Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (47 page)

“The point of clever planning is to find weaknesses
where others never expect they have any.  On the assumption that a group was
sent to Thoenar by the dark Spirratta guilds, then I doubt they have given up.”

“We captured one of them.  Will the guards question
her?”

“Without doubt, but convincing the guards to pass that
information to us, assuming they extract anything useful, might prove
difficult.  The assassins would change any plans they made before her capture
in any event.  They plan even now.”

“Another layer,” Marik murmured.  “Trying to make us
see only what they’ve done so far, while they attack us in a new way.”

“Whatever new plot they put into play, they hope to keep
us from seeing it.  Our next move will depend on whether we hope to anticipate
their next move, or make a move of our own based on the information we have.” 
He refocused on the bracelet.  “All of the charms are separated, but I don’t
see any changes.  Perhaps this will tell us nothing after all.”

The small pile of thin, golden charms, eleven all
told, sat atop the counter beside the bracelet.  He pushed it all back toward
Marik.  A slight gouge in the countertop caught one charm.  With the continued
pressure from Landon’s palm, the golden circle bumped over the thin metal as
the charm pile tumbled before it.

It happened so fast neither man had time to jump. 
There was no flash of light.  Instead, a peculiar glimmer shone briefly off the
bracelet’s surface.  A pop, as a giant cork being pulled from a bottle,
accompanied a four-foot sword materializing in the air above the countertop. 
Marik’s spine faintly crawled with that grassy itch he recognized, though with
less insistence than last night since he was no longer ignoring what his mage
senses wanted to tell him.

The sword fell to the bar with a clatter and bounced
when the hilt struck first.  It struck the wine bottle when it spun to the
side.  Marik reached out cat-quick to grasp the bottle before it could make a
mess of Walsh’s tavern.

Landon lifted the sword, studying it before reclaiming
the bracelet.  “Ah.  I think I see it finally.”  He shifted the bracelet to the
blade’s tip, fitting it over the steel and moving it down toward the hilt.

With a second strange shimmer and a pop that sounded
closer to a boot being pulled from the sucking mud, the sword vanished from
Landon’s hand.  A faint tinkle drew their attention to the floor where a small
golden sword tumbled to a stop.

“Perhaps a better description for this would be a
smuggler’s tool rather than an assassin’s.”

Marik leaned down for the sword charm.  “This must be
why the servants didn’t find the knife on her when she entered the house!  It
was on the bracelet, looking like a charm!”

“A clever piece of work,” Landon agreed.  “And also
ideal for an assassin.  Or, a woman assassin, at any rate.  A man might be hard
pressed to explain his taste in jewelry when attempting to enter his target’s
presence wearing this.”

He handed the bracelet back to Marik, who began
reattaching the piled charms.  “She knew she’d have to leave as soon as she
stuck Hilliard.  Might even need to run, so she spent time putting the bracelet
back on so it wouldn’t be left behind.  Thank the gods!  If she had knifed him
right away, I never could have gotten there in time.”  He shook his head with a
grimace.  “At least we know how it works.  Far too simple for clever fellows
like us, wasn’t it?”  Annoyance gnawed at him that he had not tried so obvious
a method.

“Simple, yet effective.  But with the details in hand,
we might, perhaps, be able to track this to its source.”

With dragging thumps, Hilliard shuffled down the
steps, clutching his head in one hand.  Dietrik followed close by.  Neither yet
noticed the two sitting by the bar.

Once he reached the ground floor, Hilliard inched his
way to the nearest chair like a hideous jelly creature born without a
backbone.  He groaned.  “Gods above!  This is too much!”

“You can only
expect
a hangover if you drink as
much as you did, lad.  Just be grateful there is no competition today.”

“Never again,” Hilliard moaned, sounding as though his
upper lip was dangling down his throat.  “Never again will I consume that evil
concoction!  This is too much to bear!”  He rested his head on the table.

“Come, lad.  You wanted to be up with the dawn to get
in your archery practice.  It’s too late to want a lie-in.”  He finally noticed
the others sitting close by.  “See that?  Landon’s waiting on you.  Be a good
chap and don’t keep him waiting.”

