Immortalibus Bella

by SL Figuhr

  Mica scoffed, remaining uneasy, furtively looking around to make sure they were not being followed. He didn’t understand why he should have terrifying dreams. Every enemy he had fought and bested, he lost to them again and again throughout the hours he slept. Sometimes they killed him immediately, but mostly they made him suffer, and each had red glowing eyes, spoke in guttural tones. His brother was still talking, and with an effort he tried to listen, catching the last sentence.

  “I know you think it make-believe nonsense. Nicky does like to pretend he’s an occult leader, showing his acolytes the true meaning of depravity. What if he’s back to his old games and using the grove?”

  “Yes, but remember the Hellfire Club, The Skull and Bones and, oh, every other gathering of like-minded people? It could be another version of it,” Colin cajoled.

  Mica snorted. “It’s a waste of time, forget it, I’ll think of something else. Let’s just head out of town and find a spot to camp in before we do anything.”

  Chapter Seven

  T he bell clanged over the door as my guide, Bre, escorted me inside. I breathed an internal sigh of relief as I stepped out of the direct sun. I had covered myself in the enveloping black cloak from the tavern so I could move about and not burn, though the weak light left me enervated. Our ride here had given me glimpses of what the everyday people wore, but not what a person calling herself a duchess would. There was another group in the shop as we entered. Domiano had his hands full with my stallion, who did not like standing about when he could be running free.

  “These are the best tailors in the town, according to the nobles,” the woman was saying as I took my time to look around. “It’s just . . . they . . . well, the whole town is not always welcoming of foreigners, so . . .” She trailed off.

  The floor was varnished wood, polished to a high shine. Light came in from the two generous front windows, across from which were three doors and a platform. There were various groupings of chairs and sofas scattered about sitting on fine rugs, side tables between them. Two fireplaces flanked either end of the shop, and above our heads hung two brass- and glass-ornamented chandeliers holding a wealth of lit candles.

  The front room was already in use by an older woman with her family, attendant slaves and guards. Bre saw my glance, explaining, lowvoiced, “Countess Elizabeth, her children, Lady Caroline and family, Lady Sally, Viscount Martin.”

  They stared at me in a mixture of insolence and fascination as my companion murmured in my ear, “She is a cold one. Right proper too, but she is the most powerful of the noble ladies.”

  I pretended to look over the shop as I assessed the ladies’ clothes from the corner of my eye. There was no way I could cover myself head to foot in something bringing to mind shapeless sacks. I had no illusions as to whether, once I took off my cloak, I would shock and dismay all present.

  A man with a slave came up to us. “Good day to you ladies. I’m sorry someone was not able to greet you properly the moment you arrived. Please accept my apologies, as we are not accepting new accounts.” There was no hesitation even though his thoughts gave him away. The girl knows better, we do not serve commoners.

  “Your pardon, Master Tailor. Yours was the first shop I thought of when Her Grace, Duchess Maison du Corbeau, engaged my services as guide.”

  I replied with my cover story, adding, “I am not sure if I am going to settle here, but I will need more than the outfit I have on. His Majesty so far has been most gracious in his welcoming of me.” It wasn’t technically the truth, but they didn’t really need to know.

  “His . . . Majesty . . . and bandits, did you say? Stole most of your goods?” The man was at a loss for words, glancing toward the woman helping the countess, all of whom had stopped to stare at us when he came over. “I—an honor, Your Grace.” His bow was deep and deferential. “If you will allow me to help you?”

  He showed us to a set of chairs off to the side, out of the sun, sending the slave for refreshments while motioning for his wife. She could be an excellent liar, but Master Nathan is not often taken in by false titles, or gives permission for his daughter to provide guide service to those he considers suspect. This bears further investigation.

  As we were settling in, the woman who had been waiting on the countess excused herself to come over at the signal. The man hurriedly explained matters. The noble ladies had expressions of displeasure.

