Even still, whether Draeven approved or not, he wasn’t letting her go. Claudius’ words were still as fresh in his mind as that day six years ago when he’d given him a hint into his future. No. Quinn wasn’t going anywhere.
“If you train her and she reaches her ascent, you have no guarantees you’ll even be able to stop her if she’s as powerful as you think she is,” Draeven said, lifting his head. There were old ghosts in his eyes. The things they’d done to get where they were hadn’t been kind, but Draeven had always held true at every end they met. His place at Lazarus’ side—a place where he could change the world for the better—was worth it all. Still, Quinn was a variable Draeven hadn’t accounted for.
But Lazarus had. He’d been waiting for the day he’d find her.
Now he had to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do with her.
“I’ll bring her to heel, Draeven,” Lazarus said through gritted teeth and then with a look back, he added, “I always do.”
“For the sake of everyone involved, I hope so,” his second muttered so quietly he almost missed it.
Moonlight Inn
“If something is important to someone, figure out why. Significance is weakness.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, ex-prisoner, want-to-be-killer,
and reluctant vassal of House Fierté
“As a member of Master Lazarus’ household, we uphold his graciousness. We are extensions of his will and—”
Quinn wasn’t allowed to kill the woman, that much was clear, but with every attempt at schooling her on the importance of propriety and servitude manners, Quinn thought about it more and more. If ever she got the chance, she’d make this woman the first to go.
Lorraine was too important to Lazarus. She had watched the woman complain to him on many occasions, usually about Quinn’s attitude and especially when Quinn talked to and about Lazarus as though he were a living breathing mortal and not some God among them. Her complaints weren’t the odd part. The fact that he let her was.
When Lorraine spoke, he seemed to listen—or at least he pretended to. Often times, he would shake his head and just tell her to deal with it, but he never once scolded her for complaining. Not like he did Quinn. Then again, everyone seemed to have a bone to pick with Quinn, or maybe it was the other way around. Not that Quinn would ever admit that. It’s not her fault she was forced to go on this blasted journey. They’d been on the road over a week, eating nothing but overcooked fish and berries. She was beginning to get restless, and Lady Fortuna never smiled upon her when she was restless.
Still, she sent a quick prayer to the gods that someone would take pity on her. When she raised her head and spotted rooftops in the distance, Quinn blinked. “Well, that’s a first,” she muttered to herself, cutting off Lorraine’s most recent tirade that she had tuned out several minutes before.
“What is it?” Lorraine asked.
“A town,” Quinn said, shifting atop the large beast that had carried them for many days already.
“Hmmm.” Lorraine leaned to the side and examined the tops of the buildings in the distance. “It would be good to sleep in a bed for the night,” she said absently. “We’ll need to gather supplies as well and trade the horses for fresh stock, something to carry us the rest of the way.”
Quinn didn’t care about any of that—not the bed, the supplies, or the new horses. Getting to a town meant getting off this damn beast and away from Lorraine’s constant barrage. She almost—almost—kicked her legs against the horse, hoping to spur it faster, but she quickly held herself in check.
“My lord!” Lorraine called up to Lazarus and the other men that had been on the road with them. “Will we be stopping for the night?”
Lazarus’ horse came to a slow stop and he turned as they ambled up alongside it. “We’ll stay for two nights,” he announced. “The horses will rest. Supplies will be gathered and then we’ll set off once again.”
“Excellent news,” Lorraine said. Quinn resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Tuning the woman out as she then returned her attention to explaining manners befitting a vassal of Master Lazarus, Quinn examined the buildings and unkempt streets as they arrived on the edges. The buildings were less than pristine, most of them dirty and caked in sludge. The thatch roofs showed no more wear and tear than her sector in Dumas, but several of the houses and shops had missing spots of vegetation where they should have been covered.
