The Malmillard Codex (6 page)

Daemon was her horse. The very clothes on
Val's back had been bought by her and given him by her, asking for
nothing in return. And she seemed to forget, willfully ignore, the
fact that he was an escaped slave—an escaped slave on the run for
murdering his mistress.

Her forgetting made Val's part easier to
play, and he realized at last that that was why she did it. He
looked up at the long, black-clad expanse of Madryn on the back of
the golden-maned horse. He had wondered for days whether or not he
should explain more about how the murder of his mistress had come
about. Anyone else…any other person in all the wide world…would
have insisted on knowing all the details, every bit of information
that he could supply.

Everyone else but Madryn, it was clear.

As he stretched his long legs to keep up
with the swiftly walking horse, Val let himself remember that final
scene with Lady Alysa. The spilled goblet of wine in a bloody pool
on the polished wooden floor. The murdered slave boy, his face
wearing that surprised look that sudden death sometimes brings. The
laughing, sneering noblewoman, a dripping knife in one flabby hand,
telling the others cowering before her that this clumsy slave would
spill no more wine on her new boots.

Then the shocked look that had replaced the
laughing sneer on Lady Alysa's evil face, twin expression to the
one on the dead boy's, as Valerik's anger grew inside him and his
hands encircled her dirty bejeweled neck…

No. Madryn had not asked him any questions.
She did not seem interested in his past or his story…although there
did seem to be something about him that she found fascinating. Val
had surprised an odd expression on her face, time and time
again…but she never asked him questions. He had spent a great deal
of time pondering that expression and what it might entail, during
the days and nights while they'd made their slow way towards
Karleon, the nights in shabby inns or open fields.

It was curiosity, he was sure, that look he
intercepted from time to time in her violet-gray eyes. Madryn was
curious about him, though no question ever passed her lips.
Curious…but it was more than that. She was expecting something from
him, something he didn't have—or didn't know he had.

Val shook his head, unconsciously mimicking
the quick shake that Daemon had just given.

At the top of a small rise, before the
straight road sank down toward the gate, Madryn pulled back on the
reins. In one fluid motion, she kicked her boots free of the
stirrups and slid down to the dusty road beside Val. Daemon stopped
at once, steady and still as a horse carved from obsidian—then
shattered that image as he snatched a mouthful of the short,
browning grass that grew in a damp ditch beside the road.

Val stepped back, squinted up and down the
causeway from under one broad palm. They were alone. Behind them
stretched the road they had followed so long, a snake twisting
through farmland towards the forest he'd run through, misty in the
dim distance. Ahead were the walls of the town, gap toothed with
gates and towers. Even at this distance, he could tell that the
gates were not in the best of repair.

Madryn took down the leather water bottle
that hung from the pommel, and downed a hearty gulp before offering
it to Val. He reached for it, his scarred hand brushing against her
long brown fingers.

That instant of nearness, of touch, raced up
his arm and across his shoulders; it was almost a pain, as if he'd
laid his finger on a burning ember.

Ridiculous.
He drank down the warm
water in thirsty haste, feeling the blood that suffused his face,
raced through his body, and pounded in his veins. He tried to
ignore it, but he could almost hear the water hiss and sizzle as it
spilled across his burning face.

This is becoming more and more of a
problem
, Val decided. He expected to feel grateful to Madryn;
she had saved his life, after all. But he had not been prepared for
this overpowering desire that a mere touch could engender. Sleeping
near her—or worse, next to her—was a torment. A torment he could do
nothing about, not even toss, turn or move away. No…he would lie
there, close to her, smelling the scent of her hair, feeling the
heat from that long lean body so close to him.

And burn.

"We should be able to find you a decent
blade here," said Madryn as she took the nearly empty bottle back
from Val and shoved the cork deep inside it.

"Blade?" Had he heard right? He looked up,
saw the silver tracery on the scabbard that dangled from Daemon's
broad haunch. He traced that long hard length with a practice,
experienced eye.

Madryn laughed. "Yes, a blade. For you, Val.
You can't go around without a sword…especially when you look at
mine like you want to eat it. Besides, no one will believe you're a
lord without a sword."

