by Tia Reed
“Where is Sergeant Rokan?” she asked glimpsing a tatty, barefooted boy too young to be abroad at this hour disappear into a shadowed passage.
“Um, one of the mounted soldiers bid him follow sir, um, ma’am, er, lady Your Highness. Um, there was blood on him, um, the soldier,” the taller of the two, looking like a startled hare, said.
She looked skyward and shook her head. Infants. Matisse had left her with infants. Well, her sour brother was not about to spoil all her fun. With a sigh, she bided her time as they tailed the larger group through shabby lanes before emerging onto a wider road lined with modest shops. The strains of a bawdy tune announced their arrival at the Tipsy Toad even before they saw the etched sign. It set her fidgeting would-be guards to smirking. These infants in teenage bodies were more immature than the barefooted boy sitting on the tavern’s roof, the same lad who had loitered about Rondel’s dwelling, she was sure. He was singing with gusto. With the cheekiest of winks, he scurried the length of the inn, jumped to the lower roof of the neighbouring building, and bolted out of sight. That boded rather ill for the soldiers darting around the sides of the well-known establishment while Matisse listened at the green door. Her brother shot her a warning look as she approached, which she ignored, of course.
“Your approach has been noted,” she cautioned.
“The street urchin? He won’t slip past deq Pitran.”
“Really? I will wager you that guard’s service he will.”
Matisse grinned. “I don’t barter with soldiers of Dario’s calibre.”
“Perhaps you can direct these babies you’ve assigned me to him. They will need a good dunking in ale before they’re of any worth.” The lads snapped to attention as she placed a hand on the door.
Matisse smirked at their dying smiles. “I’ve need of the real men.” He fixed the pair with a disapproving frown. “And since you, dear sis, promised to wait out here until the tavern is secure, you are more than capable of taking care of both yourself and these.”
“That last part is true, which is why in agreeing not to tie up your guards, I promised no such thing. Besides, these two might be disappointed if someone doesn’t make men of them tonight. Come along,” she said, beckoning the new recruits over her shoulder. She pushed into the stuffy interior before Matisse could stop her. After all, someone responsible needed to supervise the melee.
In the middle of a common room lit by hanging candelabras and two blazing hearths, ruddy patrons were downing ale in a race to the bottom of their tankards. To the left, Matisse’s svelte artiste friend turned reluctant informant, Naldo, stood among a knot of men dressed in the latest pricy fashion. Ale slopped out of his burnished tankard at each extravagant gesture used to embellish his latest tale of romantic conquest. His cheering audience, slumped over sturdy, well-crafted benches padded with simple cushions and tables polished to a shine, added their own lewd comments at intervals. Since he had not seen her, she walked up behind him, careful, for once, not to swish her skirts as she crossed the kilims thrown across the slate floor.
“I hope we’re not exaggerating again, Naldo,” she said into a pause in the comical tale.
Naldo froze with his arm to the side. He cleared his throat, put the tankard down and wobbled around with the gravity of a drunk about to utter a profound denial. His thin moustache, too long for his narrow angular face, was damp with froth from his drink.
“Not tonight?” he said, a wary eye on the door.
“Not any night,” she replied into the silence that had grown as her alluring presence was noticed. Her comment drew bellows from his friends.
“Piddlyrum.” He collapsed onto the bench, took the ridiculous floppy turban he favoured off his head, and clutched it to his chest. “You grieve my aching heart, Jordayne.”
“You’ll live, I’m sure.” She patted his shoulder in a sympathetic way.
The innkeeper, a fellow groomed with consideration of his upper-class clientele, left off his conversation with a young couple, wiped his hands on an immaculate apron, and appraised her with the calculation of one who hoped, but doubted, she would be good for business. Swaying her hips, she approached amid the rustle of her skirt and the various comments of the men, answering each as was deserved.
