by Max Keith
“Leyn.” He brushed himself off and grimaced as he plucked a thorn from his finger. “I’ve seldom seen a less feminine saddle.”
The laugh came again, rolling out with a sideward glance at Alorin, who now waited with her usual placid patience. “You’re keeping good company, at least,” the Imperial allowed as he swung a thick leg over his horse’s back. “Surrounding yourself with only the finest ladies,” he murmured, arching an eyebrow. “Lucky dog.”
Poildrin smiled tightly. “You won’t think so once you see the other lady I brought.” He jerked a head back toward the hollow under the bush and made a face. “I wish you well with her.”
“Oh, I’ve met Lady Traxtell before,” Leyn shrugged. “A quick glimpse at a dinner party, but it was enough.” He didn’t seem too concerned, but then Shemar Leyn was not a man who worried about much. Poildrin could see already that his rise through the Imperial mageocracy must have been as smoothly effortless as anything else he’d ever done; they were both young to be Shadowmages, but Leyn had been a year behind. “I’ll just charm her, and then get myself drunk. I won’t even notice her.”
“As you say,” Poildrin replied diplomatically, and then both men turned to watch silently as, like a bear emerging from hibernation, Traxtell came heaving up out of the hollow.
It wasn’t just the bad attitude, the ripe aroma, the ugly face, the sour twist to her mouth, or her overall bulk; it was all of that and more, a figure of formidable repugnance greater than the sum of its parts. Algar of Traxtell was hideous, almost bestial, and from the twisty little smirk beneath her porcine nose she plainly knew it. Reveled in it, in fact. “Is this the next mage?” she asked artlessly, nodding at Leyn the way a man regards a dinner chair. She shrugged. “You robed creatures are everywhere. You’re even less impressive than the last one.”
“I thank you for the courtesy,” Leyn replied with a very polite bow. “I mind I’ve had the opportunity to meet your excellency before, at the Red Castle. A dinner reception, if I recall.”
“Recall all you like. I don’t remember you.” She pulled the last weed from her hair and looked sourly up and down the road. “Shall we leave this pissy little spot? I grow tired of relaxing among the nettles, and I could do with a change of company.”
“We agree,” Poildrin put in shortly. He and Alorin traded a glance. “And we’ve business of our own. She’s all yours, Shemar.” They went to get her horse, listening unwillingly to the fading prattle from the side of the road.
“Then fortune smiles upon me.” The Imperial mage inclined his head, still with his nobleman’s courtesy. “I shall charm you, if you like. What would you like to be?” They returned with Traxtell’s unhappy horse, plainly not yet inured to a life beneath such an odious mistress, dragging its feet with every step. Shemar Leyn stood there with a rather sever-looking lady, taller than average, looking like a schoolmistress. She wore the robes of a priestess.
“A nun.” Alorin was amused. “Nice choice.”
Leyn smiled thinly, not without allowing his lazy eyes to sweep up and down Alorin’s body. “Quite.” He turned to Poildrin and glanced sideways. “My fee, Franx?”
“Ah.” Cashel would already be sailing with most of it, for delivery in the Imperial bank at Stony Isles, but the Princess had sent a quarter of Leyn’s payment with Poildrin, who’d stuffed it beneath some particularly stinky wools. He shook his head as he dug around for it, the uncomplaining mule waiting patiently. “I must say,” he mused carefully, “I would not have figured you for a traitor, Leyn.”
“I prefer the term ‘rebel,’ actually.” The Imperial man sighed. “You’d be shocked at how many of us there are. The Emperor might just get a knife in the belly sooner than your lovely Raxillene thinks.”
“Interesting.” The gold was heavy in the bag as he untied it, discreetly failing to mention that the Princess gave not a fig for the Emperor or his belly. She was after the Regency, or preferably a Queen’s crown. Poildrin frowned; he was not usually given to philosophizing, but he reflected as he handed the gold over that, in his own way, he was a rebel too. He forced a smile. “We’ll get together for a brandy in the Palace once that happens. For old times.”
