Warrior Prime, page 20
part #1 of Ink Mage Legacy Series
Also, she was embarrassed.
The perfume and the nail polish and the scented soap were hardly the supplies she’d implied to Peyne and Maurizan she needed for the deep desert. The items were indulgent and under the circumstances, ridiculous. But with a new hope for freedom blooming within her, she’d found herself longing for the simple pleasures of her former life. She’d been long traveling, sleeping often on the ground, sand in every crevice.
Damn it, she wanted to feel good again, clean again, to smell nice.
And damn it, she was pretty.
It wasn’t fair that Peyne should only see her dirty and bedraggled and travel worn.
The thought startled her.
Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I like him.
Which was beyond stupid. The man was a womanizer and a drunk and . . . and he just thought he was so witty. And father would never approve.
Isn’t that half the attraction?
Ugh. Shut up, she told herself. It’s okay just to want to smell nice. I don’t have to impress anyone.
Zayda asked directions before leaving the shop. Peyne said he and Maurizan would try the Dirty Djinn first, so that’s where she’d go. She thanked the merchant and headed out into the street and the glare of the late afternoon sun.
Meddigar sat on the veranda of the squalid café, sipping a mug of the strong local tea while he studied his spell book. He had sought the café specifically to escape the others. Hak was insufferably arrogant, and any day now he would murder his apprentice.
They’d been waiting and watching for Maurizan for two days, and everyone had become restless. Soon the rest of the troops would arrive—he hoped soon—and the wizard would be forced to make a decision. His attention returned to the spell book. Certain protective spells he renewed every day. One could never be too careful. The other spells he elected to memorize depended on his current circumstances.
This was one of the few times the wizard envied the ink mages. An ink mage’s spells were inked directly into their skin, no tedious daily studying of complex spells from a book. Meddigar’s magic had been hard earned from years of study. He’d been collecting spells for nearly three decades, and there were thirty-six now, each printed in Meddigar’s precise lettering in one of the three ancient languages of magic.
But there were limits of course. An ink mage could empty her well of spirit. For more conventional wizards, there was a limit to how many spells the mind could hold. Meddigar could memorize nine. He’d once tried to hold ten in his mind, and it had nearly driven him mad. Spells were like living things, writhing and clamoring to get out. A mind had to be disciplined to hold them.
The great wizards of bygone days were allegedly able to hold twenty spells or more. Most of Meddigar’s contemporaries could hold maybe five or six, so by comparison, Meddigar was above average.
Still, to choose nine from thirty-six. Meddigar selected his spells carefully, trying to anticipate his needs.
He looked up from the book, sipping tea, and saw her come out of the shop. Meddigar wasn’t sure why she caught his attention, but she did.
He watched her. Trying to remember. He was certain he knew her.
Meddigar glanced at the sign above the shop door. His Fyrian was getting better but . . . women’s sundries? Was he translating that right?
He wasn’t sure what that meant . . . maybe didn’t want to know.
Her head turned as she crossed the street, and something clicked in Meddigar’s memory.
I’ve inked her. What was her name? Zeena? Zureen?
Zayda.
A scarf concealed the collar around her neck. Something was going on here, and Meddigar didn’t believe in coincidences. He tossed a couple of coppers on the table and rose to follow her.
As they headed for the center of the village, Meddigar’s hand slipped into one of the pockets of his robes, closing around something cold and metal. If Zayda had some secret to share, the wizard would know soon enough.
Maurizan and Peyne approached the Dirty Djinn, one of the two-story establishments in town, steps leading up to a wide double-doored entrance, fat columns on either side. Maurizan entered, Peyne right behind her. They paused just inside the doorway, letting their eyes adjust to the dim lighting as they slowly scanned the interior.
“Looks like a friendly place,” Peyne said. “If they have any of that spiced beer—”
“Back out slowly,” Maurizan whispered from the side of her mouth. “Don’t make a scene.”
“We’ve only just arrived,” Peyne said. “I haven’t had a chance to make a scene.”
She hooked her arm into his as if they were a couple and smiled brightly.
Peyne smiled too.
She casually steered him back around toward the exit, still smiling, and softly said, “Did you happen to see the soldiers at the far table?”
In fact, Peyne had noticed the maid behind the bar with the alarmingly low-cut blouse but said, “I hadn’t actually.”
“I don’t recognize the livery, but they’re definitely not the village watch,” she said. “Until I know why they’re here, I think I’d feel comfortable someplace else.”
“As much as I’d been looking forward to quenching my thirst with a tankard of the local brew, I’m forced to agree,” Peyne said. “What was the other place called? The something something whore?”
Maurizan rolled her eyes. “Of course that’s the part you remember.”
Once outside, they turned left down the wide main avenue before Maurizan led him down a narrow alley toward the Sultan’s Whore. Maurizan still held on to him, continuing the illusion of them as a couple, just a lord and his lady taking a stroll. Nothing to see here.
The common room of the Sultan’s Whore was every bit as dim as the Djinn’s. The place was also free of soldiers, and Peyne took note that the barmaid was every bit as attractive as the last one, so no damage done to his morale.