They didn’t stop, but instead headed farther into town. Dominicus lead the way with Lazarus just behind him, and Lorraine and Quinn in front of Draeven who had fallen back to cover the tail end of their group. People watched them from the streets—their eyes following Quinn especially, her coloring an oddity in the sea of tan skin and brown hair. Some children even pointed in awe as their parents dragged them away.
“Hmmm.”
“What is it?” Lazarus inquired at Quinn’s hum.
“Nothing,” she replied. “It just doesn’t seem like they get very many visitors here.”
Lazarus looked at a young boy who was staring openly at Quinn’s long silver hair. Draeven laughed and Quinn turned back to look at him. Shaking his head, the soldier grinned at her. “He can’t help it,” Draeven said, nodding to the boy whose mother chose that moment to grab him up and march away. “Even boys who have yet to grow into manhood are transfixed by your beauty.”
Narrowing her eyes at Draeven, Quinn lips thinned as she said, “If you’re looking for amusement, I suggest you look elsewhere.”
He put his hands up in mock surrender. “Touchy,” he said with a smile still on his lips. “I wasn’t making fun of you, I swear.”
Quinn turned around and stared ahead, noting that Lazarus was glancing between the two of them with a frown before he finally faced forward as well.
When they reached the Moonlight Inn, Quinn hurried to climb down off the back of the horse. She took one step towards the front door and promptly fell forward, nearly landing face first in the mud.
“Potes,” she ground out, the N’skaran curse rolling off her tongue as she reached out and caught hold of the horse’s bridle to keep her upright. It had the nerve to huff in irritation at her and she sent it a withering glare. Her thighs were rubbed raw, her legs like limp ocean weeds. As she tried to wait to allow her legs to adjust to their new status on the ground, Draeven walked by, tossing his head back with a laugh at her predicament.
She changed her mind. If given the chance, he’d be the first person she’d kill.
As if sensing her inner thoughts, Draeven turned his gaze on her. The bastard had the audacity to grin as he turned and strode through the front door of the inn, his blond hair glinting in the dull afternoon light as the sun began to descend behind the town buildings.
Quinn pushed away from the horse and took several steps towards the inn, intent on murdering him, or at the very least stabbing him, when Lazarus stepped in front of her. She came to a grinding halt before she could crash into his wide chest, and Quinn turned her narrowed gaze upward.
“I would appreciate it if you would not plot the murders of my comrades,” he said sharply. “That will be a permanent rule of your contract for the next five years.”
Gritting her teeth, Quinn glared at Lazarus. “Fine,” she said, moving around him. “But in the future, if you don’t want your Lord Sunshine to end up with a dagger in the eye, I suggest you tell him to keep his comments to himself.”
“Noted,” Lazarus said as she moved to step around him. Quinn could have sworn she saw a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, but she didn’t turn back to see. Lazarus was a statue of indescribable complications.
Ones she didn’t want to get any more entwined with than she already was.
Stretching her legs as she walked, Quinn stumbled through the creaking door into the inn pausing to look for Lord Sunshine and Madame Manners.
The inside didn’t look much better than the rest of the town. A worn looking staircase led up to the second and
third floors, nicked and chipped from years of use. The furniture in the front room had a layer of dust like it hadn’t been used in quite some time. The skinny old man that came to greet them resembled a living skeleton with sunken eyes and bony fingers as he took their money and directed them to the stairs where they’d find their rooms.
“I’m sorry we don’t have anyone to look after your horses, sir.” The old man’s voice shook as he relayed the information to Lazarus. “We don’t get many visitors in Ishvat, but the stables out back will be able to hold them overnight for your stay.”
“Not a problem, we won’t be here for long,” he said as he took the keys. Lazarus nodded towards the front door and Dominicus and Draeven nodded back as they followed his silent command and went back for the horses.
“You’ll be bunking with Lorraine,” Lazarus said, handing Lorraine the key along with a pouch of coins that he’d pulled from beneath his cloak. “Take her with you to get supplies. We’ll be in the stables until you return.”
