Tor (Women of Earth Book 2) (18 page)

Wynne wanted to interrupt, to make it clear that this wasn't the time to think about getting his dingle dangled, or whatever today's euphemism was. But she couldn't, not without giving herself away. She wondered why Ish didn't say something.

"I can engrave a gold collar to mark her as yours," the woman was saying with a nod toward Wynne. "A diamond for her navel or a place of your choosing. Earrings, nose rings, nipple rings, whatever you wish. We can pierce or embed as you choose. For a few credits more, we can brand her in gold. Or," she added with a wink, "I can take her off your hands for a reasonable sum."

"Damn shame that it is, she's not for sale."

The woman laughed at that. "This is Celos. Everything is for sale. Why don't you bring her in where you and I can have a look in private? If she's worth it, I'll offer a fair price and take her off your hands. Then we can find a way to celebrate our good fortune." She jiggled her pendulous breasts suggestively and then motioned to the display of jewelry on her table. "After all, stone is easier to defend than flesh and worth more in the end."

"Not if the flesh is mine," Mohawk countered with a wink.

Did he just pump his hips? Wynne was saved from retching when Ish interrupted the gag inducing display.

"The sale's already made," she said impatiently. "If you want her, talk with Honarie."

With her head bowed and her eyes rolled painfully upward, Wynne could see the stance of the men behind the stall keeper shift slightly at the name. They became more alert. Their eyes shifted to Wynne and she shut her own. There was more going on here than she understood. Whatever game Mohawk and Ish were playing, she wouldn't jeopardize it, but she felt its humiliation. They were talking about buying and selling her as if she were no more than the silver pin Mohawk had held in his hand.

If she felt this way knowing it was a ruse, how much worse it must be for the Brides Brigade when for them it was real.

She didn't have to see the woman's face to know the name affected her, too. The change was in her tone. "Honarie? Why would he buy? He gets his women for nothing and he never keeps them for long."

"Not my business what he does with her," Ish answered. "I get paid to deliver the goods and collect the balance and time is like credits. We don't have any to waste. Do you know where we can find him? We're a day early and we have another job waiting if we can get there in time."

The jeweler answered readily. "The Dagger and Sheath. He was there last night and he'll be there every night that he's in town. It was a shock, I can tell you that. We thought he was dead. We haven't seen him in years." She snapped her fingers. "And then last night, there he was just like old times. He was sitting at the same old table, lording it over the rest of us just like he always did, buying rounds for the boot lickers, and boasting how he's about to make a deal that will set him up for life. He didn't say anything about her, but she's part of that deal, isn't she." It wasn't a question.

She leaned across the table and with finger extended toward Wynne's face, lifted the blanket hood. It was so sudden, Wynne didn't have a chance to draw back. Mohawk's hand flashed out and caught the woman's wrist. The two guards drew weapons, but Ish was faster.

"How much is your mother's hand worth?" she asked. The curved edge of her blade lay across the woman's arm an inch above Mohawk's hand. A trickle of blood leaked from beneath the razor sharp edge.

"Now, now," the stall keeper said with a falsely jovial chuckle. "I only wanted to see what finally caught old Honarie's eye. You can't blame an old lady for trying."

"I can." With her free hand, Ish lifted the blanket edge back into place. She eyed the two guards as she withdrew her blade. "You should teach your sons that size isn't enough. They should be better prepared."

"They won't make the mistake again," the jeweler glared at her sons. Her words were conciliatory, but there was anger there, too. "I meant no harm," she told Ish. "Honarie is no friend of mine. He owes me five hundred credits and refuses to pay. If you want him, his table is at the back. He likes to be close to the kitchen. He never comes in early. It's his way of saying he's better than us. He can drink all night and sleep all day. He doesn't have to get up in the morning to earn his living."

"She meant no harm." Mohawk's grip turned to hand holding. He rubbed his thumb over her wrist. "Ladies are always curious about what lies beneath the covers. Hmmm? Never know what kind of whoopie-whacker might be winking at you." He handed her a credit tag he dug from his pocket. "Take fifty to help ease your loss. If he's there, we'll owe you a whole lot more. If you're there, I'll be sure to pay it off. We both can celebrate."

