Virgin City (The Lesbia Chronicles)

by Loki Renard

  The word hit Rog like a blow. "Thousands?"

  "Several hundred from the Stoat, more than a thousand at Wenny Jenny's and the sconces at the palace are priceless Dwarven artifacts. They have been returned, but in a damaged state. They will not be cheap or easy to repair." Jailer Hide nailed Rog with a look that could not be mollified with onions. "Someone will have to pay for this, either in gold or flesh. This amounts to a capital crime. If I take them before the magistrates, they will certainly lose their hands and likely their heads."

  Rog ground his teeth briefly, and nodded. "I thank you for not taking them there as yet."

  "I cannot hold them indefinitely. I will need three thousand gold pieces in one week, or they will go before the magistrate."

  Three thousand gold pieces. Three thousand gold pieces to a man with barely thirty to his name. Faced with the prospect of losing three of his people, Rog made a promise he did not know how to keep.

  "You will have it."

  Troubles were beginning to compound, he thought to himself as he made his way back to the safe house. First Reed's illness, now the arrest, not to mention Callista's ongoing inability to recover from Aric's death. He did not know how to fix any of the problems he faced, and there was nobody he could go to for help, besides Ayla, who had already written him off as a man of little use. He was starting to agree with that assessment himself.

  When Rog returned to the safe house, he found Crispin keeping a silent vigil over the sleeping Reed. She did not look well at all. She was terribly pale, with a queer purple hue to her skin. Every breath came with an unpleasant rattle from deep in her chest.

  "So," Crispin said. "What did you do to them?"

  "Nothing. They are still in the cells."

  "Good."

  "Not good," Rog said, slinging his muscular frame into a nearby chair. "They are being charged with capital crimes. Hide wants three thousand gold, or they go to the magistrate."

  "Three thousand!" Crispin's pale brows rose to unprecedented heights. "Three thousand gold!"

  "In one week."

  "So we have one week to get her right," Crispin said. "Because there's no way we're going to come up with three thousand gold pieces in that time."

  "Not without resorting to some fairly serious criminal activity." Rog put his fingers to his temples and rubbed in slow circles. "We've become far too reliant on her talents. We've been getting sloppy and lazy. Aric is probably rolling in his grave."

  A soft laugh met the statement. "Aric would have broken into the treasury, stolen the money and beaten seven shades out of those three when he got them out."

  "They would never have done this under Aric," Rog said. "Nobody would have done anything like this under Aric."

  "I'm not so sure about that. Those three never knew Aric," Crispin said. "They're not living in his shadow."

  Rog smirked at his friend. "You think I am?"

  Crispin lifted a slim hand and squinted beneath it. "You're so far in his shadow I can barely see you."

  Rog snorted. "You know Callista came to the nest?"

  "Not surprised," Crispin said. "She's in his shadow too. There's a lot of us still laboring in the dark. It's about time we found the light."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Having seen the ratlings off, Ayla went to see what Atrocious and Callista were doing. They were not in the adjoining room, but Ayla could hear the rasping strains of Atrocious' voice floating upstairs. Descending the stairs, Ayla found herself in the largely empty bar. Granny Rogette had closed the Rusty Hankor for the evening and was making merry by ripping off her friends in a game of cards.

  "You're cheating!"

  Wrapped up in brightly colored woolen blankets, Atrocious and Rogette were sitting by the fire with their hands full of cards. Callista was sitting with them, clutching at a hand of cards too, but hardly playing in the same way. Rogette and Atrocious were glaring daggers at one another, wrinkled faces contorted in mutual irritation.

  "I'm not cheating. You don't know how to play cards. Maybe you can summon some better ones," Rogette snarked.

  "Maybe you're hiding the rest of the pack in your cavernous lady parts," Atrocious rejoined.

  Callista spluttered into her mead.

  "At least my lady parts got some use, at least my pussy isn't shriveled like a prune."

  Callista's spluttering turned into a choking of hysterical disbelief as she both laughed and ejected mead through her nose. Both Atrocious and Rogette turned to the younger woman, expressions askance.

  "They don't know how to drink these days," Atrocious said. "It goes down your throat, dear. Rogette can give you lessons if you like, she was always good at taking things down her throat."

  "Atrocious," Ayla intervened. "Really. That's enough."

  "But it's true," Atrocious said. "Rogette has swallowed legions of..."

