Goldflower

The black night was filled with cries and shouted orders. Guards spilled from the temple complex into the street beyond, holding glowstones overhead as they ran this way and that. Shadows shifted and twisted between tall palm trees and low shrubs. Hanging over the shabby park was an edge of frustrated anger that grew as the search proved fruitless.

In the street beside the park a silent form flitted from building to building. It emerged from the blackness into the shallow light of a glowstone far above to reveal a tall lean man, dressed in tight hose and jerkin of dark wool, shoulder-length hair drawn back in a queue.

Voices sounded nearby, and the man glanced over his shoulder. Swiftly, silently, he stepped towards a statue standing on a tall pedestal. The stone warrior gazed implacably ahead, oblivious to the slender hands sliding aside a plaque to reveal a smooth, clean cavity.

The lean man drew an object from the satchel at his side -- a wooden box the length and thickness of his forearm. He placed it inside the cavity and returned the plaque. When he turned away it was as if the pedestal had never been touched.

Footsteps were approaching, slapping on the paving stones. Taking a scrap of vellum from a pouch, the man pressed it against his chest.

Instantly his form blurred, then vanished. A careful spectator might have noticed a slight breeze stirring the leaves in the still night air as a patrol of temple guards trotted past. The guards weren't careful, and the breeze went unobserved as it crossed the wide avenue to the mouth of a narrow alley on the far side.

In the blackness of the alley, with the heavy footsteps disappearing down the avenue, the lean man's form appeared again. A smile was on his lips as he turned and took a jaunty step.

He halted almost instantly as a light blossomed before him. A glowstone at waist height revealed a short shape clad in a heavy cloak facing him from half a dozen paces away.

The lean man paused, then gave a polite nod and stepped forward once more.

The stranger snapped plump fingers, and the glowstone rose to hover at shoulder height. The man halted again, caution clear in his stance. A hand disappeared behind his back and reappeared with a short, heavy blade that gleamed dully in the soft light.

Whether he planned to threaten, attack or simply defend himself was unclear. Before he could act, the stranger's hand shot out like a street entertainer might throw a knife.

There was no knife, but the lean man staggered back as if struck in his chest by a sudden force. The blade clattered on the flagstones and vanished into the blackness. A choked gasp was forced from the man's lips, followed by a grunt as he fell to the dusty stones of the alley.

Almost instantly he pushed himself up, still gasping, but the cloaked figure was standing over him now. A harsh voice whispered, "Duchess Lesla sends for you."

A gust of wind swept through the alley, and an instant later it was empty.

===

A hush fell over the tavern's common room as Avilia entered. Heads looked up from cups of wine and mugs of ale. Her spiked hair and pale skin marked her out as Dumrani as clearly as the scars on her hands and bare forearms proclaimed her a soldier. The two together meant only one thing: mercenary.

Behind the bar, a stout woman set down the bottle she was polishing and reached for something out of sight. "If you're here to make trouble," she said, her voice loud in the silence, "you can turn around and leave. I run a neat establishment."

Avilia ignored her. The city of Borton might be in decline, but it hadn't descended so far that she'd bothered to carry her spear today. Now she wondered whether perhaps she should have. The long dagger at her belt would do little to keep an angry crowd away if things turned ugly here.

But her business was urgent, she reminded herself, her eyes sweeping the smoky gloom. After a moment they settled on a hunched figure sitting by himself at a corner table. An empty plate lay before him and the clay cup in his hand was tilted far enough over to show that it held only one last sip of wine.

Alone among the patrons he hadn't turned to look at Avilia. The reason was clear: a rag, bound over his face and covering his eyes. The air that hung over him was one of quiet despair.

As Avilia took a step in his direction, a large man rose from another table and moved forward, as if to stop her.

She halted and locked her eyes onto his, letting her anger and frustration seep onto her face. For a moment he tried to match her stare, but then he stepped back to let her pass.

The blind man stirred as she sat at his table. "Fuck off." His voice was a rasp. His face looked like he'd made a long habit of running into temple walls.

"I need your help." Avilia's voice was calm, but she couldn't disguise the undercurrent of tension.

"You don't." The blind man raised his cup and drained the last drop. "Whoever you think I am, you're mistaken."

Avilia's hand shot out and seized his wrist before he could set the cup down on the table. "I'm not mistaken. You're Sniffer. And I need your help."

The man called Sniffer struggled against her grip for an instant, then gave up. "I'm done with that. Nothing but trouble. So you can fuck off."

Avilia's lips were pursed. "Please," she hissed between clenched teeth. "I'll pay you whatever you want." Slowly she let go of the scrawny wrist. "I need you."

Sniffer placed the cup on the table and nursed his wrist in silence. An alertness seemed to have crept into him. Around them, the sounds of the tavern picked up again, though not as loud and carefree as before.

At length Sniffer spoke. "You smell worried." When Avilia didn't reply he continued. "I don't help thief-catchers. Not anymore. You know what they did to my nose?" He gestured to his face. "I ain't got much going for me, and the gangs tried to take it from me."

"Not a gang member. No-one that anyone in this sewer mouth of a city knows. All I need is a trace. A lead. A direction to look in." Her hand vanished inside her jacket and reappeared with a pouch. It jingled as she dropped it onto the stained table.

At the sound Sniffer gave a start and leaned forward. "Silver!" His voice was a whisper, barely audible over the noise. He reached out, then stopped before he touched the pouch. "You promise? No trouble with the gangs?"

"None."

The blind man hesitated a moment longer, then jerked his head towards the bar. "Give the money to Shorri. She'll take better care of it than me. Takes care of me already."

===

It wasn't difficult to decide where to start. The temple area was still busy with guards and priests. Most were in the muted green of Life Priests, but there were plenty of other temples represented on the streets.

"Your man stirred up the ants fierce," Sniffer muttered. "Don't want anyone asking questions."

"Let me worry about them," Avilia replied. Her tone tried to convey a calmness she didn't feel. "You just find him."