The woman snatched the tag from his hand before he could change his mind. "She must be valuable if you can afford to offer that."

"Oh, she is," he said with a sly and inviting look, "But I value experience more."

They agreed upon a time.

"You don't really think she fell for your bullshit, do you?" Ish asked as they walked away from the booth.

"Of course she did." It was hard to tell if he meant it. "Did she think I fell for hers? That's what matters."

"I think she did. We need to be ready."

"Wait." Wynne stopped and glanced around to make sure no one was watching. "What the hell are you two talking about?"

Mohawk was twirling the double bladed knife again. "Our meeting at the Dagger and Sheath."

"Do you really think Honarie will be there?"

The idea excited her. If they could find Honarie, they could find Tor's ship and finding that would lead them to the kidnapped women. She'd had hours to think about this on their silent ride from the Devil's Den and those thoughts began to coalesce with Ish's comments on slavery. Tor was focused on his ship and crew. They were important, but their rescue did nothing to prove their innocence. Those women were the key.

"Honarie? No, but that woman and her two worm burpers will be." He made a loose fist and jerked it up and down to explain the term.

"You're disgusting," Wynne told him, but she giggled before she asked her next question. "Then other than your perverted love life, what's the purpose of this meeting? If you know she's lying about Honarie..."

"I don't think she was." Ish began moving again, taking them down one side street and then another. The place was a rabbit's warren of overlapping buildings, alleys, and dead ends. "She hates him. That part was real, and seeing him at the Dagger and Sheath makes sense. We knew he'd have to wait for repairs. Both Honarie and Orax are braggarts. To brag, you need an audience. He'll either be there, or she knows where to find him."

"Then why didn't you just ask?"

Mohawk and Ish exchanged a look and a laugh.

"It's not her fault," the Perithian said. "She's been sheltered."

"Or she's stupid."

"Not everyone has an ulterior motive, you know. Maybe I'm just a good person who doesn't look for a conspiracy in every conversation."

"Naive."

"Oblivious."

"None of the above," Wynne shouted though her voice never rose above a whisper. "I'm not stupid, naive, or oblivious, and I don't want to be sheltered. I'm inexperienced, and neither of you are helping by making fun of me. Just tell me what the fuck's going on."

Mohawk looked shocked. "You never say that word."

"That doesn't mean I don't think it. A lot lately," she added.

One side of Ish's face lifted in the Osana equivalent of a human sucking in their cheeks. "The jeweler wouldn't have told us if we'd asked. It's a setup. Her sons will be waiting for us outside the Dagger and Sheath." She waited and watched Wynne's face, and got what she expected. She laughed. "Maybe not so stupid. You're thinking that word again."

Wynne admitted it with a nod. "She wants the deal for herself. She wants to be the one who gets the best of the bargain against Honarie and a lot of money besides." They started moving again. "She's going to be disappointed when she finds out I'm not worth anything to Honarie."

"Oh, but you are."

They turned down another alley so narrow they could barely walk three abreast. They were halfway along its length when they were confronted with a vehicle plummeting from a building's roof. It fell so fast, Wynne screeched with the coming crash. There wasn't one.

The vehicle bounced on a cushion of air no more than a foot from the ground and sped toward them with no sign of slowing. There was nowhere to go to get out of the way. Ish and Mohawk ducked and braced their hands against the ground ready for the gust of wind that would accompany the vehicle as it brushed past them overhead. If it wasn't for them pulling her down with them, Wynne would have been hit.

As it was, the gust sent her flying backward onto her ass and left her sitting in the dirt, hand to chest, and waiting for the heart attack to arrive.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What was that?"

"Someone in a hurry."

"The hairy ball bag almost took my horns." Mohawk patted the stumpy nubs with affection. "How would I fuck without my horns?"

"Please don't ask," Ish said to Wynne.

Wynne's relieved laugh was cut off when another vehicle followed the first, but this time they were ready for it and flattened themselves against the ground. The driver of the second was not as skilled as the first. The vehicle careened against the building leaving a shower of sparks and chunks of falling brick in its wake. The driver overcorrected, shattered a bank of small windows along the opposite side, and tilted dangerously before flying off. The frightened screams of the buildings' occupants echoed from inside as it passed over their prone bodies.

