By Chance Met (2 page)

It was his first sight of a Deir of Khitairan descent. Thus the noble’s forest green eyes with their distinct slant at the outer corners were more than enough to rouse and keep Naeth’s fascination. The rest of his features were no less beauteous. The delicate lines of his cheeks and jaw were offset by his steely eyes, a patrician nose and a firm, finely-shaped mouth—all framed by gleaming jet black hair shot with strands of midnight blue. Naeth’s eyes were drawn to the sapphire in the center of the earring that adorned the blueblood’s left ear.

The youth briefly pondered which aristocratic rank was conveyed by a sapphire then dismissed the thought as irrelevant and continued his appraisal of the noble’s face and form.
A most attractive Deir
, he decided, his cheeks warming slightly as he went on to imagine what the noble’s attire covered but could not quite conceal.

Befuddled by his nigh instant reaction to the Deiran lord, Naeth sidled over to Camrion who was busy filling tankards with ale.

“Why are they here?” he asked, pointing his chin in the aristocrats’ direction. “Don’t the bluebloods go to the west district for their entertainment?”

“Slumming,” Camrion replied, eyeing the nobles with anticipatory pleasure. He would make a nice profit tonight. “There are certain pastimes available only in these parts that the aristocrats occasionally seek. Like cockfighting and boxing matches. I wager they came from the cock pit down the road.” He loaded a tray with the filled mugs and handed it to Naeth. “Tovan’s gone out to piss. Tell Wilfur to stop flirting with the customers and get back to work. And bring this to the table beside the bluebloods.” He grinned when Naeth’s eyes widened. “There, I’ve given you a nice excuse to have a closer look at them.

Now go!”

Naeth gulped and went to do as he was bid. After calling the flirtatious Wilfur’s attention, he gingerly carried the drinks to the aforementioned table. Fearing he would be distracted and wind up spilling the ale, he took care to serve it first before chancing a peek at the nobles. The mahogany-haired Deir happened to look up and notice him. He gestured peremptorily to Naeth.

“You! Four ales and a meat platter,” he ordered.

At the same time, the almond-eyed noble looked at Naeth as well. He gave Naeth a quick once-over in the manner of one who routinely assessed the attributes of other Deira. Naeth froze momentarily under that verdant gaze.

One of the patrons he had just served nudged him and said, “You’d better get a move on, lad. These highborns don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Startled back into action. Naeth hastened to fill the order.

Camrion was just as quick to prepare it, and it didn’t take long before Naeth carefully bore four foaming tankards to the nobles along with the laden plate of assorted meats and other savories that were the traditional accompaniment of alcoholic drinks.

Very few asked for the platter-sized dish though as it was quite expensive even in a cheap tavern. Naeth was conscious of the envious stares that followed him to the aristocrats’

table.

He arrived to find a card game in progress. He gulped at the impressive pile of bank notes stacked in the middle of the table. As he served the nobles their ale and set the heaping platter down, he could not help hearing snippets of their conversation.

“You have a knack for choosing winners, Rei,” said the Deir who had ordered their refreshments to the exotic-looking noble. “Three in a row! How you do it is beyond me.”

“Perhaps it’s some special Khitairan talent for communicating with beasts,” the light-haired one teased. “You certainly looked each cock over a long while before placing your wagers.”

“It’s called examination, Rys, not communication,” the aristocrat named Rei pointed out. Naeth felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach as he listened to the Deir’s low honeyed voice. “And you’d have made a nice little bundle, Ash, if you’d simply followed my lead.”

“I’ll remember that next time,” Ash conceded good-naturedly. “Though it never ceases to astound me that someone as rich as you is so careful about choosing which cock to back.”

“That’s why he’s one of the wealthiest Deira in the kingdom,” the fourth Deir put in.

“And why you’d be the poorest if I didn’t rein you in.”

“Fie on you, Dan! I’m not a prodigal,” Ash vigorously protested. “But I do like to let go once in a while. And in any case, even if Rei were loose with his money, it isn’t as if Ilmaren will be bankrupted any time soon. Hey, boy, keep your elbows to yourself!” he abruptly exclaimed when Naeth hit his shoulder when he leaned over to scoop up the money set aside as payment for the food and drinks.

