The Lion of Senet

by Jennifer Fallon

  The fight raged on around her. The five guardsmen were being beaten down by the sheer weight of numbers. Barin’s thugs seemed to be multiplying at a ridiculous rate. Every time one of them went down to a guardsman’s fist, another two took his place. Tia grunted and fell to her knees as a couple of the combatants bumped into her from behind. As she struggled upright, a flying guardsman, who landed unconscious beside her, knocked her over a second time. Giving up on the idea of standing for the time being, Tia crawled on her hands and knees through the forest of legs until she was clear of the fight, cursing her skirts and the fact that she was unarmed. Someone grabbed her ankle, then let it go. She glanced over her shoulder to find Eryk kicking at the hand of the man who tried to apprehend her. The angry Senetian forgot about Tia and turned his attention to the servant boy, allowing her time to escape. Spitting grit from her mouth Tia staggered to her feet, only to find herself face to face with Barin Welacin.

  “Take this one as well,” the Prefect ordered calmly.

  They took her from behind before she could run. She struggled uselessly against the men who held her as they tied her arms behind her back. The fight was almost over as the Senetians’ superior numbers swamped the guardsmen. She looked around wildly. But for Wilim, who was the last guardsman standing, and the huge crowd that had gathered to watch, there was nobody who could help her. Another Senetian held Eryk by the collar of his shirt. The boy had a bloody nose and was covered in mud. Poor child. It wasn’t his fault. Still, he was Dirk Provin’s servant. She thought it unlikely that he would suffer more than a night in the dungeons. There was no sign of Reithan, either. She allowed herself a moment of hope. Perhaps he’d been able to get away.

  “Take them to the cells,” Barin ordered. “I’ll join you there once I’ve spoken to Prince Antonov. He’s going to be rather pleased with this little haul, I imagine.”

  As Barin moved off at a leisurely pace in the direction of the palace, she saw Reithan behind him, slumped semiconscious in the arms of two of the Prefect’s men.

  Chapter 61

  Dirk collapsed into bed fully clothed as soon as he reached his room. He slept heavily through most of the day, although he remembered vaguely someone banging on his door, demanding entrance. It sounded like one of the Shadowdancers, and the last thing he wanted was anything more to do with Marqel and her ilk. His door remained locked, and he pulled a pillow over his head to shut out the insistent knocking and went back to sleep.

  He woke again later, with no idea whether he’d been asleep for minutes or hours. The knocking had stopped, but he was itching all over. He clambered out of bed and tore off his clothes, thinking sourly that this was what he got for rolling around on the grass like an animal. His body was livid with a rash and his skin was on fire. It seemed to be more than just an allergic reaction to the grass. It might be an aftereffect of the Milk of the Goddess. Hadn’t Marqel said something about a rash? He reached for the bell cord to summon Eryk, hoping a cool bath would ease his agony, but his hand stopped before he pulled it as another thought occurred to him. Perhaps this wasn’t an allergic reaction at all. There was no telling how many men Marqel had lain with. This could quite easily be the first symptom of some unspeakable disease she had passed on to him. Dirk had seen enough as Helgin’s apprentice to be well acquainted with the symptoms of several ailments common among the sailors and whores of Elcast Town.

  Embarrassment as much as fear kept him from calling for help. He bathed his burning skin with a damp cloth but it did nothing to relieve the itching. He fumbled around in the small backpack that he had brought with him from Elcast until he found a small jar of lotion—one of Master Helgin’s favorite cures for itching, made from the stems and leaves of the jewel-weed plant that grew along shady banks of the many small streams on Elcast. He applied the lotion liberally and then fell back onto the bed naked, falling into an uneasy slumber plagued with vague and disturbing nightmares. He slept the rest of the day, and woke just as the second sun was setting. The rash was gone so completely that he wondered if it was nothing more than a fevered dream.

  Dirk sat up gingerly. He was ravenously hungry, but pleased to discover that his head had not been cleaved in two. It certainly felt like it had been this morning.

