Paladin's Strength

by T. Kingfisher

  “We don’t know the reasons for the raid,” said the woman who ran the safehouse, who had no name that she was willing to give out. “Most likely, they simply got word that the Rat has been busy lately and decided to put us back in our place.” She was older, with a tight silver bun, and her left eye was made of sparkling blue glass. “Or it may have nothing to do with us at all, and some bullies simply wanted to blow off some steam. They’re allowed to trash a house or two, as long as they don’t start fires or leave more than a few broken limbs behinds.”

  “I worry that they got wind of our activities,” said Istvhan. He did not want to go into details about those activities, and suspected that their host would prefer not to know either.

  “It’s possible,” she said. “But it is also possible that they chose a few locations at random. Ethan’s affiliations are known, and there was another raid a few streets over, of a fishmonger who the Rat hires frequently. I suspect that we’ll hear of another raid before the night is over.” She spread her hands, blue light winking from her eye. “We simply don’t know yet.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” said Ethan anxiously. “We got the newts out. That’s what matters. If I have to replace a few pieces of furniture, that’s nothing much. I don’t have much good furniture anyway. The monkeys see to that. As long as the animals are safe, nothing else matters.”

  “Speaking of which, is there a washroom?” asked Clara. “I’m covered in…errrr…newt-water.”

  “Yes, of course.” Their host gestured. “Downstairs, third door. Please, help yourself.”

  Istvhan rose as well. “I…ah…also. With the newts.”

  The woman rolled her good eye. “It was kind of you to help,” she said. “He does care very much about his pets.”

  “They aren’t exactly pets…” Ethan began, but Clara was out the door and Istvhan was after her before the explanation was fully underway.

  The washroom was small. It had a stone floor. It had an empty washtub. It had moss growing in the corners. Nothing about it was remotely erotic, unless you were extremely fond of moss.

  Istvhan had dreamed of making love to Clara any number of times. He would take his time. He would find all the soft, secret places of her body and find every way to bring her pleasure. She would cry out in his arms and tremble and beg for more.

  His dreams had not included either the moss or the washtub. This was hardly the sort of setting that one wished to make love to a woman. “Domina…” he began.

  She kicked the door closed, grabbed the front of his tabard, and said, “Now. Before I lose my nerve or we’re drowned in salamanders or somebody shows up wanting a fight.”

  On second thought, he could probably make the washroom work.

  He flipped the washtub over. She had her clothes off and was working on his. They grabbed for each other, no finesse at all, just tongues and teeth and need. He filled his hands to overflowing with her breasts and groaned against her lips. She pushed her hand between them and her fingers closed over his cock and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  He wanted to do everything right. He wanted to be gentle and maddening and skillful, make love to her slowly, drive her to blazing passion under him. He had been longing for this woman for weeks now, and if there was justice in the universe, he would have had her spread out under him on a bed with silk sheets and a full night ahead of him to learn every nuance of her body.

  Instead, he had a stone washroom and a wooden tub and a man obsessed with newts was probably going to come looking for him in the next five minutes and the universe was totally devoid of justice but he couldn’t concentrate on that at all because Clara’s hand was dragging down his length in a manner that would have brought a marble statue to life. At least if the statue was male.

  “Clara,” he managed to grate out, “I’ve got to be inside you. Now.”

  “Thank god,” she said. She went down onto the tub and it was a damn good thing he’d done all those vigils because the stone floor didn’t even register as he dropped to his knees behind her.

  “Saint’s teeth. Saint’s bloody teeth. Domina, do you—”

  “Yes.”

  It was the only word he needed. It was more than enough. She cried out and so did he, but he was inside her at last and saints and gods and devils but it was good.

  Reflexively, he tried to be careful. The first time, you always went slow and gentle, making sure that everything fit together, finding out what your partner liked and how much she could take. But she bucked her hips back against him, driving him deeper, and she was shockingly strong. Care began to fall by the wayside. He grabbed her hips and she growled with approval and it was still good, it was better than good, the flare of her hips in his hands and the softness and he stopped even trying to be careful.

  “Domina…”

  “Harder,” she gasped, pushing against him.

  Something broke loose inside him. He didn’t have to worry about frightening her. She could tear him in half if she wanted. Istvhan gave himself up to the moment. Their bodies slammed together with bruising force and both of them wanted more.

  Then the washtub broke.

  Clara nearly pitched forward into the wreckage. Istvhan held her up with both arms and…well, his cock felt load-bearing at the moment, but it probably wasn’t. She started to laugh and squirmed free and he said, “Are you okay?” and then she turned and dragged him down on top of her, still laughing. He met the softness of her body with the hardness of his own. Not yet. Not until she’s ready. He slid his hand down between them, working at her flesh, cursing himself for not knowing what she liked or how she liked it, but he must have done something right because her body suddenly clenched around him, once, twice, and then he could no longer hold back. Her nails dug into his back and he cried out her name and collapsed over her as if he’d taken a mortal wound.

  “Well,” she said, after a few minutes had passed and he had remembered how breathing worked and why he should do it.