Leyn snorted. “I’ll be buggered by a thousand pageboys before I ever go back to the Realm, but thanks.” He glanced speculatively at Alorin, now saddling her horse. “Speaking of buggery, you don’t suppose she’s got time for a brief diversion before you go?”
“With your cock?” Poildrin laughed nastily. “Unless it’s grown since college, she’d not know it was there.”
“No, it hasn’t grown.” Leyn reached thoughtfully down and tugged at himself through the robe. “That’s why I specified buggery. Even a small man can be a giant if he sticks it in a tight hole.”
“You’re not her type.” The truth hurt, but there it was; besides, Aimee and Firkis would have gotten a room in Berridge by now. They had to be going.
Three
“Hey!” Aimee smacked his arm as they sat over their dinner, celebrating the departure of Traxtell. “Hello? You’re woolgathering.”
“Me?” Poildrin frowned; he had a reputation for constant alertness, and he wanted to preserve it no matter how bogus it was. “I was paying absolute attention. You people were discussing the food.” He had no idea whether that was true, but it was likely. And, from Aimee’s expression, it was also right. “I thought the beef was overdone, myself.”
Firkis chuckled from across the table. “They don't know how to cook beef in the Empire,” he explained. “Everyone knows that.” He’d opted for salad; the tavernkeeper had shaken his head slightly, but he’d brought the leaves anyway.
“Indeed,” and then Poildrin had sunk right back into his thoughts. He’d been troubled, he knew, ever since the meeting with Jerren, nagged by more than just his native cynicism and his lack of belief in coincidences. It was simply too odd that she would turn up, randomly, in the middle of the Black Mountains, too odd that she was so clearly posing as someone humble and plain and stupid.
Poildrin knew far better than that.
She’d surprised him when she’d seduced him, her casual beauty and the power of her eyes doing the job for her even before she’d started talking to him. He’d been shocked, back then, at how easily she’d read him, how shrewdly she’d allowed her offhand boldness to shine through and dominate his thoughts long, long before her thighs had started to dominate his body.
Though, in the end, they very much had.
She’d begun with her form, her manner, her posture: she slouched in the College’s uncomfortable seats and benches, sprawling with her legs crossed and her arms folded beneath her breasts, the fingertips of her left hand drumming calmly against her right elbow just inches from where he sat. Poildrin had always pretended to listen to the lectures about magical law, but actually he’d been busy trying to control his eyes, which showed a strong and unwonted propensity to drift across to find her pert, sharp face, or the way her tits pushed the robe out away from her lithe little body, or the sight of her calves where they emerged from the second-year robe, her feet small and delicate inside some cheap canvas sandals.
She’d leaned over on the third day to borrow a pencil, her breath hot and smelling vaguely of peppers as she whispered. “I hate to bother you,” she’d begun, and he’d leaned instinctively toward her to hear. “I’ve got nothing to write with.”
He’d blinked. At the Mage College, they made you memorize things. Notes were discouraged. “For what?” As soon as he’d said it, he’d realized how stupid it sounded; women always made him so nervous!
“I’m writing a letter home.” He’d recoiled at once, amazed; students did not write letters during lectures. She slid those avocado eyes sideways, playfully, and leaned further to compensate for his revulsion. “What? You don't think the lecture is boring?”
Well, of course he did; wasn’t that the point of the College? You sat, you kept your mouth shut, you persevered, and at the end you got to wear a hood
and cast spells. That was the bargain. “That’s not the point,” he’d muttered, but he’d been unable to resist sliding a pencil toward her.
She’d asked him, far more presumptuously than he was prepared to admit, to take her for dinner a week after that. Students at the Mage College did not generally go out; for one thing, eight out of every ten were men, and nine out of every ten were shy. So the dating pool was limited. Not that Poildrin would have known what to do about that; he’d concluded long since that he was completely uninteresting to women. “Come now,” she’d mocked him lightly. “How bad could it be, sharing a meal with me?”
“I… that is, not bad at all! I’d be honored!” He’d be mortified, actually, but he couldn’t quite say so. She was beautiful, but she was a second year. And she was from the Empire. And he had exams to study for.
