Whisper of Waves (34 page)

The sun set before she was finally ready to strip off her sweat-soaked clothes. She drank the wine more slowly, and from a glass, but her mind still wouldn’t settle on a single thought. Devorast dominated her thoughts, but she was able to suppress the image of him enough to at least take care of herself.

She sat in the bath for a long time, slowly sipping the fine Turmishan vintage.

She had just poured the last of it into her glass and set the bottle down on the floor next to the tub when she saw him standing in the doorway.

The most surprising thing was that she wasn’t more surprised to see him there. She didn’t gasp or cry out. She sipped her wine and looked down to make sure that the foam on the water covered her. It was. Only her head and the soft curve of her shoulders were visible above the surface.

Devorast stared at her. He wore only dirty breeches. He wasn’t even wearing shoes.

“You’re trespassing,” she said, her voice echoing in the tiled bath chamber.

“Have me arrested,” he said. His voice played on her ears like a chorus of angels, though it was just a man’s voice.

Though the bathwater had long gone tepid, her body began to burn with a heat from within.

She lifted the glass to her full lips and took a tiny, playful sip, looking at Devorast from the corners of her eyes.

He stepped into the room and before she could set the glass on the floor next to the bottle, he was standing over her.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but—” And his lips were on hers.

She wanted to fight him off but couldn’t. He reached into the bathwater, and his rough, strong hand covered the small of her back. He lifted her out of the water and drew her into an embrace that washed over her, warmer than any bathwater. She sank into him, and their tongues met. A moan sounded of its own accord deep beneath her breasts, which were pressed hard into his firm chest.

The tile floor was cold against her skin when he set her down, but he was on top of her and the warmth, the heat of his body, stole the cold away. The soap from the bathwater made them slide against each other. Her mind reeled and she felt almost as if she was about to lose consciousness.

His lips came off hers and started playing at her breasts. She breathed in short, shallow pants. Her hands explored his body one inch at a time.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she gasped. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he helped her to pull off his breeches and Phyrea’s entire body tingled. She gasped again and started to shiver.

“Don’t,” she said, though she didn’t mean it.

“Stop it,” she whispered, but she didn’t stop either.

When his kisses went lower and lower down the front of her, her leg straightened and kicked over the wineglass. It shattered on the cold tile and she felt something hot and wet on her foot. They slid on the floor and she kicked the tub. A sharp sting blazed on her ankle and she only vaguely realized she’d cut herself. She didn’t care. She’d cut herself before.

“Who are you?” she moaned.

He grabbed the hair at the back of her neck and pulled her face into his. They kissed as if breathing each other in, as if they needed each other’s very life essence to survive.

“I should kill you,” she whispered as he took her head in his hands and guided her, took her, used her. And she let him.

She used him. And he let her.

In the morning, she awoke to find her ankle carefully bandaged, and the glass, wine, and blood cleaned from the tile floor.

She was alone in the house.

“If you want to cut yourself, it’s all right,” whispered a voice from beyond the grave. Phyrea closed her eyes and covered her ears, but she could still hear the whisper as clear as the sunshine streaming in through the open windows. “But use the sword. Use the sword.”

Phyrea lay in bed, trying to replace the voices in her head with memories of being in Devorast’s arms, of the powerful, confident man inside her.

Finally she rolled over and reached under her bed. She found the sword right where she’d hidden it, wrapped in a silk robe. She drew the blade and admired its cool platinum glow, evident even in the bright light of morning.

She drew back her covers and touched the wavy, razor-sharp blade to the inside of her thigh. There was a bandage there. She hadn’t bandaged herself there.

But he had.

She threw the sword to the floor where it clattered on the hardwood, and the ghosts of Berrywilde screamed while she dressed.

67_

21 Eleint, the Yearofthe Wave (1364 DR) The Winery

Hrothgar stood with his arms folded, watching Devorast gather up his meager possessions. Vrengarl was still working on the wall for the human girl. The tent already seemed empty.

“It’s a mistake, Ivar,” the dwarf grumbled.

