by Cari Z
“Show me your hand,” one of the men said as the other two climbed into the boat and got to work shearing the tentacles off the jellies. They dropped the writhing strands carefully over the sides of the boat, keeping them as far from themselves as possible.
Liam poured a white powder on the affected area of Colm’s arm and doused it with seawater. It foamed up, and with the foam came blessed relief. Colm sighed and let his eyes fall shut as most of the pain evaporated. Liam scraped his arm clean, then repeated the cure twice more until the pain was almost completely gone. The skin was still red and swollen, though.
“Keep it cool, keep it dry,” Carroll advised Colm as he hoisted the last of the moon discs into the barrow he’d brought with him. “You should feel better by tomorrow. It happens to all of us, mate, no shame in it. The littlest of those stings can reduce a man to tears, so I’d say you did well overall. And these discs are right beauties, they are,” he added admiringly. “Not even the king himself has had this beast gracing his table yet this year, from what I’ve heard, and it’s said to be one of his favorites. Perhaps we’ll be the end of his drought, eh?” He smiled wide and looked like he wanted to clap Colm on the shoulder, but refrained since his leather-covered hands were still coated with jelly muck. “Come by tomorrow once you’re well, and I’ll pay you for them then. Fair price, I swear it by the Four.” He crossed the X in front of his face.
“That’s fine,” Colm said. Really, he didn’t care if he got cheated at this point. He just wanted to be in bed. He was tired, and still racked with occasional shivers, and his hand felt completely useless. All he wanted right now was to lie down on his blankets and sleep through the rest of his recovery.
Colm avoided the front door of the Cove, instead heading directly into the courtyard and to the back. Megg would want to mother him, and usually that was fine, but right now, Colm didn’t think he could bear it. He climbed slowly up the stairs to his room, and it didn’t even register that his door was closed until he heard the heavy thud of a body hitting it from the other side.
Colm’s first instinct was to open the door. It had to be Nichol inside, and it sounded as though he’d just collapsed. Then he heard the low laugh that turned too quickly into a groan, and recognized the voice that made it, and Colm’s reaching hand froze in place. Jaime was in there with Nichol, and they…
“Fuck, yes, suck me,” Jaime moaned. “Gods, your mouth…Nicky…”
There was a faint pop, and then Colm heard Nichol growl, in a tone he’d never heard before, “Don’t call me Nicky.” His voice was low and hoarse and utterly seductive, and Colm felt the blood rush to his cock so quickly it left him dizzy. He leaned against the side of the hall, squeezed his eyes shut and wondered if he could make it back down the stairs without giving himself away. He shouldn’t be hearing this. It was private, something just for Nichol and Jaime. To listen in seemed wrong, but the way it made Colm feel, the way his pulse thundered in his ears and his cock throbbed with sudden, desperate need, was too powerful to resist.
“Is it better if I tell you how pretty you are on your knees, Nichol?” Jaime teased him, his words broken here and there with gasps. “Your mouth, ah, gods, your mouth looks so perfect around my dick…fuck, you always take me so deep, like that, yes, like that, don’t…don’t stop, Nichol, don’t stop…ahh, fuck, fuck…” Jaime’s words dissolved into frantic whimpers, and Colm envisioned the scene in the room, picturing long fingers wrapped up in Nichol’s dark curls, working his head back and forth as that beautiful mouth took the length of that long, leaking cock. Colm pictured Nichol’s eyes opening and staring upward, capturing his gaze, dark and smoldering and wanting, oh gods, the idea that Nichol wanted him…
Jaime came faster than Colm did, but that was hardly surprising. He had the allure of the man himself at his feet, and not just the illusion. Jaime came with a long moan, and Colm twitched helplessly in the hallway, not wanting to open his eyes and break the vision with reality but not quite there yet, not quite.
“Now me,” Nichol said a moment later. Jaime just laughed, and then there was a flurry of activity that seemed to end with Jaime falling onto the cot, and Nichol climbing on after him.
