Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

The pain was still mild as Thamos led her from the dance floor and to a side exit. Wonda made as if to follow, but Leesha made a cutting motion and the girl took the hint, easing back to the wall.

They slipped through silent halls, glimpsed only by a handful of servants that knew enough to keep their eyes on the floor.

Even that traffic died as they moved closer to the exit to Araine’s private garden. The hall was long and dark, full of shadowed alcoves bearing statues of the dukes of old. Leesha stopped, pulling Thamos up short.

“What is it?” he asked.

Leesha slipped behind the statue of Rhinebeck. It was a flattering portrayal to say the least, but even a flattering likeness of Rhinebeck was thick enough to cast the back of the alcove into shadow.

“I have a headache.” She yanked, and Thamos offered only token resistance as he was pulled in with her.

For any other couple, the words might mean an end to romantic notions for the night, but it was the opposite for Leesha, and Thamos knew it. Before the count could say anything to break the mood, she thrust her mouth upon his.

He stiffened a moment, but then embraced her tightly, snaking his tongue into her mouth. Leesha put a hand behind his head, gripping his hair, pulling his tongue deeper.

He growled, pawing at her. Somehow her breasts had come free of her gown, and Thamos squeezed them as she pressed closer to him, letting go his hair to reach down and grip him through his breeches. He was hard, and she wasted no time undoing the laces and pulling him free.

“We don’t have much time,” he murmured.

“Then don’t be gentle,” she said, turning and pulling up her dress as she bent over the pedestal.

Gared did his duty, dancing with every young debutante at the ball. It was awkward to watch. He dwarfed the tallest of the Angierian women, and stepped on a few delicate toes as he tried to keep up with the dances.

But worse was the look of concentration on his face, one more suited to fighting corelings than dancing with beautiful young women. He looked as if he were just trying to survive.

Until it was Emelia’s turn. Then the big Cutter’s face lit up, and he might have been dancing on air. It seemed he had found his bride, and not all the gold in Riverbridge was going to deter him.

Kendall saw it, too, and lengthened her fiddle solo, giving the two more time to stare into each other’s eyes. Amanvah and Sikvah lent their voices to the task, casting a spell over the young couple as easily as they might a coreling.

Jasin kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, smiling as he danced with rich royal women while their husbands clustered together, oblivious. But every so often, he looked up to the stage, staring icicles into Rojer’s heart.

Rojer allowed himself to smile in return. His revenge was far from complete, and though he did not know what his next step should be, for the moment, Jasin was suffering daily humiliation, and Rojer was enjoying it immensely.

But then Jasin looked pointedly at Gared and Emelia, then back to Rojer, a broad smile on his face.

He knows.

Of course he knew. Unless things had changed since Arrick’s day, regular access to the royal brothel was one of the royal herald’s perks. Jasin not only knew Emelia was Rosal the whore, suns to klats he’d had her himself.

And Rojer wasn’t willing to bet the herald would keep the secret.

Araine and Minister Janson were waiting in the garden when Leesha and Thamos arrived. A few lanterns were hung, but the shadows were deep and foreboding. Despite her trust in the woman, Leesha slipped on her warded spectacles, peering through the shadows for hidden dangers.

“Well this is all very clandestine,” Leesha said. “Is there a reason we had to leave the ball on Thamos’ last night in Angiers?”

“A very good reason,” Araine said. “I need you to meet my secret weapon, and we can’t very well do it inside. Boy smells worse than a chamber pot.”

“Boy?” Leesha asked.

“Briar, dear,” Araine called gently, “do come out.”

Leesha started as a boy appeared out of a hogroot patch not ten feet away. How had she missed him? With her warded spectacles in place, his aura should have shone like a lantern.

But it didn’t. His aura was so dim she thought he might be dying, but he moved with quick and easy grace to the duchess’ side. He could not have been more than sixteen summers—tall, thin, and wiry. Over one shoulder was slung a Sharum’s round warded shield, but he wore Thesan pants and shirt.

His features were not quite Krasian, but not quite Thesan, either. It was hard to see them clearly, because the boy was utterly filthy.

As the duchess had warned, the stench of him was overpowering. Leesha’s nostrils flared, tasting it. There was the stink of stale boy sweat, but stronger was the scent of hogroot. He had bruised leaves and rubbed the plants onto his skin like lotion. His clothes were covered in hogroot stains. The sticky sap had collected a layer of dirt on its surface, but was no less pungent for it.

“Forgive our little ruse,” Araine said. “Briar claims no demon can see him if he does not wish it, and I wondered if the same were true for your fascinating spectacles.”

Leesha did not reply, but the duchess had her answer already. Had she ever even mentioned the spectacles to the duchess? The woman knew more than she let on.

“Leesha, Thamos, this is Briar Damaj,” Araine said, and the boy grunted at them. It was a guttural sound, harsh and animal.

Damaj. A Krasian surname. It meant he was from the same line as Inevera—and Amanvah—though the relation might be hundreds of generations gone. The Damaj clan could trace their lineage all the way to the time of Kaji.

But Briar was a Laktonian name. The boy was a half-breed, but Leesha hadn’t known any Krasians were in the North before the invasion. His features might be common in a few years, but this was the first time she had seen the like. Was he a Messenger’s son?

“Pleased to meet you, Briar,” Leesha said, offering a hand. Briar tensed and drew back. She lowered her hand, smiling. “Demons don’t like the smell of hogroot, do they?”

That seemed to relax the boy. “Makes ’em sick up, they smell too much. Cories hate hogroot.”

Leesha nodded, inspecting the boy’s aura. She hadn’t known the scent of hogroot was repellent to demons, but it made sense. Hogroot was the primary ingredient in demon infection cures, and corelings were known to avoid patches of the stuff.

But that was not all. She watched the ambient magic drifting along the ground of the gardens like fog. Normally the magic was drawn to living things, unless there were wards in the area. Magic avoided Briar like oil avoided water.

Could hogroot repel magic? That would explain many of its properties, and make the precious herb infinitely more useful.

“Briar has proven invaluable to the resistance,” Araine said. “He speaks Krasian, and can even pass at a glance. Most of all, he moves day and night. Like your Warded Man, though without the delusions of grandeur.”

Leesha let the barb go. Araine was not exaggerating to call the boy invaluable. He was a resource the duchess would not share lightly, even with her.

“Briar has contacts in Lakton,” Araine said. “He can guide your force overland from the Hollow, avoiding the Krasian patrols, and arrange a meeting with the dockmasters. They are using a monastery by the lake as a base.”

Thamos raised an eyebrow. “Does Rhinebeck know of this?”

Araine laughed. “Of course not. For all Rhiney knows, you’ll have found the resistance on your own. But he sent you, and will be held to whatever promises you need to make.”