Dietrik continued cajoling the groaning young man as
Marik faced Landon squarely.  “I think our best lead is this brothel Ferdinand
hired his women from.”

“The Standing Spell.”

Marik snorted.  “With a name like that, and a thing
like this,” he hoisted the bracelet, “I have to wonder.  Coincidence?”

Landon shrugged.

“Well, Hilliard needs to be looked after…”  Across the
room, the future baron retched with a wet gurgle.  Marik grimaced.  “In more
ways than one.  I’m the only one who can sense magic, so I’ll go see what I can
about this place.  You three keep him under wraps.”

Nodding, Landon added, “I don’t know where this place
is.  You’ll have to find a cityguard and ask him.”

“Figures.  I’ll see you later.”  Landon crossed over
to help the suffering Hilliard, and Marik walked out into the new morning with
only a slightly pounding head.

After receiving directions from the second cityguard
patrol he asked, Marik fought his way through the crowds to the Standing
Spell.  The men had thoroughly misunderstood why he wanted to find a locally
famous brothel.  In the end they eventually coughed up the location…amidst a
series of coughs that were not in fact coughs.

Gray clouds covered the sky overhead.  Pale sunlight
penetrated through, giving the early day a surreal quality.  Thicker cloud
banks might move in later if the morning’s cover kept from burning off. 
Perhaps the dark clouds might provide some rain.  The relief from the heat
would be nice.

Most windows along the second and third floors of the
street stood open.  Owners rapidly undid latches to open the shutters on the
rest.  Everyone strove to fill their homes with as much morning cool as they
could.  Later, when the sun crested the skyline to shine directly onto the
city, they would all be closed tight to ward off the heat as long as possible.

The streets, even this early, were crowded with people
heading toward Tourney Town.  Back in Tattersfield this same sized gathering
would only be seen during a festival in the central square.  Those had always
been the largest crowds he could imagine.  Now Marik was glad when he could
walk without his shoulders striking anyone.

Wind swept through his hair, stronger than the mild
breezes that had done nothing to relieve the heat since the tournament’s
inception.  It smelled crisp and clean.  Another sign of possible approaching
showers.

Within the Inner Circle, the streets were also thick
with pedestrians.  He wondered at that.  The guards manning the tunnels leading
into the original Thoenar were supposed to question anyone wishing to enter if
they were not obviously a resident.  Marik’s planned story, about needing to
retrieve a belonging left behind at the Sestion household, went unused when the
guards let him pass without challenge.  They must have given up managing the
traffic in the face of the constant stream passing through during the
festival’s morning rush.

Most of the early morning gloom did burn off by the
time he finally reached the Standing Spell.  From the outside, no
distinguishing marks revealed the nature of the business conducted within. 
With only two floors, it was the shortest building on the street, though it
stretched wider than its neighbors.  The short brick wall running along the
property lines lay only feet from the building.  A person could walk around the
building in the space between, but Marik would not want to attempt doing so
while in a hurry.

The front door rested at street level.  A brass handle
with a thumb-lever replaced a traditional knob.  On a small plaque at
eye-height was a silhouette of a robed woman.  She held, in an extended hand, a
stick trailing dark stars.  It must be a representation of a magic spell, Marik
mused.  Beneath the shadow figure wound a carved ribbon, its ends curling and
folding in elegant sweeps.  Gold gilt had been painted on the words etched into
the ribbon, spelling out the establishment’s name.

Marik saw no windows along the ground floor.  No
signboard hung from a post, no displays of wares lined the street.  Nothing at
all marked this building for a place of business.  Had Marik not sought it out,
he would have merely taken it for a residential house.

He paused.  What to do next?  Knocking seemed wrong. 
This was, after all, no house, but a shop, though the merchandise was of a
unique type.  Marik struggled until he finally settled on simply entering as if
he belonged and seeing what developed.

First he checked his sword.  Then he reluctantly
listened to his mage senses, but they were reporting nothing unusual.  Once
prepared to meet any danger, he stepped into the unknown.

The room inside the door was obviously a reception
area.  It was only large enough that seven or eight people could stand
comfortably before new arrivals would force them closer together.  He had been
unsure what to expect, yet nevertheless Marik found the décor surprising.

