"I should like to take you to the gardens on the first level."
"Those—" She cleared a hitch from her throat. "Those gardens require passes. Too many have been walking on the beds and stealing blossoms, so the Warden had to limit visitors. It’s so late... The guards wouldn’t let us in."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don’t think that will be a problem."
8
Detan left the Lady Erst in the care of her father, dropping sweet words in her ear before stepping back out into the night. The fat moon was out and heavy, its crimson light casting the whole city in a rosy glow. It would be a while yet before its smaller, silvery sister joined it and started trouble. The monsoon season was still a good full moon-turn away.
The dear lady had proved most pleasant company, a not entirely unwelcomed surprise. It was, at least, a relief that she felt no compunction in telling him when he had behaved like an idiot. Tibs would probably welcome the help in sharing the burden of the task. He shook his head to clear it, paused to take in a deep draught of the bracing night-air.
Charming as she might be, he couldn’t let her infer too much from his interest. He only meant to get close enough to see if there were something his dear Auntie might desire within the doors of the Erst estate.
Guilt threatened to raise its ugly little head in his heart, but he shunted it aside. Young Miss Halva had intimated that her family was in some sort of trouble with its concordant, and her father had seemed far too willing to place his darling girl in Detan’s unworthy hands.
No, she was attempting to use him as brazenly as he was her. There was no other reason for her to have approached him at the tavern—even if she was in her cups.
"Mr. Dakfert," a man called.
Detan turned, just before he realized what a monumentally stupid thing it was to respond to the false name he’d given a bunch of cut-throats he’d been defrauding.
"Who?" he asked, lamely.
They detached themselves from the shadows, surprisingly light of foot for men he had seen stumbling-drunk earlier in the day. There were only three of the five he had played with, which might have been a comfort if Detan thought he could ever fight three men on a good day. He’d thought a lot of fool things in his lifetime, but never that.
"No sense playing that card now, I seen your face. Got a mind for ‘em, I do." The speaker took to the center of the lane and advanced straight upon him. Detan recognized the man well enough, remembered the sight of his fingers—twisted, broken one too many times—playing cards with intense care. A man who’d had something worth losing, Detan had reckoned at the time. He wish he’d paid more attention to the man’s knuckles than his cards.
The other two he hadn’t thought much of, but then, when a man’d been swindled and had a leader to rally to, well, even the gentlest men were capable of following orders. They broke away and began to walk down either side of the street, fanning out to flank him. Detan walked backwards, gaze darting for any sign of the city watch. At least he’d stand a chance of talking his way out of trouble with them.
"You must have mistaken me for someone else," Detan said, just to keep the conversation flowing. "I’ve only just arrived in town. Perhaps if you describe this devil of a Mr. Dakfert, then I could assist you in locating him?"
A furtive glance over his shoulder showed the road opening up into a wider lane. Still empty, storefronts and residences all battened tight.
"I can describe him, all right, can’t I boys?" A disturbing chorus of chuckles answered him. "He’s ‘bout ye height." The man raised his hand to the top of Detan’s head. "Dark as a beer-shit. Got a mouth on him too, a good one for busting. Fond of glass."
"Fond of the stained window arts?"
"Not. Exactly."
The vise closed. Detan yelped and spun on his heel, meaning to bolt in any direction which seemed likely, but ran chest-first into the extended arm of one of the men. His breath left him in a violent rush. Gasping, he staggered back and turned, only to have his arm yanked around by the other.
Pain sparked stars behind his eyes and he jerked free, but fists he couldn’t even identify landed upon his chest, his stomach, his back.
Warm blossoms erupted all over his torso and then he was curled around himself on the dirt road, choking in dust with gasps of air as he tried to make his body as small a target as possible.
Blind instinct rose in him and his senses expanded of their own will—searching, searching. Trying to find any tingling hint of selium nearby. Trying to do his own murderous trick once more. There wasn’t any close enough for him to sense.