  I let my cloak fall open, and she gasped at my outfit. “Oh, my!” slipped out before she could pretend what I wore was typical for a noblewoman, or any non-slave/warrior woman in this town.

  “As you can see, I am in desperate need of a complete wardrobe and all its accoutrements. Most of my possessions fell to the depredations of bandits. I shall also require an outfit or two for wearing immediately, as what I have on is all the clothes I managed to escape with.” I drew my hand down my body, making sure the bag on my waist clinked. I continued on as if I hadn’t seen the proprietor’s eyes light with greed. “I shall also require the services of a jeweler.”

  I opened the large leather bag, drawing a smaller leather sack out before plucking out a large emerald and holding it up. “Have you anything to go with this?” I asked, ignoring further gasps at the sight of the gem.

  Beside me, Bre had trouble holding her mirth in as she leaned toward me, murmuring, “I don’t think those two have ever been so shocked before. I can see why the king would want to see your misfortune in coming here does not taint your image of us, if what is in your pouch is but a fraction of what you managed to save.”

  “Your Grace, at the risk of offending you, I suggest you burn that outfit with all haste. It is enough to make you an outcast among the noble-born and those considered respectable. As it is, I fear you may have lost any chance of winning over the countess if you do plan on living here. Without her ‘unofficial’ endorsement, I’m afraid only the most desperate or grasping will receive you,” Bre counseled.

  I studied the rigid, older woman who was doing her best to ignore us, replying, “Duly noted.” I had no intention of conforming, planning rather to play up my “foreignness” to flout customs of dress.

  The longer I spent in the shop, looking at fabrics, discarding some, choosing others, the greater the ecstasy of the tailor and the less of the countess even though it was I who had to make do with another seamstress. Bre proved invaluable, knowing the latest mandates on clothing, colors, and fabrics, and pointing out tactfully what the Countess and her daughters wore was considered proper fashion for a noblewoman’s station. I did not care, and I made modifications to every dress pattern presented, and insisted on having some of my ideas drawn up. This would have caused problems with any other seamstress in the shop. I had been assigned a newer girl, who was eager to make a name for herself. Fabric came and went in a steady stream. Endless pots of tea and dainties were pressed upon us. I was standing on the raised dais being measured, noticing the young viscount eyeing me when he thought his mother wasn’t looking.

  I turned to Bre. “If you would. I am in need of personal slaves. Seeing as they served a countess, they will do. Would you please broker an agreement? I shall reward you for it.”

  “Tell me, Bre, how is it a daughter of an inn keep is so well-versed on the machinations of the nobles? You have information which comes from more than listening to rumors.”

  “I listen, that is all, and keep what is told to me in confidence. I am considered reliable enough the nobles confide in me and use my services as a guide.”

  “You are a very clever girl; tell me, what is your ambition?” “My ambition? Madam?”

  “Yes. Will you take over the running of the inn when your parents are no longer able?”

  “You mean they don’t want to pay a slave for what they want, when they could have a wife instead. Funds of your own would give you the luxury of choosing whom you wished to marry and when.” I inspected another bolt of fabric a slave held, glancing out the window.

  “Do not take distress over my wo
rds; I did not mean for you to have any. I shall say it again, you are a clever girl—too clever to be wasted on a man who won’t appreciate you. You should have one who will, is all I meant.”

  “I suppose you are right. I shall need a permanent place to live while I decide if I want to make a petition to stay. I wonder who would know what is available,” I mused.

  “There are many homes on the way to the palace which do not have masters. The crown may consider renting, or one of the nobles might. My father and I made it a point to know them all. Often times they would house some of their guests with us. It may be faster if a person with more power were to intervene.” She cut her eyes toward the countess. “If they were so inclined.”

  She was soon back with a young man in tow whom she introduced as Lady Elizabeth’s son, Viscount Martin. He took my proffered hand, bowing, and kissed the back of it.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do hope I have not heard your lady mother wrong, but she did say they were to be sold at auction. As it happens I am in need of slaves. All mine died when bandits attacked.”

