Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

  Well then.

  The first boot hit the floor, then the second. Gratefully, Erik wiggled his toes and stretched until his shoulders creaked. His lips curved in a wicked grin. Tomorrow the real challenge.

  Little Mistress Prue.

  The Necromancer raised his brows. “I must stop what?”

  “Killing seelies,” said the Technomage. She clenched her hands together, her spine rigid with tension.

  “And why is that?” asked the Necromancer, rather enjoying himself.

  Her shoulders still tight, the Primus indicated her screen. “I’ve been collecting data, doing projections. They were rare to begin with, but over the years, you’ve reduced the population to below a viable level.”

  “They’ve just learned to avoid the traps, that’s all. Clever little things.” The Necromancer glanced fondly at the swirl of blue fur in the tank. He could taste the terror. Luscious. “There are plenty more of them, I’m sure. Where did you put that bucket?”

  The Scientist ignored him. She picked up a thick bundle of transplas sheets and thrust it in his general direction, her cheeks flushing pink with agitation. “No, no, you’re wrong,” she said. “Our research on Sybaris shows that such interference has unpredictable results. I need more data.” She took two steps closer to the tank. “Let me talk to the Primus in the Tower here. I can keep this one alive for—”

  The Necromancer’s patience evaporated. He struck out, a whip-lash of power curling around the Technomage’s waist, jerking her off her feet. Her shoulder struck the tank with a jarring thud, so that it rocked, the seelie thrashing in distress. As he watched, she slumped slowly to the floor and her eyes rolled up in her head.

  Huffing with irritation, the Necromancer bent to check her pulse. Fine. The stupid woman was fine. A mild concussion probably and some residual nerve pain.

  He straightened, surveying the limp body thoughtfully. The Technomage Primus of Sybaris was a godsbedamned nuisance, not a doubt of it, but no investment came without cost. His gaze traveled from the diagram of the seelie trap on the screen to the little heap of blue misery in the corner of the tank, and he smiled.

  What else had his Scientist been doing?

  Stepping over her sensibly trousered legs, he crossed to the console and began to rummage.

  In her suite on the upper floor of the Main Pavilion, Prue laid the ink brush down with a sigh. Ruefully, she massaged the tight muscles at the back of her neck. Likely she’d transferred at least one smear of ink. She always managed to get the stuff all over her fingers. With considerable satisfaction, she surveyed the big ledger on the scarred surface of her big desk. Done, by the Sister! When the Queen’s Money sent his tax collectors, all would be in perfect order at The Garden of Nocturnal Delights.

  And she still had time for a bite of lunch with Rose. Smiling, Prue patted the pocket of her working trousers, cut in the flowing Trinitarian style, loose and sensible. Paper crackled beneath her fingers. They could adjourn to the sitting room, brew a soothing tisane of mothermeknot tea and open Meg’s letter together.

  The smile became wistful. How lovely it would be to travel to the country, spend some time with Meg. Together with John Lammas, her childhood sweetheart, their former housekeeper had bought a tavern in the small village of Holdercroft, way out on the Cressy Plains. The Garden still limped along without big Meg’s calm efficiency, but it was churlish to begrudge the woman her happiness. If only it wasn’t so godsbedamned difficult to find someone even half as good.

  Her brow furrowed, Prue ran a finger over the battered cover of the ledger, trying to recall which merchant had supplied Meg with the last consignment of top-quality mothermeknot. Every female of child-bearing age on Palimpsest drank the contraceptive tea. The women of The Garden went through bushels of it. With an inward grin, she wondered if Meg still bothered. Somehow, she thought not.

  Someone knocked.

  Sweet Sister! Now what? If Cook had thrown another tantrum—

  “Enter!”

  Young Tansy popped her head around the door.

  “Mistress Prue?”

  Tansy was smiling, her lovely face, pretty as a flower, glowing with ill-concealed delight. It was hard to be angry with the little apprentice, which of course, Tansy knew full well, the imp. Prue rested her head against the high back of the chair and tried to look stern. “What is it?”

  “Mistress Rose says she’ll meet you for lunch downstairs, in the courtyard of the Sweet Manda. Fifteen minutes all right?”

