One Velvet Glove

by Dave Duncan

  “And I was standing here,” she said, “like this. And I said, ‘What else do you want of me, pretty man?’”

  “I am sure that the answer was perfectly obvious!” And it was again, if not quite as impressively as in former days.

  He strode over to the bed. Desidéria scrambled up on it, playfully trying to escape. He followed, but the feather mattress was soft as snow, and it took him a moment to catch her and pull her to him. When he tried to kiss her, she unexpectedly tickled him, and broke free. At once childish and passionate, their romp rapidly reached a climax when he sprawled on top of her, holding her wrists, and again preparing to kiss her. He looked down on her pixieish grin and gleaming snake eyes and felt a great surge of spirituality.

  Which put him to sleep.

  Chapter 6

  The room was dark. Spender awoke in a panic, suffocating, straining to reach up to his face and rip off whatever was smothering him. He managed to tear a gap and suck in air, but his whole body had been wrapped in something that felt like thin leather and his mouth was full of pebbles.

  “Steady, darling!” Desidéria said, clutching his wrists in the darkness. “Not so fast. You have to wait a few moments.” She did whatever a sorceress did to fill a room with light, and then he could see her leaning over him, concerned, soothing, unclothed.

  He tried to speak and just uttered panicked animal sounds.

  She pried the sticky covering away from his lips and kissed them, which was a sensation that could distract a man from anything, up to and including certain death. It was a long and inspiring kiss, although just what he could be inspired to do while cocooned like a corpse in cere cloth was another mystery.

  At length Desidéria pulled away and rose to her knees. “That should do. Let’s try again.” She tugged at the covering on his face, and now it came free more easily. He caught at the edges near his chin and ripped it open, his neck, his chest, arms... It slid free like a tight garment. He managed to sit up, so that Desidéria could work on his back while he released his legs, and finally his feet arms and hands. By then he had guessed. People did not call her the Cobra for nothing.

  He sprang off the bed and ran over to the nearest full-length mirror, and there he was, the young Spender of old. Snakes shed their skins, but more than just his hide had gone. So had his beard, all his hair, and a third of a century. The pebbles in his mouth were shiny white teeth.

  Desidéria came to join him, holding his old skin like a discarded garment. “I like the young you much better,” she murmured, kissing his ear.

  “You mean the old me,” he muttered, unable to tear his eyes off his reflection. He flexed his muscles. His scars, his limp, all gone. All the years since Ironhall had vanished.

  “I like you better without the beard, too” she murmured.

  “Then from now on I will shave every day without fail.”

  “You don’t want this, do you?” Smiling, she held up the skin.

  “Burn it.” He turned to embrace her. “How often do you do this? To yourself, I mean.”

  “Whenever I grow tired of aging. Just once since you left, I think. But I knew the very moment when you found the glove, and knew that it would bring you. So I again made myself... presentable.”

  He looked again at the youth in the mirror. “How long does the transformation last?”

  She slid an arm around him. “Until you start to wrinkle. I can make you over again anytime.” Any time she wanted. How long until she tired of him and replaced the statue with another man’s image? What did it matter?

  He kissed her. “Am I allowed to say I love you?”

  Her snake eyes flashed. “You had better! I have been waiting thirty years to hear it.”

  “Then I love you, Desidéria the Cobra, most beautiful, most desirable, most awesome of women. You terrify me and fascinate me and I am now perfectly willing to be your slave until death do us part.”

  She laughed, her breasts pressed against his presently hairless chest. “Be careful what you wish for, because I am immortal.”

  She was also a killer and a deceiver. She had ordered Robins murdered, and betrayed Prince Luis. As for the mad King Afonso... Quite likely she had merely waited until Crown Prince Rodrigo came of age before she disposed of his demented father. But who was he, Spender, to judge her? Many men’s lifeblood had fouled his sword, and he had merely been protecting one useless earl, while she defended a nation.

