home. No respectable woman went out at night to a tavern, alone or even in the company of other women. But apparently it was not looked down on here in the town; another small taste of what lay ahead in her free future.
“The prospect interests you?” Arrisa asked with a grin.
“Very much,” Kalena said enthusiastically. “I’ll wear one of my new tunics. I ordered some short ones, just like yours. You are very gracious to invite me to join your friends, Arrisa.”
Arrisa chuckled. “It’s going to be an amusing evening.”
The formal dining chamber of Quintel’s magnificent house was done in subtly contrasting shades of tan and pale blue. Kalena had become accustomed to the strongly balanced hues used throughout the house. She was grateful for the softer shade of sand and sea used in this room. Normally she was fond of vivid colors, but these middle Spectrum tones were more soothing to her nerves tonight.
To say the least, she found it somewhat stressful to sit down to dine with the man she had come to kill and the man to whom she was contracted in marriage.
It had all seemed so distant and abstract back home in Interlock. The man called Quintel had been only a name, part of her aunt’s endlessly repeated tales. Marriage to a stranger named Ridge had been only a means to an end. But for two nights she had shared a meal with both of these men, and her aunt’s bitter stories had taken on the substance of reality. Kalena found herself abnormally quiet during the evening meal.
The low, round table in the center of the softly colored chamber was inlaid with tiny, exotically colored tiles that formed a swirling, undefined pattern. Kalena had spent some time trying to analyze the meaning of the design and had failed. The restless chaos in the tilework would have been disconcerting but for the pale tones used. Kalena, Ridge and Quintel were seated on low cushions, their fingerspears resting on small carved stands in front of them. The men sat with traditional masculine casualness, their attire making it easy for them to change position when the mood took them.
Although Kalena was wearing one of her new, shorter tunics, s
he found herself too self-conscious to sit in any position other than the formal, kneeling, feminine style. Her trousered legs were gracefully curled beneath her and her back was elegantly straight. From this position she was expected to handle any service at the table that was not taken care of by the silent servant who brought in the various dishes. Pouring extra wine or dishing out second helpings was considered a female occupation. Good-naturedly, Kalena accepted the inevitable role of a woman at the evening table, telling herself it was only temporary. She wondered privately what Quintel and Ridge did when they had no female present. She would bet her last gran they were quite capable of serving themselves.
Kalena was in the act of pouring Ridge another goblet of the golden Encana wine when he turned from his conversation with Quintel and spoke to her directly. “You made your purchases today?”
“Yes,” she responded politely, setting down the crystal wine bottle. “I bought everything you told me to get, including your shirts. I’ll send them to your apartments later this evening.”
For some reason she decided not to mention that she had been overcome by an unexpected attack of a traditional sense of duty toward her future husband late this afternoon. Or perhaps it had been guilt. Kalena wasn’t sure. She still didn’t know why she had purchased the embroidery silk and needles when she had bought Ridge’s shirts. Later, as she had sat sewing a small, discreet initial R onto the shirts before dinner, she had chastised herself for succumbing to such an old-fashioned gesture of feminine respect.
But some aspects of one’s early training ran deep, she had discovered with a small sense of amused resignation. Besides, she had seen enough of Ridge’s clothing to know that no woman bothered to personalize his shirts with his initial. Considering the fact that he was a Houseless bastard, that was hardly surprising. Kalena told herself that Ridge was more or less an innocent pawn in the whole scheme of vengeance in which she was involved. The least she could do was embroider one or two of his shirts for him.
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