“You’re at my mercy now,” Nichol murmured, almost too faint to be heard through the door. “I could have you any way I pleased, and you would have to simply accept me.”
“What of me do you want, then?” Jaime asked breathlessly, and Nichol laughed.
“To stop up that unstoppable mouth of yours, I think,” he announced, and then the cot creaked again. Colm pictured Nichol getting to his knees and straddling Jaime’s chest, bracing himself with one hand while the other cupped his lover’s jaw as he thrust his cock into the other man’s mouth, as he rocked over him and used him for his pleasure, and the image was so compelling that Colm suddenly came, completely untouched. He bit back the urge to groan and had to lean into the wall to keep himself from doubling over completely as the vision of Nichol, locking gazes with him as he filled Colm’s mouth with his length, sent pulses of ecstasy through his groin.
By the time he shakily came back to his senses Colm worried that they might be done, but the rhythmic squeaks of the cot reassured him. Wonderful, now he could make his escape and wash away his shame in peace. He turned and made his way down the stairs with as much discretion as he could manage.
Pulling water was a challenge with only one un-stung hand, but Colm managed, and hustled behind the inn to clean off before he could be seen. He stripped down to his drawers, then peeled them off carefully, trying not to spread the mess of his release. His cock was still half-erect, and so sensitive when he touched it that Colm gasped. The normally pale skin was almost blood red, and the white smears of come looked like pearls against the heated flesh. He stroked the head, carefully, and shuddered at the sensation. It made him want more. He hadn’t had enough yet, wasn’t anywhere close to satisfied. Colm mentally weighed his options for a moment, glanced down at the cold bucket of well water at his feet, and made up his mind.
Gods, it hurt to grab himself the way he did now, not gently or tenderly but vicious and tight, as though Colm were punishing himself for his earlier pleasure. In reality, it just hardened him faster, forcing tired tissues to swell again, and the ache in his balls as he handled himself roughly just drove Colm to increase the pace of his hand on his cock, stroking the length of it over and over as he leaned against the cool stone wall and fucked his fist. It was awkward and painful and raw, and no better than he deserved after eavesdropping on Nichol and Jaime. Fuck, that had been the best thing he’d ever heard in his life and the only thing that could have made it better was him with Nichol, him feeling the press of Nichol’s knees against his shoulders and the head of his cock against the back of his throat and even, even, oh, him rolling over and baring himself, offering his hole up like a whore and Nichol taking him there too, driving inside just as hot and desperate as he felt right now—
The volume was less this time, and the pleasure of Colm’s release was almost overshadowed by the tingling ache that accompanied it, but today was a day that was made for pain. Colm locked his knees out to keep himself upright and gingerly let go of his cock, which felt chafed and sore and looked in about the same shape.
Colm rinsed off, letting the water cool him down and trying to avoid getting his injured hand wet. He cleaned the drawers, then redressed in his clothes, wincing a little at the way the wool rubbed against his groin. Gods, he needed to lie down.
He collected his things and made his way back upstairs, relieved to find the door open and the room vacated. The air still smelled faintly of sex, but Colm was too tired now even to feel jealous. He hung the drawers up to dry, stripped nude again with a sigh of relief and lay down under his softest blanket. He was asleep in moments.
Chapter Eleven
The amount of silver Colm got for his troubles over the moon discs was worth the price of the sting, Megg’s subse
quent fussing after he woke up later that afternoon and Lew’s complaints over the creatures being butchered right there in the boat. According to a jubilant Carroll, the head of the king’s own kitchens had come down to view the catch for herself and purchased the lot of them. This made Carroll the envy of all other fishmongers and set tongues to wagging over his exclusive deal with the Serpent’s Tail, and how unfair it was that Lew and Colm managed to do as well as they did yet didn’t spread the largesse around to the rest of them.
It would have all been fine, most likely, a case of envy quickly forgotten in the wake of new gossip, if it hadn’t been for Lew’s mouth. Colm split the money for the jellies with him. That was the deal, even when Lew had absolutely no hand in doing the work. It was a princely sum and inspired Lew to spend it on some of the finest spirits he could find, in a tavern that catered to members of the clergy and high-ranking military officers.
