Then afterward. Lying together damp and spent. Drawing a finger around the small swell of her breast and watching her face. Feeling my cock tighten and knot again, wanting her, knowing she felt the same way.
Aching with frustration, I snorted out a breath and Burro moved off.
Squeezing my eyes tight, I tried to shut out those intrusive memories, but the visions continued as I was tormented by the image of her body, her knees tucked into her chest and her sweet little bottom lifting into the air. Giving in with a groan, I tried to imagine my hands smoothing over the curving cheeks of her bottom but instead saw Thane’s hands on her, stroking her silken skin. Thane behind her, pulling her onto his erection. Thane working into her, the silver chain around his neck swaying as he leaned over her and pushed into her.
My stomach clenched.
I was grinding my teeth by the time Thane crossed the room, opened the door to her room and then closed it behind him. I don’t know what happened. Where it came from. The next thing I knew I was on my feet, staring at two lances buried to their shafts in the thick pine door. For an instant I watched them shiver—as did every other frozen face in the large room. Shoulders hunched in surprise, everyone turned staring eyes in my direction.
I turned and pushed my way out of there. I don’t even remember who was at the entrance—who was responsible for guarding me. They couldn’t have stopped me if they’d tried, if they’d wanted to. I thrust out into the mean, winter night and started walking.
By the time the dark, stinging cold finally reached me, I was a long way from where I’d started and wanting a drink. Not that I’m one to drink much, but I thought hot rum might warm my stiff fingers and unwind the hard, painful knots that gripped my stomach. Unfamiliar with that part of the city, I looked around for a tavern and stepped inside the first one I found…and realized I hadn’t a single coin to pay for a drink.
The door scraped open behind me and I turned to find Burro at my back. Digging into his pocket, he showed me a fistful of coppers. “From Thane,” he signed.
Scowling down at the lad, I took the coins. When he eyed the clientele nervously and shuffled his feet, I signaled him to return home. Reluctant to leave, he looked around. In the end, I got impatient with him.
“Be careful,” he signed. “Come back.”
I stared at him a long moment and his face fell as though he’d read my mind. I wasn’t coming back. Reaching to my neck I undid the gold chain and amulet, hefted its weight in my hand and then put it in his—and parted with this last symbol of my noble life.
Watching my face, he shook his head slowly.
“You’re a good man,” I told him with my hands. “I owe you more than I can ever repay.” Stooping to grasp his small arm, I gave it a hard squeeze. Then, turning away, I motioned to the girl behind the counter.
As it turned out, I drank a little more than would have been advisable—under any circumstances. Had I known the tavern was so popular with the nobguard, I might have been more circumspect. I don’t know.
Legend has it that I made quite an impact. I don’t remember any of it. But I guess all those years of sword practice paid off. Neels only ever bested me once, and that was a cheap shot. I’ve no idea where I got the blade, but according to the stories I killed nine men before I went down.
But they wanted me alive.
Chapter Ten
Spark
“Shut up, Spark. Just…shut up.”
Sitting at my table, I glared across the room at Thane.
“I would like ta let you continue…ta hate Tor Harnesson. I would like ta have you and keep you and wear you on ma arm for tha rest of ma life. Let you think he were guilty of some sort of betrayal. But…if anyone has been guilty of a betrayal, it has been me.”
I opened my mouth to protest.
“Shut up, Spark! What do you remember about tha day yer leg were broken?”
I shook my head slowly, cautiously.
“Burro led us ta you. Some nobguards had you trapped in a stable. I don’t know what you were doing there. Most like, you went in ta admire tha horses. They’d followed you in and cornered you. I don’t know how they knew you were Glove, or even if they did. Maybe they just thought you were tha prettiest little slagbit they’d ever seen. You must have tried ta fight them off, otherwise they probably wouldn’t have broken yer leg. Yer leg were broken below tha knee. We could see it were broken, tha bone sticking out. One of tha effing bastards were trying to mount you.