  He gave an apologetic smile. “Yes. Mother says many things when she is angry, but I am sorry to inform you she doesn’t want to sell.” He paused, continuing, “My family usually does business with Karstin or even Gri for our slaves. We have found them to be the most trustworthy and have the healthiest stock.”

  We could hear the shouts from the slave market while still a block away. Domiano rode ahead, trying vainly to clear a path for us amid the throng of buyers and sellers.

  Bre had to shout over the commotion. “If you plan on staying long, madam, you may want to consider purchasing men who can clear a path before you.”

  She confirmed it was, and I could see for myself with some of the richer townspeople. We rode through the press of people toward the two buildings connected by a smaller one. A small crowd before the building’s veranda was attending to the auctioneer bawling out his song. It took a minute to get the rhythm.

  “Nevertheless, I will see them before I take part in the auction,” I stressed. I had asked Domiano about the slave markets, and despite his obvious hatred of them, he had provided me with valuable information.

  It took a bit of haggling, and my gold, as even Bre’s knowledge wasn’t enough to grant us entrance to the maze of narrow streets behind the main buildings. I could see why the owners didn’t want many buyers back there. The new slaves were kept in what amounted to roofed-over animal pens. As we rode closer, it seemed a commotion was going on at the men’s area. A worker spotted us, stopping our forward progression.

  There was no time for a reply; the shouting turned more frantic as a single man, sword in hand, came running toward us with a host of armed guards chasing. Some of the slaves in the pens he passed yelled out to him. I found it odd he didn’t open them to create a distraction. I spotted the chains keeping the pens closed and had my answer.

  I heard Bre gasp in alarm beside me. “Madam!” Her voice held a note of panic as the worker scrambled to avoid the no-doubt-stolen blade of the slave.

  I saw at once why he had run our way. He wanted a horse. Bre had been trying to turn her mount to ride away just as the slave made to grab Windstorm’s bridle. The beast wanted none of it, trying to bite the man who danced out of reach of the equine’s teeth.

  I was trying to give my guide a chance to move away, but it was too late. We were already surrounded by shouting guards. The slave took the opportunity to vault onto the back of my horse. Windstorm didn’t like the sudden addition, rearing as men shouted while I tried to keep him from bucking.

  It was all he had time to yell as my mount’s front hooves came crashing down and his rear quarters rose up in a spectacular midair buck. A confused sound of voices mingling reached our ears as I felt myself jerked from the saddle by the slave’s weight as he went tumbling. We landed in a tangle of limbs in the mud as I screamed at my mount.

  I was furious. I had not fallen off a horse for thousands of years, and I must admit my pride was bruised. Angry squeals coming from Windstorm let me know he was not happy, nor were the men near him, judging by their terrified shouts. I could feel the piercing rays of the sun on my unprotected face, pain beyond words as my skin began to burn while I freed myself from the slave who was the cause of the commotion. The smell of cinnamon, vanilla, and ambrosia curled in my nose. The scent from the tavern and Nicky! I stared into rich brown eyes for a moment in shock as the world around us seemed to swim and waver.

  The time was long past, in a city of modern era which no longer existed. The slave beneath me now stood across from me in worn jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His arms were folded across his chest as he seemed to be listening to someone out of range. He turned to look at me and shook his head. The picture melted as I blinked—or was it the mud coating us both, dripping in my eyes,or my sight being burned from the sun? I heard the man grunt as hands yanked me away from him. The world came back into focus.

  He was being kicked and pummeled by armed men. A pair of black eyes peered into mine while a familiar voice asked, “Madam, are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

  I couldn’t concentrate; the scent! I had to know why he had the same scent! “Stop!” I yelled, forgetting myself for a moment, letting the force of my power flow out to halt the beating.

  The guards all froze, turning angry faces to me. Saizar scowled, and Bre stammered out, “Madam, he caused you harm and tried to escape; either offense is a hanging crime.”

