In the socket was a putrid mass of blood and pus coated in a thin tissue that ruptured at the barest touch of the blade tip. Gabe gagged at the stench.
“If you were anyone else, you would be dead from the infection,” he muttered.
“If I were anyone else, I would have been dead centuries ago.”
“True.”
Gabe found a clean kerchief amongst Ismael’s personals. He used it to clean out the blood and pus, stomach churning. When he found the foreign object, he scooped it out and cleaned it off.
“What is it?” David asked.
“Bullet.”
A trickle of blood trailed out of David’s empty eye-socket. “How did that get in there?”
“I think you were shot in the head.” Gabe swallowed. A bullet through the brain and still the man lived. That was some powerful magic.
As if understanding Gabe’s thoughts, David snorted. “Well, at least I know that’s no longer an option.”
“Lie still,” Gabe said. “I’m going put the eye back in and see if I can save it.”
He saved the organ, though it was difficult. There wasn’t much living tissue left and he had to rebuild the nerves rather than revitalise them. He didn’t know how much time passed while he worked, but when he looked up, the glow of the fire had vanished and the camp had settled back to its usual night-time noises.
On the cot, David blinked and tentatively rubbed his eyes. “I can see.”
“Congratulations. It’s a bouncing baby eye. Don’t kill it again, please.” He patted David’s shoulder, completely forgetting his left hand was bare as he did it.
Unprepared and tired, the moment his white flesh touched David’s skin, Gabe fell head first into the Immortal Soldier.
#
Galo stepped down from the unmarked cabriolet, the driver giving him a discreet nod before snapping the reins over the rump of the horse. The cabriolet clattered away into the traffic that was thick even at this late hour. With a smirk, Galo noted most of the vehicles were understated, from plain black cabriolets like his to thick-curtained sedans carried by beefy servidors. Those on foot favoured heavy cloaks, hoods pulled forward to cover faces best not recognised in this part of Ibarra City.
Ensuring his own hood cast sufficient shadow, Galo skipped up the stairs to the front door of a palatial building. Compared to most establishments along this street, it was extravagantly large and ornate, combining the best—or worst, Galo decided—of both Valdes’ architectural love of arches and Herrera’s fascination with carving every surface they could reach. The columns of the portico displayed an unsubtle hint to the building’s purpose with twining limbs and arched backs in stark relief.
The large, double doors, one carved with a demure young lady, the other with a brazen young man, were opened before Galo reached them. The doorman gave him a shallow nod and waved him in. For such heavy slabs of wood, the doors closed with a whisper, enclosing Galo in a dimly-lit foyer, the only light coming from jasmine-scented candles. He took a deep breath of the intoxicating air, letting it work through his body, ease his dark thoughts. As he stood in silence, eyes closed, he heard soft voices from a distance, a sweet murmuring of laughter, moans and endearments spoken so well one could almost believe them.
“De Giron.”
Galo opened his eyes as the Madam appeared from the shadows. She moved with a lithe sensuality that made his lips curl delightedly. At least fifty, she was nevertheless a beautiful woman, still trim and limber, the lines of age artfully masked behind carefully applied cosmetics. Her gown was low cut in top, and high cut in bottom, showing off an ample bosom and shapely legs, dainty feet shod in impossibly high heels.
“Madam,” he replied, taking her hand and bowing over it, kissing her powdered knuckles. Here her age was revealed in the wrinkled skin and faint discolouration.
When he released her hand, she slid it through his proffered arm, pressing her breasts against him.
“It’s been a while,” she said, guiding him toward a winding staircase at the rear of the foyer.
“Business has been brutal,” he murmured, shunting aside thoughts of Deleon. The foolish bastard. He should never have trusted Ibarra.
The Madam laughed, a low, throaty sound that reached inside even Galo’s disinterested chest and did naughty things. “I do believe you are making some progress, however. I’ve heard many a whisper of your product reaching our fair city.”
