Fire in the Blood, page 31
“Oh for the gods’ sakes!” Farideh pulled her arm out of his and crossed them over her stomach. “It’s not the dancers.” It wasn’t and it was—she had no interest in watching Dahl watch the dancers. “I’m going to stand out.”
“But you won’t, that’s the—”
“Dahl,” she said sternly. “I’ve been in a festhall before. I’ve been in a few.”
“Really?”
Farideh shook her head. “Bounties. People think you won’t come after them in a place that’s meant to be private. But every time, they nearly slipped us because the flash and flourish can tell I …” She hugged her chest tighter. “They pull me up in front of everyone and say things to make me blush, and I don’t like it.”
“They’re not going to do that,” Dahl said. “If they did it before, don’t you think it had more to do with your being a tiefling than anything else? That’s not going to matter this time, one way or another.”
“They never grabbed Havilar.”
“Because she always has an enormous polearm in one hand. Anyway, that’s not today.” He hooked his arm through hers once more. “And if it comes to it, and you’d rather not, I’m not going to drag you. But be honest? It’s going to be better than the Sweet Nymph.”
The Golden Goblin, on the other hand, was not an improvement on the Sweet Nymph. A smoky tavern with a low ceiling, lit by the eerie gold radiance of an enormous goblin statue over the bar, the Golden Goblin was crowded with people. The tension of angry men nearly stopped Farideh in her tracks.
Beside her, Dahl suddenly moved more cautiously, keeping between her and the bulk of the taproom. “Sure those festhalls are the worst?” he murmured.
“If we don’t find them quick, we can go.” She steered him toward an empty table with a decent view. They’d hardly slid into the bench when a keghand plunked two flagons of ale on the table and stood glowering at them until Dahl handed over a small stack of copper nibs.
“At least the ale’s better,” Dahl said, after a heavy sip.
Farideh didn’t touch hers, but scanned the room despite her aching head. She’d been in enough low taverns to know one where folks came to fight. The Sharran didn’t appear, and she avoided lingering too long on any one person. She blinked the powers away, and realized that a few folks were staring at them and whispering.
“Come here,” Dahl said, pulling her closer. “Pretend you’re spoken for.”
The smell of bay and whiskey found its way through the pipesmoke. Farideh tensed. “That is absolutely not what they’re whispering about.”
“Farideh, most of the tieflings in this city are here for one reason. Chances are good they think you’re here for that one reason too. Act like you’re spoken for or at least paid for.”
Farideh felt herself flush, more at the mistake than the implication. She scooted a little closer to Dahl, uncomfortably aware once more of his arm around her back, his hand just above her hip. Uncomfortably aware of the scent he was wearing. She stared at the crowd so she didn’t have to look at him, looking at her.
He cleared his throat. “Well done,” he said. “Your fellow takes you out and we end up at a place like this. It’s like I’m not even trying. It’s almost like I’m ashamed. You’d be mad, wouldn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Farideh said.
“I suppose Lorcan only takes you to the finest of places.”
That made her blush in earnest. “Gods, why would you say that?”
“What?” he said. “You go out places with him. And if you’re going to pretend you’re not lovers—”
“We’re not lovers,” she said hotly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Dahl’s eyebrows rose. “Sorry.” He looked out at the crowd. “Just, he doesn’t kiss you like an acquaintance is all.”
Farideh shut her eyes and cursed at Lorcan silently for making such a show of that moment in the internment camp—whatever he said to the contrary, he wouldn’t have done it if Dahl hadn’t been standing there watching.
Which she had been surer of when that had been the only kiss, when it had only been a kiss. They weren’t lovers, and they wouldn’t be—even if she faltered, Lorcan would not.
She wasn’t foolish enough to believe Lorcan was being genuine.
“Lorcan is Lorcan,” she said. “He does what he does because it suits him. I suspect in that moment, it suited him to unsettle me and to remind you that he wasn’t really gone. He’s not my brightbird,” she added, and picked up the ale. It was sour and yeasty, but strong enough to warm her mouth.
