James West - Lady Of Regret

The inn’s proprietress, Mistress Lynira, stood amid a gathering of pretty men. Lofty arbors curved above them, supported by wooden columns carved all over with blossoms that never wilted. Lynira’s laugh filled the area, melodic and enticing as the rest of her person. Tonight she wore a gown of maroon silk, accented with cloth-of-gold to match her golden curls. As was her wont, she had loosened the laces of her bodice to reveal more of her bosom than it hid, and a belt of gold links emphasized her narrow waist.

In the short time Nesaea had spent in Sazukford, Lynira had taught her never to feel guilt for using the gifts born to her. Lynira used her gifts to gain wealth and notoriety, selling that which could be bought anywhere for a fraction of the price. “Peddle exclusivity,” she had advised, “and you’ll never want for gold.”

Adding to Lynira’s charming allure, a snowy owl perched on her arm, yellow eyes on the fops surrounding its mistress. It was no exaggeration to say that men crossed realms and treacherous seas for a mere glance at Lynira. Gaining an audience with her was tantamount to visiting royalty. Even if they heard from Lynira’s lips that she had been born in slattern’s hovel in the Dreamer’s Quarter of Sazukford, none would have believed it. Watching her now, with her almost magical grace and aplomb, even Nesaea found the story hard to believe.

The owl’s head turned all the way round, fixed its golden stare on Nesaea. Some of those gathered near Lynira looked, too. Their eyes widened at the sight of Nesaea’s wagons. When Lynira tossed a glance over her shoulder, delighted surprise erased some of her composure. She hastily invited her guests indoors, while she escaped the pillared terrace and stopped below Nesaea. Deep brown eyes favored her onetime pupil with a wry appraisal.

“ Lady Nesaea,” Lynira said, with a knowing wink and a graceful curtsy. “I see now the rumors are true. You and your Maidens of the Lyre have done as well as I have heard.”

Nesaea smiled warmly. “I have you to thank.”

“I trust you have not come to steal my business?”

“Of course not,” Nesaea said. “But I dare say I can increase it while I am here, if you are in need of performers.”

“I have many performers.”

“My girls are not that sort,” Nesaea explained. “We sing and dance and entice. The rest, I leave to you.”

“I had heard that, as well, but did not believe,” Lynira said, in the musing tone of a shrewd proprietor. “Very well. I accept your offer. Even if your girls sing like screeching cats, you are welcome.”

“I must warn you,” Nesaea said, “I come to Sazukford not to entertain, but to find someone I have not seen in many years. In seeking him, I may bring danger upon you.”

Lynira laughed, a bold, throaty sound. “You let me worry about danger, girl. Now, get down off that gaudy cart, and tell me all about your wanderings. My men will take your caravan around back, for safekeeping.”

“What of your guests?” Nesaea said, nodding to a few men who lingered just outside the burnished silver doors of the inn. They jostled one another for a better look at Lynira and the newcomers, like lovesick fools.

Lynira flashed a mischievous grin. “My absence makes them even more ravenous for my attention. By the time you tell me what you’ve been up to, they will be ready to kill for my affection.” At Nesaea’s stunned look, Lynira laughed all the harder.

Lynira glided through the common room of the Silver Archer, speaking to some patrons, laughing with others. When anyone made to stop her, she brushed past so smoothly they did not recognize the rebuff. Nesaea followed, becoming once again the young woman running from her past, and toward an uncertain future.

Lynira led them into a sumptuous chamber filled with cushioned chairs covered in colorful silks and dark velvet. She motioned for Nesaea to sit, closed the door, poured two cups of wine.

“I love you like a daughter,” she said, pressing the wine into Nesaea’s waiting hand. “As such, I know you didn’t come here to visit.” Save when dealing with customers, the mistress of the Silver Archer had never been one for idle chatter.

“I have need of a favor,” Nesaea admitted, savoring the vintage in her hammered gold cup.

Lynira pulled a chair close to Nesaea’s, and sat back with a thankful sigh. “Favors typically demand recompense. For you, though … only ask, and I will see it done.”

“I seek an audience with Lord Arthard.”

Lynira slammed her cup down on a gilded end table hard enough to slosh wine over the lip. “You are mad, if you think I would send you into the presence of that snake. Not for all the gold in all the realm, would I put you into his hands.”

“That is much gold,” Nesaea said, smiling over the rim of her cup. “I am not asking you to do anything I do not want.”

“Arthard is a monster I’d not offer up to my worst enemy. And trust that I have more than a few who deserve to be skinned alive and staked atop an anthill. Arthard is the worst of the lot. Just this past fortnight, the greedy wretch sent his thugs to burn me out.”

“Truly?”

“Last winter he determined the levies I pay are not enough. I am not alone. He has beggared most honest merchants and tradesfolk in Sazukford. The dishonest, well, that sort never suffers long. Since the River Idoril serves as the only quick way to get bloodwood timber to Millport and the Sea of Muika, he has increased the levies tenfold on passing barges. The fool will destroy Sazukford, without ever recognizing how or why. On top of it all, he demanded I share his bed. When I told him to go sell his arse in Giliron, he rightly took that as a declaration of war.”

“Yet the Silver Archer still stands.”

“Only because I have the queen’s blessing, and the love of many in Sazukford. If not for those, Arthard would have strung me up in one of his cages. Still, he is not a man easily thwarted. By secretive, fiendish means, he has done all he can to make my life miserable.”

“I saw the cages outside the wall,” Nesaea said, remembering the ring-thief.

“Arthard loves them,” Lynira seethed. “In the last year, he has doubled their number.”

“Punishing criminals is the duty of highborn,” Nesaea said, tone neutral. “As I recall, Sazukford has more than its share of lawless.”

“I’ll grant you, Sazukford is surely no righteous city, but is it a noble’s duty to tax beggars and cripples? And when those unfortunates cannot pay, is it duty to hang them beside murderers?”

“Surely it’s not so bad?”

“Worse,” Lynira said, gulping her wine down. “There has been more than one urchin hung to die. That’s why he tried to burn me out. When I spoke against him, with half the Dreamer’s Quarter at my back, he sent us off with arrows dropping all around. Later, a runner delivered a message telling me I could leave Sazukford peaceably, or die. Naturally, Arthard has hidden his tracks well, fearing the queen’s reprisal. As it stands there is only my word against his.”

“Where will you go?”

“Nowhere,” Lynira said darkly. “By right of birth, Arthard holds Dionis Keep, but I have earned my place in Sazukford. He is nothing but a tiny shit of a man with title and lands. The only thing he has earned is the hatred of most folk in the city. If it is war he wants, then he will have it.”

Nesaea sipped her wine, waiting patiently for her former mentor to continue. In time, she did.

“Tell me, why do you want to see Arthard?”

“His court magician, Sytheus Vonterel, is my father.”

“Tragedy upon tragedy,” Lynira said regretfully.