  Prue’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

  Tansy primmed up her mouth, her doe eyes dancing. “Nothing, Mistress.”

  “Tansy . . .”

  But the girl shook her head. “Fifteen minutes.” She scampered off down the stairs.

  By the time Prue reached the small pavilion known as the Sweet Manda, she was torn between curiosity and irritation. For that very reason, she spent a few moments talking to the luxuriant touchme bush that marked the fork in the path. The fringed silver blossoms chimed a happy greeting, bending to stroke her cheek and gift her with delicate wafts of perfume. Equilibrium restored, she took two steps forward and froze.

  Sweet Sister in the sky!

  She knew the voices. This was The Garden’s music class; she’d heard them many times before. Every Garden courtesan could play an instrument or sing. But never so assured, so precise, their voices blending in a miraculous four-part harmony that soared and swooped with sheer joy. The touchme bush swayed in time, tinkling almost below the threshold of hearing, but Prue couldn’t have moved to save her life.

  Some innate sense of self-preservation told her to turn and run, because a dark part of her soul recognized his touch, his gift.

  So abruptly it almost hurt, the liquid Magick stopped midbar. “No,” said Erik Thorensen’s rich, dark baritone. “Tansy, you’re too damned good. You came in a beat early there and the altos tumbled along right behind you.” A pause and she could imagine him smiling, those blue eyes bright with concentration. “Again, from the beginning of the verse. I’ll count you in. Ready? One, two . . . three!”

  Appearing beside her, Rose whispered, “He’s so good with them, Prue. You should see their faces. Come in and sit with us.”

  Casually, Prue laid a hand over her solar plexus, where the nerves quivered like flutterbyes in a panic. Then she turned her head to skewer her best friend with a glare. “I’m not talking to you.”

  “Take a peek.” Unabashed, Rose winked. “Go on, you know you want to.”

  Prue growled under her breath, tempted beyond measure. Slowly, she stepped up to the flower-laden lattice that screened the courtyard and peered through. She inhaled sharply.

  Erik the Golden leaned against the wall of the pavilion, one booted heel propped against the edge of a garden bed. Praise be to the Sister, he was in profile to her, so she was spared the impact of those eyes. The top of his shining blond head almost brushed the eaves of the small building. Prue knew women who would kill for hair like that, thick and wavy, burnished with the very slightest hint of auburn. Gods, he was big, and yet, he managed to be as supple, as full of grace, as the melody, one hand moving gently in the air marking the time. Must be the stage training, thought Prue, furious with herself. All that practice at showing off.

  She drew back a little, narrowing her eyes. What was it about him?

  Scattered around the garden like exquisite blossoms, some standing, some seated on jewel-toned cushions, were some of the most gorgeous young people on Palimpsest. Compared with such an extravagance of beauty and youth, Erik Thorensen looked more than a little worn, crinkles showing at the corners of those blue, blue eyes. He was talking to the two boys singing tenor, completely focused on something to do with tempo. The usual easy charm was eclipsed by concentration, grim lines bracketing his mouth, as if he were in the habit of clenching his jaw.

  Quietly, Prue released a long breath. Why had she let him disturb her so? Over the years, some shatteringly beautiful, sensual men had
worked at The Garden. Yes, the singer was good-looking, but he paled in comparison with those perfect specimens of manhood. Physical beauty was an accident of genetics. Furthermore, it was a commodity. How you used it, what you traded it for, depended on who you were—on the inside. She shot a glance at Rose from under her lashes, and a rueful smile tugged at her lips. Prue knew her dearest friend through and through, but even a woman as good, as fundamentally decent, as Rose used her loveliness as currency. She could no more help it than she could stop her lashes fluttering.

  On Erik’s count, the group inhaled as one and the music rose again. Every face was rapt, intent on him, be-spelled by the sheer force of his personality, the beauty they created together. It would be like flying to sing with them, caught up in something ineffably lovely, exquisitely ephemeral.

  She’d never even been able to hold a tune, never had any sort of artistic gift. Despite herself, Prue’s eyes prickled with tears. Blinking them back, she spun on her heel and hurried away down the path. Rose caught her arm before she’d taken three paces, and fell into step. Wisely, her friend didn’t make a sound until they reached the door of Prue’s suite.

