He would have been furious with her, but he could no more hate her than a drunk can the bottle. He would have been furious with Leo dan Brock, but he had done nothing wrong, the horribly but justifiably vain, magnificently manly, utterly superficial bastard. He was doing exactly what Orso would have done in his place, only looking like a hero while he did it.
The only person in this triangle of misery he could reasonably be furious with was himself. He had ruined it all, somehow. By being too backward, or too forward, too slow or too fast or too something. He knew most people scorned him utterly, but for some reason, though she was the cleverest, bravest, most beautiful woman in the world, she had not. He had let himself believe that she loved him. But it was just another trick. A trick he had played on himself.
“Women,” he muttered, helplessly.
“I know,” came a voice beside him. “Fucking bitches.”
It was that Northern girl. The Dogman’s daughter, Rikke. He had seen her from a distance and thought she looked interesting, with the wild hair and the twitchy gestures and the total lack of usual propriety. Up close, she was a great deal more interesting. She had, for some reason, a heavy gold ring through her nose, and some streaks of dark paint on her freckled face, and a beguiling hint of cleavage showing among a rattling mass of necklaces and talismans that included a rather wonderful and entirely incongruous set of emeralds. But most of all it was her eyes, big and pale and piercing. He felt as if she saw right into him, and wasn’t repulsed by what she found there. Which was welcome, because he certainly was.
Hell, he was drunk.
“Is it wrong of me…” he said, mangling the words and not much caring, “to say I find you fascinating?”
“Not at all.” She gave a haughty sniff, that thick gold ring shifting. “You’re a man, you can’t help yourself.”
Despite his attempts to be the tragic hero of his own life, he could not help laughing. “It has been remarked upon.”
He had always been the most wretched judge of what he needed, but what he needed right now might be the woman who was least like Savine in the world. And here, as if by magic…
“I sometimes think no one in this city can tell the truth for three breaths together.” He waved his glass at the room and slopped some wine onto the tiles. “But you seem…honest.”
“And so funny.”
“And so funny.”
“Who the hell are all these bastards?”
“Well…he’s the court clockmaker. And she’s a famous actress. That bald idiot is a legendary wizard, apparently. I’m told that woman there is a Styrian spy. One of the ones we pretend not to know about.”
Rikke sighed. “I’m like an angry chicken trying to pass myself off among swans.”
“I’ve tried swan, as it happens. Thoroughly mediocre meat, once the feathers are off.” She might not have worn lady’s clothes but without doubt there was a woman’s shape underneath, and one he found not the slightest fault with. “A good chicken, on the other hand…”
“A man of taste, eh?”
“It has been remarked upon.”
“I’m told you’re the heir to all this.”
“A sad fact.”
She puffed out her cheeks as she glanced about the Hall of Mirrors. “All this wealth and flattery must be… such a curse.”
“It’s made me the useless cunt I am.”
“You can’t argue with those results.”
“I’m told you’re a witch who can see the future.”
“Witch, no. Future, sometimes.” She winced, pressed a hand to her left eye as though it hurt. “A bit too much, lately.”
“What’s the ring for?” he asked.
“Keeps me tethered to the earth.”
“Or you’ll float off?”
“I’m prone to fits.” She thought about that, then snorted laughter and blew some snot onto her top lip. “And shits,” she said as she wiped it away. “I’m told you’ve bedded five thousand whores.”
“I’d be amazed if it’s more than four thousand nine hundred.”
“Huh.” She gave him a long, lazy, utterly shameless look up and down. A look that no one within thirty paces could have doubted the meaning of. A look that made him feel at once slightly embarrassed and rather aroused. “They teach you anything?”
He realised he had not even glanced at Savine since they started talking. He looked over now. Felt a sour pang of loss as she touched a grinning Leo dan Brock on the chest with her fan.
“I used to be with him,” murmured Rikke. She was watching them, too, and looking more than a little sour herself.
“Fancy that,” said Orso. “I used to be with her.”
