by Jean Winter
It killed Lyra to say the next words.
“I am sorry for your unsuccessful conquest. Perhaps next time—” Groping fingers felt along the curve of her hip down to the flesh of her thigh. “Um, my lord …”
“Come now, khari'na,” he murmured, pulling her tighter to him. “This is your purpose, after all, to men such as me.”
His hand planted itself firmly on her backside and gave her a squeeze.
Oh, that is IT!
With the pointed heel of her shoe, Lyra stomped on the jerk's foot with all her might. The lord grunted in pain. Shocked.
Mejhisk suddenly arrived, forcing him off her. “Excuse me, 'Na Lyra,” he nodded curtly. Then he turned and landed a stinging punch square on the man's nose. The lord staggered backward, almost falling to the ground. Mejhisk gave his stunned knuckles a shake. “No one gropes my best friend's woman,” he muttered.
J'Kor materialized out of nowhere and stepped to the bleeding lord's side. He apologized profusely, helping the man position a handkerchief under his nose. All dancing stopped.
Lyra looked around. Yeah, now was the time to lie through her teeth.
She swiftly knelt before the sputtering lord. “Please forgive the stumbling, clumsiness of a lowly khari'na, my lord. I accidentally tripped. I did not mean to hurt you.”
“I did,” Mejhisk mumbled from behind.
With a glare at his friend, J'Kor pulled Lyra up by the arm. “Back to the table,” he said. “My sincerest apologies for the crudeness of my acquaintance,” he told the lord. “He has had too much to drink.” J'Kor's eyes swept across the motionless dance floor. “Forgive us.” He bowed stiffly in the general direction of the nearest group of couples then pulled Lyra briskly with him to her chair at their table. It looked like their food had just been brought. No one gave it any regard.
Mejhisk sat himself down and leaned toward Lyra, winking. “Fret no', Lyra darling. I will handle this.” He turned to his friend. “Kade, now, I know you might have a hard time believing this, but she started it,” he said, pointing a melodramatic finger at Lyra.
In mock horror, Lyra swatted Mejhisk's hand and turned on him, a grin sprouting in spite of the circumstances. “You are such a traitor. I did not ask you to knock the jerk's lights out. At least I made what I did seem like an accident.”
“Quiet. Both o' you,” J'Kor ordered. With a long sigh, he passed his fingers through his hair. “So, you did stomp on him intentionally?”
“Brother, did you no' see that he had his hands all over her?” Mejhisk said, jumping in. “It was plain as day even from twenty feet away.” J'Kor's raised hand silenced his friend.
Lyra's face turned to stone. “Am I expected to accept fondling from strangers?”
Both men answered at the same time. “Aye!” J'Kor said. “No,” said Mejhisk. Then he gave J'Kor a stern look.
“I mean … submission at all times.” J'Kor looked strained. “Let your lord decide what is or is no' appropriate behavior toward you.” It was like he was quoting rules out of a handbook Lyra had never seen. “You know these things already, do you no'? You should have waited for me to get to you.”
“Of—of course, my lord,” she replied. Ugh. This was draining.
“Gentlemen, I am afraid I must ask you to leave. Immediately.”
The maitre d' had approached with a wide, burly oaf of a man off his shoulder, no longer the congenial host from earlier. Their plates of food sat enticingly before them.
“Good sir,” J'Kor began, “please give a little allowance. That man was clearly drunk and acting lewdly on the dance floor. My friend was only trying to protect the woman here.”
The maitre d' looked down his nose at Lyra. “She was probably asking for it, if you ask me, and deserves a good beating for her insolence. I will tolerate no such disrespect or violence from a khari'na—or anyone else—” a scathing glance was aimed at Mejhisk, “in my restaurant. You are dismissed.”
J'Kor stared at his plate, struggling to keep his composure. Finally, he stood. “Very well. And I apologize for the disturbance my party may have caused the respected patrons here.”
He motioned for Lyra to join him and waited for Mejhisk to do the same. Poor Mejhisk. He eyed his sumptuous meal with longing, and it seemed to take a great deal of effort to push it away.
“A host will help you handle your check on your way out, o' course,” the maitre d' added. “We canno' serve these entrees to anyone else now. You understand.”