  Rose cleared her throat. “Prue. Sweetie . . .” Discomfort sat strangely on those perfect features.

  Prue stared. Was that . . . apprehension? Oh, gods . . .

  “What have you done?” she hissed.

  Rose flushed. “It’s only a few weeks. Truly, you won’t know he’s here.” The flush intensified. “Much.”

  “Rose.” Prue gripped her friend’s arm. “Tell me.”

  “He’s agreed to provide intensive vocal coaching. Think of the publicity, the cachet it gives us, Prue—our courtesans, students of Erik the Golden, the most famous singer in the known worlds.”

  Prue snorted. “Aren’t you exaggerating, just a trifle?”

  “Well, he’s reasonably famous.” Rose’s smile widened. “And he says Tansy is something quite exceptional. He’s going to do special work with her.”

  “Lucky Tansy,” said Prue. She’d meant the words to sound derisive, but to her dismay, they came out wistful instead.

  Rose shot her an uncomfortably shrewd glance. “For some reason, I trust him,” she said. “With our youngest too. Don’t you think that’s interesting? Prue, why don’t you—?”

  “Enough!” Prue threw up her hands. “Leave me out of this. How much are we paying the amazing Erik for the benefit of his wisdom?”

  Rose studied her jeweled slippers. “We drew up a short-term contract. Here.” Extracting a rolled-up sheet of gilded parchment from one capacious sleeve, she loosed the pink ribbon that bound it.

  Merciful Sister!

  Prue had no difficulty making out Rose’s familiar scrawl, another signature in a bold, slashing hand, the space for her own name as co-owner of the business.

  Her heart turned a hard, painful somersault in her breast. Who had he asked for? Rose, it had to be. All men wanted the Dark Rose, and as a stranger, Erik wouldn’t know she’d retired.

  Between her teeth, Prue said, “What—no, who—did you sell him?”

  “Actually,” said her friend, taking a prudent step backward, “you.”

  7

  “What?” Prue’s shout echoed down the hall. For a single delirious instant, every cell in her body leaped to attention, all hot and glowing.

  Rose waved the contract under Prue’s nose. Godsdammit, the woman was choking back laughter! “Not your body, silly, your head. Here, read the thing.”

  Rapidly, Prue scanned the parchment. Oh, of course. How ridiculous she was. Her heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a lurching jog trot. She raised her eyes. “He needs a bookkeeper?”

  “Apparently.” Rose shrugged. “But it’s completely up to you, sweetie. You don’t have to sign.”

  Little Tansy had looked exalted, out there in the courtyard. They all had. Prue might hold facile charm in contempt, but she respected talent, and she’d never for an instant thought Erik Thorensen was a fool. “He’s already told them, hasn’t he?” she said, tracing the bold brushstrokes with a fingertip. “About the music lessons?”

  Rose nodded.

  “They were thrilled, I’m sure. He’s made it impossible for me to refuse. Very clever of you both.”

  “It’s only a few weeks,” said Rose, almost pleadingly. “Then he’ll be gone.”

  Prue tossed the contract to the desk and took a few restless steps to the window. Without turning, she said, “You never met Chavis, did you?”

  “No. And I haven’t heard you speak of him, not in all these years.” A hesitation, then more gently, “Katrin looks like her father, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Prue stared out into the garden below, unseeing. “Tall and fair. But she’s not as beautiful as he was.” In the shadowed reflection in the windowpane, Prue caught the bitter twist of her own lips. “Too much like me.”

  A rustle of skirts, Rose’s hands on her shoulders. “Prue, love, don’t—”

  “Looking back, I know he wasn’t a bad man, just weak. So pleasing, full of light and laughter. And he made a dead set at me.” Prue fixed her gaze on the feature rock that marked the gentle curve of the path. Usually she loved its intriguing contours, the striations of green and shining gold.

