He did not look up from his wine, though his mouth moved as if he was tasting his last sip all over again, finding the remnants faintly sour on his palate. ‘There is no need to wait for me, wife.’
An involuntary glance over at Shardan revealed both amusement and the clear statement that he would not be so dismissive of her.
And, with sudden, dark perverseness, she found herself meeting his eyes and smiling in answer.
If it could be said, without uncertainty, that Gorlas Vidikas did not witness this exchange, Hanut Orr did, although his amusement was of the more savage, contemptuous kind.
Feeling sullied, Challice turned away.
Her handmaid trailed her out and up the broad flight of stairs, the only witness to the stiffness of her back as she made her way to the bedroom.
Once the door was closed she threw off her half-cloak.
‘Lay out my jewellery,’ she said.
‘Mistress?’
She spun to the old woman. ‘I wish to see my jewellery!’
Ducking, the woman hurried off to do her bidding.
‘The old pieces,’ Challice called after her. From the time before all this. When she had been little more than a child, marvelling over the gifts of suitors, all the bribes for her affection still clammy from sweaty hands. Oh, there had been so many possibilities then.
Her eyes narrowed as she stood before her vanity.
Well, perhaps not only then. Did it mean anything? Did it even matter any more? Her husband had what he wanted now. Three duellists, three hard men with hard voices in the Council. One of the three now, yes, all he wanted.
Well, what about what she wanted?
But . . . what is it that I want?
She didn’t know.
‘Mistress.’
Challice turned.
Laid out on the vanity’s worn surface, the treasure of her maidenhood looked . . . cheap. Gaudy. The very sight of those baubles made her sick in the pit of her stomach. ‘Put them in a box,’ she said to her servant. ‘Tomorrow we sell them.’
He should never have lingered in the garden. His amorous host, the widow Sepharla, had fallen into a drunken slumber on the marble bench, one hand still holding her goblet as, head tilted back and mouth hanging open, loud snores groaned out into the sultry night air. The failed enterprise had amused Murillio, and he had stood for a time, sipping at his own wine and smelling the fragrant scents of the blossoms, until a sound alerted him to someone’s quiet arrival.
Turning, he found himself looking upon the widow’s daughter.
He should never have done that, either.
Half his age, but that delineation no longer distinguished unseemly from otherwise. She was past her rite of passage by three, perhaps four years, just nearing that age among young women when it was impossible for a man to tell whether she was twenty or thirty. And by that point, all such judgement was born of wilful self-delusion and hardly mattered anyway.
He’d had, perhaps, too much wine. Enough to weaken a certain resolve, the one having to do with recognizing his own maturity, that host of years behind him of which he was constantly reminded by the dwindling number of covetous glances flung his way. True, one might call it experience, settling for those women who knew enough to appreciate such traits. But a man’s mind was quick to flit from how things were to how he wanted them to be, or, even worse, to how they used to be. As the saying went, when it came to the truth, every man was a duellist sheathed in the blood of ten thousand cuts.
None of this passed through Murillio’s mind in the moment his eyes locked gazes with Delish, the unwed daughter of widow Sepharla. The wine, he would later conclude. The heat and steam of the fête, the sweet blossom scents on the moist, warm air. The fact that she was virtually naked, wearing but a shift of thin silk. Her light brown hair was cut incredibly short in the latest fashion among maidens. Face pale as cream, with full lips and the faintest slope to her nose. Liquid brown eyes big as a waif’s, but there was no cracked bowl begging alms in her hands. This urchin’s need belonged elsewhere.
Reassured by the snoring from the marble bench – and horrified by his own relief – Murillio bowed low before her. ‘Well timed, my dear,’ he said, straightening. ‘I was considering how best to assist your mother to her bed. Suggestions?’
A shake of that perfectly shaped head. ‘She sleeps there most nights. Just like that.’
The voice was young yet neither nasal nor high-pitched as seemed the style among so many maidens these days, and so it failed in reminding him of that vast chasm of years between them.
Oh, in retrospect, so many regrets this night!
‘She never thought you’d accept her invitation,’ Delish went on, glancing down to where she had kicked off one of her sandals and was now prodding it with a delicate toe. ‘Desirable as you are. In demand, I mean, on this night especially.’