It was Galo’s turn to laugh, part in agreement, part in wry sarcasm. Fair city? Ibarra was anything but fair. It was dirty and close, tumultuous and corrupt. The perfect market.
At the top of the stairs, the Madam turned him down a short corridor lushly decorated with velvet walls and erotically posed statues. Galo silently added ‘unsubtle’ to Ibarra City’s list of failings, and advantages. There was only one door, at the end of the corridor, and the Madam stopped him before it. She let his arm go and dipped her fingers into the powdered depths of her corset. Winking at him, she produced a key from somewhere in there and unlocked the door with a flourish.
“The room is just as you like it, de Giron.” She handed over the key, caressing his gloved hand. “Don’t hesitate to ring the bell if there’s anything, or anyone, you desire.”
The Madam didn’t know who he was, only that he was from Giron. Hers was an establishment built on ensured privacy, a matter she took very seriously. A matter that was very expensive. Galo handed over a purse filled with Delaluzian gold. It disappeared into the same place the key had appeared from.
She left him with a smile and he stepped into the room, locking the door behind him, key going into a bowl by the door. A hint of sandalwood drifted on the cool air inside, coming from scattered oil-burners. Lamps shrouded in shades of gold and burgundy cast soft, sultry light across the thick carpet imported from Gan. A cosy table for two was set with platters of fruits and carafes of wine, an assortment of snuff boxes arranged on a shelf beside it. The fireplace was cold, hidden behind a screen embroidered as suggestively as the columns out front. In the middle of the room was the bed, a massive construction suitable for any number of lusty rampages. Gossamer drapes falling from the ceiling enclosed it.
Galo could make out his companion for the night, lying on the bed, posed seductively. A languid hand beckoned him forward.
Unfastening his cloak, Galo let it drop to the floor. His jacket was off by the time he reached the bed, drawing aside the curtain. The sight before him quickened his heart as little else could—a naked, waiting, willing body. He would pay double the Madam’s asking price for this.
The male whore, eighteen years old at most, sat up and reached for him, hands twinning around his neck. Galo sank into the embrace, all the stress and anger of the past week slipping from him as easily as his silk tunic.
“Yes, yes,” the youth murmured against his mouth, hands touching and caressing.
“Yes,” Galo said back and suddenly, there were more than two hands on him.
“No,” another voice hissed.
It happened too fast for Galo to comprehend. He was shoved to the side, a knee slamming into his gut, keeping him down while a dark shape lunged over him and grabbed the shouting whore. Black-clad limbs tangled with naked flesh, flailing across the bed and tumbling off the side. Whoever the assailant was, they clearly hadn’t been expecting two men in the room.
Seeing his escape, Galo rolled off the bed, clutching his abused stomach as he straightened. Not bothering to check on the wrestling pair, he caught up his cloak and dashed for the door. Even under these circumstances he couldn’t afford to be recognised leaving this place.
A turn of the doorhandle reminded him it was locked. Galo reached for the bowl.
“Looking for this?” a soft voice asked from behind him.
Spinning, he came face to face with his assailant. No. It wasn’t his first attacker. This one, as darkly dressed, masked and hooded, was shorter. In the outstretched hand was the key. Behind her—it had to female, with such slende
r hands, even enclosed in thick, black gloves—the fight was over. The other assailant, a taller figure, definitely male, had the youth face-down on the floor, hands bound, legs quickly going the same way. The cries had been quietened by a savage blow to the head that left blood smeared across the whore’s slack face.
Galo made a lunge for the key, but the girl bounded out of reach so fast he barely saw her move. She was back in a heartbeat, a spinning kick landing soundly against the side of his head. He hit the floor hard, head ringing, unable to focus his eyes. It was stupidly easy for his attackers to haul him into a chair and tie him there.
“The Madam won’t stand for this,” he slurred.
The pair of thugs retreated to the far side of the room, talking in whispers. They ignored him. It seemed the girl wasn’t too happy with the plan. She shook her head and stamped a foot. The other wasn’t worried by her opinion though, pointing continually at the window with a firm hand. He quickly grew tired of her refusal to do as he commanded and turned his back on her, stalking toward Galo.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” she snapped at his back.