But other students have overcome similar hurdles when a lovely woman demands they do so, and so Poildrin had found himself tucking into half a chicken and some peas in a tavern near the castle wall. He was well aware that, like almost any other tavern in the Realm, this one doubled as a brothel; Jerren had not seemed to mind, though, so he’d pretended to ignore the silk-robed women who occasionally came downstairs for a beer.
Conversation had never come easily to him, but she’d been courteous enough to sense that and start things off. “That’s an interesting pendant,” she’d smiled, the usual lopsided smirk that looked as though she wasn’t being serious. “Did a lady give that to you?”
He’d glanced down. The little charm, on a simple leather thong, was a tiny brass frog. He cursed himself; he usually put it away. “In a way,” he admitted. “It belonged to my mother.” He’d touched it, almost a nervous habit by now; he usually tapped it whenever he was thinking of her. “She’s dead now.”
The green eyes bored into him, growing, dominant. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. She swirled the cheap wine in her cup. “It means quite a bit to you, obviously,” she said gently, her smile sad. “Otherwise, you’d not wear it at all.” Jewelry was frowned upon by the archmages. He’d shrugged.
“I usually keep it tucked away.” He went to do precisely that, but her hand came shooting out to grip his fingers with soft strength, stopping him.
“No.” She’d lowered his hand to the table, her touch warm and lively. “I like it.” She’d leaned back, then, as the serving wench brought the bread, and the conversation had gone as tepid as the blister-tea that had arrived first. He’d been reeling slightly; the room was hot and close, the smell of her hair intoxicating, the wine harsh, the green eyes swallowing his soul.
“You don't seem comfortable,” she’d said at one point, her green eyes boring into him with a strange and scary intensity. He had felt those eyes in the pit of his stomach, and lower down as well. “Are the peas not to your liking?”
“They’re fine,” he’d managed, working to swallow the dry cornbread with the aid of some ale. “I just… you’re very direct, Jerren.” He’d got the morsel down at last, then he’d swiped at his mouth with the cleaner of hos two sleeves. “It takes getting used to.”
“I’m only direct with men who aren’t,” she’d replied immediately.
He had stared, he remembered. “Should I be offended?” he’d wondered aloud. “I almost think I should…”
“’I almost think I should,’” she’d mocked, in a singsong voice. She’d laughed, a husky snigger from down in her throat. “My mistake. It’s hard to get more direct than that.” She’d grinned as she’d sat back against the stained wall, brushing at where the cornbread had showered its crumbs over her tits. “Your problem, Poildrin,” she’d pointed out as if it were obvious, “is that you’re far too uncertain of your own opinions.”
“Am I?”
“I rest my case.” Another laugh, and this time he’d joined ruefully in. That was when she’d told him he had a nice smile, and then he’d gestured for more ale with some brandy to follow, and when she’d taken him by the hand and pulled him through the door of her garret he’d gone along with a meekness that, to Jerren’s great satisfaction, he’d soon shaken off.
Soon, that is, in his memory. In reality, he knew, he’d still been bashful as a maiden as she’d shut the door behind them. The room was small and dark and smelled of mildew and mouse piss. “So,” Jerren had mused in her carefree way, “are you worth lighting a candle for, Franx?” She’d chuckled as she’d drawn the shutters over the small, thick-paned windows, the last of the dusk barely even making it into the room. “Candles are expensive, you know.”
He’d considered. This was a new situation for him. He’d fucked no fewer than five wenches at that point, all for money; he knew what to expect if, as it appeared, Jerren really wanted to spend the night with him, but he’d never once been pursued. He’d selected what he thought of as a smooth, even suave response. “I paid for dinner,” he’d pointed out, and her laugh that time had been loud and long and genuine, and he’d seemed to have made the right choice.
“See?” She’d fumbled in the dark with a tinderbox. “You’re funny, when you’re properly motivated.” The flame flared, the wick slowly catching the fire as she bore the candle carefully to the low table beside her narrow little cot. He’d felt a stabbing disappointment that the flame, flickering up from below her sharp little chin, had left her glorious eyes shadowed. “I wonder what’s motivating you now.” She smiled and unpinned her brooch.