Too clever by far, this stroking of his vaguely creped and nearly flaccid ego. ‘But dear, why are you here? Your list of suitors must be legion, and among them—’
‘Among them, not a single one worth calling a man.’
Did a thousand hormone-soaked hearts break with that dismissive utterance? Did beds lurch in the night, feet kicking clear of sweaty sheets? He could almost believe it.
‘And that includes Prelick.’
‘Excuse me, who?’
‘The drunk, useless fool now passed out in the foyer.
Tripping over his sword all night. It was execrable.’
Execrable. Yes, now I see.
‘The young are prone to excessive enthusiasm,’ Murillio observed. ‘I have no doubt poor Prelick has been anticipating this night for weeks, if not months. Naturally, he succumbed to nervous agitation, brought on by proximity to your lovely self. Pity such young men, Delish; they deserve that much at least.’
‘I’m not interested in pity, Murillio.’
She should never have said his name in just that way. He should never have listened to her say anything at all.
‘Delish, can you stomach advice on this night, from one such as myself?’
Her expression was one of barely maintained forbearance, but she nodded.
‘Seek out the quiet ones. Not the ones who preen, or display undue arrogance. The quiet ones, Delish, prone to watchfulness.’
‘You describe no one I know.’
‘Oh, they are there. It just takes a second glance to notice them.’
She had both sandals off now, and she dismissed his words with a wave of one pale hand that somehow brought her a step closer. Looking up as if suddenly shy, yet holding his gaze too long for there to be any real temerity. ‘Not quiet ones. Not ones to pity. No . . . children! Not tonight, Murillio. Not under this moon.’
And he found her in his arms, a soft body all too eager with naught but filmy silk covering it and she seemed to be sliding all over him, a sylph, and he thought: Under this moon? Her last gesture at the poetic, alas, since she was already tearing at his clothes, her mouth with those full lips wet and parted and a tongue flickering as she bit at his own lips. And here he was with one hand on one of her breasts, his other hand slipping round to her behind, hitching her up as she spread her legs and climbed to anchor herself on his hips, and he heard his belt buckle clack on the pavestone between his boots.
She was not a large woman. Not at all heavy, but surprisingly athletic, and she rode him with such violence that he felt his lower spine creak with every frenzied plunge. He sank into his usual detachment at this point, the kind that assured impressive endurance, and took a moment to confirm that the snoring continued behind him. All at once that sonorous sound struck him with a sense of prophetic dissolution, surrender to the years of struggle that was life’s own chorus – and so we shall all end our days – a momentary pang that, had he permitted it to linger, would have unmanned him utterly. Delish, meanwhile, was wearing herself out, her gasps harsher, quicker, as shudders rose through her, and so he surrendered – not a moment too soon – to sensation
. And joined her in one final, helpless gasp.
She held on to him and he could feel her pounding heart as he slowly lowered her back on to her feet, gently pulling away.
It was, all things considered, the worst moment to witness the blur of an iron blade flashing before his eyes. Burning agony as the sword thrust into his chest, the point pushing entirely through, making the drunken fool wielding it stumble forward, almost into the arms of Murillio.
Who was then falling back, the sword sliding out with a reluctant sob.
Delish screamed, and the look on Prelick’s face was triumphant.
‘Hah! The rapist dies!’
More footsteps, then, rushing out from the house. Voices clamouring. Bemused, Murillio picked himself back up, tugging at his pantaloons, cinching tight his belt. His lime green silk shirt was turning purple in blotches. There was blood on his chin, frothing up in soft, rattling coughs. Hands pulled at him and he pushed them all away, staggering for the gate.
Regrets, yes, jostling with the oblivious crowds on the street. Moments of lucidity, unknown periods of dim, red haze, standing with one hand on a stone wall, spitting down streams of blood. Oh, plenty of regrets.
Fortunately, he did not think they would hound him for much longer.
*
Was it habit or some peculiar twist in family traits that gave Scorch his expression of perpetual surprise? There was no telling, since every word the man uttered was delivered in tones of bewildered disbelief, as if Scorch could never be sure of what his senses told him of the outside world, and was even less certain of whatever thoughts clamoured in his head. He stared now at Leff, eyes wide and mouth gaping in between nervous licks of his lips, while Leff in turn squinted at Scorch as if chronically suspicious of his friend’s apparent idiocy.