“Grab us a table,” Maurizan said. “I’ll see about rooms.”
Plenty of tables were open, so Peyne took one near a window, thinking it might be handy to see trouble coming should there happen to be any.
He looked around.
There was something odd about the place. Not bad. Just . . . odd.
Most of the patrons were women, sitting in twos and threes at scattered tables. All of them were suspiciously attractive. Not that Peyne was surprised at the attractiveness of each individual lady, rather that so many beautiful women would be gathered in the same place. It had long been Peyne’s opinion that truly attractive people represented a relatively small percentage of the population, and the odds seemed long that so many would randomly gather in one location.
A man entered, older, well dressed like some prominent merchant.
Three of the woman moved immediately to greet him, tickling him under his thin, white beard and leading him to his table. The way he bantered with the women made Peyne think the man was a regular.
Maurizan returned, took a seat across from him. “They remember me here, so I got a good rate on the rooms.”
“This”—Peyne looked around the room again to confirm what he was seeing—“is a brothel.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“You frequent this place?”
“I did say it was second choice,” Maurizan said.
“But . . . wait. Are you a . . . one of those . . . ?”
Maurizan’s eyes narrowed. “I like men.”
“Not that I would have a problem with that,” Peyne said hurriedly. “Some of my best friends are—”
“You need to stop talking.”
Peyne stopped.
“Because of the women, they have good security at this place in case a patron gets out of hand,” Maurizan said. “And the rooms are clean and comfortable. You don’t need to partake of the entertainment to rent a room.”
“Are you sure?” Peyne asked. “If there’s some requirement, I don’t mind—”
“Talking again.”
“Sorry.”
“There’s the third inn obviously,” Maurizan explained, “but it’s squalid. Maybe a good choice if you’re trying to squeeze every copper, but frankly, if we’re about to head into the deep desert, then this will be our last chance for a soft bed and a decent meal for the foreseeable future.”
Peyne pointed to his own mouth.
“You may speak,” Maurizan said.
“Your reasoning is unassailable,” Peyne told her. “Perhaps when Jaff returns from consulting with his local contact, he can shed some light on who these soldiers are in the Djinn.”
“Let’s hope so. I’ll feel better knowing if we need to worry about them or not.”
“And since we seem to have accomplished our mission to secure rooms for the night, there’s nothing left to do but relax and wait for our friends to return from their various tasks,” Peyne said. “I suggest we order a pitcher of—”
One of the gorgeous women arrived at that exact moment, setting a tray on the table with a pitcher and two goblets. She winked at Peyne. “The good wine up from the cellar.” She offered him a lingering look as she left.
“I’d already anticipated our needs,” Maurizan said.
“If you’re trying to win me over, it’s working.” Peyne took the pitcher and filled both goblets.
He lifted his, cleared his throat. “To a successful and hopefully death-free trek into the deep desert. May the divine gods bless us with shade, water, and—”
“Stuff the flowery talk.” Maurizan grabbed her own goblet. “Let’s get drunk.”
Zayda was pleased to see that the Dirty Djinn was, in fact, a clean and well-kept inn and apparently popular since the common room hummed with activity, full of laughing, the clink of tankards, serving maids slapping away hands too eager to pinch and the ever-present aroma of something cooking in the back.
Peyne must love it here.
She felt a brief stab of anxiety as a table of soldiers paused to look at her. The big one with the huge black beard let his gaze linger an extra moment, but soon enough they turned their attentions back to their conversation and beer.
I hope they were just checking out my backside . . . and not my collar.
Her hand came up to touch the scarf hiding the collar around her neck. She hoped to eventually get rid of both. The collar for obvious reasons. The scarf because she usually never wore them. A boy had once told her she had a graceful neck.
She winced at her own vanity but didn’t dwell on it.
Zayda glanced around the common room again, this time peering carefully into each dim corner, checking each face, but still not spotting Peyne. Maurizan had said the place was often full, which meant they might have moved on to the Sultan’s Whore. Zayda frowned.
In spite of Maurizan’s assurances, Zayda did not like that sound of the place, but she was feeling foolish standing in the middle of the Djinn’s common room like a lost lamb.
She turned to go but was intercepted by a harried man in an apron.
“Please, madam.” The man gestured to a closed door across the common room. “I was sent to fetch you. Your party awaits you inside.”
A private room? Zayda thought Peyne would have preferred the rowdy clamor of the common room. Still, it was a relief. She wouldn’t have to leave for the other inn after all.
She thanked the man, crossed the room to the door, and entered, smiling brightly, readying a greeting for Peyne.
When she saw the older man waiting for her, the smile fell. Recognition twisted her stomach with fear.
Zayda reached for the spirit and—
“Don’t,” Meddigar said sharply.
He held up one of the little scepters, and despair sank cold into her bones.
It was exactly like Zayda’s control scepter but more ornate, jewels down the side. Slightly bigger maybe, although it was difficult to tell from where she was standing.
“Close the door,” Meddigar told her.
She hesitated.
“You won’t make it,” Meddigar said. “And you won’t be able to tap into the spirit fast enough either, not before I can activate the scepter, and you already know how unpleasant that can be.”