Devorast tied the strings of his rough, tattered bag. He smiled a little, but that was all.

Hrothgar sighed and said, “You’ll be a noble’s plaything.”

Devorast straightened, looking down on the dwarf. Hrothgar drew himself up too, though he was barely over half the human’s height.

“He’s not a ‘noble,’” Devorast said. “Technically, he’s just another senator, but they keep the senate at an equal number and he provides a tie-breaking vote, should that be necessary. From what I’ve heard, it almost never is. He has other responsibilities, too, but he’s no king.”

“Bah, don’t fool yerself, boy. He’s as much a king as any other, and should you tie your fate to him, he’ll burn you to cinders before he’s through.”

Devorast laughed at that and sat on the edge of his cot.

Hrothgar tried to go on, to rant and rave about the ransar of Innarlith and how Devorast going to work for him was the worst mistake of all time, but he had to admit—to himself at least—that he didn’t really believe that.

“So that’s it, then,” the dwarf said. “The ransar sends for you, and you go, just like that, leaving the winery undone.”

It was a lame attempt to play on Devorast’s inability to leave a job half done, but then—

“It’s not my winery,” the human said. - Hrothgar blew a breath out his nose and sat on his own cot.

“What you haven’t said, boy, is why,” Hrothgar said. “Why now? Why the ransar himself?”

“The man he sent said the ransar received a letter from a trusted colleague that described my idea for a canal to join the Inner Sea with the great western oceans,” Devorast explained. “If he’s serious, if he’ll pay for it, organize the city-state around it, it’s worth at least riding in his coach back to the city to discuss.”

The dwarf shook his head, but they both knew he agreed.

“It’ll be lonely here without you, boy,” Hrothgar said, standing and putting out a hand to Devorast.

Devorast took his hand and said, “If he is serious, and we start work, I’ll need good stonecutters.”

“Aye, you bet your life you will. Vrengarl and I will be waiting to hear from you.”

The ransar’s man, who’d been waiting outside the tent the whole time, cleared his throat. The two of them shared another smile then Devorast walked out.

Hrothgar stood in the middle of the tent for a while, just listening to the sounds of the worker’s camp all around him.

“Bah,” he said after a time, then went back to working stonel

and imagined that the darkness wrapped her like a cloak. The camp was quiet in the time between midnight and dawn. The men worked hard, long days in the hot sun, and that made their slumber deep as death. Having

23Eleint, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR) The Winery

stood in the shadow of one of the workers’ tents

heard only crickets and the snores of the men, she knew no one would see her, so she took four long, silent strides to the shadow of the next tent in line.

In the darkness it was difficult to identify the proper landmarks, so she took her time. So as not to lose her keen night vision she kept away from the perimeter of the camp, where the workers kept torches lit. She saw the tree with the three twisted boughs backlit by one of the torches. Counting three tents to the left she traced a path with her eyes that would keep her in shadow all the way there.

Her hand dropped to the hilt of the sword she wore at her belt. She didn’t draw the blade. The glow from the enchanted platinum might attract attention. The falchion had been craving blood since the second she’d taken it from the secret crypt of her long-dead ancestor. The spirits in the house sensed it before she did and had been pushing her to use it on herself. They even suggested she kill the dwarf, but Phyrea refused.

Phyrea crossed to the next shadow and had to squat to keep herself out of the dim torchlight. She never took her eyes off the tent of the man she’d come for. She rested for a moment, bouncing a little to stretch her legs, and thought of the dwarf. It didn’t surprise her that she found herself smiling. Though she was horrified by the little man at first, angered—enraged—by his very existence, after a time, she’d come to respect his tireless work ethic and simple, genuine courtesy, and he had real respect for Ivar Devorast.

Vrengarl also knew where everyone in the camp slept.

She stood and started running in a single motion. Passing through one shadow after another, she went directly to the side of the man’s tent, stopping within arm’s reach of the dull gray canvas. She put her right hand on the sword but still didn’t draw it.

