| The room was ill-lit and possessed many odours. The smoke
of many burning lamps competed mainly with the smell of far too many people,
though the rich scents of exotic perfumes and aromas of expensive foodstuffs
made their own assaults on the nostrils of the room. Illystil Morninggold
did her best to keep her true feelings hidden and her fake smile in place
as she wandered about the ballroom, nodding cordially to the various minor
nobles, diplomats and affluent merchants that populated this affair.
The occasion was the forty third birthday of the Henchill Menaster,
Lord Mayor of Yhaun, eastern-most port city of the nation of Sembia. Many
of the guests, like Illystil, did not know the mayor and the congratulations
they gave him were perfunctionary at best; they were here to indulge in
his hostly generosity and to socialize with their peers. In less eloquent
terms, they were here to party.
Illystil was attending this celebration for a different reason. This
type of social interaction was not natural to her, and if she had possessed
a choice in the matter she would have been anywhere else. By birth and
by training she was a Ranger: a chosen of Meilikki, Lady of the Forest.
For the majority of her twenty eight years she had run along the twisted
paths of the Cormanthor forests like a fleet-footed deer. Armed with sword
and bow, she had protected the trees and their denizens from the enemies
that were constantly threatening them. It had been a life she enjoyed;
one that she wished she had still.
However, the destinies of men (and women) were not for them to decide;
ultimately all of their fates were determined by the gods. Meilikki had
another destiny in mind for Illystil, so at Her behest she had joined the
ranks of the Harpers and so she was here.
Agents of the Gods of Light, it was the mission of Those Who Harp to
ensure freedom for all of mankind-elves, halflings, gnomes and dwarves
among them. Their enemies were those who would oppress and imprison man:
slavers, agents of the dark gods, and those who would prevent free men
from living honest lives. Belonging to the latter category was the trading
company known as the Iron Throne. Their business practices were, to use
the term generously, ruthless. They would go to any means to ensure that
their products brought the highest prices, and that included starting wars,
destroying economies and allying with dark gods.
The reason that Illystil was at this ball on this evening was that another
of the personages attending was Almaric Danthiir, agent for the Iron Crown.
In his possession was a signed contract, purchasing the services of a savage
mercenary company known as the Chill. Earlier attempts by Harper agents
to steal those orders and replace them with Harper-made forgeries had failed,
and so now the task fell onto Illystil’s shoulders. As a guest of Lord
Mayor Menaster, Almaric kept his possessions –and his personal documents-
in a locked cabinet in a private study on the second floor of the mansion.
It was only during balls such as this one that the mayor’s housegaurd were
distractible enough to attempt skulduggery.
Illystil gritted her teeth behind her smile and shifted her weight in
a vain attempt to make her gown comfortable. Her attendance at this ball
had been a last minute decision, and the seamster’s attempts to fit the
borrowed dress to her had been less than perfect. Illystil was larger than
the women hereabouts, both in height and in figure. She was only a few
finger widths shy of six feet and due to her robust life style was more
muscular than the local daughters of nobility. As a result, the dress she
wore was both too short and too tight. While the end result was superficially
pleasing –her passage captured the eyes of all men that she passed- wearing
the green silken sheathe (to say nothing of trying to move about in it)
was akin to being bound and tortured.
She knew that she was beautiful. She had been blessed by Sune on her
birth with honey blonde hair, a lean curvaceous figure and smile that quickened
men’s breaths. While her normal choice of dress was usually less…restrained,
she knew that thanks to the assistance of a Harper ally who was also a
noble woman’s maid that she wore her borrowed clothing to its best advantage.
When Illystil had seen herself in a mirror this afternoon, she had not
recognised herself. The vision before her eyes had been beautiful enough
to rival Sune herself. The woman she looked at had long, blonde hair that
cascaded in golden waves around a kohl-brushed face with huge brown eyes
and ruby red lips. The tight dress she wore fit like a second skin and
left nothing about her to the imagination, displaying her slender waist
and pushing her breasts forth to a degree Illystil had not known they could
achieve. She looked like a Silkwhisperer, a comparison that made her blush,
and as was obvious from the looks she received, the men at the party thought
so as well.
