Thief of Light (14 page)

His dark eyes flat and dull, the man bowed, expressionless as always.

“Wait.”

Nasake straightened, the seelie’s corpse dangling from one hand. “Master?”

“Hand me that bundle of transplas from the desk. Oh, and Nasake?”

“Master?”

“You may have the creature. Do with it as you will.”

The corners of Nasake’s lipless mouth lifted. He bowed. “Thank you, Noblelord.” He passed over the transplas, gathered up the bucket and the seelie and left as silently as he’d arrived.

Unseeing, the Necromancer gazed down at the sheet of transplas he’d taken from the Technomage’s console. It trembled so much, he had to brace it against his knee before he could bring it into focus. The Scientist had drawn a plan for some other kind of trap, from several different angles, complete with captions, footnotes and tables. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t be bothered with Technomage nonsense now. Something was nagging at him and he’d learned never to discount his own instincts.

What, in Shaitan’s name, had he missed? As if the fire witch hadn’t been irritating enough, the taste of air Magick still lingered in his mouth. Reaching for the carafe of wine on the desk, he paused.

The
familiar
taste of air Magick.

His heart thudding, he disciplined himself to think. Somehow, somewhere, he’d touched it. Recently. He went out so seldom, reserving his energies for his high office and his dark Magick. Only when the queen insisted, did he—

The Royal Command performance!

He had a sudden, vivid recollection of gazing at the party in full swing on the stage, the monarch’s hand overly familiar on his shoulder. Bartelm and Nori, the Purists, other people milling about—the beautiful whore from The Garden with her little brown-haired friend, a gaggle of merchants and noblelords and ladies, the big blond singer, working the crowd. Come to think of it, the man was quite good. The Necromancer had felt the tug of something that might once have been feeling.

He’d fumbled his play with the fire witch, through no fault of his own. So be it. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes with the air witch; he’d readjust, switch strategies. The dark fates were working with him now, because she had come to him, here in Caracole, he could swear to it. Again, he recalled the elusive, intriguing taste of Magick in the air that night. The gods were thumbing their divine noses at him. A direct challenge.

Yes!

The transplas fluttered out of his slack fingers and skated across the rug. Godsdammit! His back protesting, the Necromancer leaned forward to retrieve it and froze halfway, staring at the drawing.

It wasn’t so much a trap, as a reservoir.

Uncaring of his dignity, he lurched forward to his knees on the rug, the gown billowing around him.

By Shaitan, a reservoir for Magick! His brain racing, he devoured the explanatory notes, skipping the data tables he didn’t understand. Stumbling to the desk, he picked up the wine jug with a hand that shook. When he poured, a few ruby red drops spilled like blood. It took him almost an hour to work through all the sheets, but in the end, he had the gist of it.

A glass of wine in his hand, the Necromancer sat on the rug in his study, glowing with satisfaction. Perfect! More than perfect! The solution to all his problems in a single elegant package, profoundly selfish, profoundly evil. It had a sublimely wicked symmetry he adored. He couldn’t fault it.

He’d
own
the air witch, her Magick, her soul—her body.

The Technomage Primus of Sybaris had made good use of the time she’d had the fire witch under her control. Her analysis of the physical nature of fire Magick was brilliant, he had to admit, though it was nothing if not abstruse. Metabolic rate? Membranous exchange?

No matter.

Because his pet Scientist had devised a method to harvest Magick. And if she could siphon it
from
one individual, then the converse must also be true—she could transfer it
into
another.

His breath caught, thinking of the possibilities. He couldn’t imagine life as a female, had never even contemplated it, but he wouldn’t quibble if it meant being healthy and flexible again. It might even be . . . piquant, despite the obvious disadvantages. Wistfully, he remembered the splendid breadth of the singer’s shoulders, the muscle in his thigh. Now there was a magnificent male animal. Ah well, it couldn’t be helped.

Gods, he hoped it was the tall whore.

Erik lay back in the skiff, gazing up moodily at the Sibling Moons. They might wear different faces on different worlds, but They were bloody everywhere, the gods. The Lady and the Lord—the Sister and the Brother. Prue swore by the Sister, and he’d noticed men in Caracole swore by the Brother, as he did by the Horned Lord.

His lips curved in a tired smile. Another full house, another dozen encores. One woman had climbed onto her seat, reached up under her gown and flung some filmy piece of nothing toward the stage. Falling short, it had fluttered into the orchestra pit to drape like a bizarre flag of surrender over the drummer’s bald head.

Surrender
.

Gods, he couldn’t decide whether he was an utter bastard or a lunatic or both. Scowling, he thumped his clenched fist against the side of the craft, scraping his knuckles. He’d pushed Prue ruthlessly this morning and she’d fought with everything in her. The strength of her resistance still astonished him, but watching her bright face cloud had made his heart twist.

Fine. He’d established the facts. Mistress Prue McGuire might be the most bloody-minded subject he’d ever had, but godsdammit, the Lord and the Lady hadn’t taken the Voice from him. She’d gone under. Only for a few moments, true, but she had.

He exhaled. Never again. By the Horned Lord, he’d never use the Voice on her again. He’d taken an oath. From now on, she’d come to him of her own free will, or not at all.
Let me kiss it.
He’d been shocked to the core, the words spilling out of him without conscious volition. Erik gritted his teeth. All right, he’d simply exercise greater discipline, scrutinize every impulse, stifle every instinct.
I swear it.