Lorraine nodded. “Of course, my—Lazarus.”
Quinn glanced sideways, catching the look Lazarus gave the old innkeeper, who seemed to be more busy humming to himself than paying attention to Lorraine’s slipup. He motioned with two fingers for them to step outside, and Quinn and Lorraine followed.
“We’ll need food rations for another week, and—” Lazarus pulled a slip of yellowed parchment from his pocket and handed it over. “See if you can find this,” he finished, meeting the other woman’s eyes meaningfully.
Lorraine nodded and slipped the parchment into the folds of her dress before Quinn could get a glimpse of what was written.
“And, Lorraine”—Lazarus reached for Quinn and dragged her closer, pushing her at the other woman—“keep this one out of trouble.”
Midnight Misdeeds
“Gambling is a poor man’s vice and a smart woman’s web.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, unofficial prisoner, want-to-be-killer,
and vassal of House Fierté
The room smelled stale, like the hay in the beds had been left to sit for far too long, and the wooded floors damp and in need of fresh air. Quinn wrinkled her nose against the distasteful odor, but Lorraine didn’t seem to mind as she bustled in with the remainder of their purchases that hadn’t been stored in the horse’s saddles. Quinn took in the room, a single small bed shoved up to the wall near the lone window and she headed for it.
When she landed face down into the straw mattress, she coughed, turning on her side to watch Lorraine ready herself for bed.
Dinner had been a block of cheese and cured rabbit around a cracked table that was missing a leg, followed by hushed talk that Quinn wasn’t permitted to hear so Lorraine excused them both. Back in Dumas, she would be getting ready for her act right now, but ever since she’d signed that contract with Lazarus every day had been consumed by riding and short, restless sleep, along with the occasional daydream about stabbing someone. Quinn was tired, but not physically. She was tired of being watched and controlled every moment since she signed the next five years of her life over. Not that she had a better choice after the stunt in the marketplace. She’d been kicking herself for that slip in sanity every damned day. Still, she was beginning to recognize Lorraine’s nightly routine by now and knew the others would be retiring soon as well.
Turning onto her back, Quinn fitted her hands behind her head, linking her fingers to prop herself up as she stared at the wood ceiling thoughtfully.
“Aren’t you going to get ready?” Lorraine asked as she unpinned her hair and began to braid it down the side.
“Hmmm,” Quinn said in a dismissive response.
Lorraine opened her mouth to tout another lecture, likely on her manners, but there was an abrupt knock at the door that Quinn made no move to answer. Dressed in her night shift with her hair undone, Lorraine cracked the door to peer out. She took a quick step back and pulled the door open the rest of the way. Lazarus stood there, his large frame eating up most of the entryway. Quinn sat up.
“Do you still have that parchment I gave you?” he asked, directing his question to Lorraine without sparing her a glance.
“Yes, sorry, my lord.” Lorraine turned away and rifled through her cloak, finding the yellowed paper and handing it over. “I wasn’t able to find what you needed.”
Lazarus shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d be able to in this small of a town, but I wanted to be sure.”
Quinn listened intently, her eyes sliding down to Lazarus’ pocket just as he turned his dark gaze on her. She slowly raised her head and met his eyes.
“I expect you to stay in tonight,” he said sharply.
Quinn shrugged.
“I mean it,” he snapped. “Do not leave this inn.”
Quinn flopped back down on the straw mattress and waved at him. “Got it,” she replied. Lazarus kept his eyes on her for several moments before he sighed and thanked Lorraine one last time before leaving.
“Your manners are atrocious,” Lorraine said as she crawled into bed beside Quinn. It wasn’t long before she drifted off and Quinn was left to stare at the ceiling in peace.
An hour or so later, the sound of raucous laughter from the alley below pulled her from her inner musings. Quinn sat up and silently slid off the bed and onto her feet, padding toward the window. She looked down and tracked the movements of three figures as they made their way toward the main road.
