She was at his side now, with two other young women hovering hopefully near him. Jan was seated at the pochspiel table with Fynn, who was glowering over his cards and the dwindling pile of silver siqils and gold solas in front of him and drinking heavily. Elissa had circled the table to stand behind Jan. He felt Elissa lean closely into him, her body pressing against his back as she leaned down. She whispered into his ear, her breath warm and sweet. “The Hirzg has three Suns supported by a Palais. I would bet everything and lose gracefully.”
Jan glanced at his cards. He had a single Page; all his other cards were low cards in the Staff suit. Elissa’s hand touched his shoulder as she straightened, her fingers tightening briefly before they left him. The bets had been heavy already this hand, and there was a substantial pile of siqils and a few solas in the center of the table. Jan had been intending to fold now that the final card had been given out-he’d hoped to make an alignment in suit, but the Page had spoiled that. He glanced up at Elissa; she smiled down at him and nodded. Jan pushed his entire pile of coins into the center of the table.
“Everything,” he announced.
The player to his right-some distant relative whose name he’d forgotten, shook his head and threw his cards in. “By Cenzi, he must have drawn the Planets all aligned!” All the other players except Fynn tossed in their cards as well. Fynn was staring at Jan, his head cocked slightly to one side. He glanced down at his cards again, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly-the tick that nearly everyone who played pochspiel with Fynn knew, which was one of the reasons Fynn so often lost. Fynn pushed his chips to the center with Jan’s; his pile was noticeably smaller “Everything,” he echoed, and he turned his cards face up on the table. “If you’ll accept my note for the remainder.”
Jan sighed as if disappointed. “You won’t need the note, my Hirzg,” he said. “I’m afraid that you’ve caught me bluffing.” He showed his hand as the other players howled and the people gathered around the table clapped and applauded. Fynn gathered in the coins, smiling, then tossed a solas back to Jan.
“I can’t let my champion leave the table empty-handed,” he said. “Even when he tries to bluff his sovereign lord with nothing in his hand at all.”
Jan caught the solas and smiled to Fynn, then pushed his chair back from the table and bowed. “I should have known that you would see through my charade,” he said to Fynn, who grinned even more deeply. “Now I should drown my disappointment in some wine.”
Fynn glanced from Jan to Elissa, who hovered at his shoulder. “I suspect you’ll drown yourself in something more substantial,” he answered. “That’s not a bet I believe I’ll miss either.”
There was more laughter, though it came mostly from the men in the crowd; many of the women simply glared at Elissa silently. In the midst of the laughter, she leaned closer to Jan again. “Meet me in the hall in a quarter-turn,” she said, and she slid away from him. The space was immediately filled by another of the available women, and someone handed him a flagon of wine as the cards of the next hand were dealt out. Fynn’s attention was already on the cards and Jan drifted away from the table, conversing with the young ladies of the court who flittered around him.
When he thought enough time had passed, he excused himself and left the hall, the hall servant bowing to him with a knowing wink as he opened the door. There was no one in the corridor outside, and he felt a surge of disappointment.
“Chevaritt Jan,” a voice called, and he saw her step from shadows a few strides away. He went to her, taking her hands. Her face was very close to his, and her pale gaze never left his eyes.
“You cost me nearly a week’s stipend, Vajica,” he said.
“And I gave the Hirzg yet another reason to love his champion,” she answered with a smile. “Anyone at the table would pay twice what you lost to be in that position. I’d say you owe me.”
“All I have is the gold solas that Fynn gave me, I’m afraid. It’s yours if you’d like.”
“Your gold doesn’t interest me. I would beg something simpler from you.”
“And what would that be?”
She didn’t answer-not with words. She released his hands, embracing him fully and lifting her face to his. The kiss was soft, her lips yielding under his as soft as velvet. Her arms tightened around him as he pressed her tightly against him. He could feel the fullness of her breasts, the rising of her breath, the faint whimper of a moan. The kiss became less soft and more urgent now, her lips opening so that he felt the flutter of her tongue. Her hands slid lower down his back as they broke apart. Her eyes were large and almost frightened-looking, as if she were afraid that she’d gone too far. “Chev-” she began, and he stopped her with another kiss. His hand touched the side of her breast under the lace of her tashta and she did not stop him, only closed her eyes as she drew in a breath.
“Where are your rooms?” he asked, and she leaned against him.
“Your apartment is here within the palais, isn’t it?” she said, and he nodded. He held out his hand to her and she took it.
The walk to his rooms seemed to take an eternity. They hurried through the corridors of the palais, then the door was shut behind them and he took her into his embrace and forgot about anything else for a long, delightful time.
Nico Morel
Ville Paisli was boring.
The entire town could have fit inside a single block of Oldtown, fifteen or so buildings huddled close to the Avi a’Nostrosei, with a few farms close by and a dark, forbidding wood reaching leafy arms around them and hinting at unguessed terrors. Nico could imagine dragons lurking in its hilly depths, or bands of rough outlaws. Exploring there might have been interesting, but his matarh kept close watch on him, as she had ever since they’d left Nessantico.
Nico was used to the endless roar and tumult of Nessantico. He was used to a landscape of buildings and manicured, tamed parks. He was used to being surrounded by thousands and thousands of strangers, to strange sights (even as they were leaving the city, he’d glimpsed a woman juggling live kittens), to the call of the temple horns and the lighting of the Avi at night.
Here, there was only drudgery and the same, stupid faces day after day.
His Tantzia Alisa and Onczio Bayard were nice enough people, who owned Ville Paisli’s only inn, which was his tantzia’s responsibility. Tantzia Alisa looked much older than Nico’s matarh, even though Alisa was actually a year younger than her sister; Onczio Bayard had few teeth and those that were left smelled rotten when he leaned close to Nico, which made him wonder why Tantzia Alisa would have married the man.
Then there were the children: six of them, three boys and three girls. The oldest was Tujan, two years older than Nico, then the twins Sinjon and Dori, who were Nico’s age. The youngest boy was a toddler just beginning to walk, who still sucked at Tantzia Alisa’s breast. Onczio Bayard was also the town’s iron forger, and Tujan and Sinjon both worked with him in the heat of the smithy, working the bellows and tending the fire while Tantzia Alisa, with Dori’s help, made beds and cooked for those staying at the inn-usually only a single traveler or two.
“In Nessantico, there are fire-teni who work in the big forging houses,” Nico had said the first day, watching Tujan and Sinjon labor at the bellows. That had earned him a hard punch in the arm from Tujan when Onczio Bayard wasn’t looking, and a glare from Sinjon. Onczio Bayard had set Nico to pumping the bellows with his cousins all that afternoon, and he’d smelled like charcoal and soot for the rest of the day. He suspected he still did, since he was expected to put in his time at the smithy every day with the other boys, but he no longer smelled it, though his white bashta now looked a streaked gray. The smithy was sweltering, loud with the hammering of steel on steel and bright with the sparks of molten iron. The villagers would come to Bayard to create or repair all sorts of metal objects: plow blades, scythe blades, hinges, and nails. Most of the trade was barter: a plucked chicken for a new blade, a dozen eggs for a small keg of black nails.