He was perversely glad of it.
The blows slowed, switched to fumbling hands clawing through his clothes, bleeding out what few grains he had taken with him to bribe any necessary guards. Popping off his stamped brass buttons, his carved-shell collar stays.
Detan lay panting, heart racing, stifling groans as their probing fingers nudged newly sore spots. Let them rob him—just so long as he lived. Skies above, let me live.
His leg twisted, and for one horrifying heartbeat he feared they were going to break him just for the joy of it. But then his ankle bent, lurched, and he almost laughed as he realized they were stealing his boots. Typical.
Hands pressed his side and he flinched, fearing more abuse, but instead they shoved him over. He lay on his back, staring up at the crimson-tinged stars, looking less rosy now and more smeared with blood. One of the bastards slapped him, hard, and he jerked back into something like alertness.
"Good," the speaker hissed. "Now listen up. This—" He shook the little pouch Detan had taken with him. "Ain’t a quarter what we’re owed."
"The boots alone are worth another quarter." He spat in the dust. Someone kicked him in the side, and he fell into a coughing fit. Fingers tangled in his hair and jerked his head back. A pitted face eclipsed the night.
"Saw you walking with the lady, neh? Don’t know what shit angle you’re playing her for, but here’s a new one for you. You get us the rest, plus half again interest," he spoke that word as if it were foreign, "and we leave you to your business. You got three days. Otherwise, we ask the lady to pay. She can’t—well, we’ll just see then, won’t we?"
"What’s to stop me going to the Watch?" he snapped, then cursed himself an idiot.
Something clanged against his teeth—hard, round, tasting of briney tin. He sputtered, tried to spit it out but they crammed his jaw shut, pinched his nose. Panic overrode sense and he thrashed, but they pinned him down.
He strained, felt his cheeks purple, doing everything he could to push the little false grain up with his tongue to force it against his lips. To do anything but—he gulped, his chest spasming against his will, and sucked the ball right down.
Shuddering overtook him, his whole body working against his will to expel the obstruction. Searing pain lanced down his throat, his lungs burned, his eyes watered. He was jerked to his knees and flailed, trying to grip anything at all to brace himself against.
The hands came off his mouth and nose and he heaved, sputtering, gasping. Someone got their arms under his ribs and lifted, hard and sharp, and the blasted marble erupted from his airway, damn near shattering a tooth on the way out.
Detan collapsed, every sinew of his being giving up to false relief. The threat remained. But he had no strength left. Not that he could have done much at full tilt.
"You listening?"
Someone slapped his cheek and he jerked eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed open.
"Good. Stay conscious, now. There are people round here at night that will take advantage of a man while he’s down."
They laughed and left him there, curled around his pain, nurturing indignity alongside agony. When their steps had trailed away he forced himself to his knees, to examine the damage. It wasn't as bad as he feared. They’d centered their attack upon his chest, his torso, striking hard enough to bruise deep but not so much as to damage organs. A professional touch.
Ginger
ly he brought his fingers to his face, but felt no pain there aside from the searing rasp of his throat. Of course. They wouldn’t want to alert the lady that there was anything wrong.
With a groan he heaved himself to his feet, brushed dirt from his tattered clothes, and hobbled forward a few uncertain steps. It would be a long, long walk back to the Oasis.
Gods below, Tibs was going to be pissed.
9
Halva caught herself humming as she sat the still-hissing teapot on the table between her and Silka. Sharp sunlight broke over the city, chasing away the blushing glow of the moon with fierce golden light. The night’s chill clung to the breeze, gentled by the rising day, and the air smelled sweet and fresh.
Silka, however, was giving her the stink eye.
"You seem awfully pleased with yourself," she said.
"Well, of course I am." Halva waved away her friend’s raised brows and poured herself a cup. "My plan worked quite perfectly."
"Oh, has it now? Are you and Cranston happily engaged to be wed?"