“A glass of your best white.” She followed him into the serving room, tailed by the puppies Matisse had assigned her. “And a nod towards Prahak deq Fraaq,” she added when they were out of hearing of the patrons. Of all the names the outraged artists of the city had supplied to Matisse when he confiscated their purely recreational porrin, his had been the most reluctantly given. But relinquish it they had, in exchange from a promissory note from the palace, and a night free of the dungeons.
The innkeeper pushed a sparkling goblet towards her, selected an elegant jug, and poured her a generous glass. “I can’t say I know who that is.”
The sip decided her. An establishment serving such a smooth, fruity vintage deserved to prosper. “A pity since my idea of an amiable chat differs from that of the contingent of elite guards surrounding your establishment.”
The innkeeper pulled discarded mugs together with more energy than was necessary. “They can question all they like. I don’t know the man.” He set the mugs on a tray and took them through the inner door to the kitchen. The clang of pots and pans burst out.
“I suppose we’ll have to close you down. If the owner is not aware of what transpires right under his nose, there could be any number of violations,” she said when the sulking man returned. She savoured another sip. The wine was going down a treat.
“Over there by the hearth. The one with the djinn’s burn on his neck,” he capitulated, the sensible man. Pretending to attend to a spill, he leaned over the bench and lowered his voice. “You don’t want to tangle with the likes of him. A contingent of them baby faces won’t stand a minute in front of his sword.”
Jordayne turned and sighed at the new recruits. Where had Matisse found them? Their attempts to appear fierce had already become the butt of the patrons’ jokes. “You’d better serve them some ale. I’d hate them to die without wetting their milk-fed lips.” She waved them away as she entered the common room.
This time she ignored the hoots for her attention as she glided over to the corner where the dealer huddled opposite a lean man with a scraggly beard. Each slid a hand across the table and gathered up what the other presented. The lean man slipped his purchase into his silk shirt and left. Jordayne drifted onto the free bench, propped her feet up, and took another sip of the truly excellent drop. Prahak scooped up the coins under his hand and one by one let them clink into his purse. From this angle, with the strawberry birthmark beneath his ruthless jaw obscured, he sported the rugged good looks she favoured. And those big, work-hardened hands would have a novel feel about them.
“I hear you are in the market of bliss,” she said.
He swept a cursory gaze over her, tied his purse and hooked it onto his belt right by his sword. “Are you offering?”
“I was under the impression you were the one with the goods.”
“You were misinformed.”
He rose to leave but pivoted around the table, grabbed her arm and hauled her onto her feet. Her goblet crashed against bench and floor as he looped a muscular arm around waist and pulled her close. Her dagger was out and at his ribs even as his knife pricked against her bare waist. The carousing patrons, mouths catching drops from upturned tankards or spouting slurred rhetoric, remained oblivious to the nature of their exchange. Naldo paused in his telling to clasp a hand over his heart in an affected display of wounding. Matisse, the gods decry his mood, was nowhere in sight.
“Struggle and you’re dead,” Prahak said, his breath hot in her ear. He brought his head around and kissed her on the lips. Had he not stolen it, she might have enjoyed his roguish passion.
She pressed the dagger tighter against his skin. “Try that again and you will be the one spurting blood.”
He responded by scratching
his blade across her skin and down to her belly button. “Don’t pretend you weren’t wondering what it would be like. So, now everyone believes I’m one of your trysts, let’s go upstairs and finish this.”
“Not if you want to live.”
“Your pretty brother has his hands full. I’ll wager we have time to spare.” Her eyes widened. He caught her reaction and grinned in cruel delight. “Oh I know who you are all right.”
That seemed to be the norm tonight. She was a fool for underestimating the man. A rouge like him would have paid informants. Naldo, she discounted, and was careful to avoid glancing his way. The extravagant artiste did not possess the guile to turn traitor to his friends. She would not betray his trust.
Prahak whirled behind her and hooked an arm around her waist. He pulled her against him and pinned her dagger arm beneath his before she had time to react.
