“Yes, Domina.”
As Ginovae slipped out, Nevia lay back on her bed. Now, as she thought of Melenius and being soon again in his arms, her blossom opened beautifully. With each stroke, she grew wetter. She could almost feel his hands on her, on her breasts, on her belly, on her hips. She could almost hear his voice commanding her to climax. And when she did, it was Melenius’s name she cried out.
Chapter Six
Melenius stood barefoot in the courtyard of his townhouse and inspected the group of mercenaries. He palmed a flat, smooth stone, its weight a comfort in his hand. The morning was chilly, and the shadows were still long. Grim faced and silent, these swarthy men sat around a small fire sharpening their blades, cruel daggers and heavy axes. Occasionally, one or another might glance up at Melenius, but they never stared. They were being paid, clearly reason enough to prepare for any kind of mischief.
Garalach came to stand beside Melenius. “If it’s not a small fire, it’s a stone, eh?” He nodded toward Melenius’s hand.
Melenius tossed the stone into the air and caught it. “It just feels right.”
“You were a quirky student; you’re turning into a man with more than a few foibles.”
Melenius communed silently with the rock in his hand and luxuriated in the chill of the rough stones under his feet.
“Lovely bunch.” Garalach swirled a cup of wine-water as he watched the mercenaries work. The courtyard rang out with the scraping sounds of metal on stone.
“My wife is more resourceful than I imagined. The moons chase the sun.”
Garalach threw back his head and emptied his cup. “You’re more right than you know. She’s got ice in her veins, and it’s got nothing to do with being a Lorin. She is, truly, her father’s daughter.” He popped a date in his mouth, bouncing the others in the palm of his hand.
Father’s daughter! Melenius made a slow, deliberate shifting of his feet so that he could stand face-to-face with Garalach. “We’ve been friends a long time, so I’m going to assume that was just some of the careless chatter you’re so used to spouting. But if you compare Nevia to her father again—”
Garalach threw up his hands, one fist still closed over his breakfast. “Understood. Sorry.”
Melenius’s anger dissipated on his airs. He clapped his friend’s shoulders. “No, Garalach. It is I who must apologize. This business with Judal is insufferable. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
One of Melenius’s house slaves ran up and bowed before his master. “The gate is secured, Dominus.” And he scampered away.
“So,” Garalach said, stepping near the hunched-over mercenaries, “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Melenius went over to stand near Garalach. “Nevia hired these men.” He extended his hand toward one of the mercenaries, and the man handed him his sword. Melenius touched its edge – sharp as any blade could be, he reckoned, though he was no soldier. He handed it back.
Garalach’s puzzlement disturbed his waters. “And?”
“And I’m going to rescue her from her father’s house today.”
“Indeed? With these men?”
“Not exactly. I meant to get Nevia away today regardless. These mercenaries are her insurance plan. Nevia thinks Judal won’t let me keep my guards nearby, and I’d need them to protect us while we get away.”
Garalach leaned in closer, popping another date in his mouth.
Melenius reacted by dropping his voice to a whisper. He was not sure such secrecy was necessary, it being his own house, but he realized he could not be too careful. “Today is Nevia’s betrothal feast, as you know. All I need is a moment to get near Nevia, and when I do, we’ll make a run for the garden wall. I’ll use my airs to propel us over the wall, where my second litter will be waiting, guarded by these men.”
“This was your idea?”
“Actually, it was all Nevia’s. It’s almost as if she’s rescuing herself.” Melenius laughed in his airs.
But Garalach’s elements did not echo Melenius’s mirth. Instead, the tutor crammed the rest of the dates in his mouth and fairly fled.
“Garalach!” Melenius turned to follow him. “Where are you going?”
Without stopping to explain, Garalach called back. “We’ve got a lot to do. I’ll go to Judal’s to make sure Nevia has everything ready.”
“Quick as Chiel’s breath, then, my friend.”