“He killed all three of them. With only his hands. They were big men, two of them, and experienced soldiers. He didn’t have a blade. He didn’t need one. It were all I could do ta get out of his way. I think he’d have killed me too if I’d come between him and those men.”
Thane grew quiet, his gaze distant and unfocused as he continued.
“I watched him lift tha bastard off you with a hand on tha back of his neck, then slam him onta tha short wall separating tha horse’s stalls. Tha man died with a crushed windpipe, or a broken neck, or both as Tor turned on tha two remaining nobguards.
“When tha soldiers pulled their steel, he took tha first one’s blade in his gloved hand, and crushed tha man’s jaw with his closed fist. Then, with one hand on tha sword and tha other fisted in tha man’s jerkin, Tor used him as both shield and battering ram as he attacked tha final guard.
“Blood—mostly tha soldier’s—but his own as well, splattered across tha stable and tha soldier died on his friend’s sword as tha final guard fought ta do something useful with his steel, all tha time staggering beneath tha weight of his companion’s body. Desperate ta live, tha guard heaved off his friend’s carcass and slashed at Tor while Tor took tha blows on his forearms, and part of one on his face.
“With his own blood blinding him, Tor took tha man’s blade, broke it in half, returned tha hilt ta tha guard’s hand, and shoved tha broken steel deep in his guts.
“And afterward, he…crumpled. He sat down with you in his arms, his head buried in yer neck. I thought he would cry, Spark.” Thane shook his head at the ground. “You know what a tough bastard he is. He looked up at me, his eyes pleading, apologizing, demanding. I have to get her somewhere warm and dry, he said. I’m nob. My brother has a place inside the walls. We knew what he were asking and we agreed ta it. Tha nobheads would never take him back without he could claim he’d been spying on us all tha time. All those months he were gone. Tha break were bad. You’d never have made it without nob doctors, and tha drugs he could buy you inside tha walls.”
Thane stopped, waiting for me to say something. But I kept that knot pulled tight inside me. I’d not let it unravel at this point. “Thank you, Thane,” I told him. “It gives me some peace to know that Ayden’s father at least regretted his betrayal.”
Thane stared at me. Then shook his head. “Spark,” he started, “that’s no’ tha point.”
I stared back at him, unyielding.
“Ah, shit, Spark. It won’t be ma fault if you decide ta keep on hating him. But Spark,” He cut a wary look at Burro, “Ayden’s not ma son. Don’t keep tha boy from his father. And don’t let his father die.”
I waited for him to leave, angry that he would share our secret with anyone, even Burro.
“You’ve never said you loved me, Spark.”
I nodded and shook my head at the same time. “Drag out the cast iron pot,” I told him grudgingly. “The big one. Tell Sinda I’ll be cooking tonight.”
The door closed and I scowled as I watched Burro, crouched against the wall, fingers flying as he grumbled to himself. The door to my room opened again and I looked up with a mouthful of impatience for Thane.
“Hey, slagbit.”
I looked up into Whit’s eyes.
His eyes still sparked with that amused contempt he reserved for me alone, although otherwise, he was much changed. His clothing was ragged, worn though not dirty. It hung on his frame loosely, as all his softness had dissipated, replaced with lean, wiry stretches of muscles that twisted
across his arms like wrought iron.
It looked good on him, I thought. “What are you doing here?” I asked him pointedly.
His eyes flashed. I knew why he had come—he knew I knew. He didn’t like having to ask. He threw himself into a chair, his mouth a thin line while he formulated his attack. All this time his eyes rested accusingly on mine. Eventually his lips curled and contempt returned to his eyes. “Can you not forgive him for wedding Cherindra?”
I put him at my back.
“Did you think it was a love match?”
“Not for an instant.”
“You assumed the wedding was politically motivated, then.”
“I assumed the man was not capable of love.”
“You’d be wrong on both counts. It wasn’t a political wedding. And Tor wed out of love. He loved Cherindra too much to let his brother have her. You met Neels?”