"I'm not a lord."

"Doesn't matter. As I've told you more than
once, others will believe you are if you believe you are—and act as
if you are," she reminded him. "And I know you can handle a sword,
gladiator. Far better than I, no doubt. Perhaps you'll give me some
lessons?"

Val nodded, struck dumb with surprise.

"Excellent. So, let's climb on Daemon and
see what we can find in Karleon, shall we?"

***

The westernmost gate of the town of Karleon
was guarded—if that was the proper word, since the shaky wooden
gate was wide open and latched back against a leprous stone wall—by
a worthy woman whose weight far surpassed the combination of both
Daemon's passengers. A swarthy soul with a cheerful expression on
her broad flat face, she sat at her ease under a ragged awning of
scabrous animal hide. About her feet clustered a rabble of street
urchins, gambling and squabbling, their voices as shrill as baby
hawks in the steamy late autumn heat.

"Ho, visitors!" rumbled the guard from deep
within her massive bosom. "And not even on market day. This
is
an occasion. Lars, Kinda, lower the rope for old
Accascia."

The rope to which she referred was a
many-knotted swag of coarse leather, draped as an ephemeral barrier
across the wide open gate, and tied in a loose knot around a
leaning pillar. A skinny girl and an even skinnier boy, their bony
bodies draped in picturesque rags, leaped up and raced to untie the
barrier as Daemon ambled forward.

"Welcome to Karleon, my lady and my lord,"
called the vast Accascia from her comfortable perch. "May you enjoy
your visit and stay for days, nay, weeks, as you taste the delights
of Karleon."

"Delights, mistress guardian?" asked Madryn
with a grin. "And what might these delights be, pray? My friend and
I are all agog to be informed."

Accascia rubbed a meaty hand across her
broad face. "To be perfectly honest, milady, the delights of our
lovely village are somewhat limited," she admitted with a shrug and
an answering grin.

"But we can obtain passage to Lakazsh, can
we not?" Madryn asked.

"To be sure, to be sure," said Accascia with
a knowing air. "There are ships aplenty, all willing to take you
wherever you might wish to go, milady and sir. But a single word of
warning, if I may make so bold?"

"Yes?"

"Stay away from the inn called the
Sailor's Delight
, on the Street of the Courtesans."

Val felt Madryn stiffen against him. "And
why might that be," she asked the gatekeeper.

Accascia laughed. "Why, they'll try to take
your companion away from you, milady," she replied. "Such breadth
of shoulder, such length of arm…why, his like is seldom seen in
freeborn men. And he looks as if he'd make some lady a fine
bedfellow on a cold night. But you would know that better than I, I
vow." This last was uttered with a knowing wink and a wide
leer.

Madryn laughed, surreptitiously kicking
Val's leg where it touched hers, on the side of Daemon opposite the
gatekeeper. Startled, Val managed a sickly laugh of his own.

"How flattering, Mistress Accascia," he
chanced, his heart in his throat but mindful of Madryn's advice
that others would believe him free if
he
did so. "I knew my
size would have to be of benefit some day. Perhaps I can make
enough to offset the cost of some new clothing." He looked down
ruefully at his travel-stained gear.

Accascia rose onto thick legs and stamped
forward, her face wreathed in a cheerful grin, her leather jerkin
creaking at the sudden added strain. The urchins parted like waves
before her flowing bulk. "Indeed, sir, and I hope you will not take
the words of a poor woman amiss. It was merely admiration of your
proportions, if you take my meaning, sir," she said when she stood
beside the greater bulk of Daemon, patting him appreciatively. "One
seldom sees such a fine figure of a man outside the arena or off
the slave blocks in this town, you see, sir. Gentlemen of your
prodigious proportions…" she admired her phrase enough to repeat
it, "…prodigious proportions remain at court, no doubt, where their
assets can be of more use to them."

"They do indeed," agreed Madryn. She patted
Val on one thick thigh—and Val felt a tingle run up his leg to his
center. "I thank the gods daily that the High Lord Valaren has
agreed to accompany me, instead of spending his time at court with
others of his ilk."