  And he couldn’t put last night out of his head.

  Alenor had told him the Milk of the Goddess made you forget. Rees had not remembered a thing the morning he stumbled out of the Duke’s Forest. But Dirk remembered all too well, and he cringed from the recollection. It was something of a shock to realize that he was capable of such things.

  Even worse to realize that he had enjoyed it.

  After a long soak in his bath and an hour or more of uselessly trying to put it out of his head, he gave up and decided to think about it consciously. Perhaps, by sorting through the disturbing images flashing through his brain, he could acknowledge them and then file them away in the back of his mind, out of sight forever.

  Dirk was not an innocent. He and Kirshov had sneaked out of the palace to visit Avacas’s numerous brothels on more than one occasion. Dirk was quite sure Antonov knew about it, but the prince chose to turn a blind eye to his son’s extracurricular activities.

  Dirk thought they’d kept it from Alenor, too—until she took Dirk aside one evening and asked him to ensure that they stayed away from The Widow’s Peak, because it was rumored that the girls there were unclean. Dirk had been shocked, and then rather amused by Alenor’s wise acceptance of the situation. Kirshov would marry Alenor thinking he was the one in charge. Dirk wondered if Alenor would ever let him discover the truth.

  But last night had been different from his previous encounters. For one thing, he had the Milk of the Goddess roaring through his veins. The raging lust that it had awoken in him made him shudder as he recalled it. Dirk had always prided himself on being highborn, and the inherent nobility that came with his birthright. The Milk of the Goddess had torn away his thin veneer of civilization.

  He wondered what Johan Thorn would have to say about that.

  Yet Marqel wasn’t drugged. She was, however, exceptionally well trained. Marqel had been taught to dole out pleasure like fine wine, a drop at a time, with excruciating attention to detail. Her skills weren’t learned sneaking around the back of a haystack or fumbling with an inexperienced youth. She’d been giving her body to a succession of paying customers in seaport taverns for Goddess knew how long, and had learned her craft well. But for his abiding distrust of the former thief, Dirk could well believe that Marqel might own him body and soul after a night in her arms. With a sour smile, Dirk realized that Marqel was still the thief he thought her to be. The difference was that now she was trying to steal men’s souls.

  By the time he was dressed the only thing Dirk was certain of was that he could never, ever let Kirsh know what had happened. Their friendship was solid, but Dirk was sure it would not survive the prince learning that he had slept with Marqel the Magnificent.

  Dirk was still trying to work out what to do about it when a knock sounded on his door. His first thought was to order Eryk to open it; then he realized that he’d locked everyone out, including his servant. He stumbled out into the sitting room and unlocked the door himself. Prince Antonov strode in without waiting for permission to enter. He studied Dirk for a moment, then nodded his approval.

  “You did well last night.”

  “Sir?” he asked in confusion.

  Antonov laughed softly. “I hear you defused a potentially awkward situation.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m referring to that thief we brought back from Elcast with us. I hear you intervened in the nick of time. It would have been most awkward, with the queen here, if Alenor had decided to report Kirsh’s indiscretion to her mother.”

  “He told you about that?”

  “Alenor did.”

  That surprised Dirk, but then maybe Alenor had been hoping Antonov would punish Kirsh. It was a sign of how much Antonov had gained her
trust, that she would share such a thing with him, rather than with her mother.

  “What did Kirsh say about it?”

  “Not much. He drank enough last night to kill a horse. Fortunately, my son has the constitution of an ox, and he didn’t drink enough to kill an ox. I doubt he’ll be so foolish the next time.”

  And I should never have gone within a hundred yards of Marqel.

  “Is he all right?”

  “He has a hangover that has him thinking he’s dying, but he’ll get over it. I just wanted to check that you survived the night unscathed.”

  “I’m fine, thank you, sir.”