J'Kor's features hardened into sharp, dark angles, but Mejhisk, with a stubborn jut of his chin, went back to his plate and willfully stuffed one large fork full of herb-crusted hind steak into his mouth.
“Come, Lyra,” J'Kor murmured, taking her by the arm. “I will take you somewhere where the people are … more civilized.”
Mejhisk, his mouth full of juicy, seasoned beef, stared down at the head host. “Aye. More civilized.” Colorful spittle sailed through the air and landed directly on the portly man's glasses.
While J'Kor settled his bill, Lyra kept her eyes down, ignoring her grumbling stomach as she stood inconspicuously against a wall. He barely gave her a passing glance when he strode outside to hail their carriage, and it was Mejhisk who soberly offered her a tunic jacket and walked with her. Inside the coach they found J'Kor seated. Brooding. Lyra strategically took a spot in the far opposite corner.
“Please give us a moment, Sullee,” J'Kor told the patiently waiting driver who tipped his hat and returned to his upper bench. J'Kor moodily scrutinized his hands in his lap. “I should be giving you a proper beating right now, you realize?”
“You speaking to me or her?” Mejhisk said tersely.
J'Kor chuckled darkly, flexing his fingers a few times, and Lyra went stiff against the back of her seat. Then he just sighed. “Oh, probably neither, my friend. In fact, I guess I should thank you for coming to her aid.”
“Anything for 'family,' mate.”
“But as for you, young lady …” J'Kor's eyes landed on Lyra. She cringed. “… what, under Henna's heaven, am I going to do with you?”
“Uh, not beat me?” she asked hopefully.
J'Kor surprised her by laughing. He reached for her and pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arms snugly about her waist. “Well, now that depends,” he said with a twinkle. “In the half day I have known you, you have already accosted two gentlemen.”
Well, Shorn actually makes three, but you don't know that.
“Is this a regular habit o' yours—man beating?”
Lyra's answer was only half in jest. “Only when there is no other willing to fight my battles for me, my lord.”
He looked at her strangely a moment, then he brought his face close, his nose softly brushing at her cheek. “I am sorry I left you alone,” he murmured gently into her ear, “but I really needed to strike that deal. You know—business before pleasure.”
Large hands slid intimately across her midsection and, unnerved, Lyra closed her eyes against the sensation. She had enjoyed this touch a million times from Jon, but coming from a different set of hands, coming from him, it felt surprisingly new and … surreal.
“Ah, I believe feeding best friends should also come before pleasure,” Mejhisk quickly suggested before J'Kor's mood got any better with his new mistress.
“But, there is a compelling question here that must be answered first,” J'Kor said, his mouth drifting across Lyra's hair, almost tasting her scent. “Where does one safely take conspiring disturbers o' the peace for a decent meal?”
Shooting up in his seat, Mejhisk looked at J'Kor. “Can we take her to Burhnee's? Please? Please?”
J'Kor's initial reaction bespoke hesitation.
“Oh come on, she will like it,” pressed Mejhisk. “I already paid in full for the damages from last time.” His fingers waved away Lyra's surprise. “Er, little misunderstanding with a few gents a week ago—nothing to worry about.” He turned back to his friend. “Best food in the Caldreen commons, too, remember
?”
Mejhisk practically bounced on the edge of his seat in anticipation while J'Kor eyed him warily. “Will you be on your absolute, best behavior?”
“O' course! Anyway, I already got it out o' my system for tonight,” he said, pointing his cane toward the opulence of The Vishke.
With one more warning look, J'Kor swept Lyra's legs around to rest on the seat at his side. His eyes twinkled. His grin—dazzling. “So, my Lyra, do you like really good music?”
Music?
The two gentlemen watched Lyra take a tentative bite of the special, hot sandwich J'Kor had ordered for her. She chewed and swallowed.
“Wow! It's delicious,” Lyra said, unable to suppress her enthusiasm. She studied the curious ingredients layered between the two halves of the toasted bun once more. “What did you say this was again?”
“Burhnee's Beefcake Special,” J'Kor said. He took a sip of his frothy sweetmalt. “It is odds and ends o' beef ground up, seasoned, and pressed into that patty-cake shape.”