Phyrea had killed men before. It was a part of being a thief. There were guards, or witnesses, and had she let

them live, they would have killed her or destroyed her in other ways, but to go out at night for the sole purpose of ending a man’s life for personal reasons was something else entirely.

She crouched and felt along the bottom edge of the tent. She could slip her fingers under it, but when she lifted gently there was only an inch or so of play. She wouldn’t be able to crawl under it. Cutting it, even with the exceptional sharpness of the enchanted sword, would be too loud. The front of the tent faced the tent across from it, and she would have to be in the light of the torches for at least long enough to slip inside.

They’re all asleep, she thought.

Phyrea waited a long moment, listening carefully, but there was no indication that anyone was moving around the camp. She stood again and stepped to the edge of the tent. She peeked out along the row of tents and didn’t see anyone. The precise moment she stepped out from the side a man came out of one of the tents.

Phyrea jumped back and her shoulder brushed the canvas. Her face was the last part of her to cross back behind the corner and she saw the man look up and toward her. Back in the shadow behind the tent, she held her breath and stood perfectly still.

It was quiet. The man wasn’t moving either.

She rested a hand on her sword again, but still didn’t draw it. Bending her knees a little, she made herself ready to move—to attack, run, kick, jump … whatever she needed to do.

The man started walking. His footsteps were heavy in the dry grass and scattered gravel of the campsite. She listened to them recede then edged her face around the corner of the tent—just barely enough to see the tent the man had stepped out of. She couldn’t see him, but she could hear his footsteps stomping off. Then he stopped and there was a brief silence before she heard the unmistakable sound of water trickling on the dry ground.

Phyrea wanted to sigh but didn’t. Silently, she cursed her luck and started to think.

She knew she could slip into the tent without the man seeing her. He’d walked a ways out of the tent rows, for obvious reasons, and since she could hear what he was doing she’d have ample warning before he came back. If she did slip into the tent, what if the man inside wasn’t asleep? If there was any sort of a struggle at all, the other man would hear and would certainly wake others. It would all go wrong.

He was finishing up, so Phyrea had to make a quick decision. She slipped around the corner and into the tent before the man started back to his own shelter.

Inside, she stepped to one side and disappeared into a deep shadow in the corner. The sound of the tent’s occupant’s breathing told her he was asleep, so she took a moment to close her eyes and let them adjust to the deeper darkness inside the tent. She listened to the other man return to his tent and go back to sleep. Her hand was on her sword the whole time, but she didn’t draw it.

Phyrea had to rely on what she thought of as a thief’s sense of timing. How long would it take the man to go back to sleep? How long could she stand in the cramped space of the tent with the man she’d come to kill before he woke up? She didn’t know how long that would take but trusted herself to simply feel it.

Her eyes began to adjust finally and shapes, if not details, revealed themselves. She could see the man lying on his side on a little folding cot, a blanket in a heap around his legs. There was a little trunk in the opposite corner from where Phyrea stood. The cot was against the back wall of the tent.

She knew she could slit the man’s throat quickly. In a single motion she could draw the sword, step forward, bring the blade down on the man’s neck, slice back, then reverse the blade and sheathe it. She could step back and spin out of the tent and ditch back around

behind it before anyone could make it out of the nearby tents to see her, even if she made a sound loud enough to wake someone.

The problem was she wanted to say something to him before she did it. If the man died quietly in his sleep, it wouldn’t really even be murder, would it? For a peasant who worked all day in the blazing sun for a couple of silver pieces, that kind of death would be merciful, and she hadn’t gone there in the dead of night out of mercy.

There were ways to keep people from screaming, and she’d learned more than one of them in her time stripping the Second Quarter of its riches, but in the dark, it would be hard.

Phyrea smiled. It would be a challenge. She hadn’t been challenged in a long time—the disastrous seduction of Ivar Devorast aside.

She stopped smiling.

It had been a tenday since he’d come to her at Berrywilde. She saw him a few times when she’d spied on the camp from afar. She’d brought up his name with Vrengarl, who had told her that Devorast had—