“Doesn’t bother you? Being second-best to the Young Lion?”
“I’ll confess it stings, but I’m used to being the absolute worst.” Orso drained his glass and tossed it rattling onto a side table. “Second best is an immense improvement.” He offered her his elbow. “Perhaps I could accompany you on a stroll around the palace gardens?”
She turned those bewitching grey eyes on him. “Long as it ends in the bedroom.”
A Bit About Courage
The cold nipped at Leo’s ears as they made their way through the darkened streets, but the fires of excitement were burning ever hotter inside. Jurand looked as eager as he was. A playful sparkle in his eye. A handsome flush to his cheek.
“Where are we going?” he murmured, his hand on Leo’s shoulder and his voice a little squeaky.
“Somewhere far from prying eyes, I suppose.” Leo nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scandal, would we?”
“Honestly,” said Jurand, with that grin at the corner of his mouth, “I don’t care.”
Leo wasn’t listening. He’d seen the street sign. He’d seen the number. “This is the place,” he whispered, breath smoking in the chilly night.
It was a tall terraced house, a little smoke-blackened, just like a dozen others in this street, which was just like a dozen other streets on the way from the Agriont. Not the most exciting building. But a chink of light shone between shutters in an upstairs window, and Leo felt almost as skittish looking up at it as he had towards that bridge on the day of the battle, ready to order the charge.
“Thanks for the directions,” he said. “You’re a good friend. The best. I’ll see you tomorrow. At the parade.” When he turned, grinning, Jurand had the strangest look on his face. Shocked. Dismayed. Let down.
“Who are you meeting?” he whispered.
“The Arch Lector’s daughter. Savine.” Leo felt a shiver of nerves as he said the name and lowered his voice. “Probably best if you don’t mention that to anyone, though.”
“No.” Jurand closed his eyes and gave a disbelieving little laugh. “You’re right. Of course.”
“Cheer up.” Leo hugged him roughly with one arm, looking back to the building. The one lit window. “There are plenty of ladies for all of us.” Though he couldn’t think of any close to Savine dan Glokta’s class.
“Plenty of ladies,” Jurand echoed, gloomily. “I hope you know what you’re getting into.”
“Sometimes it’s better if you don’t.” And Leo handed Jurand his cane, gave him a parting poke in the stomach, then strutted across the street, trying not to let the pain show. They didn’t call him the Young Lion for nothing, after all. He knew a bit about courage, and the secret is to dismiss the whole notion of choice and just do. He lifted his fist and gave four smart knocks, twisting his face into the kind of self-assured smoulder he imagined the great lovers of history might’ve used.
It slipped straight off when the door opened. There was a dark-skinned woman on the other side he’d never seen before.
“Oh… I was expecting—”
“You must be the Young Lion,” she said in common that probably had less accent than his.
“Some people call me that—”
She snapped her teeth at him with a surprisingly lion-like growl and he jerked b
ack in surprise, winced as his weight went on his wounded leg and tried to pass it off with a false chuckle as she let him past, leaning back against the door until it clunked shut. “Lady Savine is upstairs.”
“Upstairs. Of course.” He found he was blushing, which probably wasn’t something the great lovers of history would’ve done. “I mean, not that, I just mean… I’m not much of a talker.”
“No doubt God gave you other talents.” And she turned away with the slightest smile.
It seemed a long way up that darkened staircase, his heart beating so loud they could’ve heard it in the street, the chink of light below the black door getting steadily closer, promising so much. He’d no idea what to expect. Wouldn’t have shocked him to find Savine waiting with a loaded flatbow. Or stretched out naked on a tiger skin. Or both, for that matter.
He paused outside the door, trying to catch his breath, but it refused to be caught. Too cold outside, too warm in here. He thought about knocking, then realised it might be more masterful if he just swept in. They didn’t call him the Young Lion for nothing, after all. Reckless charges were his trademark. He reached for the knob, paused at a rush of nerves, then bundled too eagerly through.