Halva grimaced, but hid the expression beneath a sip. "Not yet, not yet. But the Lord Honding did come calling last night, and daddy doesn’t appear to suspect a thing."
"Of course he doesn’t. How could he, when your interest is so obvious?"
A cough took her and she nearly snorted searing tea. "Interest? You do me injury! It is all quite play-acting."
"Really? And where, perchance, did that lovely flower which adorns your hair come from?"
Her hand shot up and found the offending blossom, tucked behind her ear. Hoping the gesture appeared appropriately careless, she plucked it free and examined it as if seeing it for the first time. It was a lovely specimen, thick petals rich with a faint pink that the dear lord had said resembled her blush.
Halva cleared her throat. "This thing? A gift from him of course, though I must have forgotten it, I cared so little for it." She pitched it over the balcony, though the gesture pained her. A real specimen from the first-level gardens might have had something interesting to tell her upon dissection.
"You." Silka pointed with one hand as she scooped up her cup with the other. "Are besotted."
"I am no such thing!"
"Halva, dearest, please sit back down. Your fuss will draw your father’s attention."
Biting her lip, Halva forced herself to sit and spent a moment smoothing her dressing robe. "Yes, well, he is charming enough, I grant you. But I am entirely in Cranston’s thrall. I shan’t need the lord’s attentions much longer, anyway. I must be done with him before Cranston returns in, oh, five days, is it now?"
"You don’t even know." Silka shot her a viperous grin. "It’s not like you to lose track of the time."
"I am only uncertain because these mercer caravans are often waylaid."
Silka brushed away her friend’s words and charged forth. "You may find his attentions difficult to shake, my dear. If you cannot bring your father around to see him for the scoundrel he is, then your plan is thwarted. What signs has he shown of his deviltry?"
Halva hesitated, twisting the edge of her robe between two fingers. "None as of yet, I admit. The blasted man must have discovered a bath and a tailor between the tavern and when he came calling. Daddy was quite happy to hand me over into his care."
"Now that is a problem." Silka tutted. "The man must be revealed as a scoundrel."
"I'm quite certain he will reveal himself in time, it's his nature. Whatever he thinks he's gaining here most certainly won't override the reality of who he is for much longer."
"And what benefit do you think he's after? What if the dreadful man truly desires to settle down here in Aransa?"
A sour flavor blossomed on Halva's tongue. "He wouldn't. A Landed man like him wouldn't harbor any real interest in an impoverished lady such as myself anyway."
Silka rolled a dismissive shoulder. "You never know. He is getting older. Maybe that iron-headed aunt of his has put the pressure on for him to settle down. He'd pick whoever he fancied. Money's not an issue for a man that wealthy."
"You think?"
"I have no idea—it's only speculation. But it is a risk you run in this game, becoming the Lady Honding."
A shiver ran through her. "We must find a way to discredit the man without drawing attention to myself."
Silka set her cup down and leaned forward, eyes roguishly bright. "I have just the idea."
"Oh?"
"We must set him up. For a theft."'
"Silka! I don't want the man arrested, just socially embarrassed."
"Oh pah. He'd never allow himself to actually be thrown in the clink. The moment suspicion is raised he'll be halfway back to Hond Steading to hide under his aunt's skirts."
Halva pitched her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "But what would he steal? We’ve no idea what the man’s true interest in me is—yes, yes, I understand you think it may be real romanticism. But what if it’s not? What if he has some other fiendish plot in mind?"
"We beat him to it." Silka snapped her fingers in revelation. "You’re having him over for tea this evening, right?" Halva’s head bobbed. "Perfect. Take him on a tour of the house—let him see everything, and try to discern where his interests lie. Jewels, art, that sort of thing. The man must have something he cherishes. Aside from young ladies."
Halva rolled her eyes. "But what if it’s something we can’t part with?"
"Then don’t show him those things. Let him see only what you can do without."