“Tell those infants to back off or I’ll slice their family jewels and feed them to you while I have my way.”
She ran a teasing finger up his arm. “Can’t you think of anything more original? Any one of my ex-lovers will rant about how hard I am to please in bed.”
His knife pressed against her spine as the elder of the two infants slunk towards her. His eyes spent far too long almost meeting hers and then sliding away. Jordayne rolled her eyes at his naiveté. He was too daft to recognise either her condescension or the trouble that had overtaken her.
“I hope you do not intend to join us in bed. I am not in the mood, boys. Drink your ale and one of you tell your lord to hurry up.” At which they both coloured and spluttered an incoherent reply.
“Not bad, though the one that leaves to find Lord Matisse will have his throat slit the sooner,” Prahak whispered into her ear. He pushed her past the serving room and up the main stairs. The gloomy corridor did not promise help. Indeed, shadows menaced the room he pushed her into, thrown by a smoking candle on a battered chest of drawers. They even swallowed the trunk at the foot of the large bed. At least the air was fresh, infused with lavender seeping from the sachets of seeds left on the drawers. Too bad the wardrobe was a rustic piece of furniture that could not have hid an inner door, and the window opposite the door was shuttered. She was, it seemed, at the mercy of her wits. Just as well that was how she liked it. Although she would have preferred to keep the dagger Prahak wrenched from her hand. She folded her arms as he bolted the door and made a display of examining the jewelled hilt.
“A pretty trinket. I think I’ll keep it.”
“You should think about how you’ll keep your head.”
He grinned but the mirth did not reach his calculating grey eyes. They slaughtered his appeal. “Who ratted me out?”
“Your name is common word among the more prosperous of our citizens.”
Prahak tucked his knife into his belt. Her blade, he scraped over the calloused tip of a finger. “It is not, for they know what will happen to them if they sing.”
“And know what will happen if they don’t.”
He nodded, as though considering. “So, it comes down to the greater threat.” The throw of her dagger was calculated to intimidate. It twanged into the top of the trunk, its blade quivering. She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. Too many men had tried that tack with her. Prahak noted her lack of fear, opened the trunk and lifted out a coil of rope. “Shall we compare?”
He jiggled the coils in his hand as he bore down on her. She made a tight circle to place her back to the door. Prahak mirrored her turn. She expected nothing less. A dominating man forever handled women in one way. She had manipulated far too many of them to be intimidated by this bully. She grabbed the dangling coils and placed her other hand on his chest. From here she could see the window beside the bed was latched.
“Don’t be boring.”
He grabbed her wrist and yanked her close. “Boredom will be the least of your worries before I’m through.” He whipped her round. Her small frame was no match for his brawn. The downward pressure he exerted forced her to sit on the creaky bed. One jiggle and the end of the rope was in his hand. A twist and it was wrapped around her wrists. This was not at all what she had in mind. With the sigh of one who must court patience she stared over his shoulder and shook her head.
“The last man who tied me up was not ingenious enough for my taste. I left him begging. You can find out for what or let me demonstrate the allure of a skilled woman.”
That brought a lopsided grin to his face as he secured the knot. “And have you stab me in the back?”
She tucked her legs onto the pallet, grabbed his shirt and pulled him down as she reclined upon the bed. “I promise not to do anything so crass before I get what I came for.”
“And what is that?” he asked, climbing onto the pallet and straddling her.
“Your ear.” She worked her bound hands inside his shirt, let light fingers rest on his chest. “And if we seal a bargain, I may take something more.”
He took her hands, dragged them over her head. “You are not in a position to take anything, although there is much I could give.” His lecherous hold travelled down her arms until his firm hands rested on her breasts.
“Now you are being a bore.”
“There are ways to fix that. It is a matter of how you would like to proceed.”
“With a glass of that delicious drop you so rudely interrupted.”
