Scars and Swindlers Read online

  Tristanne flopped down in the bed, turned over on her side with her back to him, and yanked up the covers.

  He sat up. “So, you don’t want things to be casual?”

  Tristanne didn’t say anything.

  “Struck a nerve, I guess.” He chuckled and tugged on the blankets, settling back down.

  Tristanne tugged back on the blankets. “Give me these.”

  He lifted his head. “You have plenty.”

  “I don’t, and you have far more of them than I do.” She gave a mighty yank and uncovered him.

  “Blazes,” he said, yanking them back.

  She sat up and glared down at him. “I can’t do anything besides be casual.”

  “Can’t?” He raised his eyebrows.

  Tristanne pulled on the covers. “I don’t understand how you can manage the idea of it, the risk of it all.”

  “How I can manage… what are you talking about?”

  “You and Sefoni.”

  “There is no me and Sefoni. I rutted with her and I might have gotten her with child, but it certainly wasn’t on purpose, and—”

  “And if she is, you’ll have her and a child, and—”

  “I’m more than capable of providing for her. I may not have as many riches as you have amassed, but—”

  “At any point, you could lose her, though, lose them.”

  He furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about? You mean, she could die?”

  “Or the babe, or both of them. Or she could become angry with you and take the child and go, or she could realize what you are, that you’re a scoundrel, and she could determine she wants nothing to do with you—”

  “Well, that would likely be a good thing. I’ve caused her nothing but pain. I’m no good for her.”

  Tristanne sighed. “Never mind.” She lay back down on her pillow.

  Then, it was quiet. Something was roiling within her, and she wished she hadn’t said anything at all.

  She rolled over onto her back. “I’ve been pregnant before.”

  Haid turned to her sharply.

  “Twice, even,” said Tristanne, with a bitter laugh. “You’d think I would have figured it out the first time, right?”

  “Did you…? Do you have a child somewhere, Tristanne?”

  “No.” She scoffed. “No. I lost one and the other time I drank the tea. I only bring it up because… because…” Why had she brought it up?

  “This was when you were married?” His voice was soft.

  “Once when I was married, once before,” she said. “I, um, there was… the first time, I was still trying to rely on people who had known my mother and one of her friends seemed to think that if he was giving me room and board, he should take it out of my quim, and I was too stunned by it all to fight him.”

  “Blazes, Tristanne,” he breathed.

  “No, don’t be like that.” She was annoyed. “I got away from him, and I was fine. Well, except for not having anything to eat or anywhere to sleep. Likely why I lost the babe, I guess, but that was a blessing, truly. I never… I don’t want children. I never have.”

  “It’s a bad world,” he said softly, as if he was musing over the words, trying them out for size.

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Want children?”

  He swallowed visibly. A long pause. Then, “No. Of course not.”

  “But if she’s pregnant, you’ll—”

  “Well, I’m not abandoning her, obviously. She’s my wife. I can… there’s still a bit of respectability clinging to the Darain name. There’s even an estate to pass on, I suppose, assuming it hasn’t fallen down in my absence. And I don’t suppose a gambling hall is a proper place for a child to crawl about, but it’s not as if she and the baby wouldn’t be welcome there. After Rzymn, I’m giving up stealing, so… well, it might be all right.”

  “You’ve given this some thought.”

  “Of course I have.”

  “Say it comes to pass that way,” said Tristanne. “Say you end up finishing the job and going down the straight and narrow and fishing some toddling child out of the card tables? Will you and I still be…? Will we see each other anymore when it’s over, when you don’t need me anymore?”

  “I’ll always need you, Tristanne,” he said.

  She turned to look at him, and he turned to look at her too, and there were several long moments of both them just looking, there in the bed together.

  And then she grinned. “Because you want to bed me, or at least picture me in bed with another woman!” she crowed.

  He rolled his eyes, groaning.

  She turned on her back. When she fell asleep, she was still smiling.

  The next day, at breakfast, they asked the innkeeper about witches, and the innkeeper made a sign with his fingers to ward off evil and murmured, “Flames protect us.”

  They got nothing from him, because of course he claimed to know nothing of such demons or their evil ilk.

  However, another customer (there to purchase food only, of course, since they had the inn’s only room) informed them about a woman who grew herbs in the mountains who might be able to help them.

  After getting directions from the man, they set off together up a winding path, rocky and with deep wheel ruts. They climbed and climbed, and Tristanne thought they must have ascended at least halfway up the mountain when the path abruptly gave way to wild tangles of growth—turning brown and withering in the late Brigannian autumn.

  They found a path and made their way down it until they came to a small cabin with a thatched roof, surrounded by rows of cultivated lands for herbs and also a heated glass room for growing in the cold.

  A woman came to the door when they knocked, and she laughed when they asked about magic, but Haid showed her his gold and spoke urgently until she was convinced that they were serious. Then she grew apologetic, because she said she had no notion of magic, not at all, that she only had knowledge of herbs.