‘All them ain’t gonna wait for ever, Leff! We should never have signed on to this. I say we hitch on the next trader shippin’ out. Down to Dhavran, maybe all the way t’the coast! Ain’t you got a cousin in Mengal?’
Leff slowly blinked. ‘Aye, Scorch. They let ‘im furnish his cell himself, he’s in there so much. You want us go up there and take on his mess too? Besides, then we’d end up on the list.’
Astonishment and dread filled Scorch’s face. He looked away, whispered, ‘It’s the list that’s done us in. The list . . .’
‘We knew it wouldn’t be easy,’ Leff said in a possible attempt at mollification. ‘Things like that never are.’
‘But we ain’t gotten nowhere!’
‘It’s only been a week, Scorch.’
The time had come for a modest clearing of the throat, a dab of the silk handkerchief on oily brow, a musing tug on the mouse-tail beard. ‘Gentlemen!’ Ah, now he had their attention. ‘Witness the Skirmishers on the field and yon Mercenary’s Coin, glinting ever as golden lures are wont to glint . . . everywhere. But here especially, and the knuckles still reside in sweaty hand of surprised Scorch, too long clutched and uncast. Interminable has this game grown, with Kruppe patient as he perches on very edge of glorious victory!’
Leff scowled. ‘You ain’t winning nothing, Kruppe! You’re losing, and bad, Coin or no Coin! And what use is it anyway – I don’t see no mercenary anywhere on the field, so who’s it paying for? Nobody!’
Smiling, Kruppe leaned back.
The crowd was noisome this night at the Phoenix Inn, as more and more drunks stumbled back in after their pleasing foray in the dusty, grimy streets. Kruppe, of course, felt magnanimous towards them all, as suited his naturally magnanimous nature.
Scorch cast the knuckles, then stared at the half-dozen etched bones as if they spelled out his doom.
And so they had. Kruppe leaned forward once again. ‘Ho, the Straight Road reveals itself, and see how these six Mercenaries march on to the field! Slaying left and right! One cast of the knuckles, and the universe changes! Behold this grim lesson, dear companions of Kruppe. When the Coin is revealed, how long before a hand reaches for it?’
Virtually no cast in the Riposte Round could save the two hapless Kings and their equally hapless players, Scorch and Leff. Snarling, Leff swept an arm through the field, scattering pieces everywhere. As he did so he palmed the Coin and would have slipped it into his waistband if not for a wag of Kruppe’s head and the pudgy hand reaching out palm up.
Cursing under his breath, Leff dropped the Coin into that hand.
‘To the spoiler, the victory,’ Kruppe said, smiling. ‘Alas for poor Scorch and Leff, this single coin is but a fraction of riches now belonging to triumphant Kruppe. Two councils each, yes?’
‘That’s a week’s wages for a week that ain’t come yet,’ Leff said. ‘We’ll have to owe you, friend.’
‘Egregious precedent! Kruppe, however, understands how such reversals can catch one unawares, which makes perfect sense, since they are reversals. Accordingly, given the necessity for a week’s noble labour, Kruppe is happy to extend deadline for said payment to one week from today.’
Groaning, Scorch sat back. ‘The list, Leff. We’re back to that damned list.’
‘Many are the defaulters,’ Kruppe said, sighing. ‘And eager those demanding recompense, so much so that they assemble a dread list, and upon diminishment of names therein remit handsomely to those who would enforce collection, yes?’
The two men stared. Scorch’s expression suggested that he had just taken a sharp blow to the head and was yet to find his wits. Leff simply scowled. ‘Aye, that list, Kruppe. We took the job on since we didn’t have nothing else to do since Boc’s sudden . . . demise. And now it looks like our names might end up on it!’
