Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (62 page)

“I take it you can’t come up with many.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“All it takes is one bad seed to set the entire
population against a class of people.  With magic users it’s even easier. 
Everyone is always ready to believe the worst about them because they can
perform such miracles as the ordinary crotches living their ordinary lives
can’t.  And because of the old tales.”

“You dodged my question.  Why would you want magic
when no one trusts magic users?”

He expected her to lash back at him with her frozen
glare.  This time she only looked down on him with an expression close to
longing.  “How many poor magicians have you ever seen?”  She rushed forward
before he could form any mistaken opinions regarding her desires.  “But coin
doesn’t have anything to do with that.  The Spell generates more than enough of
that to keep us comfortable.”

“Then why?”

“Because nothing is beyond a magician.”  Wistful airs
laced her soft words.  “They can perform the most wondrous miracles.  And
gender means nothing in magic.  Men and women both command respect equal to
their abilities.  But only to be able to work the magic…”

It unnerved Marik to see the hard, take-charge woman
looking so poignant.  Still, the odd sensation drowned beneath her sheer
beauty, and he drank deeply of the vision atop him.  He jerked when she glanced
down at him, afraid his open stare had revealed too much of his captivation.

Unsure what to say, he remained silent.  Ilona rested
one hand flat against his chest.  “I should have been born with it, but I
wasn’t.  Daddy was a magician.”

“He...uh…he was?”

“Yes.”  She watched him intently, for what reaction he
knew not.

“I guess, that explains…”  Explains what?  He almost
said ‘obsession’.  That would surely fan the blaze of her irritation anew.  No
question.

“I didn’t inherit his powers,” she continued.  “I
remember every little spell he used to amuse me with while I was small.  I
wanted to hurry and grow up so my own magic would awaken, but I’ve never once
been able to cast them.  Working with mother to run the Spell effectively takes
talent of a sort, but if I’d had the choice…”

What could he say?  Ilona’s revelations left him at a
loss.  Grasping for anything, he offered the only response floating through his
thoughts.  “If I could, I’d give you my talent.”

Ilona gazed down.  After a moment, she replied, “You
actually would, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve never wanted it.  It’s done little but bring me
troubles I never would have had otherwise.”

“That’s quite an offer.”  The hand resting on his
chest began describing circles between her knees.  Her next words changed the
subject and rekindled the flame burning behind Marik’s cheeks.  “Hmm…not as
broad across as I usually like.”

“Br…uh, usually?”

“And less muscle bulk.  But then the bigger men
usually get tedious quickly, no matter how much fun they are in bed.  It’s
always the big sweaty ones who think we can’t live without them.”

Marik held his lip, his face a brilliant scarlet under
her casual talk.

“Now
that’s
cute.”  She touched a finger to his
flaming blush.  “Cuter than persistence in a man.  I’d say you don’t have much
experience in the world outside of your little mercenary band, Master
Swordsman.”

His head whirled in a cyclone of raging emotions and
tortuous hope.  “No, not…not much.”

“Then what you need, you vexing country bumpkin, is a
person wise in the ways of the world who can teach you about what you’ve been
missing.”

For the rest of the night, she did exactly that.

If life could improve by any measure beyond this,
Marik lacked the imagination to conceive it.  The contract to safeguard
Hilliard Garroway had shifted from being hunted prey to living the high life. 
No longer confined to the cloistered rooms of the Swan’s Down Inn, the small
group spent their time outside Hilliard’s training schedule wandering Tourney
Town’s raucous alleys.

Dietrik, his arm bothering him hardly at all, and
Marik roamed the districts devoted to separating a man from his coin via the
transfer of pleasurable luxury items.  They found no mirrors Marik felt
inclinations toward.  Still, he picked up a smaller handheld version he thought
Ilona might like, though with the large mirror reflecting half her bedroom, she
probably had no real need of it.  But he wanted to buy it for her, so he laid
down the coin.

Kerwin finally located an architect willing to design
the gambler’s roadside inn.  He visited with the man every morning to discuss
the plans, alter previous requirements or receive opinions from the expert on
space functionality.  Every afternoon, while wandering with his friends, he
scampered around the tournament like a overactive child, flitting from contest
to contest, storing away games of chance by the dozens or creating his own on
the spot, inspired by what he saw and heard from the crowd around them.  The
next day he would return to his building planner to alter his future inn,
wanting to incorporate new rooms or alter previous ones to take advantage of
his newest ideas.  Marik secretly believed the man must be earning every copper
Kerwin paid him.

Landon evinced little activity toward a personal
agenda.  An old hand at the mercenary game, he accepted the good times when
they came, enjoying them with the knowledge that soon enough they would be
gone.  He followed Kerwin around the tournament, taking enjoyment from his
closest friend’s pleasure rather than seeking out his own.  Yet despite their
new freedoms, Marik caught troubled expressions flitting across the archer’s
face from time to time.  Marik took it to mean they should remember that danger
enough still existed in the city despite their takedown of the gang harassing
them.