  “Then I’ll see you at dinner, perhaps? Don’t feel compelled to attend. We’ll be a fairly small gathering tonight, I imagine. If you’re not feeling up to it, send down to the kitchens and have someone bring a tray to your room. Nobody will be offended.” Antonov turned to leave. “Oh, and Dirk, don’t make any plans for this evening. I’m having a small get-together on the terrace after dinner. I’d be pleased if you joined us.”

  That meant, be there, or else, Dirk knew. “I’d be honored, your highness.”

  “Then I will see you later.”

  After eating dinner in his room, Dirk went in search of Eryk. There was no sign of the boy, and Dirk was beginning to worry about him. The palace had been full of strangers last night, and with Eryk’s gift for wandering into trouble, the boy’s continuing absence seriously concerned him.

  When he knocked on Kirshov’s door, a servant opened it and stood back to let Dirk enter. Kirsh was lying on the bed, looking pale and completely washed out. He smiled thinly when he saw Dirk, though, and struggled to sit up. The servant rushed to his side, but Kirsh pushed her away impatiently and ordered her from the room.

  “I was looking for Eryk. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  Kirsh shook his head, then winced, obviously regretting the impulse.

  “Not today,” Kirsh replied as the maid closed the door behind her.

  “He’ll be around somewhere, I suppose. How’s your head? Your father said you drank enough to kill a horse.”

  “I wish I’d drunk enough to kill me,” he groaned. “It’s got to be less painful.”

  Dirk smiled. “You’ll live.”

  “So they tell me. But what about you? What happened to you last night?”

  “Nothing much.” The ability to lie so smoothly was a talent he had only recently discovered, forced on him by necessity in this place. It bothered him a little that he could become so proficient at it so quickly.

  “Pity. I was hoping at least one of us had a good time.”

  “Ah well, look on the bright side. Maybe Alenor won’t be mad at you by now.”

  “Alenor! Goddess, don’t even mention her name to me. Do you know what that heartless little cow said to me?”

  “I can imagine it wasn’t very sympathetic,” Dirk said.

  “She is going to grow up into a harridan. I can see it now— my whole future stretching before me like a prison sentence. Her incessant nagging is going to drive me to suicide!”

  “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little bit, Kirsh?”

  “No! Don’t you see? She’s not just going to be my wife some day, Dirk, she’ll be my queen! What chance do I have?”

  “None at all, I’d say.”

  They both started at the unexpected answer. Dirk turned to find the High Priestess standing by the open door with Marqel. Kirsh’s eyes lit up at the sight of the young Shadowdancer.

  “We came to see how you were faring, your highness,” Belagren explained as she and her acolyte stepped into the room. “I’d say you were well on the road to recovery if you can complain so vociferously.”

  Dirk stared at Marqel, and she met his gaze evenly, daring him to say something. Her face was bruised and she seemed to have the beginnings of a black eye.

  “I was hoping you had brought me a cure, my lady.”

  “I’m afraid the only cure for what ails you is time, Kirshov,” Belagren informed him. “However, Marqel here is quite accomplished in the art of massage, and I thought she might be able to ease your discomfort a little.”

  “That would be very helpful,” the prince replied wanly. He seemed to have taken a sudden, and entirely fake, turn for the worse.

  “Actually, it’s probably not a good idea at the moment,” Dirk said, trying to think of something—anything—to foil Belagren’s plans. The last thing he wanted or needed at present was Marqel and Kirsh comparing notes about last night’s party. “The prince is expecting his betrothed at any moment.”

  “No, I’m not!” Kirsh objected, glaring at Dirk. “I’m not even speaking to Alenor after what she said to me!”

  Belagren smiled triumphantly. “Then I suggest you leave Marqel to her ministrations, Dirk. They will be much more effective if administered in quiet surroundings.”

