Atre had designs on Myrhichia from the start, but Alec’s unmistakable look of dismay across the room made it all the more delicious a challenge. Were the young man and the whore more than friends? It seemed unlikely given all he had heard and seen of him with Seregil, but clearly Alec felt some warmth toward her. Why else that sour look as he locked eyes with Atre?
He made room for himself on the couch beside Myrhichia, took her graceful, bejeweled hand in his and raised it to his lips. Looking up at her through his thick lashes, he murmured, “You are lovelier than silvery moonlight on the face of the sea. Your beauty makes me tremble like a green boy.”
Rather than blushing, as most women did under the influence of his charm, the girl tapped his arm with her fan and laughed. “And you are as charming as the smitten swain you played the other night, dear man. I think he said something of the sort to lovely Aphinia. You are my favorite actor, and playwright, this season!”
“It’s women like you who are my inspiration,” Atre purred. “Your wit, your charm, the delicacy of your demeanor.” He raised his wine cup to her and announced to their circle of admirers, “I shall include a beautiful courtesan in my next
production. When you see her, know she is but my pale effort at homage to the beautiful Myrhichia.”
The others clapped and laughed approvingly. Myrhichia gave him a twinkling smile as she pulled a handsome golden pin set with a citrine from her dark hair and presented it to him. “Such gallantry deserves better reward, but perhaps this will do until I view the completed effort.”
Atre tucked it behind his ear like a flower and kissed her hand again. “You are too kind.”
The evening went on in that vein, flirtatious and witty, but after a time Atre began to get the distinct impression that she was politely putting him off. The more he continued to woo her, the more she spread her favors among the other young bloods. Atre continued to smile, tamping down his resentment. He’d have had any other woman-noble or whore-upstairs by now. It was becoming a matter of pride.
At last the others drifted away with their own conquests of the evening. Myrhichia was hiding yawns behind her fan.
Atre pressed Myrhichia’s hand to his heart and gave her his most ardent look. “You’ve won my heart. Don’t break it so quickly.”
“Break your heart? Why would I do such a thing, Master Atre?”
“The hour grows late and I fear you’ll want me to leave you. Please, my shining star, don’t send me away.”
The woman’s smile faltered at that. “Oh, dear Master Atre…”
“What’s wrong, lovely one?”
She took his hand in both of hers. “I’m so sorry. I thought your friends would have told you.”
A little speck of coldness flared under Atre’s heart, but still he kept up his attentive mask. “Told me what?”
She paused meaningfully, skillful as any actress. “I’m so flattered by your attentions tonight. You’re such a delightful man. But I don’t-entertain actors.”
“Ah.” He gave her a look of fondest regret. “My apologies for discomforting you.”
“I’m so sorry!” She sounded quite sincere.
“Think nothing of it. The pleasure of your company is
delight enough.” He took the citrine pin from behind his ear. “Perhaps I should return this to its rightful owner?”
“Oh, please keep it,” she said, folding his fingers around it. “As a token of my regard, and for all the pleasure you’ve given me onstage, and tonight. I hope you’ll visit again.”
“Of course I shall!” He rose and kissed her hand one last time. “Know that you occupy a very special place in my heart, broken though it may be.”
CHAPTER 12. Strangers in the Light
KLIA and her forces had spent the last two days pushing half a troop of Plenimaran infantry-two squadrons of which were marines-out of a wood twenty miles east of the Folcwine. It was their second major victory in the past three weeks and as bloody as it had been, they’d given worse than they’d gotten. In the process they’d cleared the enemy out of a small Mycenian town, and the grateful villagers had brought Klia a dozen pigs and some beer. For the first time in weeks her riders had a taste of fresh meat, if not very much of it.
It was nearly midnight but reports kept streaming in to Klia as officer after officer appeared at the front of her tent with news of successes and losses. She found herself stifling yawns and at last she allowed Myrhini to announce that she would hear the rest of the reports tomorrow.
“You’re asleep on your feet,” Myrhini chided as she helped her friend out of her filthy tabard and hung her fine chain-mail hauberk on its rack.
Klia pushed through the flap at the back of the tent, pulled off her boots, and collapsed on the narrow cot in her breeches and sweat-stained shirt, utterly exhausted.
Myrhini chuckled. “Sleep well, my friend. You’ve earned it.”
She lit the night lamp and pulled a blanket over Klia, then went out to her own cot at the front of the tent.
Tired as she was, Klia didn’t sleep well. Her dreams were filled with the clash of battle and the screams of the dying.
Perhaps that saved her life; the moment she felt a hand grasp her shoulder she grabbed the dagger from under her pillow and threw herself off the bed. The night lamp was out, the little room in darkness.
“Myrhini!” she shouted as hands found her again in the darkness. She struggled, twisting in their unseen grasp, but they held her fast and sudden pain shot through her arms, hands, and right hip.
She heard Myrhini’s outraged shout and the hands released her. She dropped to the ground and crawled toward her sword rack. Torchlight flared suddenly, illuminating Myrhini lashing out at three men, a fourth writhing in pain underfoot. More riders came crowding in, but before they could kill or apprehend the assassins, the invaders brought something to their lips and fell down as if stricken by magic.
Klia sprang to her feet, glaring at the others. “How in Bilairy’s name did they get in here? Where are my guards?”
“Dead, Commander,” one of her rescuers told her. “They’re lying out front with their throats cut. Bastards killed them before they came after you.”
“Why wouldn’t they have killed me, too?” asked Myrhini as she began checking Klia’s wounds. The men had been armed with daggers, and between the darkness and her struggling they had only managed to inflict superficial wounds.
“I-I don’t feel well,” Klia said, pressing a hand over her eyes. Suddenly she felt light-headed and nauseated.
“Hertas, fetch the healer!” Myrhini ordered, righting the overturned cot and helping Klia to lie down.
“I’m all right,” Klia said, looking at the cut on her arm.
“It’s not deep, but it’s bleeding.” Myrhini staunched it with the corner of Klia’s blanket, then turned on the others. “Quit your staring and raise the alarm. If there are any other assassins sneaking around, I want them captured. Alive!”
“Thanks.” Klia winced as Myrhini insisted on looking at the stab wound on her hip.
“Bastard must have been going for your belly.”
Klia looked past Myrhini to the dead men littering her room, which was beginning to spin. They wore Plenimaran uniforms. “Looks like we missed a few. They must have been
carrying poison in case they got caught. I think-” Her tongue felt thick and she tasted something bitter. “I’m poisoned, too.”
“If you are, it’s something different, or you’d be as dead as they are,” the other woman growled. “This wound is deeper and bleeding badly. You’re lucky as Sakor that it wasn’t a few inches to the left, or it would have been in your guts.”
Klia couldn’t help a shudder; gut wounds were some of the worst, and generally ended in a lingering, painful death. But perhaps the poison- It was becoming difficult to form coherent thoughts.
The last thing she heard was Aden the drysian shouting for hot water. Coldness crept over her, but she could feel Myrhini’s hand warm and sure around hers.