Melenius’s stomach growled, reminding him that if he was going to attempt to break his wife out of prison, it would be unwise to do so hungry. He clapped his hands and summoned food.
****
Melenius had not been to the Akar townhouse for years, not since Nevia had come into womanhood. It was changed, its high walls now more forbidding. He came now as a thief, not as an honored guest. He remembered the ostentatious cenas Judal had entertained him with back when they had been discussing the marriage contract. He had feasted on songbirds with asparagus, quail eggs, truffles, and every good thing. The Akar patriarch had spared no expense for his daughter’s Lorin suitor – the leisurely, mid-afternoon meals with jugglers, exotic dancers, and clowns. Judal had the finest couches in Nirrion, and as a young man, Melenius had envied him his wealth. What he did not know then was that the Akar clan’s greatest treasure was not gold or silver.
Nevia’s wintry-blue eyes had arrested his roiling elements; her touch had shown him that she could not be bought or sold as her father would do, as Melenius had thought Judal could do. Nevia gave herself to Melenius, and he loved her for that. Other than Garalach, Nevia was the only other real person in Melenius’s estimation. Everyone else was bestial. He did not consider humans lesser life forms, just different and as incomprehensible to him as Lorin were to them. Garalach had taught him how to read human emotions, but it was a taxing and unpleasant activity.
Melenius’s litter passed through the main gateway and into the courtyard of Judal’s residence. It was easily twice the size of Melenius’s. The spring day was chilly, and a large fire burned in the hypocaust. The courtyard was a bustle of activity, slaves running this way and that, guards loitering near empty litters, and stable boys trying to keep a rein on the many horses left to their care.
Melenius stepped out of his litter and stretched his legs. The journey from the Nerivi hill where he lived to the Aevi was not a long one, but today it had taken more time than usual. The streets nearest Nevia’s house were packed with people. The betrothal feast of the only daughter of the Akar house did not happen every day. Melenius’s anger burned against Judal. And he hated Belamal, too, even though he was most likely nothing more than a dupe. From what Melenius knew about Belamal, he was as Skenje as they came – grave, respectable, and proud. He also happened to be a general in the armies of Nirrion, and this made him wildly popular with the people. Although Belamal had lost Vieta, Nirrion’s southernmost city, to the Kindor, he had behaved as a brave son of the republic should. He had simply been outnumbered.
Murmuring conversation and laughter reached Melenius’s ears. The house was full of guests, which was just the way Melenius wanted it. With so many noble witnesses around, Judal would not dare to shed blood in his own house. All Melenius had to do was get close enough to Nevia to make a break for it.
“All is in readiness, Dominus,” Melenius’s body slave said in his ear.
Melenius nodded but did not look at the slave. “Wait outside.”
The slave bowed and ran off.
Melenius wore a fine toga in the traditional Faror colors of burgundy and silver. As he stepped through the door, he read the barely concealed sneers of minor nobles – those below him in station – as they looked on him. He did not dress as a man of Nirrion should. His dark skin and flashy colors only served to remind the pale-faced Skenje that they had invited strangers into their republic. But Melenius had been born in the city. He was as loyal a son of the republic as any man, and so he held his head high, for all the good it might do. To human
s, Lorin were nothing more than expressionless statues. Melenius did not care; he only wanted one pair of eyes to know his heart.
Judal met Melenius almost as soon as he entered the house. “Ah, welcome, Senator Firin.” He spread his arms wide, almost as wide as the false grin on his face. “So good of you to come.”
“You honor me with your invitation, Radiance.” Melenius seethed, but to everyone else, he knew his reply was calm and measured, the epitome of politeness.
“Won’t you drink some of my water?”
Melenius was taken aback by this request. Why would Judal offer him water? That was the kind of thing done to an honored guest or a friend. It was to show that one’s water was good enough to drink, and sharing one’s water with a guest was a singular honor.
“Yes,” Melenius answered, unable to object.
What was Judal doing? Surely he was not going to try to poison him right there in front of everyone. Besides, even if he were so foolish as to try, Melenius feared no poison. As a Lorin, he could summon his waters to dilute any harmful substance ingested.