  Istvhan propped himself up on his elbows. For once, he didn’t worry about crushing his partner under his weight, but still, there was a lot of both of them. Her breasts were warm against his chest. “I feel as if I should apologize.”

  “Of course you do, you’re a paladin. You could apologize to the owner of the washtub, if you like. Not to me.”

  He laughed. So did she, which caused muscles to clench and his laugh turned into something between a yelp and a groan. “Sorry,” she said.

  “If I don’t get to apologize, neither do you.” He rested his forehead against hers. “I would very much like to do that again,” he said, “but perhaps more slowly and not on a stone floor.”

  “That would be wonderful.” She stroked her fingers down the back of his neck. “Still, I have no regrets.”

  “My only regret is that we will have to explain the breakage.” He gazed down at her, suddenly serious. Did she still have doubts? This was the time when they tended to rear their heads, after the passion was done and before the warmth had quite faded away. “Domina…Clara…”

  Shadows flickered in her eyes. He lowered his head and brushed his mouth across hers with all the tenderness he hadn’t had a chance to show earlier. “It will be well. All of it.”

  She closed her eyes. He knew he hadn’t quite convinced her, but she managed a smile. “Except for the damn washtub.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Clara lay in a small, dark room, with the door closed, and felt her nerves jangling.

  The woman who ran the safehouse was trying to be kind. “No one will find you here,” she said. “This is the most secure place in the house.” And she’d made up a very large pallet on the floor, which was helpful, because none of her beds would have fit Clara at all.

  It was just so very small and the door was between her and the rest of the world. It felt like a cage. And Istvhan was housed separately somewhere, because of course they hadn’t said they were a couple and there was no reason that the woman would assume they were
and Istvhan had lied very smoothly about the washtub, much more smoothly than a paladin should have been able to lie.

  Maybe they weren’t a couple. Maybe Clara was the one making assumptions. And now she was alone in the dark, and the warm afterglow of love had turned to nerves and wondering if he had been disappointed or if everything would be awkward now or if, having finally had her, Istvhan would be off to other conquests.

  The bear did not like her fretting. It liked the darkness and the quiet but it had learned to fear cages and it stirred uneasily in her mind, wondering if it should smash the door down, and that would be much harder to explain than the washtub.

  She got up and unbolted the door. It was still dark in the hallway, even though dawn had to be breaking. She could see a little damp light through a crack in the boards near the end.

  “Clara?” whispered a voice somewhere in the hall, followed by a knock. “Clara, are you in here?”

  Istvhan. Her shoulders sagged with unexpected relief. He was here. She wasn’t alone. If she was in a cage, she had someone to watch her back while she fought free.

  Shuffling footsteps and another knock, a little closer. “Clara? Are you in here?”

  “Are you just going from door to door?” she whispered.

  “Oh thank the gods.” Istvhan’s bulk eclipsed the crack of light. “Yes, I was going from door to door, trying not to bother anyone. I’ve found two storage closets and the privy.”

  “I’m down this way.”

  She heard the boards creak as he moved closer. “I didn’t know where they’d put you. I was worried.”

  They stood inches from each other. Clara cleared her throat. “It’s not a very big room,” she said, “but there’s probably room for two people. If they were good friends.”

  She could hear his voice rumbling in his chest. “I would say that you and I are very good friends, wouldn’t you?”

  “I like to think so.” She reached out and caught a fistful of his shirt and tugged him back, toward the doorway. Somehow, despite having two people in it, the room seemed less confining. She didn’t even flinch when he closed the door, though he left it unbolted.

  “Now, then…” he said, stretching out beside her. “As delightful as our interlude with the washtub was, I think I would prefer to try that again, more slowly, and with less furniture.”

  “It’s very dark,” she said, which came out almost like a protest.

  “That’s all right. I shall simply have to do everything by touch.”

  His hand rose to her face, slipped down her neck and across her collarbone. She swallowed hard, feeling the ghostly trail of his fingertips across her skin, awakening feelings more complicated than mere lust.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said, to break the silence. “It was starting to feel like a trap here, and the bear was starting to think about breaking out.”

  His hands paused. “That would certainly be inconvenient, yes.”

  “Not the sort of thing our hosts are used to worrying about.”

  “Do I need to worry?” he asked. “Not about the cage, but you said once that strong emotions bring out the beast. Hungers. Does that include sexual hungers? Should I be prepared to backpedal very quickly and offer you a truffle?”

  She raised an eyebrow, even though she knew he couldn’t see it in the dark. “You really don’t know if I’ll turn into a bear in the middle of sex, and you were still willing to take that chance? Really?”

  “I have known women that I would wrestle bears for,” said Istvhan. He sounded very sincere. “You’re one of them. It’s just that in all the other cases, I expected to have to go looking for the bear, instead of having one delivered.”

  Clara snorted. “No, no. That’s not a concern. Unless a fistfight breaks out in the middle of the bed. You, um, don’t smell that interesting to the bear.”

  “I feel strangely insulted.”