Naeth sucked in his breath. “I’m so sorry,
Dyhar
,” he stuttered. “I didn’t mean to—

that is—”

“It was an accident,” Rei mildly interjected. “No need to glare the child into conniptions.” He looked squarely at Naeth. “I believe you’re wanted,” he said, gesturing toward the bar.

“Oh, y-yes, my lord,” Naeth stammered, the sudden heating up of his face telling him he was probably blushing to the roots of his hair. “Thank-thank you. And I beg your pardon,
Dyhar
,” he addressed Ash. “I truly do. I—”

He stopped before he strangled on his words and made a fool of himself even more.

With a diffident bow, he wheeled around and hurried away, conscious of the nobles’

amused laughter behind him.

Camrion raised inquiring eyebrows when Naeth returned to the counter. “The

bluebloods needling you?” he asked.

“Nay, I hit one of them with my arm,” Naeth explained. “He wasn’t too pleased.

Never have I seen such a glower before!”

“Be glad that’s all he gave you,” Camrion said. “Some highborns would sooner knock you flat than wait for an apology.”

Naeth winced. “He might have if the other—the black-haired one—if he hadn’t stayed him. He was kind enough to defend me.”

“The outlander?” Camrion looked the Deir over appreciatively. “Exotic-looking, isn’t he?”

“I don’t think he’s an outlander,” Naeth said. “The others spoke to him as if he were one of them. They called him Rei and, oh, the one I hit said that even if he were a spendthrift, it wouldn’t matter because Ilmaren wouldn’t be bankrupted by it.”

“Ilmaren!” Camrion stared at him then jerked his gaze back to the foursome. “And they called him Rei? Why then, he must be the Herun of Ilmaren!”

“The Herun of Ilmaren?” Naeth repeated in awe. “That Deir is a fief-lord?”

“That’s right. Reijir Arthanna his name is. And he’s cousin to the Ardan, too.”

Camrion softly whistled. “Maybe they all are. You said they talk as if they’re related.”

Naeth nodded. “They’re very familiar with each other.” He repeated what he had heard of the nobles’ conversation.

Camrion’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “Well, well, I never imagined the Vomare would ever be graced by one of the Ardan’s kin, let alone four of them! We must make sure they enjoy themselves enough to return! Stay by them, lad. Try to anticipate what they want.”

He happily shoved Naeth in the direction of the bluebloods’ table.

Naeth stifled a sigh of exasperation as he stationed himself as inconspicuously as possible near the nobles. How did one anticipate the wants of folk one did not know? He tried to keep an eye on them without appearing to do so. But he only proved he was neither a good actor nor an accomplished spy when the nobles glanced at him a number

of times, knowing smiles curving their mouths. Naeth felt the color rise in his cheeks each time they looked his way and silently cursed Camrion for putting him in such an embarrassing position.

He resigned himself to simply being on hand should they order anything else. Which they did as the evening wore on. Naeth was amazed at the amount of ale they consumed—not to mention the throat-scalding liquid that passed for whisky at the Vomare—and all the while remaining reasonably sober.

By now, many of the other tavern denizens were in varying states of intoxication as evinced by scattered hiccups and snores from different tables, escalating arguments in slurred voices, and the occasional body toppling to the floor. Several thoroughly sozzled customers were unceremoniously hauled off to the hay-laden corners of the crowded room to sleep off their drunkenness. After helping Wilfur heave a particularly hefty Deir into a corner, Naeth had to wonder at the bluebloods’ capacity for drink. Managing to listen in on their talk once in a while, he could detect little evidence of inebriation in their speech.

Oh, they were now a little looser with their laughter and all had shed their cloaks and unbuttoned their asymmetrically sleeved tunics to the waist to reveal high-collared shirts and close-fitting jerkins. Finely tailored long breeches and dress boots completed their attire. Naeth gulped when he finally noticed the sheathed daggers strapped to their belts.

Saints above, what manner of Deira were these who took their pleasures while armed for trouble? On second thought, it occurred to him that they were merely being prudent considering the district they had chosen to take their pleasures in for the evening. He started when he realized one of them was hailing him.

Oh Veres, it was the Ilmaren fief-lord. He felt his cheeks heat up under Reijir Arthanna’s gaze.

It turned out they wanted one last round of drinks before they called it a night.

Camrion gleefully complied.