Well, if her eyes had been hard to see, his had to have been painfully obvious as he took in her body once the short second-year robe started sliding down her body. “I’ve been waiting for weeks,” she’d gone calmly on, pausing to step out of the puddled gown, “for you to so much as talk to me in that stuffy little tutoring room.” She’d been wearing simple undergarments of low-grade satin, practical and more than slightly greasy. She clearly did not come from the kind of background that could afford to be lavish with mere underthings.
He’d gulped, though, for with a body like hers underthings were important. In those days he hadn’t quite understood just how important they could be for a certain type of woman, specifically the type with large and succulent tits. Jerren’s corset was old and worn and working hard, tied more loosely than many women would have preferred, the simple ribbon lining the top of it just barely skirting the tops of what looked to be large and very dark nipples. The thing had stretched down over a waist small and firm and smooth before giving out a few inches above the waistband of her simple, high-cut briefs. “Stuffy in here, too, I think…” she’d continued on, almost whispering now, looking very pointedly at his robe.
Ah yes. He was supposed to strip now.
This was nothing at all like his times with whores, Poildrin had reflected as he reached for the drawstrings at his neck. He wasn’t wearing anything beneath the robe, but fuck it; she was going to see him naked soon enough anyway, and he knew from the painful tightness in his balls that it wouldn’t be long before he’d be poking the front of his robe far out in front of him. That was a level of ridiculousness he’d prefer not to have to deal with, especially with Jerren standing there in her underwear, smirking at him.
He’d felt dryness in his throat and worry in his belly, like he was about to sit a final exam. He wasn’t anxious, really, or troubled; it was just that this was happening so, so fast, and Jerren was so, so beautiful.
He was intimidated.
She watched him fumble with his drawstrings, the shadow still deep across her eyes, until he at last had the robe inching down his scrawny body, in those days so stringy and bony, skinny enough that the jutting cock on which the falling robe was briefly hung up appeared gargantuan. It bobbed in the wake of the passing robe, strong and firm and eager enough to make up for his brain’s trepidation, and Jerren’s mouth opened slightly in what looked like delight as she took him in.
“My,” she drawled, “who’s being direct now?” She laughed. “And here I am, with all my bits and pieces safely covered…” but she was dragging a teasing finger along h
er corset as she said it, the broken fingernail prodding lightly at the top of that glorious dark nipple. She let her dark-pitted eyes sweep up and down, slowly, glittering in the shadows. “You’re clearly not eating enough.” The finger dug into the swollen flesh of her breast. “There’s only one part of you that looks healthy, in fact.” She was smiling more broadly now. “One single, prominent part.”
He breathed deeply and raggedly, not trusting himself to speak; her accent was getting more obvious as a pink flush spread down her chest like water flooding a delta, her breath starting to match his. His dick surged straight and trembling as only a forlorn student’s can. He felt his eyes widen, his jaw hanging slack, and he forced it shut as he finally thought of something worth saying. “I’m glad you lit the candle,” he managed, amazed that his voice seemed so steady. “You’re quite a sight.”
“For an Imperial bitch?” She giggled and then began to move, her wide hips swaying as her short, well-formed legs covered the short distance between them. She did not look down, but stopped just before his cock would have prodded her belly. She was close enough now that her pepper-smelling breath was all around him. Her breasts shuddered high and proud and gorgeous. Poildrin wondered whether he should maul them yet, but wasn’t sure; whores were easier. They expected nothing.
At least he could see her eyes now. In the dim light they swam alongside her nose, wide and lively, the green intense. The wrinkles along their corners deepened as she grinned and turned, her hip just barely brushing the tip of his penis. They both gasped a bit. “My clothes are more extreme than yours, I’m afraid.” She reached a pale arm back, lifting her hair. “You’ll need to untie me.”
The worn laces of the old corset crossed her spine, secured at the top by a slipknot she could have easily overcome. “Who normally does this?” he asked, his trembling fingers taking hold of the laces. “Did you bring a servant with you from the Empire?”
“Oh yes,” she giggled again, her voice deep and dusky. “I’ve got a slave boy who sees to my every wish.” The lacings gave out, relaxing at once as soon as the knot popped free. She sighed, gravity already pulling the thing from her body. “That’s better.”