What's Sligh been up to? she wondered. What kind of trouble is he in?

She'd known that he was plotting something. More than half a moon had passed since they arrived in Borton, and while the days -- and nights -- had flown by in a heady rush of passion and happiness, she'd sensed that Sligh had started to chafe.

Then some days ago that changed. Suddenly he had a purpose. His walk became a stride. He rose early and headed out, coming back hours later full of energy. When she asked, he only smiled and kissed her. That always led to them stripping and fucking, so she didn't really care what he was doing.

Last night he'd gone out late. "Don't wait up," he told her. "And don't take Farflier out first thing in the morning, either."

"I won't," she replied. "I know it's Spring Blossom Day, even if you don't. That means you're supposed to present me with a year's supply of flowers."

"I prefer the other tradition." He grinned that grin of his that made her want to punch him in the face, then rip his hose off. "The one that calls it Love Demon Day. And whoever you fuck on Love Demon Day, you'll fuck them for the rest of the year."

Somehow he managed to keep his clothes on and escape.

He hadn't returned by morning. For a moment she was overwhelmed with doubt. What if he'd decided he was done with her? That two weeks was more than enough, and now he was off to find someone closer to his true social station?

But Zretha was still in the stable of the inn across the street from the house they'd rented, placidly nibbling at the aromatic twigs an awed stablehand fed her. Even if Sligh grew tired of Avilia, he'd never leave without his eight-legged riding-lizard. There were times when she grew jealous of the care he bestowed on the giant creature.

The logical conclusion was that whatever he'd been up to had gone wrong. She had to assume, for her own sake, that he hadn't been killed. Just in case, she'd checked the looming bulk of Borton's goal. There was no fresh head on the spikes over the gate, no insufferable smirk that would be Sligh's last laugh at the world.

So wherever he was -- hiding, on the run, captured -- he needed her help.

A mutter from Sniffer drew her back to the present. "He was here."

They were standing in a wide avenue that ran along one of the city's few parks. Statues that had seen better centuries faced each other at regular intervals, and opposite the park stood tall buildings that spoke of lingering wealth and disapproval.

Avilia felt her heart skip a beat. Until now she hadn't been sure she'd find Sligh, even with help from this tracker. "Where did he go?"

Sniffer turned his battered face this way and that, sniffing the air like a cat hunting for the scent of grilled fish on a summer's breeze. A frown, mouth twisting in confusion, then he stepped across the avenue towards a narrow alley between two mansions.

Avilia strode after him, waving her apologies at passers-by and a mounted patrol who had to draw up suddenly to avoid the blindfolded man. Ignoring the curses and glares, she followed him into the alley, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the sudden dark.

The tracker had walked a few paces along before stopping and sniffing the air again. "Sorcery." There was disgust in his tone, and on his face. "There was a hint of it before, but here..." He spat.

Avilia looked around, hoping to see some sign, dreading what she might find. Her eye fell on something glimmering faintly in the soft light that ventured into the space between the buildings. She stepped forward and kneeled down.

It was a dagger. Short and heavy-bladed, with a notch near the hilt that had resisted her best efforts to polish it away. She remembered where it had happened: in Duke Gharre's treasure chamber, with Sligh catching the demon-mannikin's swinging arm on his crossed blades...

"Is that his?" Sniffer had come to stand beside her.

Avilia nodded, picking up the dagger and holding it like a baby. Sligh! She swallowed, and spoke. "I see no signs of a fight."

"Sorcery," the other said again. "Powerful sorcery." He hesitated, then continued. "No blood, though. No death."

Avilia let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. No death. No death! "Where was this sorcery?"

Sniffer gestured a few paces away. "A spell-slinger, standing there."

Skies! Avilia's heart lurched again. She knew a sorceress who might want to harm Sligh. Or perhaps not harm him, but keep him as her pet.

Avilia wasn't sure which thought was the most worrying.

Pushing her fears aside, she gritted her teeth and asked, "Anything about this spell-slinger? About where they came from?"

The tracker threw his head back, inhaling deeply. "River mud," he muttered. "And goldflower."

"Goldflower?"

Sniffer waved absentmindedly. "Thick dark leaves. Bright yellow petals. Used to grow in big bushes along the river bank, until it became unfashionable." He snorted. "Posh people and their fads. Fuckers."

Avilia turned to stare out of the alley, running her hands over and over the dagger. Beyond the avenue, beyond the park and the dusty temples, lay the sluggish waters of the Brownhills River. Later in spring it would flow swifter and wider, fed by the melting snows, but for now it was little more than a shallow stream in a bed of mud.

There were mansions and palaces along its banks, built when the Brownhills River had run deeper all year, bringing trade from the highlands and the sea to make Borton a prosperous city. Now the towers crumbled, the walls flaked, and gardens were untended. The merchant princes had moved out, leaving Bolton to the temples and the slums.

It seemed as good a place as any to search for Sligh.

===

A nightmare of pain slowly resolved itself into an awareness of pain. His chest was a dull ache, and his shoulders were on fire. Dry lips begged for moisture, and it took all the discipline his mind had mastered to stop himself from licking them with a tongue that felt just as dry.

Without opening his eyes, Sligh took stock of the situation. Pain in his shoulders, with his arms pointing up. He realised his wrists also hurt. So, shackles. That didn't bode well.

From the movement of air on his skin he deduced that his torso was naked. His feet were bare too, but he still wore his hose. A small asset if he escaped and found himself in public.

His charms had been in his jerkin, and his tools in his satchel. Both seemed to have been removed. But his hair wasn't hanging loose, so he could assume the cord tying it into its queue was still there. And inside that cord was his final charm. A powerful one, if only he could reach it, and if his captors came close enough.

The ache in his chest was a memory from last night's encounter. He could breathe easily enough, but the blow he'd taken had left a bruise. It shouldn't be a problem, he decided, unless he had to run, or climb a steep hill.