A rainbow of blue and yellow light shined from behind the buildings and grew steadily brighter.

"Run!"

Ish grabbed Wynne's hand and started to sprint before Wynne found firm footing. She stumbled, lost her hold on her shawl, and with it tangled in her feet, almost fell. The Osana didn't stop. She dragged Wynne behind her, lifting her arm high over her head to keep Wynne's knees from scraping. She used the shadows along the wall as cover until she reached a dark archway and turned in.

Mohawk thundered behind them, the heavy contents of his backpack rattling with the pounding of his feet.

They entered a long hallway, dark but for the faint lights shining dimly above a series of sturdy looking doors. Ish stopped at the last of these. She used the hilt of her sword to pound against the iron banded wood. Three knocks. A pause. Two knocks. Another pause. Four knocks.

"What's wrong? Where are we?" Fear and her lurching run had left her panting for breath.

"Shh." A reprimand and an order. Ish began the knocking again. On the two knock pause, a small rectangular panel in the door slid open.

Chapter 19

"Ish!" Just that one word and the panel slid closed. A succession of locks was unbolted and the door opened.

Ish pushed inside and began slamming locks back into place as soon as Mohawk cleared it.

"Peacekeepers," was Ish's terse greeting.

"Peacekeepers? Here? Where's Tor?" The woman's soft voice cracked with concern. "The others?" she added as if to deny she cared only for him.

Ish was already moving along the short corridor. "Safe for now. This is Mohawk and Wynne. They're ours. You know about our troubles?"

"Some. Come. If they're here, we haven't much time."

Wynne had no chance to see the woman's face, but if her figure and clothing were any indication, she would be lovely. Not much taller than Wynne, but oh so slender, she wore a long tunic colored with a dozen different shades of green. It fell to her trim ankles and was slit up the sides to the tops of her thighs. Beneath it, she wore a pair of trousers, deep green and silken, that swayed and clung to her shapely legs as she walked. Her hair was as dark as Wynne's and woven into an intricate design that drew it upward into a lustrous crown of curls. Iridescent earrings that caught all the colors of the tunic hung from delicately formed ears. All this could be seen through the head covering she wore. It, too, was deep green, but so sheer it covered her like a cloud trimmed in a wide band of gold lace.

The whole outfit was a study in understated elegance and expensive taste. It shimmered subtly in the light of the open doors they passed. There weren't many; a bedroom, beautiful and feminine, a small kitchen with something that smelled delicious bubbling on the stove, and a closed door that Wynne assumed was the bath.

"Are they searching for you?" the woman asked in the same soft voice.

"Not directly, but they won't mind finding us."

They entered a large workroom that Wynne immediate recognized as a seamstress's. The machines were different than Mrs. Pulaski's back home, but there was no mistaking the spools of thread set on rows of pegs along one wall. Beneath them, other, larger spools held yards of lace, strings of pearls, and other expensive looking trimmings. Bolts of cloth were neatly stacked on shelve beneath the thread and trim. Other, more expensive looking fabrics hung from racks.

The woman went to the corner that held a computer console. Her fingers flew over the keys and pictures rose into the air. Two were of the alley, the pictures still clear in the dying light of day. Uniformed figures stood at attention at either end. There was another picture of the hallway through the arch though little could be seen except the soft glow above each doorway. The fourth picture was of a narrow street lined with shops, all closed with windows dark. More uniformed figures walked in both directions, though none looked as if they were searching.

"No doubt they have sentries on the rooftops as well. No one will be allowed to leave. It matters little. They won't find you here and Tor will be warned by the lights. You know the way. The young one stays with me."

"No she won't." Mohawk looked ready for a fight.

The woman looked to Ish and though Wynne still couldn't see her face, she'd bet the woman's eyebrows were raised at his rudeness.

"Ish trusts her, Mohawk," Wynne intervened.

"He's a friend," Ish said at the same time. "She's Tor's."

"I'm not..."

"I want to know why," Mohawk insisted.

"Because my face no longer has power. Hers does, and we need it. We're wasting time. Get settled and don't come out unless I call." With no more explanation, she grabbed Wynne's hand and moved back the way they'd come.