I inclined my head as I turned back to him.
“Not a very nice man. Nor a very nice kid. I won’t tell you how we knew that. Let’s just say the neighbors could never keep a cat. He tried the same on a woman once—hired slagbit from the other side. When Tor found out about it, he thrashed Neels almost blind.
“And that was reason enough to keep him from Cherindra. But that wasn’t the only reason Tor wed her. Tor loved me too much as well.”
I frowned at him, not sure of his meaning, not sure I wanted to know.
“It was the only way we could be together.” His dark eyes held mine. “Cherindra was promised to the Gunnar family at birth, her family name being almost as elevated as the Gunnar name. It was assumed she would marry the oldest son, Neels. The man she loved was too far beneath her to even contemplate. That is to say, both Gunnar brothers could have died and it wouldn’t have brought me an inch closer to a match with Cherindra.
“She was afraid of Neels. Like his brother, Neels had an explosive, violent temper. But unlike Tor, he had no passion or purpose to accompany it. He was a cold, dangerous bastard.”
Whit was silent for a moment, lost in memory. “Our first romantic encounter was in Tor’s bedroom, while Tor stood guard outside. Afterward, he promised Cherindra that Neels would never wed her.” Whit smiled slightly. “We didn’t know how he planned to accomplish this miracle, but neither did we worry about it any further. What Tor promised, he would make true.”
Whit’s contempt rested on me. But I was not moved.
“Which means, slagbit…that Cherindra’s child isn’t Tor’s. The child is mine.”
The sun glinted through the window and momentarily stung my eyes. I felt as though I watched my ship from a distance, gliding empty and alone, sails full, the sun sparking at the tip of her mainsail mast.
But I had deserted that ship long ago.
Whit continued. “Did you never wonder how he knew of your hideouts? All of your hideouts? You might have been suspicious, had you thought about it. He’d been watching you for some time. He’d been watching you. I was with him the first time he saw you. We heard a girl’s laughter—your laughter—and it drew him like a siren’s song. We both turned. You were at a food stall with three of your friends. He couldn’t take his eyes off you! As you headed away, he followed at a distance. I dragged along for a while before I got bored, reminded him you were streetslag, and left. When I called on him the next morning, he wasn’t there, and he hadn’t been home that night at all. But Tor was like that. Once something got hold of him, he’d study it exclusively until he learned everything there was to know about the subject.”
His eyes cut into mine. “He had followed you, innocently enough, only to discover where you lived. Almost immediately, it must have been apparent what you were—a slagbit rebel.
“He could have turned you in. Should have turned you in. You and all your friends. Only Tor was different, always had been different. He never could stand an injustice, even a slight one. Even when we were kids, playing flyball, Tor was always captain. And if there were girls who wanted to play, he’d pick them for his team and win anyway, against all the noble toughs. There’d be Tor and I—sometimes Hugo—the rest of the team made up of girls, and we’d still win. But then, Tor carried the game. He was so quick and strong he could have won without us.
“But he didn’t. He’d put the ball right in Cherindra’s arms—short throw—and we’d advance down the pitch, one short throw at a time. If we got behind, he’d run the ball himself, from one end of the pitch to the other and catch us up.
“There was this young, soft kid. At the bottom of the nobility scale, his father a minor, minor clerk of no importance, with barely enough money to afford a place inside the walls. All the toughs picked on him. Rotten, spoiled, noble toughs. He was younger than Tor. They called him Whitshit. Not that they ever beat me badly. Just bullshit stuff, like tripping, pushing. But one day a couple of them slammed me up against the wall of Tor’s home as he was coming out.
“I never saw anyone get so mad, so fast. He threw three guys halfway across the street and made a lot of enemies that day…as well as a lifelong friend. Not that they could touch him—he was too highly placed, too highborn. At first they tried to get back at him through us. They hurt Cherindra once during a game. But only once. Tor was capable of more violence than they would ever see, or want to see, in their lifetimes. He picked out the two biggest ones and flattened them. I don’t think he hit either one of them more than three times, but they were out for the count.