He didn't bother to try and free his hands. Anyone who went to the trouble of abducting him by sorcery and shackling him to a wall wasn't going to be careless about something like that.

So, what else could he do? Without opening his eyes he could tell that it was light. Judging by the heat, he guessed around mid-morning. His ears caught the cries of birds -- water birds -- and little else. The warm air carried the scent of mud, mixed with sewage and dead fish. The smells of Borton, and beneath them a sweet scent, with a hint of spice, that took a moment to place.

Goldflower. The name brought the lore to mind. Flourishes in warm, damp climes. Used by the priesthood of the Two Suns to help them achieve visions, and according to some sources as an aid to fertility, or at least an aphrodisiac.

So it was safe to assume he was somewhere by the river. Probably one of the empty and dilapidated mansions. Does this knowledge help me in any way? Not immediately, he decided, but no knowledge was ever useless.

The thought entered his mind that Avilia would be wondering where he was. Knowing her, she'd be furious with him. He pictured her in his mind, eyes flashing, a flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck. Dawn, you said! I was waiting for you, waiting for my flowers and your tongue...

Well, he'd have to find a way out of this predicament by himself. She had no way of knowing where he was, or even that he'd been abducted. Probably she assumed he'd run off, or was out carousing.

A pain stabbed at his chest that wasn't from the bruise. The thought that Avilia would despise him, that she'd be upset for being lied to and abandoned, made him despise himself. Not so long ago he hadn't cared much about anyone but himself and Zretha, and he'd left a string of lovers behind, heartbroken and often much poorer than when he entered their lives.

But Avilia -- a foul-mouthed mercenary and bandit from the uncivilised Dumran Mountains in the distant north -- Avilia made him want to be a better person. Not to the world at large, perhaps, and not enough to give up breaking into temples. But to her at least. Just at the idea of hurting her, of causing her pain or anguish, it was as if a giant fist was clenched around his heart and squeezing.

The sound of a key turning in a lock broke the near-silence and drew him out of his reverie. He forced himself to hang still, to ignore the screaming pain in his shoulders and wrists.

A heavy door opened, and footsteps approached. Light, in boots that were both dainty and well-made, if he was any judge. The heels clicked on wood. Other footsteps came behind. Leather soles, and a heavier step.

"Mezler."

With that one word, he knew who'd taken him. No need to feign unconsciousness any longer. He opened his eyes and raised his head. "Your Grace." The smile he added was carefully measured: friendly, slightly apologetic, hinting at their shared past without suggesting a shared future.

Her Grace the Duchess Lesla of Menia had changed since he last saw her. True, that had been from a dark alcove, watching with his breath held as she pleaded with her father -- her late father -- to spare his life and let her marry him.

Now she stood before him with confidence, feet a little apart on wooden floorboards, sunlight from the open window picking out golden stitching on her clothes and shimmering on jewels on her ears and at her throat.

Her face, once pleasingly plump if a bit sulky, had been transformed with magical artifice to a more classical idea of beauty. It showed as much expression as a statue, and was less attractive. Her hair was carefully coiffed, her skin artfully smooth, her lips perfect in shape and shade.

Her form, too, had undergone a change. The curves had disappeared, as had her slight slouch. The pale flesh that once had almost burst from her low-cut dresses was now carefully contained by a tailored travelling gown, with only a measured amount on display.

All this took only an instant to notice, without his eyes running over her like he once would have. Once, when they were lovers.

Realising that there was no need to slump in his chains either, he got his feet beneath him and let them take his weight. The relief in his shoulders and arms was instant, but again he tried to let none of it show.

Lesla stepped closer, reaching up to touch his face with the fingers of one hand. "My father thought you were soft. I knew better, though. I can't imagine the pain you're in. And yet not a trace of it on your face."

"As the poet Anyel said, what is pain if not part of pleasure?" He added the same smile as before. "What is sweetness without sorrow?"

"Hmm." She smiled, fingers stroking his cheek softly. "You're still the philosopher. Lord Brago wasn't so philosophical when he was shackled in my dungeon. Do you remember him, my love? My father's loyal servant."

My love? Well, at least it didn't seem as if she was going to kill him right away. "I remember. A sorcerer."

Behind Lesla the second form shifted. It was a man, Sligh saw, in a soft robe of dark purple with silver runes worked into the material. He recognised the pudgy shape from his encounter in the alley the night before.

"A second-rate demon charmer." The words rasped out in a whisper. An affectation, Sligh decided, intended to make people listen more closely.

Well, none is lonelier than the dancer without a partner, as the poet said. "Sorry, what was that? You might need to speak up."

The other man glared at him, but before he could reply Lesla interrupted. "A second-rate demon charmer indeed. With his pet gone -- which I've always assumed was your work, my sweet -- he had little to offer me after my father's... sudden death."

There was a subtle smirk in her eyes. So Princess Terena was right. The cause of the Duke's death was an ambitious daughter.

"Duke Gharre was a great man." He wasn't sure why he said it. He knew it would needle Lesla, just when she seemed to be willing to treat him more kindly than she had so far. I suppose I just don't approve of murder.

"He was a fool!" The fingers on his cheek drew away as her hand clenched into a fist, then relaxed slowly, almost deliberately. "He thought I'd willingly marry that ugly Prince of Zuellen, that I'd let myself be touched by-- that I'd let any man touch me after you!"

"You'll have to, you know." He tried to put regret in his voice. "You're a Duchess now. The last of your line. No other family that I know of. Imagine the chaos if you don't leave an heir."

She leaned forward again, so close that her face almost touched his. "I'll leave an heir." Her lips brushed against his cheek, then made their way towards his. "I'll leave a dozen heirs, my love, because you'll give them to me."

It took all his resolve not to jerk back, or lick his lips. "Lesla... I don't--"

"Oh, but you do, my love. Or you will." She drew back and gestured at the man behind her. "Vadim here knows the ritual of the Love Demon. And today is the right day. You know that, don't you, my love? If we make love today, you'll be mine forever."