It wasn’t that Lew hadn’t drunkenly ranted about Colm’s knack before. He had simply never done so in front of the clergy. They, unlike the dock workers and fishermen and sailors, weren’t so quick to brush Lew’s claims aside.
The consequence for Colm was that on the morning that marked his three-month anniversary in Caithmor, he’d no sooner set foot inside the Serpent’s Tail than two men, members of the city watch judging by their uniforms, walked over to his berth. They carried thick oak cudgels much like Vernon’s in their belts, and their expressions were stern. One of them stepped forward.
“Are you Colm Weathercliff?” he asked.
“I am,” Colm said, looking hesitantly between the two of them. “What can I do for you?”
“By the authority of King Iarra and the Church of the Blessed Four, you are to come with us for questioning in the matter of an illegal use of magic.”
Illegal use of… Colm wanted to smack himself on the head. Even more, he wanted to smack Lew on the head. “Did Lew Gullfoot send you to speak to me?” he asked as he stepped out of the boat. The men flanked him immediately, each one grabbing an arm.
“Accusations have been made about you that need to be verified,” the watchman said. Verified, Colm thought with a distracted sort of panic, not proven false.
“Where are we going?”
“To those who can question you properly.”
“Wait, I have to tell my aunt,” Colm said. The men kept him moving, down the cobblestones and toward the more populated part of the docks. People he knew were looking at him now, and the expressions on their faces ranged from shocked to curious to smugly satisfied. “Wait, please! I need to tell my aunt, she runs the Cove, the inn, it won’t take but a moment—”
“Your family will be informed of your arrest later,” the watchman said. “The magistrate may ask them to testify on your behalf at your trial.”
“Trial, what trial?” Colm exclaimed. “I’ve done nothing wrong, I don’t work magic! Please, listen to—”
The watchman stopped in his tracks and yanked Colm around to face him. “You keep up with this ruckus, my lad,” he snarled, the professional distance in his voice completely given way to menace, “and I’ll arrange for a stop that’s not your aunt’s inn but will surely shut you up better before we make our way to the Ardeaglais. Understand me?”
“Yes,” Colm whispered, so frightened that he could barely force his numb lips to speak. The watchman nodded, and the two of them marched him on and on, until the cathedral took shape through the press of the streets.
Why the cathedral? Why not the chambers of a magistrate in the King’s Hall of Justice? Colm wanted to ask but didn’t dare, and the men hustled him past the milling worshippers and staring priests outside the enormous vaulted prayer room, and into a small stone hallway that was so narrow one of the men had to walk behind him instead of beside. At the end of the hallway was a staircase leading down, where the air was cool instead of hot, but stank of mold.
At the bottom of the stairs was a small round vestibule lit by a smoky torch, with three separate doors leading out from it. Two of them were bolted shut, but one was open, and it was into that room that Colm was pushed, hard enough to send him sprawling, by the watchman.
“This is where you stay until Honored Srain has time to deal with you,” the watchman said, closing the door and sliding the bolt closed. There was only a small metal grate to let in light. Otherwise, the door was solid iron, and there were no windows this deep underground.
The two men left, and Colm was so scared, he almost called out to them not to leave him here alone, actually opened his mouth to do so, but the words stuck in his dry throat, leaving him coughing and incoherent. The watchmen were gone by then, and Colm stood stock-still in the small square of flickering light that he was allowed, and tried to remember to breathe as spots floated across his vision. Panic. This had to be what panic felt like.
You won’t be here long, he told himself, trying to muster some belief in it. They wouldn’t leave you here forever. Megg and Nichol will be looking for you. They’ll hear of it. They’ll do something. Jaime’s father is a magistrate; surely he can help. Because truly, magic? From Colm? He didn’t even like the feeling it sent through his head when Honored Gherick had blessed him back in Anneslea. There was no way he could tolerate using magic, especially not for something as ridiculously simple as fishing.