Hilliard passed the boxing event by a wide enough
margin that Kerwin was spared the nail-biting anxiety of a close victory.  The
young future baron met defeat in his match, but lasted eighteen rounds.  With
five of the contestants in his block advancing on wins, the remaining five were
placed according to the number of rounds they persevered through.  Their charge
topped the defeated list, the second nearest, a contender imported to fill
Delouen’s slot, only claiming twelve rounds before staying down.  In the last
advancing slot came a man with ten rounds under his belt, the final two
disqualified with six rounds apiece.

For the tournament, in an effort to shorten the bouts,
the officials had chosen a fifteen count rather than the normal thirty.  As
Marik watched the fighting in the oval center of the horse track, he often
pondered if the defeated men might not have made a comeback if their time
remained the ordinary length.  Kerwin shrugged the question off, declaring that
if a man wanted to participate he needed to follow the rules in effect.  No one
had forced any of the contenders to enter.

Still, as much as the officials wanted to arrange the
bouts for maximum entertainment value, they could only stray so far from
tournament tradition.  Each contestant drew lots for this one-on-one event as
they had in every boxing trial since the first tournament.  This denied Marik
and the crowd their much anticipated fight between Ferdinand Sestion and Keegan
Gardinnier.  Instead each felled their unlucky opponent in six rounds, Keegan’s
brawling skills undiminished by his smaller size.

Walsh’s common room had been packed to the rafters
that night.  The regulars celebrated Hilliard’s advance the way they might have
the coronation of a new king.  They fought off newcomers with territorial pride
whenever fresh faces drifted in, having heard a genuine contender stayed in
residence.  Many of Thoenar’s citizens considered only the last two events to
be the
real
tournament.  That Hilliard had fought his way through the
preliminaries to reach them elevated his stature in their minds.  Even if he
lost the next event, he would remain a true warrior to them, one of the finest
in Galemar, and they would talk about how they had stood in this very room with
the man until their dying day.

Marik left Hilliard to his adoring throng.  Truth to
tell, he had not slept in his bed at the Swan’s Down once in the last six
days.  Dietrik ribbed him endlessly about it, a fact that normally would have
irritated him to no end.  At present he could hardly care less.  His friend
could say whatever he wanted. 
He
would never know the endless bliss of
Ilona and her wild, limitless expertise at intimate creativity.

When he arrived at the Standing Spell in the midst of
a raging argument between mother and daughter, Marik had no idea what the issue
at hand might be.  Ilona stormed from the building at his arrival, towing him
through the crowds of returning tournament goers by one hand.

A firm opportunity to question her about it never
presented itself in the mob.  He soon recognized that she led him back to
Walsh’s inn.  In the common room she evicted a trio from a booth along the far
wall with nothing more than her personality’s raw force.  They sat unspeaking,
Ilona fuming over her mother, Marik afraid to broach the subject because he
feared he might be the issue between Vashti and his new love.

After a stretch made longer by apprehension, she rose
without a word.  Ilona glared at him when he stood to follow until he sat back
down on the bench.  She disappeared into the kitchen, presumably to claim a
share of food from Walsh’s not-quite-wife, Cook, who ran her kitchen as her
private little kingdom.  He felt at a loss, sitting alone, waiting for events
to carry him wherever they would.

Dietrik popped out from the crowd and refused to
accept Marik’s frosty gaze.  He forced space onto the bench beside Marik. 
“There is more room at this table than in the whole rest of the common room,
mate.”

“I’m already—”

“I am aware of that, Marik.  But you hardly have
privacy in this mess anyway, so share a little.  There must be two-hundred
chaps in here tonight!”

Acquiescing, Marik sighed.  “And all for one reason.” 
He gestured with his nose at Hilliard, who stood near the bar across the room. 
The regulars had cajoled him into reliving the boxing match for the eighth time
Marik knew of.

“Well, no cutpurse in a right state of mind would so
much as dream of targeting young Garroway these days.  Our job is all the
easier.  Happy days!” Dietrik toasted with the tankard he’d brought through the
press.

Marik nodded absently and craned for a clear view of
the kitchen doorway.

“Mate,” Dietrik said somberly after a swallow, capturing
Marik’s attention.  “I know you don’t want to hear me say this, but as your
friend I need to make the point at least once.”

“What?”

“Don’t wrap yourself around her too tightly.”

“I’m fine!”

“Happy days not withstanding, soon enough we’ll be
leaving, and she won’t be.  She and her mother have a thriving business in the
best of all locations.  I think you know which she will put first if the
decision is you or her venture.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Marik snapped harshly. 
“I don’t need you to tell me that!”

Dietrik shrugged before returning his attention to
Hilliard’s recitation, unheard over the noise of so many men barking questions
or calling to Walsh’s servers.  He knew Dietrik deserved better than that, but
his friend’s words echoed the concerns that had begun growing in the dark
corners of his mind.