  "Atrocious!" Ayla's tone grew viper sharp.

  Atrocious ignored it blithely. "Some say her jaw can hinge open so she can take objects bigger than her head."

  "Atrocious, if you can't play nicely, you can go to bed."

  "I am three hundred years old," Atrocious said. "You cannot send me to bed."

  "You are not three hundred years old," Ayla said firmly. "And I very much can send you to bed if you can't be nice to our host."

  "Rogette is a wonderful host," Atrocious agreed. "She's played host to many in the warmth of her thighs..."

  "That's it," Ayla said. "You are going to bed this instant." She swept Atrocious up into her arms and began carrying her up the stairs, away from the card game.

  Scowling, Atrocious glared at Ayla with all her might. The resulting expression made it difficult to discern individual features, for her face became all squished. "She said my vagina was like a prune. And she was cheating."

  "That's no reason to insult her."

  "Yes it is," Atrocious said. "It is every reason to insult her. I don't want to be here. I want to go home."

  "Right now you're going to bed."

  "So you said."

  "Don't pout," Ayla said, dropping a kiss on Atrocious' nose. "It's not precisely a punishment, is it? Curling up with me beneath the blankets?"

  "You made it sound like a punishment," Atrocious grumped. "You made me look foolish in front of Rogette. You always do."

  "Perhaps," Ayla said, gaining their room and placing Atrocious on the bed. "But who is in the room with me now, and who will be spending the night alone?"

  "Rogette never spends the night alone," Atrocious said. "She'll find someone to warm her bed."

  "Maybe," Ayla replied, peeling back the bed covers. "It's time to sleep."

  "I'm not going to sleep just because you say so," Atrocious said, laying down none the less. "I'm not going to sl..."

  She was done before she finished the sentence. A late night and a flagon of mead mixed with the natural propensity of the aged to find sleep most abruptly left her snoring abed.

  With a tender look and gentle touch, Ayla drew the covers up over the woman she loved and pressed a kiss to her aged forehead. "Sleep well, my love," she whispered.

  Leaving Atrocious in their shared bedroom, Ayla went out into the hall, where she discovered that she was not alone. A slim, leggy figure was waiting for her at the end of the hall, in front of a window looking out over the harbor. All that could be seem was a silhouette, but it was clear to Ayla that she was being watched.

  "Hello,” she said, sensing that the shadowy personage was there for her.

  "Ayla." The voice sounded not at all familiar, but it spoke her name as if it had spoken it a thousand times before. "You are the one they call Ayla."

  "I am."

  The shadow stepped into the light and became a person. A person with pale hair and pale eyes, one of Ayla's original kinfolk, by all appearances.

  "You should not be here," the elf said.

  "What business of it is yours where I am?" Ayla spoke quietly, but with her customary natural authority.

  "I knew Er
wydden. I was there the day you escaped the obsidian prison. Do you not remember me?"

  "I cannot see you in this light," Ayla said. "Come closer and tell me your name."

  "They call me Crispin," Crispin said, cocking head to the side. "You may have known me as Cyrveus."

  For a moment, Ayla's gaze glittered with rare anger. "I knew very few, raised as I was inside the prison."

  "Yes," Crispin said. "A most unfortunate matter."

  "Unfortunate. That is one word for it. What would you say to me now, Cyrveus? What would you say to me that could not have been said many hundreds of years ago?" Ayla stood taut, her shoulders back, head held high with an imperious stare.

  "I would say to you that Clitera City is my ward. I would say to you that those of the elf blood owe fealty to me in this place. I would also say that you should call me Crispin, for that is how I am known - and it is how I wish to remain known."

  "I pay no fealty to the elvish," Ayla replied. "I have the blood, but I am not of your kin or kind."

  Crispin's lips twisted slightly. "Your words say one thing, but your blood sings another. It is fortunate I do not stand on ceremony, else I might find your tone unforgivably bold."

  Eyes narrowed, Ayla crossed her long arms under her ample bosom. "I am here at Ariadne's behest, and in the service of my purpose. Both these forces trump whatever sway you might have."

  A soft laugh escaped Crispin's lips. "Erwydden did not teach you respect."

  "Respect is not something to be taught. It is something to be earned. It is not something I give to those who come creeping in the window, waylay me in a friend's home and demand fealty."