With the toothy smile still plastered on his face, Judal took a cup of water offered him by a nearby slave. The slave then handed Melenius a cup. Conversations stopped, and all eyes were on the pair. Judal honored Melenius above all his guests, and doubtless people wanted to know why. What words would pass between them?
Melenius did not care for Judal’s little game. He looked over his foe’s shoulder and spied Nevia sitting in a chair across the room, her back to the peristyle. Her elements were stormy and impatient. She did not sit with her feet in the earth as a bride-to-be should have been doing. Instead, she sat on her bare feet. Nevia stared at Melenius, and Melenius stared back at her with such intensity as if to will her patience. Beside her sat Belamal in a toga of scarlet and grey, the rich garments of a groom. Melenius wanted to blast him from the face of the earth for his presumption, but he remembered that Belamal was blameless in this. If Belamal knew that Nevia had been quietly married to another man and then quietly divorced, he would never have agreed to marry her. Belamal had a reputation for being a strict traditionalist, sticking to his principles even when it was not profitable to do so.
“The last Lorin in the city,” Judal said, raising his cup. “They are all come to see the marriage of one of their own.”
That was pretty thin.
Melenius raised his glass and drank with Judal. Whatever he had planned had failed. After all, what did Judal know about Lorin? Melenius waited for the poison to infect him; he readied the cleansing wave of his waters.
But the poison never came. Instead, the room spun, and after-images of the faces of the guests blurred through his mind. The tension that had been in Melenius’s muscles from the moment he left his litter drained away, and all he wanted to do was sleep.
Judal just stood and smiled.
When Melenius stumbled forward, Judal caught him. “Senator Firin? Are you all right?”
Melenius opened his mouth to speak, but his lips could not form words. His speech slurred as profound lethargy overcame him. He heard Nevia cry out for him, but when he looked up, he could not find her.
Faces gathered around him. They looked at one another and whispered. Judal was among those faces. Lips moved, but no sound came from anyone’s mouth. Melenius needed to sleep.
He saw Nevia across the room, and Garalach was restraining her. This he saw through Judal’s legs, and he realized he was lying on his back.
Darkness claimed him.
****
Hands pawed at Melenius, traveling over his body from head to toe. He felt himself being rolled over. A sharp pain at his neck, and his gold chain was snatched away. He felt his belt loosen; he heard the clinking of the silver kalahls in his coin purse. Someone had hold of his hands, splaying his fingers wide. One by one, his rings were being stolen. Quick, rough, trembling hands laid hold of him and propped him half sitting up. Everything smelled like shit and piss. He was sitting in something damp. The wall against his back was cold against his skin.
His skin? Melenius forced his eyes open. He was naked, and the thieves who had taken everything from him were running down the garbage-strewn alley. Melenius forced himself to roll out of the sewage, but his strength had not returned. The water that Judal had given him still overbore his spirit. But he knew he had to get on his feet. He heard a butcher crying out about hogs for sale. He heard the ring of the blacksmith’s anvil. The narrow streets without sunshine, dominated by overcrowded apartment blocks on the verge of collapsing, told Melenius that he was far from home. If Judal were true to form, and he probably had been, he would have had his men dump Melenius on the Kuthevi hill, across the Clearlow River, territory controlled by brutish, rival gangs.
Melenius shook his head, but the sluggishness did not leave him. He called to the air to set himself on his feet, but his elements did not respond. And he understood what had happened. Judal must have slipped him a sleeping potion, but where Judal could have obtained one, Melenius could not say. Only Lorin could make such potions. Perhaps he had taken one of Nevia’s back when she was making them under Garalach’s tutelage. It would not surprise Melenius to discover that Judal would hoard such things against the day he might use them against his enemies.
Melenius had to purge the potion from his body before he was found and murdered in the street. Or worse – captured by slavers and taken from the city, far from any place he knew and anyone who could confirm his identity as a nobleman.