The Dark Lady’s deep, silvery laughter echoed in his head.

“You wanta go by the Meltin’ Pot?” asked the skiffwoman, the same one he’d had the first night. She’d got into the way of waiting at the water stair outside the theater. “Bettsa,” she’d said. “Call me Bettsa.”

“Yah!” Florien sat up straight.

Erik frowned. What was the lad doing here? He’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t noticed Florien sneak on board. “No,” he said repressively.

Florien patted the pocket of his grubby trousers. “I’ll teach ye t’ Sybarite shell game.”

“No!”

Bettsa chuckled and poled out into the current, working with the outgoing tide.

Prue’s plump little tits had pressed so hard against the fine fabric of her tunic, he could close his eyes now and recall the precise shape of her nipples. He might have another two weeks available for the seduction, but he had no intention of waiting. Her tongue had been like velvet twining and flirting with his, her whole lush body pressed ardently against him.

A little more patience and he’d have her. Without the Voice.

He no longer doubted the Dark Lady was personally responsible for designing Prue McGuire, because everything about the woman appealed to him more and more. The hell of it was that he
liked
her—admired her intelligence and determination, enjoyed her acerbic humor. Life with Prue would never be boring.

She’d stood before him, swathed in jade silk, her eyes shining with challenge and deeper down, a yearning that tore at his heart. She worked so hard, practical Prue, always responsible, always respectable. But he’d seen her laugh ’til the tears ran down her cheeks, felt her heat, her passion, her longing.

If things had been different, if he hadn’t . . . done what he’d done. Prue might very well have been born for him—so fragile, so strong, so right. The goddess was clever, he had to give Her that. But it could never be. All he had was a few short weeks.

If only she’d trust him. The breath caught in his throat. Gods, the games they could play!

He’d always been a self-assured lover, confident of his ability to please. If he tended to be a trifle dominating, well, he knew exactly how far to go. The trouble was, once he started with Prue McGuire, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop until he’d taken complete control.

Prue might be shocked by some of his darker desires at first, but she wouldn’t flinch or squeal, she’d look him straight in the eye and defy him, say she felt nothing, pretend she wasn’t trembling with the need to fly free while his mastery kept her safe. He didn’t doubt he could persuade her—eventually.

In the process, he’d warm his cold, empty soul, like a man crouched before a blazing fire. It might be a fleeting sensation, but gods, it was going to be good, very, very good.

What could he give in return?

Pleasure
. Oh yes, he’d pleasure her until she begged him for the release only he could provide. In the heat and the pleading, she’d find surcease too. Maybe even peace.

Temptation whispered to him, hot and sly.
You can have everything
, it said.
Her body, her mind, her soul—all yours if you use the Voice. The more she desires you, the more susceptible she becomes.

He’d be able to watch those fine lines beside her eyes smooth out as she lay asleep on his shoulder, but he’d never know for sure . . .

She’d only trusted a man once. The bastard coward.

Compel her with the Voice and he’d be an even lower form of life. Scum.

As if the thought had conjured it, the wind shifted, filling the air with a stench so vile he coughed.

“What’s that gods-awful stink?” he croaked.

The skiffwoman’s shoulders bunched as she hauled on the pole. “What stink?”

Cursing, rubbing his sensitive nose, Erik peered at the grand palazzos slipping by, their lights shining across the water. The air was full of the smell of slime and rot and slow dissolution, corruption on a vast scale. Bile filled his throat, burning and sour. “Gods, woman, what’s wrong with you? Can’t you smell it? Like a swamp stuffed with corpses.”

He saw the whites of Bettsa’s eyes in the moonslight as she shot him a startled glance. She raised her head and sniffed loudly. “Nothin’,” she muttered. “Ain’t nothin’ ’cept the turn of the tide.”

“Florien?”

Slowly, the boy shook his head. “Nah.” A pause. “Mebbe a little.”

The wind changed, giving Erik some respite. “Where are we?”

“The Leaf of Nobility.” The woman spat over the side.

“Erik?” Florien stretched out a hand, then dropped it. “Ye sick?”

Gritting his teeth, Erik settled back in his seat. The stench had dissipated, drifting away on the sea breeze. “I’ll do.” But the apprehension in the boy’s thin face was so clear, he forced a smile and ruffled Florien’s hair. “I hate marsh smells,” he said. Which was the absolute truth.

They reminded him of death.

Prue padded down to the cavernous kitchen, wrapped in her shabby old robe. “You still here, sweetie?”

“Mm,” said a voice from deep inside the huge pantry. “Put a kettle on, will you?”

A moment later, Katrin emerged with a plate of small cakes. Smiling, she bent to drop a kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Love you, Mam.”

“You too.” Prue gazed up at her calm, capable daughter, and her heart turned over with love and pride. “Long day?” she asked.

Katrin busied herself with a tisane pot and cups. She shot Prue a cautious glance from under her lashes. “Not really. I came in at noon, which was just as well, because Cook needed the help.” Her gaze became speculative. “I fixed a special lunch, in fact. For two.”

“Oh.” Prue grabbed a washcloth and swiped it over an already spotless bench. “Erik Thorensen stayed on. We were discussing his accounts.” She sat down at the sturdy wooden table.