“I’m not sure I remember how,” she admitted.
“Don’t spend much time with gifted folk?”
She tilted her chin up slightly. “Not any I trust to read my mind.”
Yet she trusted him, or at least was willing to try. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them reverently. “I can help you.”
Chapter 9
Em closed her eyes and focused on the feel of his hand clasped around hers. The warmth of his breath on her knuckles sent a shiver of sensation down her spine.
“Breathe out. Nice and slow. Let all the air flow out and away from you. Let your barriers scatter like the wind.”
She emptied her lungs with every breath and slowly relaxed.
He rested his forehead against hers, his voice a soothing murmur in her ear.
Her defenses drifted away like a cloud, leaving her mind open and free.
Thank you.
The words echoed in her mind. They sounded foreign. Strange, but not alarming.
You’re welcome, she replied mentally. She focused on the words, hoping he would not be able to delve deeper into her mind. Do you have to be touching me?
No, not since we’ve established contact, though it is less draining. He raised his head away from hers. If you find my touch distasteful, I can try to maintain the link without it.
She squeezed his fingers. It’s not distasteful.
I’m glad. A tantalizing wealth of emotion lay behind his simple words. If lies tasted bad, the truth was delicious.
His fingers slipped from her grasp as he wrapped his arms around her, his smooth cheek pressed against her hair.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in the smell of cheap soap and warm male. She allowed herself to pretend, for only a moment, that she was safe, protected from the hard, cruel world by the strength in his arms.
Tell me about your payment.
She stiffened, as a memory of the fishmonger’s angry face flashed through her mind.
Quintin’s arms tightened around her.
Simon was supposed to deliver my payment, she thought with forceful clarity, banishing her worries. He didn’t because he was in the stocks before the job was done. You or your contact or whoever owes me twenty measures of good cacao.
Twenty measures? he asked, though she could hear the echo of other calculations in his mind like a whispered conversation on the far side of the room.
Twenty measures, she thought with as much clarity and sincerity as she could muster.
He nodded, his chin rubbing against her braids. I don’t carry so much with me.
I need those beans, she thought, helpless to disguise her desperation or avoid thinking of the fishmonger’s ire.
I know. I understand. His words were clear and confident. She had no doubt he believed them. She knew better.
Tears stung the backs of her eyes. No one understands.
One of his hands came up to cradle her head. We’ll get you those beans tonight, I swear it. I have enough tucked away in my rooms.
She sagged with relief and would have fallen if not for his arms holding her so close. Where should we meet after you go to your rooms?
Again, she got the sense he was thinking but could not discern the details.
His thoughts finally rang clear. I live outside of town. It might be best for you to follow me home, rather than wait for me to return.
You’ll let me see where you live? she asked, oddly touched by his show of trust.
He chuckled. Surely a woman of your talents could follow me home if you wished. This thought was accompanied by an incongruous image of a stalking waccat. Though not undetected.
She leaned back to look him in the face. “Take me home,” she said aloud. “I mean—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. I know what you mean.
His finger felt soft and warm. Something coiled deep inside her at the touch.
Are you married? Her traitorous mind flung out the question before she could stop it. Her face flamed. It was no business of hers if he was or not.
No, I am not married. His calm, firm answer broke through her scurrying thoughts.
She felt a subtle tension, a hidden apprehension, leave her body at his words.
“Are you?” he asked aloud, his breath warm on her face.
“Am I what?” she returned, mesmerized by his lips, suddenly longing to kiss him, caution be damned.
“Married.”
She raised her gaze from his lips to his eyes and mutely shook her head.
“Good.”
He leaned forward and softly pressed his lips to hers. Where their first kiss had been passionate and powerful, this kiss was sweet and tender. She wanted to weep at the pure beauty of it. Never before had she felt so fragile yet so safe in a man’s arms.
“Halt, who goes there?”
Em reared back, the guard’s voice shattering her sense of safety. Only Quintin’s arms kept her from falling onto the bricks of the riverfront street.
Fermena’s flatulence. His curse was sharp and clear, and mirrored her sentiments exactly.
As the sound of boot heels on bricks tromped over to them, they eased apart with reluctance.
Quintin pressed his palms together and gave a short bow. “Han-Auditor Quintin of Jardin. What seems to be the trouble?”
“Who’s the woman?”
“Em,” he answered.
“Em? Em who?”
“Em of Farbank,” she said in a meek yet carrying voice. She mentally cursed Quintin for needlessly lying about his own title yet using her real name. With luck, naming the ramshackle slums clinging to the other side of the river as her home would be enough to protect her identity.
Quintin flashed a quick look of pity at her. Did he actually believe she lived on the wrong side of the river?
“Well, Hand or no, you can’t loiter around here at night. Do you need an escort to an inn?” The guard looked askance at Em. “Or elsewhere.”