Sligh stared at her, for once lost for words. A glance at the man Vadim showed a smug smile on the other's face.

Lesla brushed his cheek again, then pressed her lips against his. "Forever."

===

It didn't take Avilia long to find the mansion with the goldflower growing wild. The bright blooms shone in the sunlight, set off in stark relief against the thick, dark green leaves. Their sweet scent hung heavy on the warm midmorning air. At least it was better than the rotten smell of the river.

The house wasn't in such bad shape as many along the waterfront. Its shutters still hung before the windows, and its single tower still stood, although the flaking walls put Avilia in mind of a leper.

Somewhere inside was Sligh, she was sure. Probably chained up, and quite possibly gagged, if his abductors had any sense.

So, how to go about this? Landing Farflier on the roof would be too obvious. She'd save that as the last resort: fuck subterfuge, just go in with her spear and not stop until Sligh was free and that fucking sorcerer was lying in a steaming pile of his own guts.

Her fists were clenched, she realised. But tempting as the thought was, she couldn't be sure Sligh would still be alive when she reached him.

So a more subtle approach was needed. What would Sligh do? He was the most subtle man she knew. When he wasn't being explicitly direct, of course, but that was usually only when he wanted to get her naked. Or when he was doing something duplicitous that he wanted to hide.

On the side facing the street, the approach to the mansion was too exposed. A low wall surrounded the poorly kept gardens, but besides the overgrowing goldflower there wasn't much cover. If the sorcerer had an accomplice standing watch they'd see Avilia coming.

The rear offered more possibilities. She pushed down the thought that Sligh would probably make a crude joke, or at least give a suggestive leer, and headed up the street to find a way to the river.

A few hundred paces along, a narrow alley led between two large houses and took her to a mouldy jetty sticking out across the mud. Rotten boarding ran to the left and right, along the rears of the houses. In better times, presumably, this was where the servants entered: out of sight, hidden behind the tall brick walls that separated the gardens from the river.

She counted buildings until she reached the house where she suspected Sligh was being held. A small wooden door hung rotting on its hinges. If the house still had occupants, either they couldn't afford servants anymore or else they'd given up caring about appearances.

The door opened easily and she stepped into an overgrown garden. The goldflower bushes had been left to themselves here as well, and had claimed most of the space. It was simplicity itself to glide from shadow to shadow until she stood by a short flight of stairs leading down to a servants' entrance. A few heartbeats later she was inside.

Whatever wealthy family once lived in the house had clearly left long ago. Shafts of light, slanting in through the shutters as a playground for dust motes, revealed old sheets covering large furniture. Doors stood open, the fireplaces were cold, the walls were bare of decoration. Dead leaves and petals lay strewn across the halls.

And yet there was someone in the house. Avilia knew it the way she could tell a living person from a corpse. There was none of that stillness, that lifelessness, of complete abandonment.

A thorough but careful search of the lower level didn't yield anything until she followed a short flight of stairs down into what were clearly the servants' quarters. Here were signs of life: a pair of plates on the table, a cup half full of water, its twin lying smashed on the flagged floor.

A closed door led off from the kitchen -- the first closed door she'd seen so far. Long dagger in hand, she cautiously felt the handle and pulled.

A sudden squeal made her jump back, blade before her, free hand groping at her belt for Sligh's knife, before she saw the source of the sound. Two sticklike women in shabby clothes cringed away into the shadows, hands before their face. They were sitting side by side against the wall of what had clearly once been a pantry. Now it had been turned into a bedroom, judging by the ragged blankets and musty smell.

"Don't hurt us!" one of them whispered. "Please!"

Their names were Kora and Bena, and they were either sisters or romantic partners. Possibly both. They called themselves caretakers, looking after the House until the Family returned. Avilia could hear the capitals in their voices.

They'd been hiding in the pantry since the day before, when the strangers had appeared. "A lady, a fine lady" -- not as fine as the Old Mistress had been in her day, of course, but fine by today's standards -- "and a fat man in purple, with a pale face and a head like an egg."

It was the pale man who'd scared them. "We heard their voices," Kora whispered, "so we crept upstairs to look. At first we thought it was the Family come back, perhaps, but one look at that man...!"

They scurried back into the kitchen, forgetting their meagre meal, and hid in their bedroom. Bena glanced past Avilia's crouched form at the table. A look of despair tried to chase away the fear on her face, and failed. "The rats found our food." A thin tongue licked at dry lips. "I'm so hungry!"

Avilia reached into a pouch on her belt and drew out two nobles. The silver gleamed in the faint beam of light that crept in through the small window high in the wall.

"Tell me what you know," she murmured, "and these are yours."

Kora had reached out a hand, eyes wide, almost as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. "Are... are they real?"

Avilia tossed the coins in her hand to make the distinctive clinking sound of silver. "Answer my questions and I'll give them to you."

Her first question was simple. What did the women know about the strangers?

"The lady's in charge," Bena answered. "But the pale man seemed to be telling her what to do."

The lady was proper nobility, she added. "Like the Princess who came to visit once. Remember, Kora?"

The words sent a shiver down Avilia's spine. She knew a princess, and one who probably thought she had a score to settle with Sligh.

Kora's next words chased the fear from her heart, though. "The man's a sorcerer. I heard him telling her that he'd use the goldflower in a ritual. He was very excited about it, but she didn't seem very interested."

Princess Terena was a powerful sorceress in her own right. If she had a henchman, it wouldn't be another enchanter.

Still, one sorcerer was as bad as another. Though at least this one probably didn't have the resources of a Grand Duchy behind him.

"Do you know where they are?"

The thin women shook their heads, biting their lips and looking sadly at the coins in Avilia's hand. She decided to try a different approach.

"I believe they've abducted a friend of mine. Can you think where they'd keep him?"

After a moment's hesitation Bena said, "The tower, perhaps?"