  She ignored Rose’s murmur, the comforting press of her fingers. “I was stupid, yes, but I was only eighteen and he was ten years older. He had me tied in knots—flattered, besotted.” Dipping forward, she rested her forehead against the cool of the glass. “It’s funny what things you remember. He could juggle, Chavis. It was his party trick.” Her eyes burned.

  “When my parents refused permission, I . . . I ran away with him to Caracole, and we got married. At least”—she pressed her lips together—“I think it was a real Bonding. It may not have been. I no longer care.”

  Resolutely, she turned and met her friend’s concerned gaze. “He left us flat, Rose, that’s how much we meant to him. Katrin was so small, she could barely toddle. He took everything, the bastard, not just our savings, but my clothes as well, every stitch. Gambling debts, I suppose. He always loved the deep play. When I couldn’t pay the rent, the landlord put us out. I had nothing, not a single cred. Nothing!”

  She bared her teeth, the breath sawing in her lungs with remembered terror. “We spent three nights on the streets in the worst part of the Melting Pot. It was—” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I never thought there were things worse than dying, but gods, what I saw . . . But I did it, I kept us safe. Katrin and I, we survived. The gods help those who help themselves, I always say. Chavis didn’t do so well. They found his body in the canal a month later. Knifed.”

  With a murmur of pain, the other woman tried to envelop her in a hug, but Prue held her off. “Rosarina,” she said steadily, “don’t match-make for me, don’t you dare.”

  “I’m not matchmaking, not really.” But Rose didn’t look away, didn’t have the grace to look in the least guilty. “But you haven’t—Not for such a long time. Who was the last? I can’t even remember his name. It’s not natural.”

  Prue tilted her chin. “Neither have you,” she pointed out.

  Rose refused to be diverted. “Yes, but I’m perfectly happy; you’re not.” Her lips quirked. “Dearest, you can’t fool a courtesan of my experience. I saw your face. You want him.”

  “Do not.”

  Rose laughed outright. “Do too.”

  “This is childish. And pointless.”

  When Rose crossed her eyes and poked her tongue out, Prue couldn’t help but giggle. “Oh, you!” she said, giving her friend the finger.

  They collapsed, laughing, against each other’s shoulders.

  “Excuse me. Mistress Rose?”

  Their heads jerked around.

  “I brought him, like you asked.”

  That was self-evident. Framed by the doorway, Erik the Golden loomed behind little Tansy, his eyes bright with interest as he glanced from Prue to Rose and back again. He’d obviously heard the hilar
ity, but what about the conversation that had preceded it?

  Fighting a furious blush, Prue wiped her eyes and marshaled her forces.

  “Thank you, Tansy,” said Rose, still smiling. “Better run to the fighting salle now. Walker and the others will be waiting.”

  Erik patted the girl’s shoulder. “You did well today, sweetheart,” he said, and he sounded absolutely sincere. Pink with pleasure, the apprentice bobbed a curtsey and trotted away, her step light.

  One dark gold brow rose. “You have a fighting salle?”

  “Indeed we do,” said Prue crisply. There’d been a sword duel in the Demon King, choreographed with great skill, Erik Thorensen moving through the steps with such grace and masculine power. She could imagine him in the airy space of the salle all too clearly, stripped to the waist, that magnificent chest gilded with sweat, muscles bunching and flexing with the rise and fall of the blade.

  She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, opened them again. Sanity prevailed. Gods, a real swordsmaster like Walker would carve an actor, a fake, to bloody ribbons. With some difficulty, she suppressed the curl of her lip. “Our gardener also happens to be a swordsman of note. All Garden courtesans learn the martial arts from Walker, both theory and practice.”

  How she knew, Prue had no idea, but she was certain Erik wanted to laugh. “So you’re not entirely defenseless?” he said, his rich voice a melody that washed over her in a wave of warm honey.

  Prue’s lips drew back from her teeth. She still couldn’t believe what had happened last night—his gall or her own stupidity. Thank the Sister she’d regained her senses in the nick of time. Let me kiss it. She suppressed the impulse to shake her head in amazement. “No,” she said, “we are not.”

  After a short silence, Rose said smoothly, “I’ll leave you two to discuss the contract.” She glided toward the door, paused and offered her hand. “A pleasure doing business with you, Erik.”