The torch seemed to be guttering. The light flicked and flared in one moment, then practically vanished in the next. Colm stared at it with a sense of desperation, willing it silently not to go out. He didn’t realize he was biting his lip until the flare almost extinguished, and the sudden pain broke through his paralysis. A trickle of warm blood crawled down his chin, but Colm ignored it, focused on the torch. No, stay, stay…but at last there was nothing left to burn. The light went out, the cell was submerged in darkness, and in that moment, Colm felt it as a physical thing, as thick as water and just as likely to drown him.
Colm forced a breath through his lungs, then another, cold and damp and dark, and he shut his eyes. With his eyes shut, it was easier to pretend that he wasn’t standing in a pool of blackness so complete he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. From one of the other cells, Colm heard the rattle of a chain and a low, rich burst of laughter. “It doesn’t get any better, boy,” a voice said, far too coherent to be real in this hellish place. That was the end of what Colm could take. His lungs froze, his legs collapsed, and Colm’s conscious mind simply set, like the blazing sun entering the water. Doused, out, done.
Colm didn’t notice the reappearance of the light, or the opening of his cell door. He didn’t notice anything until a warm hand touched his face, reigniting his thoughts enough to stir him to open his eyes.
A priest stood above him, his heavy jowls wobbling as he straightened up. “There you are. Had you already given over to despair? Honestly, you were here but four short hours, Colm Weathercliff.” The priest sat down on a padded stool that had been placed in the entryway of his cell. Strong, bright torchlight shone from behind him, turning the priest into a silhouette. A guard stood several feet behind him.
“Sit up,” the priest instructed. Colm pushed himself to a sitting position, half his face feeling rough and chilled after prolonged contact with the floor. He didn’t even remember falling. “There, that looks more comfortable. You must be thirsty.” He handed over a pewter chalice filled with water, and Colm drank until it was empty. The priest extended his hand, and Colm passed the chalice back to him.
“Well, now. I hope that together, you and I will be able to get to the heart of this matter quickly,” the priest said. His voice was kind. “I am Honored Srain, the chief inquisitor for our glorious Ardeaglais and the Holy Four in this great city. I find the truth, Colm Weathercliff, the truths that men and women, and even children, try to hide from the sight of the gods. The use of magic for anything other than worship is a vile, savage practice, and I can see that you are no savage.” He folded his hands in his lap
and leaned forward slightly. “But there are those who say you do things beyond a normal man’s abilities. That you seek to enrich yourself by using vile, illegal magic at the expense of your comrades. And that would be a truly savage thing to do. So tell me, Colm Weathercliff. Are you a savage?”
“No,” Colm whispered, then said more firmly, “No.”
“Then tell me how you, a newcomer to this city and the ways of the sea, can out-fish the rest of your entire industry. You seem to know where to be for the best, the rarest of catches. How do you do it?”
“It’s not magic,” Colm said. “I don’t know any magic. The fishing, I simply have a knack for it.”
“A knack,” Honored Srain said tonelessly. “A knack, you say. Where did you learn this knack? Does using it require you to speak words, to offer up invocations?”
“Not at all,” Colm replied. “I was born with the ability, as far as I know. I’ve always been able to sense the fish.”
“Just fish?”
“Everything on the water,” Colm clarified. “The movements of boats, the swell of the waves… It doesn’t extend indefinitely, but it works for a ways out. All I do is put my hand in the water and concentrate.”
“That is quite the knack, my son,” Honored Srain said. “Very helpful, I’m sure. And precisely as your master Lew Gullfoot has described what you do, although he himself called it magic.”
“It isn’t—”
“I’m more inclined to believe you, though,” Honored Srain broke in smoothly. “A fine young man like you, trying to live his life and make money for his family. Not an old drunk pickling his brains with spirits. Tell me, what does your father do?”
“While he lived he was a farmer, and a fisherman.”
“But not from here.”
“Originally, I think, from here,” Colm said cautiously. “But he raised me in the mountains beyond Isealea.”