"Do exactly what Alamandria says, Wynne," Ish called after them and then she laughed. "You wanted experience."

Wynne barely heard her. She was trying to concentrate on Alamandria without appearing to stare.

The head covering the woman wore was draped low on her forehead. A square of the same fabric though not so sheer, covered her nose and the lower half of her face. It too, was trimmed across the bottom in gold lace. Darkly lined and thickly lashed eyes looked out above the exotic looking mask that wasn't enough to disguise the ravages Alamandria's face had suffered.

The woman's hands and face were badly scarred. Fire or acid had burned away whatever beauty she once had.

Alamandria stopped at the closed door which was as Wynne suspected, a bathroom. It was as old as the building. The sink was made from a single block of stone. The toilet, too, was stone, a cylindrical throne with a hole in the center. Wynne wondered how or if it flushed. Newer stone tiles covered an area where a tub once stood. A shower type stall shaped like a cartoon rocket ship filled the space now, but there was no shower head. It was a cleanser. High tech plumbing had come to Celos.

Alamandria reached in, made some adjustments, and stepped back. "I've set the timer. We have no time to waste," she said.

Then why were they wasting precious minutes on a supersonic shower?

"Hurry. Get those clothes off. You smell like the streets." She left the room, closing the door behind her.

Wynne gave a mental shrug. Ish ordered her to do as she was told. She stripped off her clothes and stepped in.

Of all the amazing things the Godan brought with them to Earth, the cleanser was Wynne's favorite. It was fast and efficient and after years of shaving her legs with death hazard razors – when they could find them and when they had enough soap and water to spare – the little green button that removed everything from the neck down in a flash of light was like a miracle from heaven. By pressing a series of buttons, in less than five minutes she was clean from top to toe.

She stepped from the cleanser and found a silky blue robe where she'd left her clothes. Beneath it she found the knife and sheath Ish had given her. She strapped it on and then slipped the robe over her head, or half a robe, she realized when she settled it into place. The front and back panels were solid swaths of fabric that looked and felt like raw silk. The standup collar opened at the base of her throat in a placket that ended just below her breasts. There were no fastenings, which made her uneasy about how much would be revealed, but not nearly as uncomfortable as she felt about the sides of the robe. The diaphanous fabric would leave little to the imagination. The only thing that saved it from being completely see-through was that it was heavily gathered. The sleeves were sheer, too, and would offer little coverage. She would have to move very carefully if she wanted to keep her exposure to a minimum. Wynne wasn't a prude, but she wasn't about to give Mohawk a peep show either.

Alamandria was waiting in the hall. "Hurry. We have little time and much to do. They have just entered the archway."

Wynne followed behind her, trying to keep the front panel of the robe in place while keeping the now billowing sides from revealing too much.

"Stop fussing. The robe is alluring. Your flapping hands are not."

They were in the workroom again and Wynne could have sworn she heard Ish laugh, but neither the Osana woman nor Perithian were there. "Where are they? Where did they go?"

"What you do not know, your eyes can't tell. They are safe as you will be if you do what you are told. Sit, face to me, and listen."

They'd entered another room, a world away from the plainly furnished shop. Like Alamandria's clothes, this room was implied money and sophistication. The walls were covered in cloth, the chandelier and sconces dripped with crystal, deep blue carpet covered the floor. The chairs and sofas were free formed and comfortable looking. Dark and sleekly shaped mannequins showed off elegant gowns that were reflected from all angles in the multi paneled mirror at the far end of the room. At the other end and filling one corner, where Wynne was directed to sit, was a dressing table filled with jars and bottles.

Alamandria went to work with creams and powders and pencils. She made Wynne keep her eyes closed and like an artist at work, shushed her when her subject interrupted her concentration with questions.

"We will talk later. For now, you must listen. Your name is Piatchu. It means tiny one. Say it."

"Pee-at-chew."

"No. Softer. Make it sound like you wish to be perceived; soft, sensual, Piatchu."

Wynne snorted. "Soft and sensual isn't me unless you mean soft as in plump." Whatever tool Alamandria was using smacked against her cheek. Hard. "Ow!" Wynne's hand went to the spot and was slapped away.