The musical sounds of yarting and harp filled the room as Illystil did
her utmost to sway across it gracefully. She had been trained in matters
of etiquette and bearing by Shearil Rowenmantle herself, Lady of Shadowdale,
and while she did not feel confident enough to appear before the King of
Cormyr, her poise was certainly enough for a ball in honour of His Lord
the Mayor and ten score of his closest strangers.
An old, overweight man dressed in very expensive clothes –scion one
of the city’s many merchant families, not doubt- invited her to dance on
the crowded ballroom floor and Illystil found no way to politely refuse
him. She was glad of her natural grace here, for she had found learning
the elegant dance styles of the Sembian court absurdly easy and thus could
let her body perform of its own volition while she concentrated on more
important matters.
Ignoring the soft, sweaty hand that rested on her hip and the ripe body
odour of her dance partner, Illystil kept her attention covertly focussed
on the stairway that led to the mansion’s upper levels. At the moment,
Almaric Danthiir of the Iron Throne was speaking privately with someone
in His Lord the Mayor’s study on the floor above, and there was no way
Illystil could attempt to replace his document with the one hidden against
her thigh until they had vacated the room.
Mercifully, the music ended, the dancers separated and everyone clapped
politely for the musicians. Illystil thanked her rotund partner for the
honour of his company and politely refused his offer of a private glass
of wine. Unfortunately, the cooler portion of the room -the southern half
where it opened onto the balcony- gave her no view of the stairs, so as
she casually sipped her punch and smiled at the dozens of young suitors
that seemed to appear out of the woodworking, she was forced to stay near
the western walls –near the kitchen- and swelter.
It was an unseasonably warm night for only the end of spring, being
in a room filled to overflowing with people made it no cooler, to say nothing
of the braziers and lanterns that illuminated it. What she wouldn’t have
given to be rid of this torturous dress and to be out in the night’s cool
breezes. She would be wearing a loose fitting chemise that left her arms
bare and a light skirt. If it was as warm as it was tonight, maybe she
would wear nothing at all. Illystil has always felt closer to nature when
she wore no more than the animals did. When she was nude she could fully
feel the wind, or how the leaves on the trees blew, or the kiss of the
water in a remote forest spring…
"I can say without fear of blasphemy that your beauty outshines all
of the gods in the sky."
Illystil was brought out her daydream with a snap. Blinking and trying
to keep her irritation hidden, she chastised herself for her lack of concentration
and tried to focus on whomever was speaking to her. It took all of her
effort to prevent her eyes from bugging out as she realized that the man
before her was her quarry, Almaric of the Iron Throne.
Beshaba’s luck. It wasn’t enough for her to be so wrapped up
in her fantasies that she did not watch the stairs, she had to be so completely
oblivious that the man she was specifically watching for could walk right
up to her unnoticed. Trapped by matters of convention, Illystil smiled
demurely and offered the man she was facing her hand while she studied
him covertly. He was tall and broad, with dark curly hair, not unpleasant
and boring dark eyes. He could be considered handsome if he were not so
smarmy. He was too…polished. Every hair and article of clothing on him
was perfect, as if he were more a statue or painting than a man. His clothes
were disgustingly rich, with gemstones sewed into them and embroidered
with gold thread, and obviously tailored to emphasise his physique.
Almaric took her offered hand and pressed it to his lips, then in an
obviously well practiced manoeuvre gave her a low, flourishing bow. It
would have been considered charming if he had not held it perhaps a few
moments too long, an action that left his face only inches away from her
barely restrained cleavage. Resisting an urge to drive her wine goblet
through his neck, she silently endured his rather blatant inspection and
waited for his gaze to return to her face.
When his eyes did finally meet with hers –and it took a good while-
his expression was best described as avaricious. "May I say, my Lady, that
the Goddess of Love has never has as beautiful a devotee as you." His voice
was rich and filled with a combination of sincerity and distain; like he
was sweet talking a slow child. He had not yet released her hand.
Illystil’s had to pull to release herself from his grip. Her smile was
forced. "You are mistaken, sir," she replied to him in her throaty alto
voice, trying but failing to keep her tone light. "I am not in the service
of Sune."
"Really?" He paused a moment and smiled apologetically. "Oh, I’m sorry.
Its just that –"
She cut him off, her voice sharp. "It’s just that you think I look like
a prostitute." She knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that
her reply was too sharp; too sudden. It was not the response of a noble
lady, but already she disliked him. Even if she had not known who he was,
everything about him from how he dressed and groomed himself to how he
looked at her like a piece of property would have caused her to abhor him.