  “Happily ever after,” he said, and kissed her yet again, with all the new-found enthusiasm of youth.

  The spirituality he had felt when his lips touched her hand had been a candle, but the glory of her kiss was a noonday sun. He had not remained celibate for all the twenty-six years since Graça died, but no woman, not even she, had ever excited him as Desidéria now did. Without breaking off the embrace, he scooped her up and carried her back to the bed. Full-body contact was another amazing experience. The more intimate the touch, the greater the magic, and the moment of penetration was beyond belief. They soared to ecstasy together.

  When the rapture had faded and his heart had stopped trying to kick its way out of his rib cage, he murmured, “I have never known lovemaking like that.”

  “I should hope not. Do it again.”

  “Right now?”

  “And longer.”

  “Impossible!”

  Her slim hand slid gently between them and down to his groin. Instantly his member hardened again.

  “Begin,” she murmured. “Tell me when you absolutely must stop. I shan’t want you to die of exhaustion.”

  Young and superbly fit as he was, he probably came close before he begged for mercy. He should have guessed that Desidéria would be a lover like no other.

  Rhys wakened at first light, shivering in the cool sea air. The sand was soft, but it had lost the heat of the previous day. He sat up and looked at the noisy sea—and then at Trusty, who was doing much the same thing a few feet away. They exchanged morning greetings. Sharp was an inert shape farther away. Orca had bedded down aboard, of course.

  “Do you think we can burn our way through that postern?” Trusty asked.

  “No. But we have to try everything.”

  “And if nothing works?”

  Rhys sighed. “I’ve been trying not to think about that.” Trusty knew as well as he did that they had no source of food there. Only Orca had any money, and although he had not said so yet, even his funds might be running perilously low. If the quest for the treasure had to be abandoned, then the others had nothing to offer him in return for their passage home.

  Trusty indicated the sleeping Sharp. “You think we should rummage through his pack? I suspect he has a lot more boodle tucked away than he’s ever admitted.”

  “Yes, he probably has, and no, we shouldn’t try to steal it.”

  “Then you’d better begin to think about a way out of this,” Trusty said solemnly. “Because I’m stumped.”

  “I suppose I still trust Dad to come through. The way that postern sucked him in and shut us out wasn’t natural. There’s still spirituality hidden in that ruin. The marquisa he described... He’s still alive and there’s no reason why she can’t be.”

  “He certainly hopes so. His eyes light up whenever he mentions her.”

  “So I have to believe that my dad is still alive, and I’m sure he won’t desert us. If you and I were to walk over to those rocks, we might find something edible in the tidal pools.”

  They didn’t, and they weren’t hungry enough yet to try raw limpets.

  Driftwood, washed up by winter storms beyond normal high tide level and left there to bake in the sun, was much more combustible than rotting trees in the forest, so it was a heavily-laden parade that trudged back up the hill later than morning to do battle with the stubborn postern.

  Their mood was grim, and Rhys could sense the angry glances he wa
s carefully not seeing. If this plan did not work, then they would have to choose between leaving Dad behind and starving on the beach. The only settlement they knew of within reach was Casa Marítima, which had been King Afonso’s seaside resort, but might not be King Rodrigo’s. Even if he were there and feeling benevolent, he could hardly be expected to welcome a quartet of ragged, hungry Chivian swordsmen who had no legitimate business being in his realm.

  Sharp, appointing himself fire marshal, gave directions on where to dump the wood. Then he knelt at the base of the studded oaken door and began building small pieces into a castle. Rhys recalled being told once by somebody that oak was a very fire-resistant timber. Orca watched with a sour expression.

  Trusty had wandered to the edge of the cliff. He did not need to shout, but he raised his voice somewhat to announce, “Ship ahoy!” Instantly his companions were at his side. Still some miles away, a three-master was heading landward, proud and splendid, white sails above blue sea.

  Orca roared something like, “Fogging bustards! That’s Ranulf. They’ve come back.”