They were probably nothing more than small town drunkards, Quinn surmised. But that didn’t really matter. She was pretty sure that those men could lead her somewhere entertaining, or at the very least, somewhere that didn’t smell of mildew and away from a place where every move was being watched.
Quinn glanced back at Lorraine, making sure she was still asleep. There was no way she could walk out the front door without Lazarus knowing. There was too much risk of someone seeing her. She’d have to climb out the window—and quickly, if she wanted to follow the men in the road. She slid her fingers under the bottom of the window and edged it up. Every squeak and groan from the frame had her snapping her gaze back to Lorraine, but through it all, the other woman snored softly. The first makings of a smile curled around the corners of her mouth as Quinn turned and slid her feet out first before working the rest of her body through the small opening.
Her muscles strained as she held herself to the side of the inn with one hand on the window sill. Licking her bottom lip, Quinn balanced herself on the thin wooden border as she reached up and closed it shut behind her. Then, with both hands latched onto the window’s edge, Quinn swung her legs and released her grip, landing hard on a pile of hay just a few feet to the right.
Grinning at her ingenuity, she got up and dusted herself off before striding toward the street. The men walking along it had no idea they were being followed. As far as they were concerned, it was shadows and dirt. That’s all.
For Quinn, it was a breath of freedom. Fear might be her drug of choice, but it was freedom that chased the nightmares away. A dream she reached for, through the invisible bars that others could not see. An illusion for the night, but not forever.
It would have to be enough.
She followed them through the quiet town, not even needing to pretend otherwise when they never thought to turn or glance around them. They strode forward like bumbling idiots, high on spirits and low on wits. They didn’t look because they were confident, self-assured. They didn’t know to look closer at the shadows or to listen for the things that go bump in the night. That made her life easier tonight, because they didn’t notice as she followed them into a slight tavern on the outskirts of town.
The wooden frame rattled behind her as the door swung shut and the scents of smoke and sweat filled her nostrils. She earned a few narrowed glances as she strode past the bar and into the low candlelit room where men were being entertained one way or another.
The three that led her here had just taken their seats at a table in the corner where an old
er man was enjoying the company of a whore and another much younger man enjoyed his bottle of spirits. Quinn sauntered over, plastering a wicked little grin on her face as she plopped down into the final empty seat. The table fell to a hush as all eyes turned on her, and then not so subtly, to the dealer.
A sober man with a clean-cut beard and plain tunic looked her over. “You play?” he asked, shuffling the worn deck of cards between dexterous fingers. Quinn leaned forward, tapping the tips of her nails lightly on the weathered roundtable.
“Depends on the game,” she replied in kind, noting the shortened clip of his words. Lazarus still wouldn’t tell her where they were going, but north was apparent. If the creeping cold hadn’t told her, the accents in this town would have. She’d heard them before. Not these specific men, but others like them. Cruel masters and fragmented memories. She tilted her head, giving nothing away as he said, “Rikkers.”
“I play.”
He cut the deck and continued shuffling. “Have anything to bet?”
His eyebrow arched as he squinted, examining her person. Quinn sighed with exasperation and from her pocket pulled a faded leather pouch, full of glass pebbles shaped almost exactly like coins. She tossed the coin purse onto the center of the table, and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “Will that do?” She lifted both eyebrows, keeping her expression neutral so they couldn’t see the condescension in her expression.
The dealer looked at the bag of what he thought was coins for a moment, considering checking, and then nodded. “That’ll do.” Quinn released a breath.
Then the game began.
Eight cards were laid in front of each of them, face down. Quinn swiped her hand across the table, scooping hers up. The old man pulled a card from the stack and the harlot started giggling. He whispered something in her ear that made the girl blush and Quinn rolled her eyes. He placed a card from his hand on the table face up, and then the bottle drinker went.
Fortune Favors the Cruel Page 8