  “Don’t be. Male bears in rut mostly smell like meat and piss.”

  “Oh, you should have known me in my teen years, then.”

  She started laughing. He pressed his lips against her shoulder, and she could feel him smile against her skin. “Enough dark thoughts, Domina. I am still wide awake, and this time, I intend to take my time and do this properly. For both of us.”

  Istvhan woke, for the second time that month, with his head buried in someone’s cleavage. Unlike the first time, he knew exactly where he was and who he was with. Admittedly, she was still a nun, but that didn’t seem to matter nearly as much as it used to.

  This is a very fine way to wake up. I could get used to this.

  “Are you all right down there?” asked Clara.

  “I am having a moment.”

  “Yes, I see that. Can you breathe?”

  “Air is for the weak.”

  She chuckled. “Well, as long as you’re enjoying them.”

  “They are glorious beyond measure.”

  “I’m glad someone likes them. They make it very hard to run and my back usually hurts.”

  “Hmm. I do not want you to be in pain, Domina. I shall go everywhere in front of you and hold them up for you to spare your back.”

  “That won’t attract attention at all.”

  “I shall challenge anyone who looks at us askance to a duel. Two duels. Ten duels.”

  “I’d think one duel would be sufficient.”

  “I like to be thorough.”

  They might have gone on in this increasingly silly vein for quite some time—Istvhan was more than willing—but someone knocked loudly on the door and instincts took over. He rolled to his feet, grabbing his sword, just in time for their host to open the door. She was carrying a lamp and bright daylight spilled through the doorway behind her.

  Many women would balk at suddenly confronting a large naked man with a sword, but she was made of sterner stuff. She looked him up and down, raised the eyebrow over the glass eye, and said, “Ah.”

  “Apologies,” said Istvhan, lowering the sword and attempting to look less naked. Unfortunately, there were limits to how much you could modestly cover with a blade. He heard Clara smothering laughter behind him.

  “You could have simply told me,” the woman said. “I could have made up a second pallet in here.”

  “I didn’t know myself,” admitted Istvhan, who already felt guilty about lying over the washtub and couldn’t quite bring himself to compound the falsehood.

  “Then my congratulations. There is food in the main room, though I suggest you dress to eat it. The benches are old and may have splinters.” She set the lamp down, nodded to Clara, and pulled the door closed.

  “There goes the least impressed woman I have ever met in my life,” muttered Istvhan.

  “I imagine running a safehouse does that to you.”

  After a quick washing up, they finally entered the main room. Faizen was waiting for them.

  “We have confirmation,” said Faizen, without bothering with greetings. “Our spymaster is working on details now, but it seems very clear. Approximately a dozen women, mostly older, were delivered as a group to the colosseum eleven days ago, under the seal of the Shipbreakers.”

  Istvhan felt Clara go very still next to him. Her breath went out in a woosh, as if someone had punched her in the gut. “A dozen,” she said hoarsely. “There were more. Who has died? Are they certain of the numbers? Do they have descriptions?”

  Faizen was already shaking his head. “Nothing so clear, and nothing so clear cut. That’s an estimate only. There may be more or less.”

  “Alive,” she said. For the first time since he had known her, there were tears in her voice. “Praise Ursa, some of them are alive.”

  She swayed a little on her feet. Istvhan wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She said something against his collar, but he could not make out the words, muffled as they were by cloth or weeping or both. He wondered briefly if there was a chance that this emotion would be too much and if he would find himself holding a bear against his
chest, but these were minor concerns in the grand scheme of things. He merely held her and stroked her hair and murmured things that did not matter in the slightest.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, almost inaudibly, when she finally pulled away. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I did the same when I found that some of my brothers had escaped the carnage of the temple.” She nodded to him and wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “Although the Rat priests kindly provided handkerchiefs then.”

  Faizen cleared his throat and waved a square of linen at them. Clara gave a tiny choke of laughter and took it.

  Conversation was stilted, to say the least. Istvhan and Faizen carried most of it. Clara sat at the table, staring at the food, one hand rubbing her chest.

  Istvhan put an arm around her shoulders. “Eat,” he said, in the paladin’s voice.

  She glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing. “I know what you’re doing,” she said.

  “I know you do. But eat something anyway. We are going to have to come up with a plan, and that is never easy on an empty stomach.” She grimaced, but took a piece of bread and began to gnaw on it, without much enthusiasm.

  Faizen nodded. “When you’re done, I’ll take you to the spymaster. He’ll tell you everything we know.”

  It was a long trip, made longer by another uncomfortable ride hiding in the wagon, although Istvhan made it rather more entertaining by whispering dirty jokes in her ear until she blushed. Neither of them spoke of the sisters being discovered alive, and she was glad of it. She was already too unsettled. A little straightforward lust was much more welcome.

  The night before had been extremely lustful, but no less unsettling. She’d wanted it fast and hard again, a quick physical release untroubled by emotions. But Istvhan stubbornly refused to be hurried, whispering soothing words and stroking her skin, and she yielded at last.