Savine stood, pouring wine in the light of one lamp, as precisely posed as if she was standing for a portrait. She didn’t even flinch as the door opened, didn’t even turn to look at him, just held the glass up to the light, frowning slightly as she checked the colour. “You made it, then?” she asked, finally turning towards him.
“Yes.” He clutched for something witty to add but the cupboard was bare. She looked even more immaculate than he remembered. Her shape against the lamplight—almost impossibly—what? Where else would words fail you but in a bloody writer’s office?
He looked around, hoping to find some inspiration. Shelves burst with books, a leather-topped desk was strewn with papers. What might’ve been a printing press stood in one corner, about the ugliest thing Leo had ever seen, all iron gears and handles, a blackened roller and one printed page lying in its open jaws.
“Sworbreck’s latest tissue of fantasies,” said Savine. “But you didn’t come to hear about other people’s adventures.”
“Why did I come here?” he asked, pushing the door shut, half a weak effort at a joke, half actually wanting an answer.
“For an adventure of your own.” And she offered him the glass.
She looked so composed, so poised, so totally in control, but as she glided closer, Leo caught something glimmering in her eyes. Some hint of hunger, or anger, or madness, even, that made him very excited and slightly afraid. Or maybe the other way around. He found himself shrinking back, ended up pressed awkwardly against the desk, the moulded edge jabbing him in the arse.
By the dead, even the most thick-headed man in Adua—and Leo counted himself in the running—couldn’t have doubted what she was after. Probably there’d never been any doubt, but for some reason, he’d let himself think she might really want to give him a tour of a writer’s office. Here the pens, there the ink, now we can all go back to our separate beds and have a lovely sleep, entirely untroubled by worries over one’s abilities as a lover.
If anyone asked, Leo would always say he adored the ladies. But there’d been times when he worried that women didn’t quite…excite him the way they should. The way they did other men. Now it seemed his problem had simply been finding the right one. Rikke had been such easy company. One of the boys. Savine could scarcely have been more the opposite. He’d never met a woman who was more…woman.
“Nervous?” she asked.
“No,” he lied. His voice cracked a bit and she smiled. A hard little smile, as though she’d caught him out. Which she had, of course. He’d never been much of a liar.
The truth was, Leo had never been that comfortable around women. But perhaps comfortable is the last thing romance should be. Perhaps it should have an edge. And every moment with Savine felt as thrilling and dangerous as stepping into the Circle with the Great Wolf.
“I… don’t think I ever met a woman like you before,” he said.
“Of course not.” She threw her wine back in one easy motion, thin muscles in her neck fluttering as she swallowed. “I’m the only one.” And she tossed the glass onto the leather top of the desk, where it rattled on its edge but by some sorcery stayed upright. She eased closer, pale chest rising and falling, soft skin gleaming with the lamplight and—
She was wearing a necklace that didn’t fit at all with her flawless tailoring. A twisted thong with bone tablets threaded onto it, jaggedly carved. The kind of thing Rikke used to wear in a rattling mass. Even through the drink and the excitement, that gave him a twinge of guilt.
“Where did you get the runes?”
“From the North,” she said, vaguely, her eyes on his mouth.
“What do they say?” He wasn’t doing anything wrong, was he? Rikke had made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing more to—
Savine took him by the chin with a force that wasn’t to be resisted. “Who cares?” Her thumbtip crept up his cheek, her narrowed eyes fixed on it, and the tip of her tongue showed between her lips as she found the fresh scar, stroked it gently, a little tickly, a little sore.
“Did Stour Nightfall give you this?” she asked.
“With a few other keepsakes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Only if you press—ah!” She very deliberately pressed it, her teeth savagely bared for an instant, and made him flinch away, twisted even more uncomfortably over the desk.