Kora nodded instantly. "The Old Mistress's room." Seeing Avilia's questioning look, she continued. "The Old Mistress liked her men... to obey. She taught them how."

"Chains and whips," Bena explained. "The shackles are still on the wall."

Avilia felt her eyebrows climb up her forehead. Those posh ladies know what they like! It was a story she couldn't wait to share with Sligh -- once she'd freed him.

Holding up the coins, she looked at the two women in turn. "One last question before I give you these. Is there a servants' staircase?"

===

It was becoming difficult to concentrate. Elrin the Lesser's long epic about the history of the First Empire marched its regimented path through his head, but the fumes from the sorcerer's crucible were itching at his eyes.

The pudgy man had set it up in the middle of the room. Black iron, on black iron legs. Coals glowed in the bowl, the air shimmering above. With Lesla beside him, keeping clear of the effects, he chanted his harsh whisper into the heat.

Sligh knew what effect the spell would have if he let his mind surrender. Goldflower could be a powerful aphrodisiac, prepared properly. Fortunately, this sorcerer Vadim didn't seem to know his alchemy. Iron! If he's used silver, I'd be a drooling idiot by now.

The ritual, as far as he could tell with most of his mind occupied with Elrin's detailed description of a minor king's armour before a battle nobody remembered, was intended to merge arousal of the body with arousal of the mind.

Sligh was supposed to fall in lust with Lesla. Lose his soul to her. Do anything she asked, and be grateful just to be with her.

Sooner or later, he'd give in. He knew that. This Vadim's understanding of alchemy might be non-existent, and his sorcery might be crude, but it was effective. The human mind could only hold out so long.

Sligh might be able to think of a way out if he didn't need to fight the enchantment all the time. What he needed was an interruption, a distraction, something to give him a moment to think.

Lesla stepped away from Vadim and moved to the wall where Sligh was hanging. She took a deep breath. Clearly she didn't intend to fight the spell herself.

Her hand came up and stroked his bare chest. "Well, my love? Are you ready?"

I can fool her. I just need to make it seem real. It was already as if his head was wrapped in wool. Everything seemed to be happening at a remove. Slowly. Sell it.

He blinked at her. "Love?"

"Mezler!" she breathed, and pressed herself against his body. "Are you ready?" Her hand slid down to grasp his cock.

Skies! Besides the physical stimulation, it brought back memories that he really didn't want to face just now. He didn't need his body to remind him of seducing a naked Lesla, and teaching her to seduce him.

He seized on another memory from that time. Guilt. He remembered feeling bad about toying with the young woman's affections. He'd convinced himself that she was glad for the attention, eager to enter the world of womanhood, and thrilled to risk her father's disapproval. But he knew it was wrong, that he'd created a façade that was becoming very real for her.

"Mezler, my love?" Lesla's voice dragged him back to the present. Her hand was still fondling him, but it wasn't having the desired effect.

Guilt can be such a useful emotion. "Your Grace." He managed to add a catch to his voice. "You mustn't... I don't deserve you."

Her hand stopped stroking and she stared at him. Then she took a step back. When she spoke, her voice was bitter. "No, you don't. You used me. You betrayed me." Her face contorted. "You left me!"

Well, the guilt was certainly making it easier to fight the sorcery.

"You left me." Her voice fell to a whisper. "With my father, and with that-- I was all alone." She gave an unladylike snort and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "At least I thought I was."

Sligh looked up at the change in her tone. It was triumphant, and warmer than it had been.

"You made me stronger." She stepped close again, breathing deep, almost draping her body against his. Her fingers stroked his chest again, making him wince as they crossed the bruise. "You showed me what I could be. You helped me to realise that I was a woman, with a will of my own. You told me often, do you remember?"

He had. It was all part of the seduction.

"You gave me the strength to remove my father." Her fingers became claws, nails scratching his skin. "I was thinking of you, of how proud you'd be."

Somehow he found a smile. "I knew you were strong." Somehow his voice didn't catch. Somehow he didn't throw up. He really did dislike murder.

She pressed her face into his neck, kissed his skin. "So I forgive you, my sweet. You made me, you forged me like--"

Crash!

It came from beyond the crucible, the smack of a door being kicked open and banging against the wall. A servants' passage, unnoticed by the room's stunned occupants until now.

Vee! For a moment, through the fog that was clawing at his mind, he wondered whether he was hallucinating.

But it was real. Avilia strode into the room, knife blades in either hand flashing almost as brightly as her eyes. "Get off my man, bitch." Her voice was low and flat. Deadly.

Lesla had spun around, eyes and mouth wide. "Vadim!" she squealed.

The short sorcerer skipped back. His eyes had gone dark and his lips worked. Avilia pointed one of her blades at him. "Stay back, and I let you live."

The man froze, then stepped back, face pale and hands dropping to his sides. Avilia glared at him as she moved around the crucible, then she turned her gaze on Lesla.

"I told you to step away from him." Sligh couldn't remember seeing her so angry. He'd also never seen her in a full-on fight, he realised. He knew Lesla had trained with knife and club, but she wouldn't be a match for Avilia.

Lesla stayed where she was, her fingers idly stroking Sligh's chest. "Your man? I don't know who you are, but I can tell you that this is not your man. Mezler is my consort and the father of my children."

"He'll lose his balls before he fathers any children on you." Avilia smirked. "But it won't come to that. Because you're going to be nailed to that door with my knives unless you unshackle him."

The old Lesla would have wilted under the heat of that glare. Duchess Lesla managed to meet Avilia's gaze for half a hundred heartbeats before her eyes dropped. Almost shrinking into herself, flinching at a jab from the long knife, she reached up with trembling fingers.

Sligh couldn't keep his eyes from Avilia's face. So unexpected, so unlooked-for. So beautiful, with her spiked hair and scars and pale skin and fury mixed with triumph. Even through the goldflower fogging his senses he knew his heart and body belonged to her.