  "Very well," Crispin said. "Then heed his warning and leave Clitera City as soon as you are able. You are meddling in affairs you have no part in."

  "I might say the same to you." Ayla turned, dismissing Crispin with the cold shoulder. "If you come to me again, do so with greater care. I have little patience for those who seek to dominate by merit of their names."

  "If I come to you again, you shall cry my name," Crispin said. "You will scream it until it is blazed in your very soul."

  Ayla turned back, her brow raised. "Is that a threat?"

  A mischievous smirk played across Crispin's lips. "Not a threat. A promise. I can smell your need."

  "Smell my..." Ayla's pale cheeks took on a pink hue as the meaning of the intruder's words sank in. "By all the goddesses..."

  "You think me bold," Crispin said. "Perhaps I am. But you, you are quite an intoxicating beauty. I am sorry I raised your ire..." Crispin's pale eyes locked on Ayla's with carnal intensity. "...I should have been raising your skirts."

  Fixing the elf with one of her patented stern looks, Ayla composed herself and answered quite formally. "I am in no need of skirt raising, thank you."

  "Ah no," Crispin said. "I hear you have taken up with an elderly human. You must be a masochist."

  "I did not take up with an elderly human. I took up with a human and she became elderly..." Ayla paused, a look of confusion written on her face, as if she were wondering why she was explaining herself to this arrogant intruder. "I would ask that you begone," she said. "You were certainly not invited into this house."

  "I go where I please," Crispin said. "This city is mine. As are you whilst you are in it."

  Ayla's crystal green stare turned cold. She gave Crispin a very long look, then turned and walked back down the stairs toward Callista and Rogette without so much as another word.

  Crispin did not follow.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The following day, Reed and Rog made a morning visit as agreed so Reed could take Ayla's cure. As it happened it was not Reed who caught Ayla's attention. It was Rog. He was wearing a great deal more clothing than usual. Very long sleeves and a high collar covered him up to his chin, and a leather cap covered the tops of his eyes and the sides of his face. Only his eyes, nose and mouth were visible.

  "What happened to you?” Ayla asked the question whilst brewing Reed's potion.

  "Me?" Rog tried for a shrug and failed. "Nothing."

  Nothing. That was a lie. It had not escaped the witch's attention that Rog had not sat down since entering. Instead he stood leaning against the wall with one leg cocked at an odd angle.

  "Hm." Ayla turned back to her brew. She cast an eye across at Reed and saw that the summoner's gaze was locked with fixated concern on Rog.

  "I have seen many wounded soldiers in my time," she said casually. "How did you break your ribs?"

  "They're not broken," Rog said, coughing slightly. "They're just a little sore."

  "They are most assuredly broken," Ayla replied settling the iron lid on her cauldron and turning to Rog patiently. "And I shouldn't wonder that you haven't fractured that leg."

  "One cannot walk on a fractured leg," Rog said.

  "One can if one is bloody minded enough," Ayla said in turn. "Would you like me to tend to your wounds? They will heal much faster."

  Rog shook his head. "No," he said. "It's nothing. Just a scratch or two."

  "Let her help, Rog," Reed said. She was sitting cross legged on the bed, her expression solemn.

  Both ratlings were much muted from the previous day. They were outright morose, in fact. Reed put up no fight at all when Ayla handed her a herbal soup to sip whilst she tended to Rog, who reluctantly stripped off his leathers, leaving himself bare and bruised.

  Reed whistled through her teeth at the sight of so much masculine flesh, earning herself a dour look from the man himself. Bare from the waist up and the thighs down, his body was covered in contusions and, as Ayla suspected, he had sustained more than a few fractures.

  "Why were you fighting?"

  "I had to," he said, gritting his teeth as she gently ran her fingers over his skin, ascertaining the full extent of his injuries.

  "Looks like you came off second best."

  "He won, actually," Reed snapped. "Three hundred gold pieces."

  "Ah, so you're a prize fighter."

  "Sometimes.”

  "Three hundred gold pieces," Ayla said conversationally as she took a salve and whispered a spell over it. She began spreading the ointment on battered skin, glad to see the bruising receding under her hand. Slowly but surely, Rog started to relax.

  "You're really good at this," he said in wonder. "I feel far better."

  "You still have broken bones," Ayla cautioned him. "Those will not knit fully for several weeks."

  "I have another fight tonight."