  But after they pressed her, she told them of a woman she knew of, but she lived in the village at the bottom of the mountain. She said that if they wanted help from the woman, they should bring her an offering, and she shivered, lowering her voice, “A blood offering,” she said. “Perhaps a goat or a pig. One chicken likely wouldn’t please her, though perhaps three might.”

  There was more discussion, though the woman didn’t seem to wish to speak of it, about whether this animal should come to the woman alive or dead, and she indicated that alive was necessary, because the woman would use the blood offering to make the magic herself.

  Tristanne had a sour taste in her mouth about it all, but Haid was determined.

  But by the time they got back down the mountain, the day was nearly over, and though the innkeeper told them there was a market daily in the village where animals could be purchased, it was typically closed down by noon.

  So, they spent another night in the inn, another night in the same bed, and the next morning they were up early and heading to the market.

  There were neither goats nor pigs to be gotten, so they had to settled for chickens. Haid carried a cage in each hand, the birds inside fluttering and squawking as if they knew they were to be taken off to become blood offerings, and Tristanne took the third cage.

  The witch woman was drunk when they found her.

  She lived on the third floor of a tenement house, with a balcony that hung off the back of the place, full of empty ale bottles. She had a half-empty one in her hands when she answered the door. Her hair was gray and stringy and one of her eyes was lazy, unable to focus and floating off to stare in the opposite direction—an uncanny effect. When she saw the chickens, she smiled widely, revealing her three yellow teeth.

  She ushered them inside and talked over them for at least a quarter hour, convinced that one of them wanted a love spell and loudly crowing that she would need a lock of hair from the one they wished to make fall in love with either of them.

  Finally, Haid w
as able to explain the situation to her, and when he did, she grew quiet and serious and listened without interrupting to the whole of the story of what had occurred.

  “Ah,” she said, “so it’s the removal of magic you wish. Well, I cannot remove another witch’s magic. None can but the witch herself. Whoever cast the spell must undo it.”

  They stayed longer after this pronouncement, because Haid didn’t seem to want to accept it, and he asked questions, trying to make sure that there weren’t other, more powerful witches he could seek out who could indeed undo others’ magic, but the witch insisted that all magic was this way, that they must have the person who cast it unravel it.

  Even then, she said, with the living flame being part of all of it, there were no guarantees. She wasn’t sure that Cadon’s curse could be undone.

  Eventually, they left the chickens with the witch and went back to their inn.

  “Well,” said Haid, “looks like we’ve got to kidnap the Cowntess and force her to undo this spell.”

  “You sound very broken up about having to go after her.”

  Haid only laughed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SEFONI WAS PLAYING shanj when she saw Haid and Tristanne gallop up on horseback. They’d been gone nearly a month, and during that time, she had gotten proficient at carefully measuring out the herb for stopping her cycle and brewing it into a tea to drink.

  However, she still hadn’t decided whether or not she was going to tell Haid the truth about what had happened. Seeing him through the window, hopping down from his horse, it was a shock to her, because she realized she had no more time to deliberate.

  So, of course, she didn’t go to greet him. Instead, she sat back down to survey her shanj board. She was playing against herself, as she was wont to do. Currently, the cream pieces were winning, but she thought that was likely only because they had the advantage of making the first move, since her skill level was equal to itself.

  Playing shanj against herself was a good challenge, but she sometimes found it a bit too tedious, for she could see so many moves ahead that she rarely advanced too much against herself. She missed playing against Haid, the spontaneity and excitement of having another mind with which to match her wits.

  Her heart began to pound in her chest, but she didn’t get up, and she forced herself to pay attention to her shanj game.

  Would he come straight to her?

  She wasn’t sure. He might have things to see to, other things that had been neglected while he was away. Or he might simply be tired and dirty and wish to be alone—to have a long bath and to go to bed.

  The door to the upstairs sitting room burst open. He was there, and he was smiling, and he looked good. He hadn’t been shaving in the past few weeks, or at least, not often, and he had a bit of growth on his cheeks and chin. She thought to herself that it made him look a bit wild, a bit untamed, and she didn’t object to that.

  She stood up behind the shanj board, her heart in her throat, and she was smiling too.

  He crossed the room in three large steps and then gathered her into his arms.

  She could swoon. It was wonderful to be touching him. He was warm and solid, and she didn’t mind that he smelled of horses and saddle leather.

  She ran her fingers through his facial hair.

  He looked at her lips and then into her eyes, his expression a question.

  She brought her lips to his.

  He crushed her against him.

  The kiss was thunder crashing through a stormy sky.

  When he pulled back, he was a little out of breath, but he was still smiling. “Did you miss me, then?”

  “You know I did.” Her fingers curved around his jaw.

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “I thought of you constantly.”

  This made a pleasant thrill go through her. “I thought of you too.”

  He rested his forehead against hers, still smiling. “The servants say you haven’t bled.”

  Oh, they were doing that already, then? Just like that? She should tell him the truth. She needed to tell him the truth.