The mercenary way called for men to take the
opportunities offered by life and ignore them when they were unavailable.  He
knew this…yet could he ever walk away from Ilona the way he could walk away from
regular religious services?  This question left him unsettled.

He searched for her by the kitchen again, peering over
the moving heads, finding her not by the doorway but standing beside the slate
betting board, the black surface nearly white from so many chalked notations. 
She stood with Kerwin, their heads bent low to talk privately, looking for all
the world like a pair of lovers stealing kisses during the rare moments when
everyone’s gaze shifted in other directions.

Marik nearly leapt from the bench before both raised
their heads.  Kerwin started explaining something at length.  The glow in his
eyes could only mean he talked of gambling, probably referring to the betting
board beside them.  He expected Ilona to shrug off Kerwin’s infatuated discourse,
except she acted as interested as a fellow addict.

Dietrik reached up to tug him down by the back of his
breeches.  “This is what I meant,” he commented around his tankard’s rim.  “You
are too focused on her.  Think for a moment, mate.  Kerwin knows about the
relationship between the two of you.  Is he the type to poach on a friend’s
preserve?”

“No, of course not,” Marik mumbled, and firmly sat
down.  But what in the hells were those two talking about so intimately?

He continued to watch them as a hawk marking a field
mouse.  When they finally separated after half a candlemark in deep
conversation, she returned, accompanying the platter of roasted chicken she
must have requested.  Marik asked the question with his eyes, a question she
ignored.  Instead she dove into her food.  Ilona only paused long enough to
scorch him with a withering gaze when he continued his study of her across the
table.

Marik chose not to stress the moment.  Whatever they
had spoken of, Kerwin would likely tell him about later.  Agitating Ilona was
never a smart move.  Especially when the woman had started the evening already
riled.

Eventually they found their way back to the Spell. 
During their rest periods of laying beside one another, letting the heat from
their passions dispel, they each spoke of their lives.  Marik thought he had
little of interest to say but discovered more to his past than he realized. 
Talking of Tattersfield, of his father, of his mother, of leaving it all
behind, of winning a place in the Crimson Kings, of his various roles played in
the three campaigns he had contracted on, Marik realized the facets in his
everyday life had come to outshine the daydreams he’d often entertained while
apprenticed under the woodworker Pate.  He had walked the palace grounds.  He
had fought an enemy duke and prevailed.  He had uncovered an assassination plot
against one under his care.  He had won a place among the best fighters in all
of Galemar.

This interested Ilona to a point.  Her inquires always
bypassed everything else to center on his mage talent.  She wanted to hear
about the hedge-wizard who had nearly incinerated him, about training under
Tollaf, about the magician in the Green Reaches.  He attempted to satisfy her
desires,
all
her desires, except talking about that other side of his
nature still left him uncomfortable.  Speaking of shields and attacks and
practical theory in Tollaf’s Tower never felt the same as discussing it outside
in the real world.  Going into Tollaf’s sanctuary to do what Torrance expected
of him always felt comparable to, well…

To a man slipping off in the night to the local
brothel to do what he needed to do.

Marik hated that image.  Especially now.  And it was
not a comparison he could ever describe to Ilona!  So he gritted his teeth and
forced himself to speak plainly, the act becoming slightly easier with each
night he plowed new furrows in the field of his reluctance.

And the days passed.  Walsh’s regulars, a crowd grown
to over a hundred, gathered on the day of the fifth trial.  They each stopped
by the inn long enough to wish Hilliard the best, then trotted into the rising
sun, determined to find the best seats they could.  The builders had been
working non-stop to expand the bench rows around the horse track.  Despite
that, the odds of finding a seat for the semi-finals were very much in doubt. 
Marik knew whole crowds had camped overnight as close to the stands as the
cityguard would allow.

He arrived when the last regular departed.  Hilliard
stood in a plain robe, looking shabbier than most of the refugees thronging the
roadways outside Thoenar.  Underneath, the young man wore cotton undergarments
that would protect his skin from chafing against the armor he would don. 
Dietrik, Kerwin and Landon stood ready to go, the small group waiting for their
appointed leader to arrive.

Marik saw Dietrik’s evil grin, and reached up to pat
down his hair, tussled from the morning wind rather than any amorous activity. 
The thought made a faint blush creep over him.  He cursed silently, ignoring
Dietrik to ask Landon, “We’re ready, then?”

“Indeed,” replied the archer.  “I think all is in
order.  How do you feel this morning, Hilliard?”

“I am cold, but excited!”  His eyes reflected the dawn
sun peeking over the buildings.  “I have come so far!  Farther than I dared
hope!”

“Well, you watch your neck today,” Kerwin advised. 
“It’ll be dangerous enough all on its own.”

“I will exercise care,” Hilliard promised while they
set out for the lists.  “I only need to be in the top eighty percent.  Rushing
and taking risks this near to the goal is sloppy field strategy.”