“Blind loyalty is useful,” said the Necromancer absently, trailing a finger over the glass of the tank.
The seelie within recoiled, its whiskers vibrating with terror, and bubbles clung to its long blue fur as it twisted away. You couldn’t say seelies were pretty, not by any stretch of the imagination, but they had their own bug-eyed, whiskery charm. With their long tubelike snouts and webbed fingers and toes, they were perfectly adapted for life underwater. The Necromancer had a seelie-fur rug next to his bed. He relished the luxury of it under his bare soles first thing in the morning. There was something . . . visceral . . . about his connection with the half a dozen creatures who’d died to make it.
Gods, he really must take care to savor this one, not gulp it down like a raw apprentice with his first blood. He pulled his gaze away to study the diagram revolving slowly on the gray screen, and his brows rose. “Ingenious.”
The Scientist’s breast expanded under her white coat. The garment was beginning to look more than a little gray and limp, but the numeral one embroidered on the collar was still crisp and dark. “Not difficult,” she said, “given your trap wasn’t a very sophisticated apparatus to begin with.”
After a split second, she realized what had come out of her foolish mouth and froze, waiting for her punishment. Really, she was doing very well. Progress.
“No offense taken,” said the Necromancer, waving a hand. “In fact, I think a reward is in order. You deserve a name.”
Her lips thinned. “I already have one.”
“A number is not a name.”
“It’s all Science gives us. Perfectly sufficient.”
“In a Technomage Tower perhaps, but not in the real world. Let me think . . .” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the seelie cast back and forth, back and forth, while he pretended to consider. No escape, little one. You’re mine.
“I knew a whore once,” he said at last. “She was called Dotty, and she was a good whore.” Actually, she had been. She’d been kind to a hungry little boy, long ago, in a different life.
“Well, Dotty, what else have you been doing?”
He thought he heard the Technomage’s teeth click together. Certainly, her jaw bunched.
“I’ve done some calculations. I need to tell you . . .” The pause was so fractional, he barely caught it. His interest sharpened. “. . . something.”
The Necromancer smiled. “You’re worried I won’t like it. Your concern does you credit.” Spreading his robes, he seated himself on the Technomage’s chair. “Go ahead, Dotty. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
The low heels of her sensible shoes clattering on the flagged floor, she strode back to her console and tapped a key. Columns of figures scrolled across the screen. His eyes aching, the Necromancer averted his gaze. His vision wasn’t as sharp as it used to be.
The Technomage opened and closed her mouth. Then she said, “You have to stop killing seelies.”
“You,” said Erik, snagging Florien’s collar as the last of the dancers trotted toward the water stairs in a drift of perfume and tired chatter. “With me.”
Florien looked from the fragile-seeming skiff rocking in the inky waters of the canal to Erik’s face and back again. He scowled. “Kin we walk?”
“No. This is quicker.” Erik glanced up at the big red moon called the Brother, high in the night sky. “It’s late and I have things to do tomorrow.”
A puzzle to solve and a woman to pursue. Were They toying with him, the gods? It wouldn’t surprise him, not after last night. He’d been so perilously close to the edge, he’d very nearly dared Them to get it fucking over with and kill him. A life for a life.
The Sister, nearly full and silver blue, hung just above the rooftops, her pale glow softening the harsh martial light of the Brother. The Sibling Moons, Palimpsestians called them. The other main source of light was the single Technomage Tower near the spaceport, glowing like a blunt needle on the mainland, miles away. The tiny shape of a flitter buzzed across it like a mechanical insect as he watched. Interesting. Queen Sikara must be a canny politician to hold the Scientists to the one Tower. On Sybaris, where Florien came from, the Technomages were all powerful.
The combined moonslight gave shadows a strange blurred double edge and did extraordinary things to the already exotic architecture of the Royal Theater. Erik tilted his head back to stare up at it. Gods, it was an edifice, a monument to elegant excess, story after story climbing up to bulk against the star-spangled sky. For all the world like a towering layer cake.
Erik liked it. He liked the extravagance of Caracole, and he rather suspected Caracole approved wholeheartedly of the Unearthly Opera. He’d have to see about extending the run.
