Warrior Prime, page 21
part #1 of Ink Mage Legacy Series
“I feel like I’m supposed to be taking some kind of hint.”
She leaned forward more intimately, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’re telling me there’s nothing between you and Zayda? I know what it means to be possessive, and I’ve seen it in her eyes.”
Peyne opened his mouth to object but instead heard himself say, “We’ve been through a lot together.”
“Without a doubt.”
A long moment. Maurizan waited him out.
“She has that damn collar around her neck,” Peyne said. “How can I ask anything of her or put anything on her? Would she even feel free? Could she even reciprocate?” He started to sip wine, but it turned into a gulp. “You need to be free in order to give yourself to someone. And I don’t even know how she feels. Not really. I don’t know anything. I don’t know what I could promise her, and she doesn’t need that right now.” He emptied the goblet.
Maurizan sat back, looked him in the eyes for a moment before a slow, easy smile spread across her face. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Peyne Erlich. I think you have the makings of a decent grown-up.”
“Sounds like a lot of bother.”
“When I was a girl, I loved a boy,” Maurizan said. “I’d fought hard for him, thought I’d earned him, and so he was mine. But we didn’t have long together. Don’t be so polite you miss your chance.”
She pulled a chuma stick from a pocket, leaned toward the candle on the table, puffed it until the tip glowed. Peyne watched her. She inhaled, held it, then let out a long stream of blue-gray smoke.
“So I guess we’re not going up to the room.” Peyne smiled weakly, not meaning it anymore, never really meaning it if he were being honest with himself.
“We most certainly are not.” She returned the smile. “But you are a little witty and charming. If that makes you feel better.”
“You know, it does actually.”
They held up their goblets, offering each other a friendly nod, then drank.
“It occurs to me,” Peyne said, “that we’ve finished two pitchers of wine.”
“You’re suddenly concerned with moderation?”
“I mean we’ve been here long enough to drink two pitchers,” Peyne said. “Where’s everyone else?”
“That’s not a bad question.” She turned her head, glancing about the place. “Damn.”
“What is it?”
“Look at the front door,” she said. “Don’t be obvious.”
Peyne brought his goblet up to his mouth, let his eyes slide to the front door.
“What do you see?”
“Two soldiers,” Peyne said.
“What are they doing?”
“Looking this way.”
“Shit.”
Meddigar pulled the simple wooden chair up close to the bed where he’d tied Zayda. The girl had hovered in and out of consciousness. His ministrations with the control scepter had kept her subdued. He adjusted the dial just below the scepter’s sphere, and Zayda arched her back, a loud moan escaping her lips.
Damn, too much. He dialed it back, and she relaxed.
There hadn’t been many opportunities for Meddigar to practice, but through trial and error, he’d managed to put Zayda into a sort of daze, not conscious enough to resist, yet just awake enough to answer simple questions. Some instinct had motivated him to ask her about Maurizan, and, indeed, the women were traveling together and might be found at the Sultan’s Whore. He’d tried to ask more, but the girl had swooned.
Behind him, Klamud cracked his knuckles. “Let me question her the old-fashioned way.”
Meddigar sighed. “Don’t be foolish. She’d tap into the spirit and simply tell herself not to feel whatever you were doing to her.”
A snort. “When Klamud hurts somebody, they feel it.”
Idiot.
A knock at the door.
“Check it,” the wizard told him.
Klamud opened the door a crack and stuck his head out. Meddigar heard a low back-and-forth muttering, and then Klamud came back inside and shut the door again.
“It’s just as she told you,” the big sergeant said. “The red-haired woman is at the Sultan’s Whore.”
“Alone?”
“With some man.”
“Just one?”
“That’s all they saw,” Klamud said.
“Good.” Meddigar tugged at his beard, thinking.
“You want me to round up the men, go get them?” Klamud asked.
“She’d kill you.”
The look on Klamud’s face indicated he seriously doubted that.
“She’s an ink mage,” the wizard said.
A flicker of uncertainty across Klamud’s face, but he said, “Still just a woman.”
Meddigar smiled tolerantly. They are building them big and dumb these days, aren’t they?
Meddigar stood, bent over Zayda, examining her. No tattoos on the arms, nothing for strength. She’d been tied with strong rope and tight knots. Even if she woke up, she wasn’t going anywhere.
Meddigar went to the window, threw open the shutters, and looked out across the village and into the desert beyond. He was in one of the two-story buildings, and the view was good, facing south toward the vast and perilous expanse of the deep desert. Night had fallen, and it was beginning to cool.
Klamud shuffled impatiently behind him. “Orders, my lord?”
“Go to Maurizan,” Meddigar said. “Tell her I’d like to propose a trade.”
“Have they come back?” Maurizan asked.
Peyne glanced at the doorway again. “No.”
The soldiers had looked straight at Maurizan and Peyne, looked at each other, and then left. Twenty minutes had crept by, but the soldiers hadn’t returned. Maybe they wouldn’t.
Peyne tried to feel optimistic about that and failed.
“It’s possible they were just checking the place out,” Peyne said. “They’re soldiers after all. And this is a brothel.”