“After that, they left us alone—all of us. And after that, when Tor threw to me, I caught the ball. I always caught the ball. I would rather have died than not catch that ball.”
Whit halted then, watching me with his trademark haughty smile.
I gave him back my best cynical stare. “And at this point, I’m to realize I’ve misjudged Tor Harnesson, and help you to save him. A spoiled nobhead who’s never in his life had to worry about anything greater than the outcome of a game. Whilst outside the walls, there were kids fighting for only enough to eat. Kids like me, kids like Ayden, who grew up to be betrayed by Tor Harnesson. Kids like that!” I pointed at Burro, hunched against the wall.
The chair scraped backward as Whit bolted to his feet. “Fuck you, slagbit. I’ll save him myself. He’s too effing good for streetslag like you!” His gaze hardened. “But the day Tor stepped outside the highwall was the day he found a cause he could fight for. Your cause!” He turned and crossed the room.
“Tor Harnesson is a noble lie,” I tried a final time, before he could escape my opinion. “His first words to me were lies. His last words were more of the same.”
Whit shook his head as he reached for the door. “Tor never lies. His worst enemies will tell you that. I don’t know what he said to you, slagbit, but I can tell you it was not a lie.”
“Whit.” I stopped him with a word. He turned a fraction and gave me half his attention. “I hope he’s publicly executed,” I said.
Burro’s back slid up the wall, a surprised look on his face. I turned and gave him a hard grin.
Chapter Eleven
Tor
It was a bright, crisp, sunny day with an unseasonable trace of warmth. There’d be a good crowd. A good crowd to watch my execution. I was to be hanged at noonday.
I hadn’t eaten for a few days, for the simple reason that I wanted to die clean. Stupid, the things you worry about at the end. I slept through most of the morning. I was tired of it, tired of everything. I was ready to die—had been ready for nearly two years.
I hadn’t prayed to any of the various gods I might have petitioned for help. In my experience, I have seen no evidence of gods, nor any example to recommend them.
To the new military dictatorship, I represented the last holdout on the nobility scale. My cousins, uncles, my brother Neels, had all gone before me. Whit, and other nobles of insignificant rank wouldn’t be pursued. For once in my life I could envy my best friend his obscurity.
There was a good crowd. A lot of people. Streetslag. This was their moment, or so they th
ought.
I felt a little sorry for them. They were only trading one master for another. Noble of me, don’t you think? To spare sympathy for those who would taunt me in death? Still, they had my noble pity.
The scaffold was an impressive affair constructed of wood and large enough to support a company of fifty armed bowmen, should anyone decide to differ with the opinion that I should lose my life. But why should anyone complain?
I saw Whit, mounted, at the edge of the crowd and my heart lurched a little. I hoped he didn’t try anything. It would just be a bloody mess that would draw attention to him at the least and end in his death at the worst. Actually, it would probably end in his death either way. But I watched him as I mounted the scaffold steps and managed a warning smile as I shook my head. In the next moment, I saw him dragged from his seat. Automatically took a step toward him but my guards rough-handed me back into place. Fighting to catch a glimpse of him, I saw—on the back of the same horse—her.
Spark.
She was laughing. Laughing at me. I saw her mouth open to form a few words and the crowd picked up the chant. “Parting Words. Parting Words. Parting Words.”
I hid my surprise. I doubted any of my predecessors in death had been allowed a final speech. The crowd roared and hammered and swayed and was crushing in their demand. My captors didn’t dare refuse the mob. I was going to have my three minutes of fame.
While all this was going on, I stared at her. I watched as she tossed a brown globe in her gloved hands, bobbled it, then flung it into the crowd. The crowd tossed it amongst themselves and I saw her bobble several more, then these joined the first that flew back and forth, jumping at the top of the mob. As I watched, she held up her hand and the entire square went silent.
Kingdom of Yute: Tor's Betrayal Page 9