He grunted and crouched in front of Galo. His mask covered his entire face, a small slit allowing him to see. Galo searched the shadow behind the narrow opening, looking for something he could exploit. He found nothing but dark eyes and cold.
“Even with you here,” he rasped, “I’m alone.”
The girl gave him one more glare—the expression evident in her stance—and then went to the window. It opened with greased efficiency, showing the lengths of preparation they had gone to. She was out and gone with sleek agility. It made Galo think of an Earth Mage.
“Now,” the male attacker said, the word seeming to tear his throat on the way out, “let’s talk, Duke Galo de Giron.”
Galo grimaced. “Whoever betrayed me will pay for this.”
A knife appeared in the man’s hand. It’s tip settled onto the meaty part of Galo’s thigh. Galo sneered at the obvious threat.
“The person who betrayed you is about to be punished.” The knife point dug in.
Grunting with the sudden, sharp pain, Galo forced a grin. “Clever. I betrayed myself. Yes, I get the irony.”
“It’s not just the irony I want you to understand.” Fine cotton parted under pressure from the keen blade. “I want you to know how serious this is. No time for your usual games, Galo. It’s time to show just what you care about enough for someone to threaten you with.” He leaned in close, whispered in Galo’s ear. “Is this it, Galo? What goes on in this room? Is that—” The knife gestured to the dazed whore. “—what you’d prostitute yourself to Ibarra for?”
Galo focused on the bound youth, the long, muscular legs, the tight buttocks, the smooth back. Even through the fear and scathing derision for the attacker’s blatant threats, desire stirred in him. It was his curse, the driving hunger that made him take risks, like this right now, here, in Ibarra’s city, right under his nose. The daringness of it almost made him smile.
“Isn’t it enough?” he asked the black-clad man.
The knife edge pressed into his thigh again, this time cutting skin. A line of red chased the blade across his leg.
“I don’t know,” the man rasped. “You tell me.”
#
Hours later, Galo had to admit the man’s overt threats had been the nicer ones. Still tied to the chair, the few cuts imparted by the assailant bound roughly, Galo had a moment of unabashed personal honesty.
He was weak. His secret had been spilled with little resistance. He’d let Ibarra take power away from him. And perhaps most damningly, he had to admit Ibarra was right. Only when a truth was hidden did it become dangerous.
“Well, you stupid fool,” he muttered to himself, working against the ties around his wrists, “it’s about to become less dangerous.”
Chapter 29
By the time the sun rose, Gabe had managed to get absolutely no sleep. How could he sleep ever again when he’d felt what David lived with every day? Even now, sitting with his back against Ismael’s chest, he could feel it. A hook set deep, pulling at his heart, his bones, his mind. Ceaseless, maddening, an itch that couldn’t be scratched, a splinter that couldn’t be removed.
The phantom of that pain lingered in Gabe’s body, spiking whenever he moved too quickly.
“It doesn’t hurt,” David had said before he left, “anymore.”
Grimacing, Gabe had muttered, “Bet it doesn’t hurt any less either.”
“Pain is a matter of the mind, not the body.”
“No. I think it’s a matter of the body. Definitely.”
“It’s the fear of pain that’s crippling.”
Trying not to breathe too deep, Gabe reflected on David’s parting comment. The fear of pain. Of course people were scared of pain. It hurt. It was nature’s way of saying don’t do that again, it’s dangerous. If everyone went around ignoring it, then Gabe would never get any rest.
Of course, he wasn’t getting much rest now, nor had he been for the past several months. He was in the middle of a war, surrounded by people busily ignoring their fear of pain in order to throw themselves into danger day after day.
He laughed, the pathetic sound turning into a grunt of pain as the motion pulled at the remains of David’s ‘duty’.