“Your escort won’t be necessary. My waccat is waiting for me.” Quintin offered his arm to Em.
While she rested her fingers on his sleeve she held her body away from his as he led her through the sleeping city. When they approached the city wall, she tugged at his elbow. “Let’s wait for the next patrol to pass. No need to inform them of our movements.”
Annoyance nipped at her heels, as they passed through the tunnel out of the city with no further incidents. Soon the city faded behind them, and the shadows of the forest closed in. She could hear the distant calls of creatures high in the branches of the trees, though an eerie silence followed their footsteps.
“I’m really sorry, Em.”
Em kept walking down the deserted trade road without looking at her companion. They were far enough into the forest to speak freely, though she had no desire to discuss his colossal mistake.
“I didn’t mean to betray your trust.”
“This is why I usually work alone,” she said, not bothering to keep the disgust out of her voice.
They walked on. Chirping insects and croaking frogs filled the silence between them. Shrunken and waning, red Terlune had risen to join Ferlune in casting dappled moonlight on the hard clay road.
Quintin made a noise in his throat. “If it is any comfort, nothing is likely to come of my slip.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Her gut churned at the possible consequences of his mistake. “Lying to the guards was a dumb thing to do.”
“Wait.” He stopped dead in the road. “I thought you were mad because I told them your name.”
“That was a mistake, too.” She spun to face him and planted her hands on her hips. “But telling him you were a Hand and then giving him your real name and position was beyond foolish. It will be ea
sy enough for him to find you at the Tribute Office and then where will you be?”
“In trouble?”
“Yes!” She nearly hissed with exasperation at his confused tone. “Impersonating a Hand is at least a whipping offense. You are sure to lose your job and I don’t want to think about what will happen if they start investigating Em of Farbank.”
“It would be bad?”
“It would be a disaster!” Em thumped the back of her hand against his chest to knock some sense into him. “It was a pointless stunt. Reckless and poorly executed. If you are going to lie about your rank you had better lie about your name and everything else, too.”
She thumped him again in annoyance, unable to shake the feeling he was laughing at her.
A soft low growl sounded behind her.
She spun around.
The moonlight filtering through the trees illuminated the shadowy outline of a waccat.
A scream partially escaped from her throat before she managed to stifle it with her hands over her mouth. “By Fermena’s Holy Breath, one of the guards must have been a Hand and sent his waccat to follow us.”
“No, it’s only Elkart.”
“What?”
He rubbed his chest where she had thumped him. “He wants you to stop hitting me and doesn’t believe me when I tell him you’re teasing. He, um, strongly suggests you stop it.”
Her heart raced as the waccat prowled forward. While the great cats were as honorable as their bonded Hands, there was no denying the power in its feline frame. It was also strange and unnerving to see a waccat so far from a Hand. Em edged backward, though she knew running would be worse than useless.
“Stop it, Elkart.” Quintin stepped directly between her and the cat. “You’re scaring her.”
“I don’t understand,” Em said slowly. Her ability to think trickled back, now that the menacing feline would have to dispatch Quintin to get to her. She knew it could overpower the auditor without breaking stride. Still his courage helped bolster her own. “How do you know its name?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, though his face remained hidden in the shadows. “I didn’t lie to the guards, Em.”
Her stomach did a slow roll.
“My name is Han-Auditor Quintin of Jardin. I am a Hand and Elkart is my waccat.”
She stepped away from him. He had to be lying. He was her client, not a Hand. “You can’t be a Hand. Hands are above suspicion, honorable to a fault.”
He turned to face her fully, the waccat a silent shadow at his side. “You think I’m dishonorable?”
“You worked with me. We broke into the Tribute Office together. You can’t be a Hand.” Hands did not kiss outlaws with tenderness or passion, let alone both. It had to be a trick, or some sort of mistake. “Hands don’t hire thieves.”
“Hands will do anything in service of the Troika and the people of Destin,” he replied. “Even hire thieves if the situation calls for it.”
She frowned, remembering the strange job at the warehouse. He had secreted a quipu into a trunk destined for the Novenary, the heart of the Troika and master of water. As an auditor, Quintin was an agent of air under the Luminary, also known as the mind of the Troika. So what business did he have with the Novenary?
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you a spy?”
He let out a short bark of laughter. “I’d be in a sad state if I were, needing to hire an outlaw every time I had a message.”
She pursed her lips and swallowed her curiosity. She knew better than to ask questions about a job, though it was a novel relief to think her work had been in the name of a better cause than a jealous spouse, or a greedy troublemaker.
“Come on.” He motioned at the road ahead. “Let’s get your cacao.”
She hesitated, eyeing his waccat. “Are you going to arrest me?”