Two chairs, side-by-side, lined the short wall from
door to corner while a three-cushion couch was pushed against the longer wall. 
Resting in the corner between the two sat a steel tray filled with sand in an
iron-rod stand, black tobacco ash staining the clean grains.  In the opposite
corner, a small, circular table served as a desk.  The walls were painted a
soft yellow.  Other than the rough mat beneath his boots and tan carpets
covering the floor beyond the entrance, nothing else presented itself.  His
mind had formed a vague preconception of walls in bright red velvet with erotic
paintings depicting depraved scenes hanging in thirty-pound carved frames and
beautiful ladies lounging around in sheer veils that did nothing to conceal
their womanhood.

Well, the one woman in the room certainly was a lovely
face without question, even if her clothing was far more substantial than his
imagination would have her in.  She sat in a chair behind the small table and
ceased poking through the clutter atop it when he entered.  Her hair curved
around her face in perfect arcs.  Marik briefly thought she had fitted a melon
over her head, the way it curved away from her cheeks before the tips curled to
hover under her chin.  Wasn’t hair supposed to fall straight downward?

From the slight tightening of her lips, Marik could
read quite a lot.  He obviously lacked the standards displayed by their usual
clientele.  How would she try to make him leave?

Instead of telling him to vanish immediately, she
greeted him with disinterested politeness.  “Are you positive you entered the
correct abode?”

“Uh…I believe so.  This is the Standing Spell, isn’t
it?”

“It is.”  Her lips, highlighted with pink gloss,
pursed further.  “I ask because you don’t appear to belong here.”

Marik delivered his prepared story in, what he hoped,
was an air of casual authority.  Given that he had no idea what he might
discover in this place, he’d decided that acting with the arrogant pompousness
of the nobles would deflect any recognition.  They might mistake him for a
noble’s personal guard rather than a hired mercenary.  “I have come to speak
with the…the owner.  Concerning the attack on a noble-born last night by one of
your pr—employees.”  He glanced around, as if no possible action lay open to
her other than to leap at his command.  In truth he listened hard for any large
sides of beef masquerading as bouncers who might be about to descend on him. 
Or worse types than that.

She sized him up without moving.  By his dress, and
the fact he arrived alone, she could easily see he was no cityguard.  Nor was
he likely connected with any form of government service.  Rather than rising
from her seat, she leaned back further.  “And would you care to expound on this
accusation?”

“I’m sorry?”  Marik met her eyes.  He noticed that
when she shifted position, her hair bobbed up and down under her chin.

“That is a serious claim to lay.  Attacking one of the
Blood.  I think you had better elucidate the facts of your allegation.”

Marik did not quite understand what she had said, but
he thought she wanted him to explain what he meant.  Did she truly know nothing
about the assassin?  Or was she testing him?  Perhaps to buy time?  Long enough
for thugs deeper within the building to come deal with him?  Or to escape?

He disliked those possibilities.  A quicker response
would serve best.  Inflating his pompousness, he strove to impress upon her
that he had every right to the answers he demanded.  “I am referring to the
attack by one of your
women
last night at the House of Sestion.  She is
now under guard in the holding cells,” he growled, hoping that was true.  “She
also had enough damning evidence on her to make sure she never sees the light
of day again, and maybe others as well!  Are you going to find me whoever is in
charge or do I need to return with others?”  Marik puffed out his chest such as
the army officers tended to do whenever speaking to a man they considered of
lower stature but still outside their command.  Such as a mercenary.

She scrutinized him while a second woman entered from
deeper inside the house.  “Rosa?  What’s going on?”  This beauty’s neckline
plunged drastically, exposing what the suspicious Rosa kept hidden.  The new
arrival openly appraised Marik.  He suddenly felt like a scrawny chicken at the
market, pecking away at the ground amidst fatter brethren while women shoppers
passed a cold, rejecting eye over his feathers.

“Take over a moment, love,” Rosa said after reaching a
decision.  She crossed to the door the second woman had entered from.  When
Marik made to follow, she coolly told him to wait where he was.