Accascia nodded in complete understanding,
as if she too were some royal refugee. "Only pray remember, milady
and milord," she repeated, "stay away from the
Sailor's
Delight
. I have a cousin who runs a most reputable place, fit
for such folk as you. It's near the docks—but not too near, if you
catch my meaning—and it's called the
Drunken Raven
. You will
receive the best of our local hospitality there, at the best of
prices. And no questions asked, milady and lord."

"Tell me, mistress," asked Val, emboldened
by his success, "how much do you receive for advising us of this
most reputable place?"

The gatekeeper beamed up at him. "Why, sir,
only a tiny bit, as a thanks, to be sure," she said.

Madryn laughed and shook her head at the
portly woman, whose head was level with Daemon's belly. "We shall
certainly try it, then," she said. "But our more important need
just now is a blade for my friend here. Where can the finest blades
in Karleon be found?"

Accascia ruminated for a moment as the
urchins surged around her. Swatting at them as if at flies, she
cocked her tousled head to one side and replied at last, "I have a
nephew…"

"Somehow I thought you might."

"A nephew who does a thriving trade in all
sorts of steel, from Tollino rapiers to the wide, heavy blades from
Varaganisshe. And strangely enough, he can be found just south of
the
Drunken Raven
, in the Street of the Artificers."

"What a coincidence," agreed Madryn,
laughing. "And this nephew's name?"

"Baragin. A most likely lad, and I'm sure
he'll be able to provide you with just what you wish."

"No doubt." Daemon shook his head and
strained against the reins. "My horse is anxious for his supper,"
Madryn continued. "Our thanks for your assistance and advice,
Mistress Accascia." A coin glinted in the air as it appeared
between lean brown fingers. A flip, and it tumbled towards the
burly gatekeeper. Accascia grabbed at it, but it slipped through
her pudgy digits and tumbled into the dust of the road.

At once, a herd of shouting, whining
children landed on the tiny bit of metal. As Daemon cantered down
the dirty street, his riders could hear a diminishing tumult of
angry voices, interspersed with the sounds of blows and slaps.

***

The
Drunken Raven
was a shabby place
that reeked at low tide and promised to smell only faintly better
at high. Composed of a single large chamber below, its upper floor
was cut up into a maze of wandering corridors lined with meager
rooms. But the gatekeeper had been right. It was cheap, relatively
clean, and most important of all, no one bothered to ask anything
of this newly arrived pair of travelers.

Val breathed a sigh of relief as the door to
their musty room closed behind them. The strain of remembering all
the myriad things that could give him away as a slave had begun to
wear on him almost at once after they'd passed the gate.

Look people straight in the eye, not with
head submissively downcast or through lowered lashes. Stand up
proudly, head high, shoulders straight as a freeborn. Do not leap
to do a service; wait to have it done. For all the practice that
he'd done with Madryn on their travels, Val had never realized how
difficult it was simply being free.

And he was beginning to suspect that it may
well increase in difficulty instead of growing easier.

"Well," said Madryn as she dried her freshly
washed face on the grimy bit of cloth hanging over the washbasin.
"Not the most elegant of accommodations, but with any luck, we
won't be here for long. A blade for you, passage for us both and
Daemon, and we're shut of this filthy little village and the
Drunken Raven
as well. Are you ready for a trip to visit a
certain nephew, Val?"

Val nodded. He didn't trust his mouth to
form discernable words. Madryn had removed her jacket; the thin
silk of her undershirt stuck to her lean body and outlined her taut
breasts in a way that sent the blood pounding in his veins. He
wondered, and not for the first time, what Madryn thought of his
obvious and unmistakable desire for her.

Did it excite her? Amuse her?

Did it disgust her?

"Val?"

Madryn had an amused look on her face. Val
had returned from his momentary reverie to find her eyes on his
flushed and burning face, her mouth stretched into its usual
crooked grin. Embarrassed, he nodded, and then watched as she slid
the saddlebag into a cupboard and shut its door. Rusty hinges gave
a shriek of protest. Then, with a jingle of coins, she donned her
jacket and strode to the door.