"Do not touch and do not make that sound again. There is nothing soft and sensual about it. And do not tell me you are not soft and sensual. You are if you believe you are and you must believe it to convince others. Now say your name again and believe."

Believe? Wynne couldn't, but she could pretend. She'd always been good at that. She took a deep breath and pretended she was someone else.

"Pee-ah- shew."

"Much better." Alamandria used a small brush to dab something sticky onto Wynne's forehead.

She paused in her work and her sigh made Wynne take the chance of peeking through her heavily mascaraed lashes. Alamandria was staring past her to the mirror behind the dressing table.

"You are Piatchu," Alamandria whispered in a dreamy voice. "You have been taken in by a great man who enjoys the innocent pleasures of the young. It is what he sees in you, the soft and sensual. It is something you do not yet see in yourself. He will teach you and you will enjoy the learning. He will show you the value of kindness. He will not keep you for long, but he will be good to you and see you on your way to a life you have only dreamed of. He will give you the means and the training to become a mordata cosma and people will know who you are. You will never be that poor young woman without family or friends again."

Wynne covered the scarred hands folded in the woman's lap with her own work roughened ones. Alamandria blinked and with a sharp shake to her shoulders came back to the present, but she didn't pull her hands away. Instead, she turned them and clasped Wynne's.

"That is who you must be. Piatchu, a new and untrained mordata cosma. You may look hesitant, but not fearful. You must keep your eyes downcast, but you may smile shyly as you nod your answers. You will not speak except to say your name. If you cannot answer, you will look to me and I will answer for you." Through the woman's mask, Wynne saw the smile that was reflected in Alamandria's eyes. "Now close your eyes and let me finish my work. The Peacekeeper will be here at any minute."

The Peacekeeper, not the peacekeepers. Wynne wasn't sure what that meant, but knew there was more going on here than a simple disguise. Ish said Alamandria could be trusted and Wynne trusted Ish. She would do her best to play the role she'd been given.

Alamandria finished painting Wynne's lips, added a dusting of something to her cheeks and then the peacekeepers were pounding on the door.

"I have done what I can. One quick look and then I must let them in. Do not touch the gems. The adhesive isn't dry."

Wynne gasped when she saw the woman in the mirror. She wasn't sure who that woman was, but she looked nothing like the Wynne she knew. The woman in the mirror was striking in a very alien way. In less than half an hour, Alamandria had transformed her into an exotic beauty.

Her hair was as she always wore it, parted in the middle, and pulled back into a chignon at the base of her neck, but that was where the similarity ended. A band of gemstones dipped gracefully from her temples and peaked at the center of her forehead where a large teardrop of brilliant ruby red 'hung'. Tiny jewels, sparkling like diamonds, arched over her brows accenting her kohl lined and darkly shadowed eyes. Alamandria's artwork had changed their shape, too, drawing them up and out at the corners.

Her nose, which she'd always though too large, was somehow less pronounced, and marked with a miniscule dot of gold above the flare of the nostril. Heavy earrings hung from her ears, the shapes and colors of the stones matched those that adorned her face.

Her winter sallow skin was now a smooth and glowing bronze. Her lips were painted to match the ruby gem. They were full and pouting and yes, kissable.

Wynne puckered up and blew the image in the mirror a kiss.

Alamandria laughed. "You see? It's inside you. You only have to call it out. Now come, before that bastard peacekeeper has them break my door down. You will be standing in the center of the workroom when we enter." She patted Wynne's cheek. "You will be fine if you keep this feeling you have found. Relax, keep your head bowed, and let the robe do its work."

Let the robe do its work? Wynne walked toward the mirror at the other end of the room to see the full effect of her transformation. Reality stepped in and slapped the fantasy right out of the picture. She wasn't that exotic woman in the mirror. She was Wynne, shy, and quiet, and awkward Wynne. She couldn't be sexy and seductive. She didn't even know what that meant. She was practically a virgin for God's sake. She'd only had sex with one man for one night.

But what a night it was. She'd only felt shy and awkward for a minute. That feeling left the moment she saw the look in Tor's eyes and was replaced by something glorious and unexplainable. He saw her as no one else had ever seen her. He saw her as soft and sensual. He made her feel sexy and seductive.