‘Nonsense! Or, rather, Kruppe elaborates, not if such a threat looms as a result of some future defaultment on monies owed Kruppe. Lists of that nature are indeed pernicious and probably counterproductive and Kruppe finds their very existence reprehensible. Wise advice is to relax somewhat on that matter. Unless, of course, one finds the deadline fast approaching with naught but lint in one’s pouch. Further advice, achieve a victory on the list, receive due reward, repair immediately to Kruppe and clear the modest debt. The alternative, alas, is that we proceed with an entirely different solution.’
Leff licked his lips. ‘What solution would that be?’
‘Why, Kruppe’s modest assistance regarding said list, of course. For a minuscule percentage.’
‘For a cut you’d help us hunt down them that’s on the list?’
‘To do so would be in Kruppe’s best interests, given this debt between him and you two.’
‘What’s the percentage?’
‘Why, thirty-three, of course.’
‘And you call that modest?’
‘No, I called it minuscule. Dearest partners, have you found any of the people on that list?’
Miserable silence answered him, although Scorch was still looking rather confused.
‘There is,’ Kruppe said with an expansive swell of his chest that threatened the two stalwart buttons of his vest, ‘no one in Darujhistan that Kruppe cannot find.’ He settled back, and the brave buttons gleamed with victory.
Shouting, a commotion at the door, then Meese crying out Kruppe’s name.
Startled, Kruppe rose, but could not see over the heads of all these peculiarly tall patrons – how annoying – and so he edged round his table and pushed his grunting, gasping way through to the bar, where Irilta was half dragging a blood-drenched Murillio on to the counter, knocking aside tankards and goblets.
Oh my. Kruppe met Meese’s eyes, noted the fear and alarm. ‘Meese, go to Coll at once.’
Pale, she nodded.
The crowd parted before her. Because, as the Gadrobi are wont to say, even a drunk knows a fool, and, drunk or not, no one was fool enough to get in that woman’s way.
Picker’s sword lay on the table, its tip smeared in drying blood. Antsy had added his shortsword, its blade far messier. Together, mute testaments to this impromptu meeting’s agenda.
Bluepearl sat at one end of the long table, nursing his
headache with a tankard of ale; Blend was by the door, arms folded as she leaned against the frame. Mallet sat in a chair to Bluepearl’s left, with all his nerves pushed into one jumpy leg, the thigh and knee jittering, while his face remained closed as he refused to meet anyone’s eyes. Near the ratty tapestry dating back to the time when this place was still a temple stood Duiker, once Imperial Historian, now a broken old man.
In fact, Picker was mildly surprised that he’d accepted the invitation to join them. Perhaps some remnant of curiosity flickered still in the ashes of Duiker’s soul, although he seemed more interested in the faded scene on the tapestry with its aerial flotilla of dragons approaching a temple much like the one they were in.
Nobody seemed ready to start talking. Typical. The task always fell at her feet, like some wounded dove. ‘Assassins’ Guild’s taken on a contract,’ she said, deliberately harsh. ‘Target? At the very least, me, Antsy and Bluepearl. More likely, all us partners.’ She paused, waiting to hear some objection. Nothing. ‘Antsy, we turn down any offers on this place?’
‘Picker,’ the Falari said in an identical tone, ‘ain’t nobody’s ever made an offer on this place.’
‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘So, anyone catch a rumour that the old K’rul cult has been resurrected? Some High Priest somewhere in the city wanting the old temple back?’
Bluepearl snorted.
‘What’s that supposed to tell us?’ Picker demanded, glaring at him.
‘Nothing,’ the Napan mage muttered. ‘I ain’t heard nothing like that, Pick. Now if Ganoes Paran ever comes back from wherever he’s gone, we could get ourselves a sure answer. Still, I don’t think there’s any cult trying to move back in.’
‘How do you know?’ Antsy demanded. ‘Can you smell ‘em or something?’
‘Oh, not now,’ Bluepearl complained. ‘No more questions tonight. That Mockra’s chewed everything in my skull to pulp. I hate Mockra.’
‘It’s the ghosts,’ said Mallet in that odd, gentle voice of his. He glanced across at Bluepearl. ‘Right? They’re not whispering anything they haven’t been whispering since we moved in. Just the usual moans and begging for blood.’ His gaze shifted to the swords on the table before him. ‘Blood spilled here, that is. Stuff brought in from outside doesn’t count. Luckily.’
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