  “You can’t know that at this distance,” Sharp protested.

  “Yes I can. And why else would any three-master be heading for an empty beach? Come on, all’f yo, we gotta git Sea Devil into the water before she gits here.” He took off at a run.

  He was right, of course. Afloat they might have a slim chance of staying out of bowshot, but if Ranulf marines landed while Sea Devil was still beached, then there could never be a battle, only surrender.

  “All for one,” Rhys said, and followed. He heard the other two coming after him.

  They could go down a lot faster than they went up, but they all knew that even one twisted ankle would be a disaster. They all arrived safely on the beach and saw Ranulf, now horribly close offshore. She had dropped anchor, furled sails, and was lowering a boat. The race was on, but the odds were terrible. Ranulf’s sailors had only to come within bowshot to win; the Blades must reach Sea Devil and also wrestle her down to the sea and raise sail. Even then, the warship could catch them before they could escape out of the bay.

  They had lost. King Ambrose had won.

  Yet they could not give up. Rhys could probably move faster than the others, but they ran as a group, letting Orca, as the oldest, set the pace. Only all four of them together would have a chance of moving Sea Devil. The tide was well out. It was a long way to the boat and even longer from there to the sea. They hadn’t gone a quarter of the distance before Rhys heard a voice shouting his name and looked back. Then they all stopped.

  A man was racing after them. He must have come from either the cottages or the trail down from the castle, and that knowledge somehow overrode the urgency of reaching the boat. He was moving fast, and as he approached it was clear that he was quite young, on the edge between youth and manhood. He wore the marquisa’s colours, black and gold, in a dandified, rakish style, and he had a rapier slung at his side.

  There was something oddly familiar about this youngster.

  He slowed to a halt a few feet away, out of breath, but no more than they were. He was clean-shaven; indeed, he had the flawless complexion of a newborn. He also had a big grin and perfect teeth.

  “Well met, brothers all.” He spoke to Rhys, though.

  Rhys said, “Why are you wearing my father’s sword?”

  The newcomer was amused. “Because I earned it. But of course you can’t believe your eyes. Let’s see... Do you remember once, years ago, how Downie went looking for you and heard someone using bad language in the stable? And she found you trying to put a saddle on Bellman? You had to stand on a stool to do it, and every time you stepped down to fasten the girths, Bellman would shrug the saddle off, so you—”

  “Dad!? You are really?”

  “Well, officially I’m My Grace the Marquês Spendero da Eternidade now, but you can still call me Dad if you prefer.”

  Father and son crashed together in an embrace, as they had done on the steps of Willows Hall, only this time it was the father who lifted the son clean off his feet.

  “Yo’r damnable witchcraft is scuttlin’ wond’rful,” Orca yelled. “But what ’bout me Sea Devil?”

  Dad-reborn extricated himself with difficulty from Rhys’s clutches. “Sea Devil’s in no danger, brother. It looks to me as though Ranulf’s jolly boat is turning around already. Come on, let’s go back up the palace, where we’ll have a better view. I think I’m getting a sunburn.”

  Orca planted his feet more firmly and folded his arms. “And just what do you know about this?”

  The miraculous youth shrugged. “I was talking with King Rodrigo yesterday, and he was obviously aware that there was a Chivian warship snooping around his shores, where it had no right to be. Fitain has quite a large fleet, you know. Look at Ranulf now.”

  Rhys shaded his eyes to see better, then began to laugh.

  Sharp joined in. Trusty said, “He’s right. The crew’s going aloft again. They’re preparing to sail.”

  Five Blades turned and hurried back across the beach, with Spender in the middle, trying to answer all the questions being thrown at him. “...sheds her skin like a snake... why she’s called the Cobra. That’s what she did for me. Yes, it will all grow back, she says. My eyebrows never show up anyway. Yes, the real King Rodrigo. I met him when he was crown prince, briefly, remember?” And so on.