“Hold on tight,” he said, scooping up the boy with one arm.
Florien cursed, but his fingers crooked into claws on Erik’s forearm, all save the smallest finger on one hand. The burly skiffwoman roused herself from a doze in the stern and rose, balancing easily as the narrow craft bobbed. She stretched, working the kinks from her back, and her dark eyes flickered over Erik. She grinned, showing a missing tooth. “Where to, pretty master?”
With an effort, Erik returned the smile, passing the boy over as she reached out a calloused hand to steady his descent. Florien subsided with a gasp and fell silent, but his eyes were everywhere. Alley cat. Erik suppressed a sigh as he settled himself, his weight making the skiff dance in the water.
When he gave the woman the address of the boarding house where the Company was accommodated, she grunted and pushed off into the current. “Which way?”
“Pardon?”
“You wanta go by the Meltin’ Pot?”
“What’s that?”
The skiffwoman’s remaining teeth shone as she guided the craft beneath a graceful humpbacked bridge. “Market, taverns, doxy houses,” she said. “Rough as guts. Still kickin’.” She glanced up at the Sibling Moons. “Even now.”
“Yah.” Florien sat up straight.
The water slid by, dark silk brushing the hull. A cool breeze ruffled Erik’s hair, moist and salt-laden. With it came the familiar deep green smell of massive vegetation, but now it was laced with the faintest odor of rot, like a scummy pool. Foul. Grimacing, he cursed his sensitive nose, not for the first time.
“Why not?” he said. “And do you know a place called The Garden?”
“Yeah.” The skiffwoman glanced from Florien to Erik and back again. “On the Leaf of Pleasures.”
“Take us past it.”
The woman cocked a brow. “That’ll be extra. ’Nother half-cred.”
“Thet’s cheatin’.” The lad glared. “Twice t’ goin’ rate.”
She chuckled. “Not against the tide, it’s not.”
As they slipped beneath another bridge, the ornate buildings began to give way to humbler structures. The skiffwoman poled them steadily toward a mass of lights that threw long flares across the night-dark water. New smells assaulted Erik’s nose—stale beer, unwashed humanity, grilled meat. The buzz of noise became a roaring hum, underpinned with the occasional shriek and crash, someone playing a jig—badly.
Dark silhouettes moved across arched bridges or clustered outside brightly lit buildings that were clearly taverns. Skiffs darted across the water like so many improbable insects.
The lights blanched the boy’s fascinated face to the white of bone. “Kin we stop?”
Behind them, a man’s voice bellowed a curse, cut off by an almighty splash. A woman screamed a string of imprecations.
“No, we cannot,” said Erik sternly, but he made a mental note. Later. Alone. He turned his head to hide his grin as the din receded in their wake.
“The Garden,” grunted the skiffwoman, indicating with her chin.
Erik stared ahead, over the prow of the little craft, his eyes widening. Lord’s balls, but that was pretty. So that’s where she was. It figured. Low in his belly, everything went tight and hot.
The moonslight illuminated the roofline of a wide, t
wo-story building, the eaves tilting up at the corners in graceful, somehow feminine curves. It was set a little back from the canal, surrounded by gardens. He could see the curve of a flagged path lined with poles bearing fat orange lanterns like ripe manda fruits, each with its strange double shadow stretching behind it. Pale blossoms gleamed, silvery fronds shimmering in a dance beneath the moons. Exquisite perfumes drifted across the water and he sniffed appreciatively.
“Looks expensive.”
“Yeah,” grunted the skiffwoman. “ ’Tis.”
Prue’s gown had been plain, but the fabric had had the sheen of the best silk, the upper curve of her sweet breast gleaming like pale honey against the black.
Other lights came into view, glowing through the foliage, warm and welcoming. Smaller pavilions, about half a dozen of them. Water gurgled in the canal, a quiet counterpoint to his thoughts.