His hands travelled down to her bare waist. He squeezed. “I prefer my women sober. I find them so much more entertaining that way.” And further down onto her hips and around to her thighs. For once, the layers of her skirts seamed flimsy.
“A drop stimulates the imagination.”
The cold smile returned, and again it fell well short of his eyes. “I’m not lacking. Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Who ratted me out?”
Jordayne dropped her eyes to his groin. Brought her arms down and clasped her palms together in a crude arrow to his masculinity. “You are sadly lacking, Prahak. As for the information you require, you’ll have to ask my brother. I am here as negotiator.”
He pulled his knife free of his belt. Tilted it so that the feeble light glinted off the polished blade. “It is too late for that. The shah’s new decree sits ill with those who have to make a living.”
“There are legal ways to do so.”
“None so lucrative.”
“You might be surprised. I’ve come with a proposition. The Crown would have you put your trade to good use. There’s a war threatening and our mages and physics have need of porrin. To protect your skin, I might add. We also need our citizens sober enough to bear arms. Continue your lucrative trade but deliver your goods to me.”
He snorted. “You suggest I trade to your low price or find myself hanged for treason. A woman of your talents should be able to offer a more enticing deal.”
“We could seize your ships and arrest you anyway.”
He pressed the flat of the blade against her sternum. “You might find that harder than you think.”
“You will have every soldier in the land hunting you down.”
“In the midst of a war? I think not. Besides, I can be an impossible man to find.”
“I found you.”
“It will not happen again.”
“The mages can scry you.”
“They should have a fitting reason to expend their energy.” He slid the blade down and pushed it under her bodice. The edge felt sharp against her breasts. She dared not breathe too deep least it cut her.
“Are you always so brutal about your pleasures?”
“Your skin, your demeanour, your words. You invite this.”
“I invite your adoration.”
“You have my contempt.”
He withdrew the blade. Balanced the tip on the hollow at the base of her neck. She felt a prick. Prahak set the knife on the chest, looking at her all the while. The corners of his mouth turned up as he set a finger on her tender skin, brought it away and pressed it against her lips. The tang of iron seeped through
to her tongue. The rogue had drawn blood. She worked his nail between her teeth, tore off a shred and spat it out.
“Flesh for flesh. We are equal here.”
“Are you sure?” He pressed a hand against her throat. “Where did you get your information?”
“Would you believe a djinn? An indigo one, I believe.”
He reached for his blade. A finger at the hilt balanced the tip on her belly button. “My skills with a knife are unsurpassed. I can maim without killing or slaughter without leaving a blemish. When I am done with my brutal pleasure, which would you prefer?” His eyes searched hers as though he expected an answer.
“Surprise me, if you can.”
“Very well. I prefer to maim first. The pleasure is doubled.”
A stab of pain made her gasp. This had gone on long enough. Thank Vae’oenka he chose to place his knife down so he could kiss the cut.
“There are so many places a scar might arouse sympathy,” he said, his hands travelling up again.
Jordayne twisted her fingers into his hair and pulled. A few strands came free. “Flesh for flesh.”
He grabbed her wrists, forcing them over her head. “Your flesh is mine.” He ran his fingers down her bare arms, hooking them into her bodice. As he ripped it apart, she twisted and smashed an elbow into his nose. Blood spurted onto her. He slapped her face. She pushed at him.
The thump of heavy feet negotiating the stairs made them both pause.
“Feel free to interrupt,” she called.
Cursing, Prahak leapt off her and grabbed his knife. He punched the shutters open and in a fluid movement straddled the sill.
“Our business is finished.”
“That,” she said, swinging her legs off the pallet with a haughty jut of her chin, “it is not.”
He swung his second leg over the sill but paused to point his dagger at her heart. “A free piece of advice. If you have an inkling of what’s good for you, you’ll refrain from targeting dealers in your raid. Those that supply the less well-off are not as sophisticated as I. When they get their hands on you, they will enjoy rough sport before they even think to pry the information they need.”