“Good,” Dahl said lightly, as if he were trying not to stir her up. “You could do a lot better.”
He means it as a compliment, Farideh told herself, eyes locked on the crowd. But it wasn’t—what exactly was she passing up for Lorcan, after all? She’d known since she was thirteen that she’d be a spinster, barring something extraordinary.
Only she’d always assumed she’d have Havilar with her. She gulped the ale and felt the powers of Asmodeus simmering along her nerves, bitter and angry and humiliating. Runaway princes falling in love with tiefling bounty hunters. Very extraordinary. She drank a little more as if the ale could cool them.
“It might surprise you,” she said, a little tartly, “but there isn’t a lot of demand for a tiefling with a bent nose, a weird eye, a warlock brand, and an eight-year gap in her memory.”
“Lid for every pot,” Dahl quipped. “There are at least six men in this taproom who I would wager fair coin don’t care. I’m not saying you should go home with any of them, mind.” He frowned. “That one …” Farideh followed his gaze to a fellow leaning against a post. The same man who’d made her nervous in the Brigand’s Bottle.
“Karshoj.”
“Might be bad luck,” Dahl said. “Might be he frequents low taverns for other reasons.”
“Might be he’s one of those kidnappers.”
“I thought your princess had sorted it. Don’t stare.”
“I’m not staring at him.”
Dahl turned her face toward his, and Farideh’s stomach clenched. “You look like you’re staring. You’ll tip him off, and you’ll wreck our cover.”
“I’m angry at you,” Farideh reminded him. “I don’t think it will do a thing to this stupid cover.”
“Well, if you keep looking like you want to shank me, you might find yourself having to entertain other offers.”
“With my fists?” she said sweetly.
Dahl snorted. “Better than your rod.”
Farideh slouched down against the bench, and very deliberately set her head on Dahl’s shoulder, where she could still see the man. “Better?”
“That …” Dahl said. “Yeah, all right. That works.” He shifted his arm behind her, and held her a little tighter. The man by the post laughed at something on the other side of the room, something that didn’t seem to exist, and Farideh shut her eyes, breathing the smell of bay.
“You smell nice,” Farideh said. “What is that?”
Dahl shifted. “It’s just a little scent.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Very fancy. Did you do that for me?”
“No.” Dahl scoffed. “No, no, no. Gods.” He reached for his ale. “I mean, yes, in the sense that I haven’t had a chance to visit a bathhouse in too many days and it’s probably more pleasant for you to sit next to me this way. So … you and everyone else in Suzail. Don’t worry.”
“Right,” Farideh said. She eyed the man by the post and wondered why she imagined, even for a moment, that Dahl would have said anything else.
But she had imagined it—there was no denying it. Just as there was no denying there wasn’t a Sharran in the Golden Goblin, that the man beside the post wasn’t an unwelcome admirer, or that she wasn’t incredibly distracted by Dahl’s arm around her back. You’re acting like a fool, she told herself. And he’s going to realize it. Don’t do something stupid because you’re lonely and Lorcan’s making you mad.
Varauna’s words ran through her thoughts. There’s a point where it’s nothing to do with your opportunities and everything to do with the way you squander the opportunities you’re given. Did this count as squandering? Was there anything to squander? He hadn’t just said no—No, no, no. Gods. As if there weren’t anything more ridiculous in the wide world.
A lid for every pot, she thought, but he’s not yours. And you never wanted him to be yours. So stop being dreary.
But she didn’t move her head.
The man beside the post finally set down his flagon, picked his stormcloak up and strolled past their table. Farideh tucked her fingers into her sleeve where her rod was hidden. He did not stop to look at them, but as he passed back into the crowd, he brushed against a much larger man’s shoulder. An accident—a foolish accident in a place like this. A change cascaded over the beefy man he’d bumped, bunching his muscles, readying him for violence.
Then he caught the first man’s eye. Froze. Tensed. Readied.
“We need to go,” Farideh said, standing. Not a tavern brawl, something more organized and as primed as people in the taproom were, it would spill out to all corners. She threw her cloak on and pulled Dahl to his feet. Even Farideh didn’t think she could stop it.