“What?”
“It would be the proper, lawful thing to do.”
“There is nothing proper, or honorable, in betraying an accomplice.” He pressed his fist to his forehead, chest and navel. “By my word as a Hand, you shall come to no harm while with me.”
Em felt her tense muscles relax, almost without conscious thought. Yet she had no reason to be comforted by the word of a man who made deals with thieves. With unscrupulous outlaws like herself. As a child Em had played Hands-and-Bandits with her brothers and dreamed of bonding with a waccat of her own. Then fate had intervened and forced her onto a different path, one devoid of such niceties as honor. Never had she imagined during those carefree days that she would end up as the bandit.
She stifled a sigh. If she could not trust the honor of a Hand, what good was there left in the world?
He held out his hand. “Please, Em, let me take you home.”
She nodded and placed her fingers in his.
His hand was warm and soft. The palm pink, his brown fingers clean and free of calluses, untouched by heavy duties or common labor. It was a hand of privilege, and she wondered briefly if hers felt as soft, or if her years of sneak work had left their mark.
As she followed him deeper into the forest, she cast one look back at the waccat who followed behind them on silent paws.
Chapter 10
Quintin rubbed his thumb over Em’s knuckles, amazed by the simple pleasure of holding her hand. Giddy relief bubbled through him. She wasn’t mad at him for revealing her name. He’d nearly laughed aloud when she accused him of lying to the guards. Such subterfuge had never occurred to him. He was not cut out for the criminal life.
She not like Hands. Elkart jumped out of the bushes to land neatly on the road ahead of them.
She thought I was going to arrest her. He sighed, some of his joy escaping with the sound. Her reaction to his station was a stark reminder of how different their lives were. You also gave her a scare, growling and showing your teeth.
She hit you. Elkart’s tail lashed. Nobody hits my Hand.
It was barely a tap. Madi hits me harder when we’re sparring, and you don’t growl at her.
Irritation nipped through the waccat’s inarticulate thoughts. He jumped back into the jungle and disappeared with a rustle of leaves.
Quintin led Em a little further to an established path off the trade road.
The branches of the canopy met overhead, blocking out the red moonlight and leaving the narrow track in darkness. A choir of bugs buzzed in the night air. Her grip on his hand tightened and he could feel the warmth of her body as she pressed close.
He opened his senses to the air around him and used his gift to navigate. While it wasn’t as good as true sight, it was enough to avoid leading Em into a tree trunk. With his senses on the alert, the jungle seemed full of mysterious shapes and odd movements.
Did you catch the bogbear? he asked Elkart.
No. Frustration colored the waccat’s thoughts. Bogbear hiding. We hunt again when light returns.
Quintin stifled a groan at the prospect of heading off into the jungle with Terin at dawn. Putting thoughts of the morning aside, he tugged Em along the path to his home.
When the path ended at the edge of his mother’s moonlit garden, Em gasped.
“Welcome to Jardin,” he said in an undertone.
The house and garden were cradled in a ball of soft moonlight. After the darkness of the forest, the smooth clay walls of the house seemed to glow pink. He was glad to see its shutters were drawn and not a light could be seen inside. His mother must already be asleep.
He pulled Em beside him as he skirted the edge of the garden along a protective berry hedge. Even at the perimeter, the garden smelled of rich earth and green growing things.
He led her through a shadowy door at the side of the house and into his private chamber. The square room was cramped and furnished with the bare necessities. There was an
altar against the far wall, a dark wooden credenza to one side of the door, and a trunk below a window on the other. It wasn’t much, but it was all his. He closed the door behind them and plunged the room into darkness.
“If I hand you a lamp, can you light it?” he asked, his hushed voice loud in the stillness.
“Yes, I’m balanced,” she responded in an equally quiet tone.
Elkart pranced in the center of the room. Dinner now?
Light first. He let go of her hand to shuffle across the room and retrieve a brass oil lamp off the credenza. He handed her the lamp and turned to attend his waccat. He had yet to take one step when light flared behind him. Then something hard and hot pressed into his back.
The lamp clanged to the floor as she swore.
He began to turn. “What—”
She clutched at his kaftan. “Stay there. I’ll have this out in a moment.”
The distinctive smell of lamp oil rose around them while the heat on his back was replaced with cold.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I tried to give you the lamp, but only succeeded in setting your clothes on fire and putting the light out.”
He chuckled. “If I’m out of danger, I’ll find you a candle.”
Shrouded in darkness once more, he returned to the credenza.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
“A little tender maybe.” He fumbled in a drawer for a beeswax candle. “How are your hands?”
“Oh, fine. Takes more than a couple of sparks to blister a balanced woman.”
He returned and gave her a candle. “This time keep the light for yourself. I can manage well enough with my air gift.”
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