His duty, laid upon him by the Duke of Ibarra. Bring the prince back. David hadn’t mentioned an ‘or else’ part of the command, but it had been implied in the haunted look in his freshly restored eye. Haunted, yes, but there had been relief in there as well as he’d shared the secret of his connection to Ibarra. Every duke who had called upon his services had exhibited this strange control over him. Having no idea about the magic behind David’s strange existence, Gabe couldn’t even begin to imagine what might cause this link. He didn’t doubt it was real—couldn’t doubt it after feeling the pull on David’s body—but he’d met Duke Ibarra several times, under both cordial and highly unpleasant circumstances, and had never felt anything remarkable about the man.
Just another mystery Gabe was in no position to sort out. Rubbing his chest, he stood and tried to shed the lingering ache of David from his body before du Serres came for their daily torture session.
“Mage Castillo!”
The cry came a moment before the opening to his tent was ripped apart. Framed by the soft pink glow of dawn, Lieutenant Carufel was dishevelled, his eyes wide with worry.
“Lieutenant,” one of Gabe’s guards began, silenced by a glare from the officer.
Carufel waved Gabe forward. “Come quickly. He’s dying.”
Gabe didn’t hesitate. He all but shoved the lieutenant out of his way. “Who?”
“Dean Rios.”
When Gabe and the lieutenant reached the hut where they’d been keeping the dead Delaluzians, there was a crowd of Alarian soldiers and two medics surrounding a supine form on the ground. Gabe ploughed his way through the men and fell by Ismael’s side.
His glove already discarded, Gabe stopped himself a bare inch before touching his friend.
It was too late.
“We did all we could,” one of the Alarian medics said, removing the bandage they’d applied to the gaping wound in Ismael’s stomach.
All they could and it hadn’t been enough. Nowhere near enough. Gabe looked over the savage slash, ruptured purple guts releasing noxious gasses and faecal matter. He’d seen worse. He’d healed worse.
With a few curt orders Carufel broke up the audience, sending them about their tasks before he crouched opposite Gabe. His expression was closed down, carefully blank, but Gabe had seen the panic on his face when he’d come to fetch him.
“What happened?” Gabe asked him.
“I don’t know. The general said the Dean was allowed to say his rituals over the dead. I brought him here last evening, left two men with him. He said he would spend the night with the dead. When I came to fetch him this morning, we found him inside the hut, like this, but still alive. I went to get you imm
ediately.”
Gabe brushed his hand over Ismael’s wide open eyes. His friend looked shocked, pained, and no better with his eyes closed. Who would say the final blessing for him?
“Who did this?” he asked.
“We don’t know.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” Gabe snapped. “One of you did this. You’re the ones with the swords and knives, your men surrounded him all night. It had to be one of them!”
Carufel kept calm in the face of Gabe’s accusations. “My men didn’t do this. You can’t have missed the fact our defences were penetrated last night and I’m willing to bet it was a Delaluzian who did that.”
“A Delaluzian who wouldn’t kill a fellow Delaluzian.”
“Your history is full of Delaluzian against Delaluzian.”
“Exactly. Our history. Not now, not here. Not when there’s a bigger enemy at hand.” Except Carufel’s point jabbed home harder than the lieutenant had probably hoped.
David. The Immortal Soldier, who had been used against Ibarra’s enemies for the past thousand years, and most of those enemies had been other Delaluzian duchies. And Gabe had felt the power of the compulsion put on the man by Duke Ibarra. He could imagine that insane tugging driving David to kill his fellow countrymen if required. Though what opposition Ismael could have been for the Immortal Soldier was beyond Gabe’s comprehension.
Pushing the conundrum of David to the side, Gabe asked, “Did your men see anything?”
Carufel stood and waved forward two soldiers. “Report.”
One stepped up. “Sir, we did exactly as you ordered. The priest went into the hut and we remained outside. We heard nothing all night bar his praying.”
“You didn’t see anything suspicious?” Gabe demanded.
The soldier glanced at him, then looked back at Carufel. The lieutenant nodded and the man said, “Nothing, sir. Not even when the attacks took place.”
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