“We’ve made more off them tonight than in the last three nights combined!” he crowed as he arranged the foaming mugs on a tray. “Let’s hope they decide to come back and soon!”

Naeth tightened the black riband that kept his short braid from unraveling then hefted the tray and bore it the aristocrats’ table once more. He had just placed the tankards on the table and was turning to leave when the one thing he’d been hoping would not take place did.

Several Deira at a nearby table rose to their feet and ambled their way toward the nobles. They were quite unwholesome to look at and even less pleasant to smell. And they appeared to be spoiling for a fight judging by the hostile scowls that further distorted their rough features.

Gardon and his cronies
, Naeth realized with a twinge of apprehension.

He doubted there was a more quarrelsome group of toughs in the district, and he heartily wished Camrion had kept them out of the Vomare tonight of all nights. He did not return to the counter but waited a few feet away, worrying what the gang would do.

Gardon suddenly leaned down between Reijir and Dan, planting a big, fleshy hand on Reijir’s just as the fief-lord had been about to pick up his winnings. He grinned at Reijir, offering him a whiff of fetid breath and a glimpse of stained teeth.

“You don’t need that,
Dyhar
,” Gardon drawled, winking at his companions who had

moved to surround the table. “That’s just a drop in the bucket for rich fellows like you, ain’t it?”

Reijir looked disdainfully at Gardon’s hand then followed the length of the Deir’s arm to his face, his expression growing colder by the moment. By the time he deigned to look straight at Gardon, his eyes were positively glacial.

“Unhand me,” he said, his voice low and laden with ice and steel.

Gardon blinked at him, obviously taken aback by the Herun’s chilling demeanor. But puffed up by drink and the presence of his gang, he quickly recovered and leaned down farther, forcing Reijir to pull back slightly to avoid his noxious exhalations.

“Ooh, unhand me,” he mimicked Reijir. “How very classy of you.”

He glanced around at the other aristocrats. When they only glowered at him, he snickered loudly, apparently taking their lack of active retaliation for fear.

Looking back at Reijir, he said, “You’re lovely for an outlander. Kind of my type.

Tell you what, if you make it up to us, we’ll let you keep half of your winnings. Ah, don’t be scared,” he chuckled when Reijir pulled his hand away in obvious distaste. “We won’t muss you up too much. If you cooperate, maybe we’ll just let you suck us off. You’ve got a sweet mouth to go with those bonny eyes.”

Naeth nearly gagged at Gardon’s proposition. Holy Saints, but the fool was really pushing his luck!

“Aw, that’s not fair, Gardon,” one of the thugs protested. “I was looking forward to shoving my pole up that pert arse of his! Not often we get Khitairans in this part of town.

Least, not beauties like him.”

Gardon guffawed. “Well, that will depend on his lordship, hey?” He cupped Reijir’s chin and leered at him. “What say, my pretty? Ever been diddled by a real Deir? I’ll be gentle if you ask nicely.”

One moment, Gardon was grinning salaciously at the Herun. In the next instant, he was staggering back, blood streaming from his nose. Naeth gaped in disbelief. However the Herun had delivered the blow, it was so swiftly executed it had been little more than a blur to him. Gardon’s cohorts stared as well, mouths agape in shock.

“I think you broke my nose!” Gardon screamed, a hand clapped over the injured part.

Reijir smirked. “Don’t worry,” he quipped. “A misshapen nose can’t possibly make you more hideous than you already are.”

It took Gardon a minute or so to work out the Herun’s insult. When he figured it out, his face turned crimson as a beet, and with a roar, he lunged at Reijir.

The bluebloods exploded into action.

Patrons scrambled for cover as fists flew and feet lashed out in a full-scale brawl.

Naeth quickly retreated behind an upturned table, wondering how to put a stop to the fight. He leapt out of the way when one of the ruffians crashed into the table, the force of his collision nigh splitting it in half. The Deir slid to the floor, eyes open and unseeing.

Naeth stared at him in horror. He hastily crawled under another table as the fray came perilously close to where he was standing. From the relative safety of his position, he anxiously watched the action play out.

Even to his inexperienced eyes, it was clear the bluebloods had the upper hand. They fought with a conciseness and soldierly grace that bespoke years of training and deeply ingrained discipline. He winced when the fair-headed blueblood rammed his fist into his opponent’s throat, hard enough to crush his windpipe. The Deir stumbled back then