The meat form was grilled, sitting underneath layers of cheese, a crisp, leafy green, and some sweet and tart vegetable puree. Simply divine! She took another bite.
“The man is a genius, if you ask me,” Mejhisk said, mouth already full with his own. “We stumbled across this dive a few years ago. Have no' been able to stay away since. Caldreen's best kept secret, I say.”
“The man,” Burhnee, had already greeted them personally upon their arrival at his humble, tiny business tucked between a diviner's shop advertising elixirs and mystic healing and a seedy, dilapidated pawn store. The graying, whiskered barkeep, as wide as he was tall, wore a heavily stained apron over a threadbare undershirt that had seen better days. But his eyebrows only lifted for a moment at the sight of Lyra before taking her hand warmly in his red but clean ones and respectfully welcoming “such a distinguished lady” into his modest home. Burhnee didn't even look upon Mejhisk with much soreness for, with some pleasure, he quickly showed off his brand new cash register—paid for by Lord Mejhisk's penance funds.
J'Kor appeared to be a favorite of his and Lyra's ears perked up curiously when Burhnee asked how his back was healing. Lyra liked the naturally jovial, hardworking man. She was much more comfortable in this relaxed environment, too. Thankfully, it was sparsely populated tonight.
Her escorts happily dressed themselves down to the casual dress code, removing swash tunics, untying tight bow sashes, and rolling up their sleeves, and Lyra was encouraged to remove her gloves—if only to keep them from getting soiled with the hands-on food.
The music to which J'Kor had referred was delightful. On a small, rickety stage, a quartet of musicians thumped soulfully away on their instruments to a stimulating, swinging beat pattern new to Lyra's ears. The drummer played easily over the surface of a complicated array of drums, cymbals, and beat boxes, and one of the musician's guitars was somehow powered electrically, creating an entirely new sound.
As they ate, Lyra asked questions about the instruments with which she was not familiar. She reflected at length on the interesting tight chords and melodic modulations, while J'Kor sat with a permanent grin fixed upon his face as he watched her finally relax and look like she was enjoying herself.
Mejhisk happily downed his sweetmalt with gusto (he was already on his second one), but J'Kor seemed careful to sip at his much more conservatively. Instead, he appeared to take greater pleasure in studying Lyra's every move and word. It was terribly discomposing. Was he just viewing her as the body to which he would soon be enjoying full access?
When their stomachs were nearing full and the food, sparse on their plates, Lyra saw J'Kor sit back contentedly and slide one hand into his pocket. Curiosity took over.
“My lord,” she ventured after a moment, “I saw you doing something with a coin earlier—” She left it at that.
“Oh, this?” His hand came out of the pocket, the coin in it. “It is just a bit o' sentimentality from my father, when I was a boy.” He held it out for her. Nothing but a normal, copper ten-note.
“But, you were doing something, and then it disappeared.”
“Oh, you mean this,” he said too innocently. With a flick of his fingers, the coin was gone.
Lyra let out a little gasp.
J'Kor rotated his hand back and forth to show that the ten-note was no longer there. Then he made a fist, put his other hand on top, and shook it once. Upon opening his fingers, Lyra saw … that there was still no coin. What?
She looked up as J'Kor reached to touch her open lips. Suddenly, the weight of the hard metal was there and J'Kor retrieved the coin from her mouth like she had been hiding it there all along. Lyra laughed, shaking her head in wonder.
“Kade has been doing that trick for nigh twenty years now,” Mejhisk told her. “Learned it from a gypsy mage back in the day when we first met.”
Immediately, the image of the dark, street necromancer from the Bansool market flashed in her mind. Surely this was only simple sleight of hand for fun, though. This man wasn't the type to be involved in the occult.
Was he?
“Sooo, you just had it hidden in your hand?”
J'Kor's gaze upon her was steady and penetrating. He closed both hands over the copper once more and blew softly into the cupping shape. Then slowly, his fingers opened up. Lyra gasped again. The lilicanth blossom from her hair was nestled softly in his calloused palms!
Her fingers automatically flew to the side of her head. Sure enough, the anonymously given flower was no longer perched above her ear.