He summoned up his waters, but his element came to him only as a trickle. It was a start; he hoped it would be enough. He sent his waters flowing through him, and his body soaked up the element like a parched traveler stranded in desert lands. As he cleansed himself, he crawled. His eyelids were still heavy, but if he could find a doorway to hide in, he might buy the time he needed.
The trickle turned into a stream, and Melenius felt his strength returning, though the potion warred against his elements and clung to him like a stubborn leech. The elixir had been deviously crafted to resist Lorin elements. Could Nevia have been able to make such a thing as a mere student? Her powers were uncommon, to be sure, evidenced by how her fire manifested itself as frost. If Melenius survived the Kuthevi, he would ask her to teach him everything about potions. It was a handy skill to have.
Melenius scrabbled forward half blind until he felt a descending stair. There was an open door just two steps down. He tumbled down the steps and into the doorway. Anywhere was safer than a Kuthevi alley.
“Well, what do we have here?” A voice called out.
Melenius heard the creaking of wood. People were pushing their chairs back and rising from their seats. The most undesirable rag-tag band of unshaven miscreants one could ever have the misfortune to run across all gathered round Melenius.
“What’s he naked for?” one asked another.
“Got robbed, it looks like.”
“Must’ve been worth a pretty sentinel to get everything taken off him.”
One sniffed at him. “Is that perfume I smell?”
“Did you doll yourself up for us, love?”
Melenius groaned and rolled over on his back. The street would have been safer.
The men’s eyes widened in shock. One elbowed another while looking at Melenius’s penis. “Big as any fuck slave I’ve seen.”
“Seen a lot, have you?” asked another.
Everyone laughed.
“This man’s clean as Aeirakai’s cunt. I think I’ll have a bit of this.”
“Hairy, though, isn’t it?”
Melenius felt himself being rolled over. He flailed his arms, but he lacked the strength to stop what was coming. He was about to be gang raped.
“It’s more crowded than Elendrie’s snatch at festival in here. Everybody step back, and give me some room!”
Melenius felt the man’s spittle run down the crack of his ass. His rapist rubbed his hand against his asshole, all the while humming to himself. This was it – Juda
l had won.
A new voice cried out. “What are you lot about?”
Melenius struggled to look up. Into the room poured Nevia’s mercenaries.
The thugs pulled their weapons. “You just turn right around and walk out of here, minding your own business,” one of them said, “or you’ll be playing knucklebones with Nistaran.”
“This man is our business!” The mercenaries attacked.
Melenius would be at the mercy of whoever won the fight, so he retreated into his element and contented himself with the meditative sound of rushing water. He was gaining ground against the potion.
Hot blood splashed against his skin, and then a body fell across his back. The battle raged around him, but Melenius was its calm center. He had to take control of himself; he had to get on his feet. He crawled across the floor and hid under the nearest table he could find. From there, he watched the mercenaries slaughter the ruffians. He wanted to be in Nevia’s arms more than ever – his wife, his savior.
The lead mercenary, a slim but powerful man of Jarad blood, stooped down and stuck his head under the table. “You all right, captain?”
“Fine,” Melenius managed to say. His throat was dry, so much of his elements having gone into counteracting the potion.
The mercenary extended his hand, and Melenius took it. “Get his worship a cloak or something.”
Somebody threw Melenius a ratty, fur cloak, and he gladly put it on. “You have my thanks,” he said to the leader.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Lady Akara. Or better yet, thank her rich daddy.”
Melenius held his tongue. The mercenary knew nothing, and it was just as well that he remain ignorant of Nevia’s animosity toward her father. He let him go on thinking that Judal was ultimately responsible for this rescue.
Rescue, indeed. Today was the day Melenius was supposed to have saved Nevia, but instead, the reverse had happened.
He stepped over maimed, broken bodies and wondered where his guards were. “Take me home,” Melenius said.
Chapter Seven
Chasing Earth and Flame Page 7