He’d spent all his adult life practicing the most severe self-discipline imaginable, and tonight, he’d ruined it all, destroyed everything, the effort of all those years. So easily, so wantonly, and for no reason he could discern. The Voice had surged out of him like a force of nature. He’d had no warning, not the slightest idea.
And if that wasn’t enough to have him reeling, Prue McGuire had actually resisted. Godsdammit, how was it even possible? The shock of that mangled half-sentence on her lips had brought him to his senses faster than a dash of icy water.
Two completely unprecedented events.
Which left him with a number of possibilities.
Was it some kind of dreadful game and he a mere toy for the amusement of the deities? Had the Great Lady overridden his choice and taken both blessing and curse after all?
But that didn’t seem likely. The gods had some purpose in mind for him, he believed that absolutely. He’d waited all his adult life for it. The Lady might be terrible in Her justice, but She wouldn’t play him false. He’d still entranced the entire Court of Caracole with the Voice. Nothing unusual about that, it happened every night he sang.
So it had to be her—Mistress Prue McGuire, with her vivid, level gaze. For an instant, his mood lightened. Once he got his full growth, he’d discovered seduction was as effective as the Voice—it just took longer. And it had the added benefit of allowing him to live inside his own skin.
But Prue had resisted both. Erik rubbed his forehead. Why? Godsdammit, how?
Only one way to find out.
His chest tightened and automatically, he touched his fingertips to the talisman under his shirt. He’d have to do it again—compel someone—but how could he do that and be sure to do no harm? Because to be a true test, it would have to be something deeply against the victim’s will.
His eye fell on the boy’s grimy little fist, clutching the side of the skiff for dear life.
Oh yes.
First, make absolutely certain of the child’s feelings. “Florien,” he said casually, “when we get to the boarding house, I want you to take a bath. Immediately.”
Florien’s head jerked up and his mouth fell open. “Wot?”
“A bath,” said Erik patiently. “I can smell you from here.” It was true, he could.
“Ain’t havin’ no fookin’ bath. Cenda made me take one las’ week, ’fore we got on t’ starship.” His face stiff with indignation, the boy leaned over the side of the boat and spat into the water.
“Fine.” Erik leaned back. We’ll see, my lad, we’ll see.
6
From one of the small pavilions in The Garden, the notes of a flute stole across the water, clear and bright as the chimes of a glass bell in the softness of the night air. Erik smiled, pleasantly surprised. The “Lullaby for Stormy Eyes.” How flattering, someone had been listening. But when a female voice joined in, dancing a graceful minuet with the flute, the smile faded.
With a sigh, the skiffwoman rested her pole and let the current carry them back a little way while she listened.
It wasn’t Prue McGuire, he knew that at once. This was the voice of youth, all promise and inexperience. The flute player could do with tutoring too. Not to mention a better instrument.
Very softly, Erik hummed along, considering the new and interesting options the gods had just set before him. The Lord and Lady could be unpredictable, but They generally played fair. They recognized the stubborn grain deep in his soul, disguised by his veneer of placid good humor.
The skiffwoman bent to the pole again, and The Garden slipped away around the bend, the music fading in the slap of water against the hull, the whisper of a sea breeze. Erik tried to recall the last time a woman had rejected him out of hand. Really, there was only Inga—and she’d been in love with Jarner Andersen at the time.
He swore under his breath. So he’d slipped tonight. Though he’d used the Voice to compel, thank the gods there’d been no consequences. Prue McGuire was hardly likely to throw herself in the river. He released his hard grip on the side of the skiff, flexing his fingers to get the numbness out.
He’d only met the woman a few hours ago. All he’d intended was a night of casual pleasure. Instead, she’d changed his life—and he didn’t think it was for the better. Uneasily, he recalled staring at his reflection in the mirror, that dark tide of premonition washing over him. Coincidence be damned. He frowned.
One you cannot charm, cannot control. The Lady’s amused voice echoed in his head.
Erik set his jaw. Well, hell, charm certainly hadn’t worked. Nor had the Voice.
All the fine hair on his body rose. His pulse sped up. Shit.
Prue McGuire was a direct challenge, a gauntlet thrown down by the dark goddess. She had to be.