Her eyes darted sideways and met his. A quick grin, and he wanted to speak, to tell her how he felt, but then his right arm flopped free from its shackle and his knees buckled beneath him. A stab of pain seared him, burning from his left wrist to his shoulder, hammering his body as he twisted into the wall, stabbing his ankle as it tried to take his weight, running along his spine as he was wrenched apart, piercing his lip as he bit down, still determined not to cry out despite the weakness that was clear for everyone to see.

"Sligh!" Through clenched eyes he sensed Avilia moving close, almost brushing aside Lesla, then she screamed. Anger and frustration, more anger.

He managed to open his eyes and forced his legs to hold his weight again. Turned. Looked. Hissed between his teeth.

Avilia was wrapped almost from head to foot in black tentacles, with more still grasping at her. They lifted her from the floor, pulled her up and away from him. She struggled, fought, pried at their hard thickness until her knuckles were white, but to no avail.

He wondered why she didn't use her knives, then he saw their gleam on the floorboards. Wrenched from her grasp, or dropped after futile attempts to slash the tentacles? It didn't matter.

What mattered was to keep up the charade. He'd been close to getting Lesla to believe him helpless. He had to keep it up. He had to. Had to believe that Avilia could hold on long enough. Had to use his free hand to get at the cord in his hair.

So he forced his face to slackness, to disinterest, as he followed the tentacles to their source. To Vadim, to his hands that were now covered in black gloves. He likely had them in a pouch or pocket. Ignored, with Avilia's attention on Lesla's, he must have slipped them on and waited for his opportunity.

The tentacles grew from his fingers and thumbs, ten of them, grasping and squeezing, pulling Avilia's arms and legs wide, squeezing her torso, wrapping around her neck.

She struggled, choking, her eyes rolling and her hands grasping. She managed to force her fingers beneath one of the tendrils, and almost, just for an instant, it seemed as if she might break free.

Then Vadim muttered a word of power that echoed in the shadows, and she went limp. Her head fell back, with her mouth open and her eyes closed.

Sligh's heart pounded in his chest until he saw her take a shuddering breath. Alive.

How she'd found him he couldn't begin to imagine, but she had. And now it was his turn.

"Who is this slut to you?" Lesla gave Avilia a last dismissive look, then turned her attention back to Sligh. "She called you her man."

Hoping that he hadn't betrayed any emotion, he shrugged as best he could with one hand still shackled above his head. By his side, his right arm was like a tree stump. He needed time to regain use of his fingers. "My bodyguard." It was the same lie he'd told Terena all those weeks ago. Trying to make his tongue thick he added, "She has fantasies."

Lesla stroked his chin and nibbled at his cheek. "No doubt encouraged by sweet words from your lips." She looked up at him. "Don't bother denying it. It's who you are, my love. I don't mind. You're mine now."

Before Sligh could reply, Vadim's hoarse whisper interrupted. "Your Grace."

"What?" Lesla didn't turn to him, instead stroking Sligh's face and nibbling her way to his mouth.

"This woman... may I have her?"

"What possible use could you have for a woman?" She have Sligh a look that was supposed to convey amusement. "Your sorcery sucked the life out of your cock years ago."

"The, ah, the goldflower..." He sounded almost embarrassed, but eager.

Lesla turned to look at him, finally, and Sligh followed her gaze. The short sorcerer still stood with his hands before him, dark tendrils holding Avilia's suspended form. A flush had appeared on his pale face, and his purple robe showed a definite bulge beneath the waist.

"I'm pleased to see your enchantment is having some effect."

"It works. This man was a Master of the University. His mind will fight it. Mine embraces it." Vadim's gaze didn't leave Avilia. Sweat appeared on his scalp, although whether it was from effort or anticipation was impossible to tell.

Lesla looked a little longer, disgust creeping into her eyes. "Go then," she said. "I don't need you here. In fact," she turned back to Sligh and stroking his chest and stomach, "I'd prefer it if you weren't here."

Vadim stepped forward, gloved hands gesturing. The black tendrils carried Avilia before him to the stairs. Within moments they'd vanished from sight. Slow, heavy footsteps plodded down a wooden staircase, becoming fainter with each step until a door slammed on them.

Lesla turned back to Sligh. "Alone at last," she breathed. Her hand clutched at Sligh's shaft through his hose. "Tell me, love, are you ready?"

Sligh kept his eyes carefully away from the knives lying forgotten on the floor. Blood was returning to his right hand like flames. He needed a few more moments. "Lesla..." Time to let the enchantment do its work. Draw her close. He relaxed his mind and let the goldflower in to swirl around his mind, stirring up memories of Avilia.

A surge of blood made his cock twitch, and Lesla breathed, "Oh yes, my love! Oh, how I have missed this!"

===

Awareness returned as suddenly as it had left. Avilia was lying on a something soft -- a mattress, by the musty smell -- looking at a ceiling with flaking plaster.

When she tried to move, she felt the tight grip of the black tendrils restraining her at ankle, wrist, elbow. She was naked, she realised, as the sun broke through a cloud outside to cast its warmth on her naked skin.

Not ideal. She didn't mind being naked, but she'd had some bad experiences being strapped down by sorcerers. Well, one experience. One was enough.

"There's no use struggling." It was the sorcerer's rasping voice. She hadn't been struggling, so presumably he'd rehearsed the words. "And in a short while you'll be eager for me to... Well, you'll be eager."

"What do you want?"

The pallid face appeared in her vision. The man's eyes were hollow, almost black, and he licked his lips nervously. "What I want I will take. And you will give it to me."

She bared her teeth at him. "Come closer, and you'll see what I have to offer."

"Oh, you might be unwilling now. But not for long." One of the black tendrils appeared in her sight, holding a shallow dish of some metal. "This oil will change your mind."

The bowl tipped, and she felt warm oil pour onto her skin. From her chest down across her stomach and lower, and along one leg and the other. It didn't feel unpleasant. There was something in it, though. She could tell from how it tingled, and how her head began to spin. The scent reminded her of the garden outside, only sharper. Goldflower. It had hung in the room where Sligh was chained to the wall too, but thicker there, like in a smoke pit.