“You don’t believe that for a minute,” Maurizan said.
“I do not.”
“Want to get the fuck out of here?”
“I’m right behind you.”
Maurizan stood, took one step away from the table, and nearly fell over. Peyne hurried to catch her, preventing an awkward crash to the floor. One of his arms went around her waist. He took one of her arms and draped it around his shoulders.
“I’ll guide you,” he said.
“How in blazes can you hold so much wine?” Maurizan slurred.
“Years of practice.”
“Out the back.”
Peyne guided her at first, but she gently pushed him away.
“I can walk,” she said. “Just standing up went a little funny. Jump in and catch me if I head for the floor.”
The back door led into the kitchen. A harried cook started to tell them they couldn’t be in there, but Maurizan calmly assured him it was all fine. He shrugged and went back to his cook stove.
She grabbed an earthen pitcher from a counter as she passed through, sniffed it. “Water. Hold this.” She passed the jug to Peyne.
The next door took them to a narrow alley. It was dark, but light from windows across the alley lit the scene well enough. Maurizan leaned over, braced herself with a hand against the wall.
“Uh . . . are you okay?” Peyne asked.
“I will be in a minute.”
Peyne watched her, concerned. She’d assumed classic vomit posture, but he hadn’t thought her that far gone.
Maurizan’s face went calm and blank, the same way Zayda’s did when she was about to use one of her powers. Peyne continued to watch, fascinated. The gypsy took in a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out slowly. One at a time, each of her limbs went stiff then loose again.
Then her back humped up, shoulders hunching, a series of little grunts coming out of her. Peyne took a step back. Maurizan’s mouth opened wide, and she vomited acrid liquid against the wall.
The smell hit him, and he winced.
Maurizan stayed like that a moment, spitting a few times. Then she stood, held out her hand. “Give me the water.”
Peyne gave her the jug.
She rinsed her mouth and spit. She drank again and swallowed.
“Well, that was appalling,” Peyne said.
“You’ll get over it.”
“You did that on purpose?”
“I drew the wine from everywhere in my body. Then I got rid of it,” she explained. “Instant sobriety.”
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Spend twenty years with the Prime down your back, and you learn a few tricks,” Maurizan said. “Not pleasant, but it works.”
“You.” A new voice, gruff. “You’re the one called Maurizan?”
They turned to see a trio of soldiers at the mouth of the alley, big men outlined in silhouette against the light from the street behind them.
“Who wants to know?” Maurizan asked.
Perfect, Peyne thought. Antagonize the big men with swords.
The spokesman for the trio ignored her question, instead saying, “You have a map from Auvor the cartographer, yes?”
Maurizan frowned. “I still don’t know who I’m talking to. Give me a name or piss off.”
“How about Zayda?” the soldier said. “That a name you recognize?”
Peyne felt his stomach clench.
A pause.
Then Maurizan said. “What about her?”
“She’s safe. For now.”
“Do you know what I am?” Maurizan asked.
“A woman with a map,” the soldier said.
“Zayda stays safe or you don’t,” Maurizan said. “You understand me?”
“I’m terrified,” he said flatly. “But frightening me won’t do you any good. I’m just delivering a message. Bring the map to the Dirty Djinn common room in an hour. We’ll trade your friend for it.”
They turned to leave without waiting for an answer.
“We’ve got to get her back,” Peyne said hurriedly.
“Calm down. I know. We will.”
Peyne took a deep breath, forced the panic he felt down to some acceptable level. “Those were lap dogs obviously. I wish we knew who they worked for.”
“Meddigar.”
They turned to see Jaff standing there in the doorway.
“You were listening?” Peyne asked.
“I thought it best not to show myself,” Jaff said.
“Good.” Peyne nodded, thinking. “If they haven’t seen you, then that might help us. Maybe they don’t know how many of us there are.”
“We don’t know how many they are,” Maurizan pointed out.
“A dozen give or take,” Jaff said. “According to my contact. And there’s more bad news. This Meddigar is—”
“A wizard. I know,” Maurizan said.
Jaff frowned. “That’s disappointing. I wanted to say it.”
“Wait,” Peyne said. “You know him?”
“He’s double-crossed me before,” Maurizan told them. “I don’t trust him.”
“Then we need a plan,” Peyne said. “And we have an hour.”
“Right.” Maurizan fished a chuma stick from the pocket of her cloak. “Step one. Find me a light.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Maurizan stood in the street, looking at the front door of the Dirty Djinn. The hour was almost up, but she intended to wait until the last second to make sure everyone had time to get into position. Jaff had told them he’d seen an unconscious Zayda being carried to the second floor of the inn. If she’d been moved, this might all be for nothing.
She tucked the rolled up parchment under her arm. It was tied with a bit of twine. If Meddigar wanted a map, then he’d get a map. He’d want to examine it, of course, before giving up Zayda. Maurizan was counting on it.
She took a deep breath, felt foolish to be nervous. She was an ink mage and had survived perils many wouldn’t believe.