Yes, she’d felt the sting of the control scepter before. But she still didn’t close the door.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Meddigar said. “This isn’t your scepter, and the scepters are specific to each collar . . . just as a key is specific to a certain lock.” He wiggled the scepter in his hand for emphasis. “I like to think of this as my skeleton key.”
Let him blather. Zayda only half listened, calculating her escape. If she darted through the open door, how fast could she get out of range? If she tapped into the spirit—
The soldiers who sized her up earlier were moving toward the open door. In a few short seconds, they’d block her path. Panic welled up and threatened to choke her.
“I’m not sure what brings you all the way to the Last Village without your handler,” Meddigar said. “But I think it behooves me to ask a few pertinent questions while—”
Zayda ran for the door, reaching for the spirit.
Pain lanced through every inch of her like lightning, hair standing on end, eyes bulging, teeth rattling. The world spun for a split second before something hit her hard in the face. She realized it was the floor. Drool dribbled from her mouth. She tried to wipe it away, but her arm refused to move. Everything went cottony around her vision, darkness coming, and then . . .
“You men stand guard outside,” Meddigar ordered. “Sergeant, close the door and help me with her.”
The sergeant with the huge beard stepped in and closed the door behind him.
“I’d rather hoped she’d come quietly,” Meddigar said. “I don’t suppose we can carry a limp woman through the Djinn’s common room without questions.”
“I’ll take her.” The big sergeant grinned. “Let them ask me their questions.”
Yes, he is a formidable fellow, Meddigar thought. I certainly wouldn’t presume to stick my nose in his business.
“What’s your name, sergeant?”
“Klamud.” He thumped himself on the breastplate in case there was any doubt who he was talking about.
“Pick her up, Klamud, and bring her to my room. If anyone asks, we’ll say she took ill. And send your men into the rest of the village,” Meddigar said. “We need to know if anyone has seen the gypsy.”
Klamud picked up the girl and tossed her over her shoulder as if she were a sack of feathers.
“And send somebody to find Hak and those two sisters,” Meddigar told the sergeant. “I have a feeling things are about to heat up.”
Jaff entered the Djinn’s common room, trying not to show in his expression the nervousness he felt in his gut. His contact in the Last Village was an old woman, a widow, who had inherited her husband’s tannery. Her two sons worked it. She managed the operation and kept the sons fed.
And she had no love for the sultan, which was why she fed information to the insurgents.
To Jaff she’d related the following. Soldiers were in town, men who belonged to Prince Kha’narahn. They’d come to the Last Village as a prelude to striking south into the deep desert. But they were also waiting for someone.
Someone named Maurizan.
Jaff scanned the common room but didn’t see her or the other foreigner, Peyne.
Maurizan was not a stupid woman, Jaff assured himself. Even if she didn’t recognize that the men belonged to the prince, she would likely want to get rooms elsewhere to avoid possible entanglements.
Jaff decided to leave. He’d try the Sultan’s Whore and then . . .
He blinked.
One of the soldiers carried a woman over his shoulder as he passed through the common room, drawing stares from the other patrons. Everyone was obviously curious, but the big soldier’s glare discouraged casual inquiries. Perhaps the woman had simply drank too much or—
Gods and fate be damned, that’s Zayda. He realized he was gawking and stopped himself.
The big, bearded soldier carried Zayda upstairs. An older, dour-looking man in robes followed them. Jaff’s contact had mentioned a wizard. Could there be any doubt whom he was looking at?
He turned and left. He needed to find the others. This was bad.
Very, very bad.
They’d emptied the pitcher, and Maurizan waved to one of the girls to bring another.
The common room was beginning to fill, a mix of locals and travelers, a few coming just to drink but mostly men looking for attractive companionship. The place hummed with pleasant conversation, but nobody was rowdy or out of hand. Peyne thought it a very civilized brothel.
The new pitcher arrived, and Peyne filled both goblets. He sipped. He had that pleasant floating feeling, that just right feeling when he’d had just the exact right amount of wine. As he went along, the floating would gradually feel like falling, but that was something to worry about later.
“You know, I’ve had a bit of experience with older women lately,” he said.
Maurizan leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.”
“I’m just saying we have a free afternoon and comfortable rooms available upstairs.”
Maurizan laughed, rolling her eyes. She sipped wine, then said, “I used to know a man just like you. Well, I still know him, but he’s married now and more mature. He used to think he was so witty and charming. Back when he was your age.”
“Are you implying I’m not witty and charming? That’s hurtful.”
A half shrug. “You are. Not as much as my friend used to be, but you have your moments.”
“And who is this paragon of charm?” Peyne asked. “Tell me that I might seek him out and study his ways.”
“The Duke of Klaar.”
It was Peyne’s turn to roll his eyes. “You know Brasley Hammish? Pull the other one. You gypsy women run in loftier circles than I’d been led to believe.”
“He wasn’t duke at the time,” Maurizan said. “And the point I’m trying to make is that he was an indolent, womanizing drunk like some people I know—ahem—but now he’s married to a good woman and much happier.”