“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he said, and grinning crookedly, J'Kor brought it to his nose for a brief inhale before presenting it to her like a gift.
With uncertainty, Lyra took it. It seemed he possessed a talent for keeping her off balance.
“I will still never understand, mate,” said Mejhisk, “why you thought hanging around that dirty conjurer was more fun than running around town with the rest o' us, wooing the ladies.”
“Perhaps I found him a little more intellectually stimulating than the usual 'get wasted and hooked up' routine,” J'Kor countered with a sideways glance. Then he flicked his fingers, adding, “And having an extra curse incantation or proxy torture doll in my possession was always handy.” It was thrown out so nonchalantly that Lyra was not quite certain it was a joke.
Laughing, Mejhisk raised a glass in unrepentant tribute. “Well, I always found it stimulating enough.”
The music changed. The band began a slow, sultry, pulsing number with a definite mood attached that had Lyra glancing over. Suddenly J'Kor stood.
“Dance with me,” he told her softly. It wasn't a request this time.
Lyra raised somber eyes to his.
“No.”
CHAPTER 15
J'Kor's brow furrowed at her answer.
“I mean,” Lyra said, suddenly grinning, “please don't ask me to step around for another moment in these shoes, or else I am certain I will be a cripple by tomorrow.”
Yes, that was true. But more than that, Lyra wanted to keep the mood light and unromantic for as long as possible.
Those cute laugh creases at his eyes reappeared again. “Then, I hereby ban them from your soles forthwith, my Lyra.”
As he did the honors, Lyra couldn't help but smile when he proceeded to flip her shoes haphazardly over his shoulder where they eventually skidded to a halt under someone's table.
Then J'Kor was leading her to the open floor in front of the playing ensemble and guiding her gently into position with her hand curled in his against his chest. As she breathed in his disturbingly cool scent, Lyra became excruciatingly aware of a firm musculature behind his shirt pressing into her skin.
“Are you having a good time here, with me?” he said after a minute.
“Yes, my lord.” Darn it.
“Good.” He brought her a little closer as they moved together to the steady rhythm.
He danced well. Lyra found she didn't have to worry abo
ut her toes accidentally getting squashed. Her greater concern, in fact, was the way he seemed so content to just watch her, study her, like he was working out her every little secret. Another full minute passed before he seemed interested in resuming conversation.
“So,” J'Kor finally said, “you are obsessed with the letter R, you like to play with sharp objects, and you possess an inexplicable dislike for rude gentlemen. Am I to assume that these are the extent o' your interests?”
A laugh escaped from Lyra. “Um …” There was probably no harm in revealing a few simple things. “I also like to bake and sew. I like to explore. I enjoy dancing—in comfortable shoes or barefoot. I love laughing with friends. And I love to sing.” (When she was wasn't being hunted, torn from her family, and forced to sell her body. And when it didn't just … hurt.) Lyra let the depressing thought go. “And you, my lord?”
He directed her out for a slow spin before pulling her close once more. “Oh, I like women who like to bake and sew, explore, dance …”
“Okay. Stop!” Lyra pushed him playfully at the chest and he laughed. Then she turned solemn. “No really. Would it not behoove me to begin informing myself of the likes and dislikes of my new lord and master?”
She didn't like saying that, but it was what she needed to say.
“Fair enough.” He focused on some random space over Lyra's head as he thought. “Well, snowberry tarts are my favorite dessert, although I am quite the sucker for any kind o' pastry, truth be told. I take my morning bean tea hot and black. I prefer my pants pressed with the crease in front. I like clean floors at the end o' the day. And I greatly dislike being disturbed when I am working in my office.”
Lyra had started a mental checklist until she recognized the ribbing tone. She smirked. “Okay. I think I can handle that.”
Grinning broadly, he took her on another slow turn around the floor. “I also like following the disc tournaments. I like new spring grass and cool summer rains. I like good music and stimulating company,” at this, he raised her hand for a kiss, “fine wine and cheap beer, hard work—soft skin … quick days—slow nights.” He cocked his head at her. The song was over, but neither noticed. “And losing myself in an enchanting pair o' eyes.”