But there was a wizard inside the inn, and she’d never known a wizard that didn’t have some trick up his sleeve. He can die on the end of a dagger like anyone else. If I can get close enough.
Big if.
She let out the breath and tapped into the spirit. Maurizan entered the inn and . . .
. . . the world slowed.
Her eyes took in everything. Tapped into the spirit, no detail escaped her. Five men at a table in the corner. Four of the soldiers and another man she’d never seen, chubby red cheeks, a patchy dishwater beard and greasy hair to match. His eyes landed on Maurizan as if he’d been expecting her.
Other patrons sat at tables here and there. Not many, but not few enough. She hoped they wouldn’t get in the way.
Her eyes darted to a group of men three tables from the fellow with the patchy beard. Three of Jaff’s men sat there, making a point not to look as Maurizan entered, chatting and drinking beer as if they were ordinary patrons. They’d been instructed to stay out of her way unless things went bad. One never knew when a few extra sword blades might come in handy. Jaff was elsewhere, making ready for a fast departure.
A trio sat a table away in the other direction, a man and two women in cloaks, hoods up. There was something in their postures Maurizan didn’t like.
No more stalling. Get on with it.
Maurizan stuck a chuma stick in her mouth and approached the nearest table. She gestured to the candle there. “May I?”
A glassy-eyed man looked up from his tankard of beer. “Have it.” He handed her the candle.
She lit the chuma stick, puffed smoke, and set the candle back on the table. “Thanks.”
Maurizan narrowed her eyes, shifted the chuma stick from one corner of her mouth to the other, puffing.
Let’s do this.
Peyne wished he could puke himself sober as Maurizan had.
Fortunately, the wine hadn’t affected him as severely as it had the gypsy woman.
Still, he would have preferred to be completely sober while scaling the back wall of the Dirty Djinn.
A slanted roof overhung the outdoor kitchen, and an empty barrel had provided a boost. He pulled himself up on a dusty ledge, grunting and panting, slinging his leg up, his foot almost losing purchase and sending him flailing back to the ground again. But he reached the window ledge and heaved himself up and through.
And landed on the other side in an awkward heap, stifling another grunt.
Peyne gathered himself, stood, took a look around. He was at the end of a long hall, doors on either side. The inn’s guest rooms. His job was to locate where they’d stashed Zayda, but it was only just occurring to him that he had absolutely no plan. Running up and down the hallway, knocking on random doors, seemed like the perfect way to call unwanted attention to himself while simultaneously failing to locate Zayda.
He cocked his head, held his breath, and listened.
The low murmur of conversation.
He snuck down the hall toward the conversation but tried not to look like he was sneaking.
Fool. Just go. You’re not doing anything wrong. At least not yet.
Peyne walked down the hall, acting like he belonged there, until he found himself at a railing that circled the interior of the second floor. From here, he could look down into the first-floor common room. Maurizan approached a table where some of the soldiers he’d seen earlier were sitting.
Damn. It’s about to happen, and I haven’t found Zayda. I should have climbed faster.
A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
Peyne gulped, looked up at an enormous soldier with a huge black beard. The man scowled and muttered something in Fyrian that had a definite hostile tone.
Peyne smiled weakly. “Sorry, friend, I don’t speak the local lingo.”
The way the big man squeezed his shoulder made it all too clear that pain was a language in which all were fluent.
The chill brought her around.
Zayda walked some narrow path between dreaming and wakefulness. Meddigar? She pictured him opening the shutters, looking out into the night. Was that a memory? She thought so. Then all was darkness, and when she came around again, the room was empty. The window was still open, letting in the cool night air, but the wizard had gone.
She tried to sit up, but something tugged at her wrists. She tapped into the spirit, took stock of her situation. Flat on her back in a narrow bed. Tied with thin rope around her wrists and ankles. She tugged as hard as she could but realized she was only making the knots tighter. She tried to contort her hands, reach the knots with her fingers.
Impossible.
Frustration rose up in her, and she thrashed on the bed.
Then she stopped herself, mastered her emotions. The spirit gave her perfect calm. There was a way out of this. There had to be.
Zayda glanced at the open window again. Night. How long had she been here? If she could only free herself from the ropes, she could climb out the window and away.
Think, girl. You’re not stupid.
A faint glow in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned her head again to face the window.
Slowly, the moon began to rise.
Maurizan approached, stopped at the edge of the table. She puffed her chuma stick and scowled at the man with the patchy beard. She waited. Let him talk first.
His eyes shifted to the rolled up parchment under her arm. “That’s the map?”
Maurizan eyes narrowed as she examined the man. “Nice try, Meddigar.”
Patchy Beard froze, then he slowly grinned. “I should have known I couldn’t fool you. It was the voice, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“This glamour spell is cheap,” Meddigar said. “It only changes my appearance. Tried to disguise the voice myself.” He muttered a quick, unintelligible syllable, and the air around his head shimmered, features contorting, the patchy beard face blurring and reshaping into Meddigar.
“Not much of an improvement,” Maurizan said.
“Can’t blame me for trying,” Meddigar said. “We didn’t part on good terms last time, and I thought posing as a stranger might facilitate things.”