  When they reached the path, he led the way, moving much more nimbly than the older men, free of his limp at last, as fit and strong as he had been the day he left Ironhall. There was little talk then and no need to talk when they arrived at the cliff top and could view the ocean. Ranulf was desperately tacking upwind, while three Fitish galleons bore down on her. No doubt she had her boarding nets hung by now, and no doubt she could muster two or three hundred archers on her castles, but the Fitish warships were as big, if not bigger, they had her wind, and were closing fast.

  “I do believe,” the marquês said, “that King Ambrose is going to lose his pretty ship today.”

  Rhys hoped that her captain would strike his colours before he took too many casualties. Three galleons would pour arrows into Ranulf like a hailstorm.

  Chapter 7

  They watched for a while, but it soon became obvious that the Chivian captain had recognized how hopelessly outnumbered he was, and had offered to parley. Unless he were a very fast talker, he would have to yield his command to a prize crew; he and his ship would be detained in Lindora during the negotiations. Even if Ambrose did ransom his precious warship, he would probably have the man hanged from his own yardarm when he returned to Chivial. Life is often unfair.

  “On a more cheerful note,” Spender said, “now would be a good time to go fishing for leather holdalls full of ways and means.”

  No one disagreed. They gathered up the ropes and other tackle that they had acquired in Isilond, and followed him in through the postern, which opened at a touch of his hand. Today the stable was a-buzz with men and boys tending splendid cavalry horses. The humans all saluted the new marquês. The visitors just gaped, and Spender was tempted to, because the horses stable had been empty half an hour ago, when he set out for the beach.

  They gaped even more when they emerged in the quadrangle and saw the parkland, with children playing, gardeners at work, and a small military band practising in the far corner. Spender had come to realize that from now on reality for him was going to be whatever Desidéria fancied at the moment. Fortunately, none of his companions recognized the model behind the golden statue. Earlier today he had begged that it be amended to include a golden loincloth, and his wife had acceded, in a minimalist fashion.

  He led them over to the Red Tower, where the unobtrusive door opened easily at his touch. They lit their lanterns and descended into the unfinished cellar he had described for them—long ago, it seemed now. There was very little room for five men around that deadly hole in the floor
.

  Orca the sailor was in charge of knots. He fastened their largest hook to their longest rope and ran it out, down the well. Then he had to tie the next longest rope to the longest, and that combination was just enough to reach bottom. He jiggled it until he felt it catch on something, and after that it was merely a matter of Orca and Trusty hauling in the fish together. Spender suspected that the spirits of chance were being controlled by the marquisa, and was even more sure of that when he saw that the bag was whole and dry, and barely even dusty. In triumph they carried it up the steps to daylight in the tower’s foyer.

  Then they set in down on the tiled floor and looked at it in awe.

  It held promises of incredible wealth for every one of them. But the last man who had tried to open it had died.

  “No volunteers?” Spender asked cheerfully.

  “I volunteer,” Desidéria said, descending the great spiral staircase. She was wearing another of her slinky cloth-of-gold robes, this one even more shameless than ever, and she’d had centuries of practice in making entrances. The Blades reacted with alarm, instantly followed by low bows.

  “Do present your friends, dear.”

  “Gladly,” Spender said, which was an understatement of epic proportions. What man would not enjoy displaying such a bride? “First, this old man is my son, Sir Rhys. You knew his mother.”

  Desidéria offered a hand to be kissed. As she had when meeting Burl and Dragon so long ago, she judged each man with unerring insight. Of Rhys she said, “His testing has not been so harsh as yours, yet he is worthy of both his parents.”

  To Trusty, “Well named, but why not ‘Oak’?”

  He gazed at her with wonder. “Because that name was already taken, senhora.”

  She nodded and smiled.

  To Sharp, “Never marry, senhor. Your heart is harder steel than your sword.”

  Then she came to Orca. “Ah, the lover! Oh, why were you not the first Blade I met?” Orca turned an absolutely impossible shade of crimson, and she chuckled.