"And now we just wait." The sorcerer was bending over her, dark eyes wide and eager.

Despite herself she almost jerked when she felt something glide over her skin. A tendril, she realised, ending in a hard ball that rubbed the oil into her skin. Another joined it, and two more, pressing hard against her muscles and sending whatever enchantment it contained deep into her body.

It was powerful stuff. The tingling crawled into her blood and along her limbs. A heat spread through her body, building higher and higher as it burrowed its way towards her core.

Avilia squirmed on the mattress, trying to scratch an itch that was inside her, teasing her, caressing her, setting her on fire. Her awareness shrank to the sensations crawling over her skin and the sorcerer's leering face.

"Give in," he whispered at her, "you'll enjoy it more."

She didn't want to. The thought of his cold hands touching her, his body pressed against hers, his cock violating her -- it made her feel sick inside. "No," she moaned. "Never!"

But it was hard to resist. The tendrils on her elbows let go. Instead they stroked her legs, running up and down, inside and out. Even without the sorcerous oil she'd have shivered at such teasing.

It was hard to keep track of where the tentacles were. They continued to stroke her, but one explored between her legs, almost at her arse, and was caressing the sensitive area at the top of her thighs. She felt her body responding, yearning to be fucked hard.

Another tendril forced itself beneath her, glided its way up her back and wrapped itself around her neck. It slithered down, writhing over her breasts and rubbing her nipples. She fought to keep herself from moaning.

Her breath was shallow, almost burning in her throat. She felt her legs trembling, from the effort of controlling her body and from the tension that was building inside her. No! she screamed at herself. No! I won't let him...

But it was hard to remember what it was she didn't want. Her mind had always followed her body. Now, when she needed it most, it was giving up, giving in, its protests becoming feebler with every shuddering breath she sucked in.

The sorcerer leaned close. His face filled her entire vision. "You're ready," he chuckled. "I can see it on your body. I'm going to fuck you -- fuck you in every hole until I'm sated, and still you'll want more. And then I'll fuck you with my dark fingers."

Avilia wanted to scream her anger and frustration at him, but she was afraid that if she opened her mouth she'd only moan. Instead she clamped her lips shut and poured her hatred of him through her eyes. Everything besides that hollow gaze and those fleshy lips was blurred, remote.

"Yes," he whispered. "Hate me. That only makes it better. Are you ready for me now?"

His face was only a handspan away, but suddenly it jerked back. There was a scream, choked off, and then the face before her was Sligh's. "Vee," he breathed. His hair fell loose over his shoulders.

Sligh! Her body screamed for him. "Fuck me," she moaned. "Fuck me, Sligh, now!"

Something hot pressed against her entrance, then slid inside her. She welcomed him in, letting her walls clasp his shaft until it was buried inside her. Sligh's cock, the perfect fit, as if it had been made to fuck her.

Sligh's weight was on top of her. Struggling, pulling, she broke free of the tentacles grasping her wrists and ankles, but they weren't grasping anymore. She threw her arms and legs around the body on top of hers and pulled him tight against her, bucking her hips to meet his thrusts. "Fuck me," she moaned, "fuck me!"

His perfect cock slid in and out of her, exciting her in a way the black tendrils hadn't managed. Exciting her in her mind and her heart as well as in her body. His breath was loud in her ears, hot on her neck. Over the sharp smell of goldflower his scent filled her nostrils. His strong hands grasped at her shoulders as he pushed himself against her.

The tendrils were sliding off her, she realised, leaving traces of arousal on her skin. One was still against the crack of her arse and she let go of Sligh long enough to reach down and press it against her hole.

The fresh sensations that this brought pushed her over the edge, and her body trembled as her climax swept through her, a greater heat than the heat that was already burning her up inside, wave after wave of ecstasy and breathless bliss. She heard a cry in her ear, tasted salt, and realised that she'd bitten down hard on Sligh's neck. She wanted to apologise, but another wave of golden fire flooded through her and robbed her of all awareness beyond the perfect cock inside her.

Sligh's thrusts became irregular, and she felt him swell up. "Yes," she whispered in his ear, "come for me. Come with me."

With a muted roar he gave a final thrust. Hot jets flooded into her, one after the other, and she squeezed him tight as his body shuddered and convulsed. His cock pulsed inside her, and she reached down to force the limp tendril into her arse, sending a thrill of pleasure through her that left her gasping and shivering and sucking for air, fighting for breath, then relaxing clenched fingers and legs, slowly letting the fires inside her die down until all that remained was a warm glow and the weight of Sligh's body on top of hers.

She must have fallen asleep, or perhaps passed out. First, with none of the suddenness of sorcery, she became aware of the blackness, then that it was retreating. Finally she returned to her senses.

She was on her side on the musty bed. Naked. Weak. Her skin was cold and clammy.

She noticed something on the bed by her head. A tendril, motionless and limp. Memory flooded back.

Sorcerer! She jerked upright, disgust and anger filling her. Afraid to see, she pressed her hands against her face, blocking out sight and knowledge. He tricked me! He made me think he was Sligh, and I fucked him. She hated him, hated him with bitterness and fury and shame.

What she hated, though, was herself. She hated herself more than the sorcerer for enjoying it. For letting herself enjoy it. It was a great fuck! It felt so right.

She realised that what she was feeling was guilt. Until now, she'd always engaged in sexual activity on her own terms. If she liked someone, and she was in the mood, she fucked them. Since she'd fled Taridhol with Sligh, she hadn't wanted to fuck anyone else.

Even so, she never once doubted that the moment would come, sooner or later. She enjoyed fucking, with all kinds of people. No reason to think that it would be Sligh, and only Sligh, for the rest of her life.