Did She have a serious purpose or was She simply amusing Herself? Ha! Typical female. His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. Fleetingly, he wondered how the Horned Lord fared with His Lady. Was He as helpless and hapless as any human male?
Godsdammit, if there was anything that riled him, it was being played—even when the player was an immortal Being of immeasurable power. Erik Thorensen was his own man, not some kind of game piece to be moved about at will.
Prue had the potential to be almost anything—challenge, riddle, passing fancy, the heart’s desire. Divine retribution. Chills raced up and down his spine.
Erik tilted his head, baring his teeth at the star-dappled sky, fathomless as the Lady’s beautiful eyes. So it amuses You to challenge me, Great Lady, to make me dance to Your tune? Well, I’m picking up the gauntlet. Let’s see if I can charm sweet Mistress McGuire into bed on my own merits, and what wicked things I can persuade her to do once she’s there. He frowned, thinking it through.
And if she turns out to be susceptible to the Voice after all, well then—I won’t use it. I swear on Your name.
Rolling his shoulders, he relaxed. Slowly, his lips curved. It wasn’t going to be such a hardship. Unraveling Prue would be fun—for both of them. She’d be his match in determination, if not in guile. The grin widening, he imagined them tumbling back and forth across a big bed, tussling about who’d go on top, carefree and laughing. He hadn’t done that with a woman in years. Forever.
Her piquant face was so expressive, so easy to read. He found it almost cute the way she didn’t have enough experience to conceal how much he attracted her. The delicate flush on her cheek, her dilated pupils and her breasts swelling beneath smooth black silk—they all said one thing. Such a contrast to the snippy words coming out of that sweet carnal mouth. Oh yes, Mistress Prue was deliciously susceptible, despite her wariness.
When he was long gone, playing other theaters, other worlds, they’d both have some sweet memories to warm the nights. A pleasant interlude. Nothing more, nothing less.
With a soft thud, the skiff grounded at the water stair nearest the boarding house. Still smiling a little, Erik dropped an extra coin in the skiffwoman’s calloused palm, despite Florien’s audible huff of disgust.
Keeping a big hand on the boy’s shoulder, he closed the door quietly behind them. “The bathhouse is just
down the hall.”
“Nah, I tol’ ye, I—”
“Florien.” Erik snagged the child’s dark gaze with his own. Held it. “Go take a bath. With soap. Wash everywhere—hair included. Then come to my room and show me.” He hadn’t spoken loudly, but the Voice echoed eerily off the walls.
Florien stared, his brow knitted. Then he blinked as if waking from a deep sleep. “Fook it. All right.”
He wandered off down the passage, casting Erik a final reproachful glance before he disappeared through the door at the far end.
Erik sagged against the wall.
You didn’t take it from me, Great Lady. Your blessing, my curse. Climbing the stairs to his room, he sank down full length on the too-short bed. Thanks—I think. He threw an arm over his eyes.
How long did it take to wash one skinny little body? By the time Florien stuck a wet, tousled head around the door, Erik had given up on the bed. He was pacing the floor—two long strides to the window, two strides back.
Without a word, the child held out his hands for inspection. “Kin I go t’ bed now?”
“Wait.” Erik cleared his throat. “Your hair’s wet. Come here.” With one hand, he grabbed a thin shoulder, with the other, he snatched the threadbare towel from the dresser.
“Hey! Mmpf!” The boy’s protest sounded muffled under the vigor of Erik’s rubbing.
Erik paused. “You all right?”
Florien emerged pink and rumpled, his hair standing up in soft spikes. He checked the condition of both ears with careful fingers, shooting Erik a look of frank dislike. “Yah.”
He slid out the door so rapidly Erik was left standing in the middle of the room, blinking, the towel clenched in his fists. He blew out a long breath. The gods be praised, the Voice hadn’t caused the lad any damage, changed him in any fundamental way. Florien had done exactly as he’d been told—and no more. Smiling, Erik bent to unbuckle a boot. The boy’s shirt and trews had been both familiar and filthy. He’d simply put them straight back on his clean body.
Thief of Light Page 5