The second woman took Rosa’s seat.  A flowery scent
wafted to his nostrils.  It was a sharp contrast to the usual smells he had
grown accustomed to around others.  Sweat.  Blade oil.  Old leather.  Horses. 
Even the pungent beeswax candles in Tollaf’s study that followed the old man
wherever he went.

Everything about her, especially the way she leaned
her head against her hand, made her whole body shift at an angle, emanating
femininity in a way absent from Rosa.  Her head slipped further so her fingers
twined among curling locks of sun-gold hair, making her neckline billow
forward.  From where he stood, Marik had a view to remember of soft, curvaceous
breasts, bulging closer together when she shifted her other arm.  Cleavage
squeezed the thoughts from his brain.  Minor shifts in position made the
neckline dip yet further.

The feminine cleanness of the perfume she wore
combined with the sight of her nearly bared breasts to addle his brain.  With a
start, Marik realized he was staring avidly at her bosom.  Not only that, but
she watched him watching her.  He faced away with a jerk.  A familiar burning
crept over his face, a flush he had not felt since leaving Kingshome, and with
it Natalie’s explicitly graphic descriptions.  His back to the woman, he missed
her playful grin and sparkling eyes.

Rosa returned to find him facing her as stiffly as a
fanatic army recruit.  She cast the second woman a sour look.  Behind Marik, she
shrugged, then straightened, causing the neckline to snap back to its designed
position.

“I did not receive your name,” Rosa told him,
maintaining her place in the threshold.  “Nor did you reveal your involvement
with this unfortunate event.  What is your connection?”

“What?”  Rosa wore no perfume he could smell but the
aroma still filled his nose from the other woman.  His sudden embarrassment had
driven the story he’d prepared straight from his mind.  He fumbled for a
response.  “Oh, that.”  He plowed onward despite Rosa’s raised eyebrows.  “My
charge, or that is, Lord Garroway…I’ve been sent to protect him.”

Idiot!  What happened to your story?  Now they know
you for who you are!  Why not escort them back to the inn while you’re at it?

Rosa’s mouth traveled to one side of her face.  She
considered him.  Though smaller than he, Marik felt as he had around the
village women during his childhood.  Any one of them held authority equal to
his own mother.

She reached under her hair to tug her ear.  Marik tensed. 
Was that a predetermined signal to hidden assailants?  No attack followed. 
Finally, she said, “Perhaps Madam Vashti will find a moment to sacrifice for
you.  Abide in the second entryway to your left until you are called for.” 
Rosa pointed down the hallway she blocked with her body.

He felt her eyes marking him like an eagle-hawk,
ensuring he went nowhere other than where she specified.  The perfume smells
intensified.  They saturated the air in the hall.  Unlike the few shops he knew
that sold perfumes, the mix in the air around him was actually rather
pleasant.  At most, perhaps only four or five odors mingled together, rather
than the hundreds which combined to create one hell-stench in the perfume
shops.

The doorway he arrived at, only twenty feet away, led
into a windowless room that also faced the street, matching the reception room,
except this room was smaller than the first.  Four chairs, leather padded,
occupied the space, though no other amenities were present, including an actual
door.

Before he sat, he heard Rosa’s voice drifting from the
reception area.  Her irritation laced the words.  “Corissa!  Do not play games
outside your limits!  Not every tomcat through our entrance has legitimate
clientele admission.”

She lowered her voice after that, leaving Marik to
wonder how the remaining conversation would flow.  With nothing to do, he sat,
thinking about everything so far.  It proved a surprisingly difficult task. 
Visions of milky curves bulging with every slight movement attempted to crowd
out his other thoughts.  He would force them away, only to find them the sole
inhabitant of his brain half a minute later.

Idiot and then some!  What is wrong with you?  You’ve
been through how many battles?  You’ve felled how many foes?  You also faced down
Colbey until he caved in, and suddenly you’re falling to pieces for a glimpse
of breast?  You’re sitting in a viper’s lair, perhaps, and you’re letting
yourself be distracted!

To put his mind back into combat readiness, he chose
two facts to pick apart.  What was Rosa’s role at the Standing Spell?  She was
easily beautiful enough to keep an upper-class man company.  Except her dress
concealed more that it revealed, and that manner of hers…