Chapter 13
Propositions & Suspicions
Mercy tore off the last of the meat from her chicken leg and chewed it slowly with relish, enjoying the taste in a way you can only achieve after a day of heavy drinking. The woman from earlier, Violet or whatever tutted loudly with displeasure at Mercy’s bare handed eating.
“Violet!?...” she slurred at the woman pointing the gnawed chicken bone in her face. Violet gasped in indignation. “Get that bone out of my face! What do you want?!”
Mercy was drunk and angry.
“I just wanted to tell you… your name should be… Vile-shit..what do you.. think of that?”
The fat woman’s face was a picture of shock, rage and sweat.
Mercy flopped back in her chair letting out a peel of merry laughter at her own joke. Vile-shit was less enamoured of Mercy’s clever joke.
“I don’t have to sit here and listen to such vulgarity. You will regret this, I will see to it.” She stood up and left with what dignity she had left and strutted away.
Mercy burped after her then returned to staring at her plate. That had been fun but now she was bored again. Maybe she should leave, this wasn’t really what she’d imagined the night would be like. She thought she’d enjoy most of it with her father, then dance with many fine men and even the boys. She didn’t see Eli or Jax anywhere though or Zanzo and who knew what her father was upto.
She looked up from her plate and there stood a tall, fine, well muscled man dressed like a prince, his long blonde hair plaited in some areas, woven with rings of gold, silver and bone in others.
“My dear Mercy, may I have the pleasure of a dance with one so lovely as you?” he asked with an alluring grin.
Of course she wanted to dance with him, and more. She stood up on her chair, and walked across the table knocking over some glasses and plates, some haughty women gasped and a few red faced men slurred cheers of approval her way.
She dropped down on the other side facing him, her wooden sandals clacking on the hard floor.
It gave her a thrill to see his eyes were wide with surprise, she reached toward him with one hand grabbed a handful of his spotless shirt with her chicken-grease stained hand, that would probably leave a mark but she didn’t care, she pulled him towards her and kissed him full on the lips. His mouth tasted of ale, spice and adventure, but mostly ale. She felt something grow hard near her leg and pulled away from him, her breath coming hoarse with excitement.
“Meet me in my chambers in an hour” she said, that would give her time to freshen up properly.
Zanzo’s face was flushed and for once he looked lost for words, he looked around the room with a scared expression.
“Errm.. what about... dancing?”
“Not the kind of dancing I’m looking for right now” she growled. He looked really put out, like this wasn’t exactly what he had wanted, she knew it was.
“What will your father think?”
What the hell is this?
“Screw my father!” She snarled in his face, her greasy hand clenching tighter on his shirt.
He smiled at that “I’d rather not, you’re more my type.”
Better.
“My chambers, one hour” she whispered.
“Yes of course” he stammered.
she released him and walked away. Leaving him standing there bewildered, pitching a tent in his pants in the middle of the feast hall.
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***
Greeves watched from across the hall as Zanzo, wrestled with his childish desire to have what he was told not to have. To his credit he had restrained himself for a few minutes before making a beeline for Mercy.
He’d watched the rest unfold with revulsion. Flames wash my eyes. He knew he shouldn’t have tried to warn Zanzo off, it was her life after all, but he’d felt he’d had to make one last effort.
He leaned back against the reassuring hardness of the stone wall and lost himself in thought. What do I do now?
He let his mind wander and got to thinking about Farho’s necklace again. It surely couldn’t be what he thought it was. But then. “I’ll face my hell in the south..” Iroko had said aeons ago right after the change had taken hold. Like himself, Iroko had been further cursed for his crimes to be a keeper.
He turned his thoughts away from the dark memories of past shame and looked around the room again to distract himself. He saw across the expansive room an older black skinned man was looking over at him. It was the pompous wizard from earlier Idderkron shmurii? He thought he’d said. The wizard nodded at him and he nodded back.
***
Ideron could see that the Orak had murder in his eyes. While he didn’t have much experience fighting against Orak, Ideron could tell when a man had violence in his mind. There was no doubt now to Ideron that Greeves was here to cause an incident. As yet—from what Ideron had surmised—the Orak had not interacted with the Yashai princess but they were surely working together to some nefarious end.
The Orak were a mysterious race, almost as old as the Aeth as far as Ideron was aware. Those mind-boggling long lifespans could have them wrapped up in schemes so far-reaching that no human could ever hope to unravel. But men were the servants of Timeran, and Timeran was the only true immortal. And his god had sent him here to unfold but one piece in the great tangled tapestry of whatever was happening here. I am but the humble servant to powers far greater than I.
Ideron watched as the Orak stared daggers at the big Librestran. How is this all connected? He knew there was something he was missing here, it couldn’t be mere chance that this assortment of dangerous people had arrived here. Greeves caught him watching. Ideron did not avert his gaze, not wishing to make it obvious he had been watching the Orak. He nodded in acknowledgement and then turned to Eryn. The boy was red faced and leaning back on his chair. Drunk, Ideron did not doubt, despite his explicit commands.
“The tracking rune on the Yashai girl is still in place?”
“Yes, master,” Eryn sighed, “just as it was when you asked me five minutes ago.”
“Where is she?”
“Not far,” Eryn replied, waving a hand off toward the main building of the fortress, “I really don’t think she’s going to try to run. She looked happy today, and Haiden seems like a good guy.”
“The Prime said that she will,” Ideron said with resolution, “so she will. We must see to it that she does not succeed.”
“Maybe the Prime was wrong.”
“The Prime is never wrong.”
“Well that’s not a very scientific thought, master. Aren’t you always the one to tell me that by questioning, failure and experiment, we improve our understanding? If you believed that, then why would you take the word of the Prime as infallible?”
“The Prime speaks for Timeran,” Ideron said curtly, “and we do his bid—”
“—but why, master? Why would god only speak to one man? Three if you count the Primes in the other Tals? If god can speak directly to man, why wouldn’t Timeran just speak directly to Amka herself?”
“Eryn!” Ideron said with as much tension as he could muster without slapping his apprentice, “this is blasphemy. I have tolerated your—”
“—what are you going to do?” Eryn replied, swaying as he stood up from his chair, “would you really report me to vindicators?” the boy had a pleading in his eyes, veiled behind his drunken frustration.
“Go to bed. We will discuss this in the morning,” Ideron said with finality.
“No! I need to know. The vindicators murdered—”
“—Enough Eryn. Go to bed. We will discuss this when your wits have not been dulled by wine,” Ideron repeated this time, making no effort to restrain his aggression. Unconsciously he pulled on his connection to the aether, casting deeper shadow over his already dark face while he glared at his apprentice. Eryn hesitated at first, his innate defiance making him linger, before storming away. Cursed child. Couldn’t he see that Ideron was the only person trying to help him? The only person looking out for him.
Ideron watched as he left, then glanced about the feast. Haiden and his bride were not in sight but the Orak was still skulking about the edges. The Librestan and the Aeth girl were also missing. The feast was still at its height, some of the nobles that drank too much of the terrible Tarongi wine lolled in their chairs. He scanned the room to see if the newlyweds had returned. Without Eryn’s tracker to assure him she hadn’t yet fled, Ideron now realised that he was blind to her whereabouts. The eye is blind only if the mind is absent, he reminded himself. He was a magi of Order Litcus, he need not rely on his apprentice.
Taking another glance at Greeves, he noted that the Orak had his hand rested on the hilt of his black blade. Ideron patted his robes, to reassure himself his own weapon was there. Ideron strode off in the direction of where Eryn had last sensed Amka’s presence.