  “Nothing was harmed except my outfit and my pride,” I grudgingly acceded. I easily shook off the man supporting me as I brought my hood up over my head to shade my face, taking a step toward the man now curled in a ball in the mud.

  I could hear Bre telling them the story I had made up as Saizar squinted at me, as if to say, that voice sounds familiar. Not wanting to be overheard, he leaned in close to ask, “Your pardon, madam, but by any chance were you the lady I warned in the tavern last night?”

  A quick calculation was in order. I confirmed his suppositions. He turned to the other men, vouching for me, ordering I was to be obeyed. The slaver made no move to recall the man he had sent off to bring the sheriff.

  I made a sharp gesture to the guards. They grabbed the man, hauling him, groaning, up to his knees. Another grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head up so I could see his face, fast swelling and turning colors. I stepped closer, to the displeasure of those surrounding us who crossed their swords in front of me so I would not go any nearer.

  I stared at him a moment, breathing in his scent, realizing his mind was a blank to me; I could not read it. “Where was he captured?” I demanded of the slave seller, all discomfort from my soaked, muddy state ignored.

  “Your Grace?”

  “You heard me. Where. Was. He. Captured.”

  “That is not what I asked,” I replied coldly.

  “Inside the town,” came the resentful answer.

  I could hear the ring of truth in what he said, but the man before me groaned, spitting out through bleeding, swollen lips, “Lies. My friend and I—”

  A guard plowed a fist in his stomach to shut him up. His breath wheezed out in a painful whoosh. I turned my glare on the man, commanding, “I did not order you to touch him. I will hear his tale.”

  The seller cleared his throat, spitting, “Madam, I wouldn’t waste time with the lies from the likes of him. Let me show you to my private quarters where you can have your maid tend to you and I will personally exhibit whatever slaves you need for your household.”

  The man had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I was told he escaped and made for the foothills. As he has shown up here, he must have run into a band of slavers who captured and sold him. Either way, slavery or prison is a fitting enough punishment. Escape, however, is punishable by death.”

  My eyes itched, my exposed skin throbbing from the burns the sun inflicted, the scent of blood pumping through veins making it hard to think. “It won’t matter if I hear his
tale.” I turned to the slave seller. “You will escort us to your quarters.”

  I ignored the grumbling, taking Windstorm’s trailing reins as we made our way to the slaver’s lavishly appointed space. When he found out I had no maid, this being part of the reason for coming, his eyes brightened. He snapped out commands to his slaves and helpers, especially when he heard the jingle of my money pouch. Bre stayed with me in his private rooms.

  Two burly guards stood to either side of the door outside. The women slaves sent in to help me repair the damage my fall in the mud had wrought understood not to try any escapes. I knew he meant this as a sort of working test for them, as did they.

  One of the women, who looked all of seventeen, busily brushed what mud she could from my hair, while a wooden tub and bucket after bucket of hot water was brought in. Two others helped me out of my clothes before proffering a variety of soaps, smooth and smelling of herbs, along with a cloth. Another slave held jars of scented oils, all but one of which reminded me of a whorehouse; the one acceptable to me had a light, clean scent of lemon verbena and rosemary. I had already gotten rid of a few women when they began fighting over who would do what. A knock on the door came and lowered voices between the slave who answered it with the guards outside. One of the middle-aged women came around the screen with an armful of clothing.

  The slave brushing mud from my outfit thrust them into the woman’s arms, snatching the new offerings, turning to me saying, “I have your dress ready, Your Grace.”

  I saw anger tightening the older woman’s mouth. She took my clothes, carefully folding them so what remained of the mud didn’t get on the few clean areas left. I made to quit my bath, stopping when a pain shot through my head from the hair brush. I merely looked back over my shoulder. The young woman blushed red, mumbling an apology as the other women giggled in pleasure at the perceived rebuke. When I was once more as clean as I could be and clothed again, I inquired the names of the slaves before leaving the room to rejoin the seller and Bre.