  “Is that normal for you to wait so long?” he said. “I hear it’s different for some women.”

  She licked her lips, but only managed a strangled sort of sound deep in her throat.

  “Or should we consider it likely you’re with child?” And this pronunciation seemed to make his voice grow husky.

  For some reason, that made another thrill go through her. Her hands spanned his broad shoulders. She gazed into his eyes. “Well… I don’t have any other symptoms. I’m not tired or nauseous. So… so I don’t think we can be sure.”

  He nodded slowly. “All right.”

  She cringed. Well, you’ve done it. Now, if you tell him that you bled while he was gone, he’ll wonder why you didn’t say it now. You’ve lied to him, a lie by omission.

  “You mustn’t think I’ll be displeased if you are,” he said. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “I-I’m not afraid.”

  “Good,” he whispered. He kissed her again. And then he turned to the shanj board and began to praise her strategy, talking about how he’d need her to play more shanj after they dealt with Cadon’s curse.

  And there it was again. The job. He needed her for the job. The job was everything. It was the most important thing.

  He had accused her of resenting his preoccupation with the heist in Rzymn, and it was true that she thought it would be romantic if he chose her above his deepest desire, but she also felt reassured by this return to form on his part, because it made her feel as though they were on equal footing.

  He was Haid, and he was not a bad man, but neither was he so noble as to make grand romantic gestures. A man like him—tricking him—well, she could be reassured that he did not have a moral high ground to look down upon her from.

  He used her; she used him.

  It was fair, if nothing else.

  He eyed the shanj board and asked questions about her strategies, listening with bright eyes as she launched into long and detailed explanations of the modifications she’d made to the Banette Defense, asking questions at the right time that showed he was following everything that she said and he understood her, and all the time, his hands were on her.

  He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, and then ran his forefinger over the curve of her neck. His hand strayed down over her back to settle at the curve of her waist.

  And then they stood together, still talking, as he urged her closer and closer until their bodies were touching from her shoulder to her hip to her knee, and every part of her that make contact with him tingled.

  It wasn’t the ferocious burning of the cainlach, but a pleasant hint of something good, a promise of warmth.

  “Anyway,” she said, “now you’re back and we can play. I’ve missed playing against you.”

  “I’m hardly much of a challenge,” he said, smiling at her.

  “You are,” she assured him. “My own brain only works in one way, and it’s more fun to react to you. You help me see things from other perspectives.”

  “We could play now,” he said.

  “Oh, could we?” She grinned up at him, delighted.

  “Well, you probably don’t want to be near me for too much longer. I’m sure I smell of the road.”

  “I don’t mind the smell.” She gazed up at him with something like adoration. “I rather like it, in fact.”

  “Do you?” He arched one eyebrow. “Truly?”

  “Yes.” And where had the bottom of her voice gone? She tilted her head back.

  He was kissing her again.

  She grasped handfuls of his jacket, pressing the front of her body into the front of his as he held her close.

  He pulled back. “Perhaps we don’t play shanj, then. Perhaps we do more of this?”

  “That would be welcome,” she said.

  “Then perhaps we should find a more comfortable venue besides the upstairs sitting room.” His voi
ce was heavy with a heated promise.

  “Did you have somewhere in mind?” She raised her eyebrows. “A bedchamber, perhaps?”

  He chuckled, a low, rich sound that seemed to settle somewhere in the low parts of her belly and unfurl there.

  She shut her eyes and savored the sensation.

  He kissed her temple. “Yours is closer.”

  “True,” she said. “Closer is better.”

  He chuckled again.

  They started for the hallway, but they got distracted in the doorway of the sitting room by kissing each other again. She didn’t know how long they would have kissed there if they hadn’t heard the surprised cry of a maid who’d happened upon them as she was heading to reattach a set of curtains lately washed.

  Then, both giggling like children caught misbehaving, they darted down the hallway and into her room.

  Once inside, he wasted no time, but went straight for her buttons, kissing her neck and shoulders as he stood behind her and his fingers went busily down her back.

  She wriggled out of her dress, stepping out of it as it pooled on the floor and then turned back to face him and kiss him.

  He returned the kisses, and then he pulled back, gazing at her with half-lidded eyes. He lifted his forefinger and ran it just above the fabric of her stays, over her skin. His finger traced the swell of her breasts, dipping between them and then back up.

  She felt flushed and happy.

  “You’ll think me horribly uncouth if I admit I dreamed about your bosom,” he said in a throaty voice.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “I like you for a lot of reasons, Sefoni, and mostly because of your mind.”

  “Because of my shanj skills.” She lifted her chin, teasing him.

  “Yes, primarily because of that,” he said. “But… well… you are lovely to look at as well, and I can’t complain about that.”

  She kissed him again.

  He reached around her and loosened her stays, and she helped him pull them over her head, and now she was only a wearing a thin shift.

  He gathered her breasts in his hands through the shift. He lowered his mouth and suckled her, wetting the fabric, the sensation of that new and sweet.