“Well, there’s a pair of horns I’d like to mount” a voice behind her said. The beefy man stood there, leering down at her. He smiled, his teeth like tombstones, broad and long. “You taking other fellas’ coin?”
Dahl stepped between them, before Farideh could stop him. “She’s with me.”
The man looked Dahl over, the practiced eye of a brawler. “You pay extra, so you can feel like a la-di-da noble? Bent over an ugly tiefling?”
Farideh squeezed Dahl’s shoulder down to the bone, as he tensed. “He’s baiting you.” One punch, one spark, and everything came down. The Purple Dragons would come, and gods only knew what came next. “We’re leaving.” The man moved to stand between them and the door.
“How much is it,” the man asked, “to take the Hells’ leftovers?”
“How much do you cost?” Farideh asked calmly. “What’s that man paying?”
Amusement flickered in the fellow’s pale eyes. “You can’t afford it,” he whispered.
Farideh let the rod slip from her sleeve, dark smoke seething from the crystal at the tip. “Neither can you,” she said. The man narrowed his eyes.
He held up both hands, a gesture of surrender, but that smirk in his eyes wasn’t gone. “Maybe take your custom over to Pyter there. You share Lord Crownsilver’s perversion for ugly tieflings, eh Pyter? Maybe ’cause your mother looks like a bull that’s had a run-in with a barn door.”
If he couldn’t goad Dahl or Farideh into punching him, the bearded young man behind them made a good mark. He leaped to his feet and dived past Farideh with a roar of incoherent rage. Suddenly, every person who’d come to the Goblin looking for a fight had found one.
Farideh ducked a hooked punch, and drove her elbow hard under the sternum of a strange man who tried to grab her around the waist, before slamming the heel of her palm into his philtrum. She ducked as another man launched at her attacker, and came up close to the man who’d instigated things. He gave her a bloody smirk, a gap now in his tombstone teeth.
“The Baron wins eventually,” he whispered, before another fist crashed into his cheek.
Dahl grabbed hold of her arm, favoring his bruised fist. “Come on!”
But there was no easy leaving. They turned into the wall of Pyter, all rage and repulsion, his fist pulled back.
Enough—Farideh held tight to Dahl and twisted toward the window, pulling hard on the powers of the Hells. The blow connected, she dragged the both of them through the fabric of the planes, through wall and window and out into the rainy street. People scattered, shouting as the pair of them stepped free with a gust of brimstone, Dahl stumbled into her, rocked by the blow, and Farideh caught him before he hit the street.
And then a pair of strong hands caught her. More hands yanked Dahl from her grasp. A wad of cloth in her mouth nearly gagged her, a bag came down over her head. Ropes on her wrists and ankles. The rod plucked free of its hiding place. Karshoj, karshoj, karshoj—She kicked someone and heard a strange man grunt and gasp, and others laugh. Someone cuffed her through the bag.
Calm, she told herself. Martifyr. There was hardly enough air to breathe, snot and tears streaming down her face from the effort. Wait, wait—they were carrying her somewhere. Hopefully Dahl too.
Farideh didn’t have to wait long before she was set down and the hood and gag removed. She was in a carriage, a very fine carriage—at least as luxurious as the one that Raedra had sent for her. Her hands were still tied behind her back, and the man sitting opposite her regarded her in a way that didn’t suggest he was going to untie them. Sturdy in the way old soldiers were, with short-cropped hair and the trim beard noblemen in Suzail seemed to favor, the first threads of gray marring it. The chain around his neck was gold, as were the rings on his hands. He studied her rod with faint disgust for the cracked and cloudy amethysts, as the man who’d deposited Farideh closed the door, and something heavy was loaded on the roof.
“If you’re going to bring our private affairs to the princess’s attention, goodwoman,” the man said, “you should at least let me in on it.”
The powers of the Hells surged up through her, setting every bruise ablaze with pain. “You want to tell me who you are and where my friend is before I burn this carriage down?”