So now, through the disgust and anger and confusion, this guilt was a new feeling. She felt she'd betrayed Sligh, broken a promise to him that she'd never made. As if she'd taken a wrong path, one she never meant to take, but now the right path was lost to her forever.

And its loss left a hole, and guilt and shame and disgust rushed to fill it and fester at her.

I was tricked, she reminded herself, and she knew it was true. But she knew that it didn't matter, that the festering hole was still there.

But it gave her something to focus on. I was tricked, and it was that sorcerer who tricked me. Who took this from me.

Self-loathing merged into anger, into hatred, into a need to lash out. But when she lowered her hands and turned, ready to strike with fists and knees at the figure lying on the bed with his eyes closed and his mouth partly open, it wasn't the pallid, pudgy sorcerer.

It was Sligh, his hose around his knees and his soft cock resting on his thigh. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of a deep sleep. His hair hung loose, covering a face that was drawn and pale. A trickle of blood had dried on his chest, over a fist-sized bruise, and through the surging relief she felt the tiniest twinge of guilt.

Sligh.

She had no idea how he'd freed himself. What he'd done with the woman. How he'd reached her in time. She recalled the choked scream she'd heard, and a glance over the side of the bed showed a purple mound with a dark stain, lying with the stillness of death.

Turning back to the naked man beside her, she put her arm around him and pressed close against him. The goldflower was still chanting its song in her blood, but its immediacy was gone, replaced by a steady hymn that soothed her, gentled her heart and lulled her to sleep.

===

"We can't kill her."

Avilia looked up from the still form on the floor and turned on him. "Why not? Because you used to fuck her? Because you still have feelings for her?"

He tried to keep his voice steady, but found himself raising it to interrupt her. "Because she's the Duchess of Menia."

The coals in the crucible had died down, taking the goldflower and its enchantment with them. Its warmth still lingered in the room, though they were both pleased to have retrieved their clothes. Outside the sun was already making its way down the sky, covering the brown water of the river with a sheen of orange and cold.

Avilia glared at him. She was trembling, her face flushed, her nostrils flaring. "So?"

"So the Duchess of Menia turns up dead, there will be questions. A Duchess. Friends with Princess Terena, if you recall me mentioning that -- friends with the daughter of an Archduchess and cousin of the Emperor. By the Skies, Vee, this is a woman who's met the Emperor as an equal! If she goes missing, they'll find her body. They'll trace her movements." He waved a hand. "This house, those old women, you and me, anyone we've had dealings with here."

She didn't speak. The flush was still on her face, but she stopped trembling. At length she spoke. "Then what?" The accusatory tone had gone from her voice. That was all the apology he was going to get, he knew.

"Dump her by the High Magistrate's palace. She'll be safe there until she recovers."

Avilia kept her eyes on him, as if searching for something in his face. In the end she gave a short nod. "I'll do that. You clean up this mess." She gestured at the door, the stairs leading down to the room below where Vadim's body lay. "Can't leave him here for Bena and Kora to deal with."

The sun was already low over the river by the time she returned. He'd dragged the corpse down to the soft river bank, close enough for one of the great worms to find, then he went back to clear away the bloodstains. Lesla and Vadim's possessions yielded some interesting treasures, which he pocketed.

He met Avilia in the passage outside the kitchen. An exchange of nods was all they needed. They'd done what had to be done.

She was calmer now, and smiled, turning her face up to kiss him. "Come on. Let's go. You can tell me what you were doing when the sorcerous bastard caught you."

He'd almost forgotten about the job the night before. "Before we collect Zretha and Farflier we need to make a quick stop."

"What for?"

"A small gift for you, for Spring Blossom Day." An enchanted rose from the Temple of Life, that would bloom for a year even after it was cut. It was waiting in a hidden compartment that he'd prepared beforehand, in a statue on the city's main avenue.

"You remembered!" Her lips twitched at the corner. "But I thought you preferred fucking for Love Demon's Day."

"Don't remind me." He put his arms around her and kissed her, feeling her warmth against his bruised chest, feeling the warmth inside him. "Besides, we already took care of that."

She kissed him back. "I suppose we did. And that means we're going to fuck each other for the rest of the year?" She didn't sound upset or disappointed. Her fingers were stroking his back through his jerkin.

"The rest of the year, or some say the rest of our lives." He was trembling, he realised. The rest of my life? Not so long ago, that thought would have been enough to send him running for Zretha, ready to leave everything behind and escape. By the Skies, I want this! I want this woman, for the rest of my life!

Avilia kissed him again, then pulled away. "Come on. You'd better show me this present before the day's done. I hope it was worth all the trouble." She began to turn, about to head for the door and the garden beyond, but paused when he didn't move to follow her. "What?"

"I was just thinking that it's a shame we have to leave this place. Whoever lives here could be very wealthy." He made sure his words were clear, and loud enough to carry.

"How so?"

"The goldflower. Vadim made a mess of the ritual, of course, but the basic concept was sound. The stuff makes a powerful love potion, if you know how. A small vial could sell for five nobles."

"Oh?" Avilia glanced around, craning her neck until her eyes lingered on the larder door.

"And it's very simple. All you need is to take the flowers that have fallen, and steep them in warm oil overnight. Not too hot, just warm enough to release the perfume."

"That seems very simple indeed. Why hasn't anyone done it yet?"

"There's a secret step." He leaned towards her and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, loud enough to be heard by someone listening through a thin door. "You have to place a silver coin in the oil. Just a normal silver noble. It binds the perfume. Otherwise the potion loses its effect after less than an hour."

"Do you want to try it?" She sounded torn between curiosity and revulsion at the memory of the ritual. "There has to be oil here, and a pot."

"Settle down and become alchemists and merchants?" He laughed and pulled her close. "By the Skies, Vee, we'd be bored in less than a day! And with you, why would I need a love potion?"

She smiled, and he kissed her again, and they made their way out of the house. Behind them, his ears caught voices whispering in excitement. He suspected that the love lives of the good people of Borton were about to improve.