He could hardly believe how slight she was, how slender, the sinews twitching in her bare shoulder. He hardly dared to touch her in case she snapped in his hands. But she was stronger than he’d expected. Far stronger. Far warmer. He caught a waft of her scent, mostly summer meadow, but with some harsh animal edge in it. He might’ve been more scared than excited but without doubt his cock was the other way around.
His throat was so tight he could hardly speak. He found himself wondering how much older she was than him. Five years? Ten? How much more experienced…“Are you sure this is a good idea—”
“I’m sure it’s a terrible idea. That’s its appeal.” She flipped open a little box, brought out a pinch of something between finger and thumb and lifted it to his face. She found a way to do even that gracefully. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“Pearl dust.”
“The stuff artists use to make them more sensitive?”
“What works for artists works just as well for the rest of us. They’re really a great deal less special than they like to think. Just sniff it.”
“I’m not sure I—”
“I thought you came for an adventure?” And she pressed that pinch of powder to one of his nostrils while she squeezed the other shut with a fingertip. He really had no choice but to snort it up. The time for choices had been in the street outside—.
“Ah, by the dead!” Fire burned to the back of his throat, out into his ears, down into his teeth, brought tears to his eyes. A horrible sensation. “Why the hell would anyone—”
“Other side,” she hissed, twisting his head and near shoving her fingers up his other nostril. He hardly even knew she was undoing his sword-belt until he heard it clatter to the floor. Disarmed in every sense.
Bloody hell, he wanted to sneeze, stood for a moment with eyes closed, trying to smother it. When the urge passed, he found she was kissing him, gentle little nips at his mouth, then she twisted his face side on to hers, started lapping, sucking, biting at him.
He squeezed at her ribs but couldn’t really feel her, just a fortress of corsetry, stiff as armour. The burning in his face was fading, his head pleasantly spinning. His mouth moved mechanically, numb and clumsy. Lips all fizzy. He could taste wine on her tongue.
Whether it was her, or the drink, or the stuff for artists up his nose, Leo couldn’t say, but he’d started to feel bold. Wild. He was the bloody Young Lion, wasn’t he? He’d come for a fucking adv
enture! He was one of history’s great lovers, damn it!
He gave a lion’s growl as he caught her face, thumb under her jaw, caught the strap of her dress and gripped it, twisted it, his knuckles pressing hard into her shoulder, making her gasp, turning her, until he was the one shoving her up against the edge of the desk. He caught his foot on his sword, staggered, and she kicked it away with one pointed shoe, blade half falling out of the scabbard as it clattered into the lion-carved feet of the printing press.
His face didn’t hurt any more. Not one bit. He could hardly feel a thing from the neck up, but twice as much as usual from the waist down.
She grunted in her throat, lips curled back into something between a smile and a snarl as she nipped at him with her teeth. He felt her fumbling with his belt, dragging it open, felt his trousers sagging down until they were tangled with his boots. The air was cool on his arse, then her hand even cooler.
Any thought of saying no was long gone. Any thought at all, for that matter.
She wriggled nimbly back onto the desk, almost as if she’d had a lot of practice, skirts rustling as she pulled them up, pulled them up, and she dragged him after her, hand twisted in his hair.
Almost painful, but not quite.
Substitutes
“By the dead,” groaned Rikke.
She propped herself up on her elbows, tried to blow free the hair tangled across her face and failed. She had to drag it back with her fingers, squeeze her stinging eyes shut against the light then bit by tiny bit peel open just the one.
She was lying with a sheet tangled around her hips, one leg sticking out, which she knew must be hers ’cause she could wriggle the toes. She was stark naked but for her shirt, the sleeve all rucked up around one wrist and the rest spread out limp across the bed like a flag of surrender.
She frowned past the shirt, towards the window, then jerked up, staring about.
Where the bloody hell was she?
The room was big as a chieftain’s hall, acres of rich-coloured drapery stirring about the great windows. The far-off ceiling was all crusted with gilded leaves, the furniture all polished to a blinding sheen, the door high enough to be used by giants with a knob shaped like the sun of the Union.
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