The man gave her a thin smile. “Your, ah, friend is with us. On the roof, securely tied, and presuming you don’t do anything foolish, he shall be fine.” He waved out the window and the carriage started moving. “Don’t worry. The cart springs are the best you can buy. I am Erzoured Obarskyr. They call me the Baron Boldtree, when they’re feeling polite. I suppose your friend Lord Crownsilver would call me ‘Uncle,’ not that we have the sort of family that encourages such things.”
“But the sort that encourages sending kidnappers after a lover you don’t like.”
“I’m sure your sister is just as charming as you are. I don’t much care to like or dislike you. Though you haven’t done yourself any favors by killing and injuring my men.”
“Maybe you should have hired better kidnappers,” Farideh said.
“To be clear,” he said, “none of those were mine. I left it to someone who did not think his plans through very well. As you can see, when I make an attempt to kidnap someone, I succeed.”
The carriage jolted over a missing cobble, throwing Farideh against the carriage wall. She struggled up again, without any help from Erzoured. Thuds from above—was that Dahl breaking free or being dangerously jostled? “Where are you taking me?”
“Why, home, of course. Much more comfortable, isn’t it? And we’ll have a chance to talk. Because while your sister seems an excellent piece by which to steer Aubrin’s actions, you, my dear, seem to have Proud Raedra’s ear. Quite a feat.”
Farideh cursed to herself. “I don’t know what gave you that impression. She asked me to take care of something and I have—”
“Don’t be modest,” Erzoured said. “For Raedra to have stepped in to stop something as beneficial to herself as kidnapping your sister means she must hold you in very high regard indeed. Trust me,” Erzoured said when Farideh scowled. “She is my dear cousin, after all.”
Farideh frowned. “So you’re … the old crown prince’s other son?”
“His true son,” Erzoured said. “My father promised my mother he would come back to wed her. If he hadn’t been killed by a Sembian ambush, I would be crown prince now—or king. Your friend’s father was nothing but a by-blow from a foolish dalliance with a married woman. He should have stayed a Crownsilver. As Aubrin should stay a Crownsilver.”
“I don’t really have any say in that,” Farideh said.
“No,” Erzoured agreed. “But Raedra has a little. She might have a great deal more. And she also has a say in whether or not her marriage to Aubrin Crownsilver continues apace. I see several ways we can all be a great deal happier.”
“You want me to tell her not to marry Brin?”
“I want you to encourage any doubts she has,” Erzoured corrected. “I want you to remind her she can do much better if she’s simply patient.”
“You?”
“Heavens no,” Erzoured said. “I can do much better.”
Farideh frowned. “You want to be king, but … wouldn’t she be queen before you? Regardless of whether Brin’s in the line or not?”
Erzoured’s expression tightened, and Farideh realized this man was far more dangerous than she’d expected. “Do you think I’m not acutely aware of the line of succession? I’m also acutely aware of the fact that Cormyr has, in all its history, had only six queens regnant—and one abdicated, one died within a year, one was widely contested at the time, and one is renowned for going spectacularly mad.
“It is not a great feat to convince the right people that—especially with the threat of Shade and Sembia all around us—Cormyr is in need of a king, not a queen, nor for the right people to then apply the right pressures—even to Raedra. She will see reason.”
Farideh thought of the sight of Raedra’s soul, the sense that she was not a ready prize, that she would flare out before she broke down. “Much luck with that.”
“I don’t need luck,” Erzoured said, as though he were reminding her. “I need you to do your task. You will, of course, be handsomely rewarded in a discreet fashion—”
“I’m not interested.”
Erzoured raised an eyebrow. “We’re talking about more coin than you can imagine, goodwoman.”
“And I don’t want it.”
That rage flickered through him again. Farideh drew up the soul sight, wondering if she’d see the empty pits Shar’s touch left behind … but no. Every bruised, broken patch of light was only Erzoured’s. If he dealt with any god at all, they did not claim him now. Which was strange, as dearly as he wanted the throne. No—that wasn’t what wafted off of him like a pall of smoke. He wanted power, wanted recognition and inclusion and acceptance, and the throne was a symbol, a means to an end. Someone should have made use of him by now, so what did—