  I’ll just bet they are. Dirk had no intention of leaving Marqel to her “ministrations.” Having so recently been on the receiving end of them himself, he knew well the likely effect on Kirshov. He glanced at Marqel, who was smiling smugly. As well as sporting a swollen face, there was a nasty bruise on her upper arm near the tattoo. Someone had hit her since he saw her this morning. He was certain he’d not been responsible. Had she been punished for something? He pushed the thought away, wondering if he had any chance of stopping the High Priestess having her way in this.

  “Marqel? What happened to your face?” Kirsh asked curiously as he noticed her bruises.

  Marqel hesitated for a moment and glanced at the High Priestess, who nodded imperceptibly, as if granting her permission. Dirk had a sudden and dreadful feeling that she had been waiting for him to ask that very thing. He was playing right into her hands.

  “Didn’t Dirk tell you?” Marqel asked.

  “Tell me what?”

  “That last night after your betrothal was announced, he took me outside into the gardens and raped me,” she informed Kirsh calmly.

  Chapter 62

  Marqel had woken in a green world to the sound of groaning. The light confused her until she realized that she was lying on the ground in the shelter of a huge willow, and that the green tinge was simply daylight filtered through its overhanging branches. The groaning took a little longer to place. She had rubbed her eyes and sat up, discovering its source as her eyes adjusted to the bright light. Dirk Provin sat on the ground a few feet away from her, his head hanging down between his knees. He had pulled his boots and trousers on, but his shirt lay on the ground beside him. His chest was scored with deep scratches.

  Marqel reached for her shift and pulled it over her head. She was in a lot of trouble. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. She just wanted to dose him with the Milk of the Goddess and watch him suffer. It had given her an intoxicating feeling of power. This pompous, overly smart, insufferably arrogant young lord who thought her a thief deserved to be taken down a peg a two. She’d planned to do nothing more than tease him. Lead him on until he was desperate for release, then abandon him and go in search of Kirshov.

  She hadn’t truly been prepared for the change in Dirk with the drug that burned through his veins. Although she had been instructed in its use, taken in sufficient quantity, it should have left him unconscious within an hour. She must have gotten the dosage wrong. Instead of passing out, he had apparently consumed only enough for the drug to act as a powerful aphrodisiac, and things soon progressed beyond the point where Marqel had any control over the situation.

  “Goddess!” Dirk had muttered, glancing up as he heard her moving.

  “You look like shit,” she told him.

  “You’re no picture of glowing good health, yourself,” he pointed out wanly, then he clutched at his head. “Bloody hell! I think my brain is going to explode!”

  I hope it does, she thought angrily.

  “Have you any idea what time it is?”

  “Time you got back to the palace, I imagine.” There was still something she co
uld salvage from this disaster. She might be in trouble, but there was still this chance to even the score with Dirk Provin. All those lessons, all those long-suffering sighs ... that look when he had caught her and Kirsh in the forest... the bards were right: revenge did taste better than fine wine. “Then you can go and explain to that insipid little princess where you’ve been all night.”

  Dirk looked at her with narrowed eyes. As she suspected, he was still burning with unrequited love for Alenor.

  Serves you right. I hope she never speaks to you again.

  “I’ll have less explaining to do than you, I think,” he retorted.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Dirk suddenly laughed. It obviously pained him, but whatever had amused him seemed worth the agony. Marqel looked away, certain he was able to read the guilt in her eyes.

  “What did they offer you, Marqel, to turn yourself into a whore?”

  Marqel turned on him angrily. “I’m not a whore. I was chosen by the Goddess.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. You’re nothing but an over-educated, idealistic fool, Dirk Provin. You’ll learn that very soon. I might be a whore in your eyes, but I know what my destiny is.”

  Dirk stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “I don’t understand you.”

  “Then maybe you’re not as smart as everyone thinks you are.”

  They had walked back to the palace together, although Dirk unconsciously kept his distance from her, as if trying to give the impression he was simply heading in the same direction. Marqel wondered what was going on behind those steel-gray, albeit rather bloodshot, eyes. She had never trusted Dirk, and her victory over him seemed a hollow one in the cold light of day.