She brought her tea back to her lips and sipped slowly while she considered Silka’s plan. It was daring, but she had no trouble with that. Seamless, in a way, but something about it gave her pause. They were missing something, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t needle out just what that might be. Silka popped a pastry into her mouth, shoving it to one side so that her cheek bulged while she ate. Halva smiled—she never could figure out why her friend chewed that way.
"All right," Halva said. "I’ll do it. But if he won’t steal the thing, then what?"
Silka grinned. "I’ll take it, and we can both swear we saw him do it."
"Oh, that’s nasty."
"Love’s a serious game, my dear." Silka winked.
"We’ll need witnesses on hand, respectable people who might just listen to two hysterical young ladies."
Silka snatched up a sweetcake and danced it through the air. "Throw a small party welcoming the Lord Honding to Aransa. He hasn’t been properly introduced to society here yet."
"That sounds... expensive."
"Oh! I know, say the Lord’s a delicacy chaser. Real lover of food. Everyone will want to contribute their own fare to the party in hopes of impressing a Honding. Maybe we can even get the Warden to pay his respects, and try one of your fruits...?"
"It’s settled." Halva stood and tugged her robe tighter about her waist. "I’d better get started."
"Tea’s a full handful of marks from now!"
Halva sighed. "I know. If I start dusting now, maybe the place will be presentable by then."
With a stern nod Silka sat her sweetcake down and stood. "Show me to the rags, my dear."
Arm in arm, they left the balcony for the sun to claim.
10
Thick, bitter liquid forced its way past his lips and Detan jerked awake, spluttering in the half-light of a shuttered lantern. Blinking through his sleep-swollen eyes, he rubbed the back of a hand across his lips and brought it away sticky. He scowled down at the brown smear, then at the room around him.
He was back at the Oasis, though he hadn’t remembered the walk.
"He lives," Tibs said and raised his arms in mock celebration.
"Not by your graces." Detan worked up saliva to spit, then thought better of it when he saw the fine rug on the floor beneath his bed.
"Stop whining, this stuff is foul but it keeps the swelling down. You’re so pulped about the middle I suspect you won’t fit into those fine new pants of yours without it."
He forced arms trembling
with weakness to push back the sheet laid over him and examined the midnight-hued landscape of his torso. The thugs had done expert work. The bruises centered in areas that wouldn’t be shown by most clothes, and the damage was shallow enough that he wouldn’t bleed out. A dead man was, he supposed, less likely to pay up. Detan examined his most tender areas with shaky fingers, flinching with every touch.
"How are my clothes?" he asked.
Tibs snorted and set the bottle of foul medicine down on the nightstand. "In better shape than you. Missing a few buttons and dirty, though. Our hostess took them to be cleaned and mended. You damn near made her faint when you came stumbling in last night. What happened? The lady not take kindly to you?"
"Halva was all sunshine and smiles, it was those thugs we had over at the Blasted Rock that found me out. Skies above, Tibs, I nearly... Well. I would have used my sense if it’d been available to me. Luckily there wasn’t a drop of selium nearby."
Tibs waved away his concern. "There wasn’t. And you didn’t. Now get up and get yourself scrubbed into something like human shape. You’ve slept all through the blasted morning."
"Have I?" He grunted as he swung his legs off the bed. "Did I tell you the lady invited me for tea?"
"You did." Tibs rummaged through a wooden crate that looked rather crude compared to the rest of the furniture. "So I had some fresh clothes brought in for you until the others are mended."
He grinned as he yanked a dreadfully pea-green tunic from the crate and shook it out. "This was the best that could be brought on short notice."
"That is... monstrous."
"Suits you then. Now get on with it."
He hucked the tunic and Detan caught it with a grunt. "Such kindness. And what will you be doing while I’m at tea?"
Tibs grinned a toothy little grin. "Seeing about those new friends you’ve made, and what can be done about them."
The Proposal Game Page 4