Knowing that he belonged to a merciless organization like the Iron throne
only lowered him further in her eyes.
She smiled into her punch as Almaric just stared at her, his mouth hanging
open in the wake of her blunt comment. He stood agape for a long second
while he tried to think of a way to recover himself. "Ahh…a silkwhisperer
is not a common whore, my lady." As he said it his eyes began to drift
downward, quite openly appraising her. He returned his eyes to hers and
gave what was surely meant to be an enchanting smile. "And it only takes
a single look to see that nothing about you is common."
Illystil was slow in answering, forcing herself not to cringe under
his scrutiny or strike him physically. "How…kind of you to say." Was that
supposed to be a compliment? Did he think he was being charming? Surely
even prostitutes were propositioned with greater flair than this.
He beamed at her, seemingly oblivious to her dislike of him. "I am Almaric
Danthiir," he told her, his voice full of self importance. "Baron of Seveleya."
"A baron. Really?" Her eyebrows raised involuntarily. If he had been
born a noble than she was Sharess’ handmaiden. She knew from information
given to her that his family had been servants before the Tethyrian civil
war. If he was claiming now to be a baron than he had either murdered or
swindled his way into the title.
"Yes." He grew more enthusiastic as he talked. "Truthfully I have not
stepped foot there for several years." His face was filled with insincere
sadness. "My business is very important, and occupies all of my attention."
His shrug was equally artificial "As a result I am very wealthy, but…"
he fixed his eyes with hers, "…lonely."
"Oh, I see." She kept her reply short to keep from laughing into his
face. Was his title and money supposed to charm her into his bed? Did his
suave approach actually work on some women?
He stood looking at her, waiting for her to add something to her reply.
When she didn’t, there was an awkward moment of silence. He flashed her
his ingratiating smile again. "I’m sorry. I seem to have missed your name."
That was because until now she hadn’t given it. She had hoped this conversation
wouldn’t have lasted this long; there were many things left for her to
do on this evening. "Illystil Morninggold," she told him reluctantly, "from
the Dales."
He once again captured her hand and kissed it. "I am enchanted to meet
you, Illystil." She had to fight the urge to wipe her hand on her dress.
"Did you arrive at this ball as someone’s guest?"
Illystil gave him her best court smile, determined to end this conversation
civilly before she was forced to beat him. "Yes, with Fileyna Rowenmantle.
She was gracious enough to introduce me to the court."
"Ah, but not with a male companion?" His eyes grew predatory.
She sighed. "Umm, no." If he offered to act as her escort there was
no way she could really refuse him -short of violence.
"So you would not object to sharing your time with a baron?" His tone
was triumphant as he asked.
She hesitated, then relented. "…no, of course not." He had trapped her
neatly with civility. As a polite lady of lower station, she could not
refuse him. Her eyes searched the gala, looking for someone to help her,
for any excuse that would allow her to excuse herself politely so that
she could continue her work.
The next five minutes were torturously long. Despite her every evasion,
her every subtle attempt to disengage from the conversation, Almaric was
either too dense to take a hint (which she doubted; a trade mogul like
himself by necessity had to be savvy) or he believed that by sheer personality
and force of will he could catch her interest. Never before had Illystil
felt so debased. She was a beautiful woman and had enjoyed her share of
male attention over the years, but always in those encounters and relationships
there had been respect. Yes, they had been attracted to her (and occasionally
she had been attracted to them as well) but always she had been treated
as a person. With each of Almaric’s oily smiles and none-to-subtle innuendoes,
it became more and more obvious that nothing she said or did mattered to
him. Beyond his politeness, she was only an object; a pretty bauble to
capture and use before being thrown away.
Illystil’s window of opportunity was slipping away from her. She had
to act soon, while the study containing Almaric’s personal papers remained
unoccupied. Her information said that it was unlikely anyone other than
the mayor and his houseguests would use the room but the longer she delayed
the more chances there were for Beshaba to give Her ‘blessing’ to Illystil’s
scheme.
Unfortunately, there was more to do than simply approach the study and
walk in. Both the entry and the private cabinet were locked, and Illystil
possessed neither keys nor the expertise to simulate them. Even if she
did possess that specialized knowledge, there was no way she could have
knelt in plain sight in front of a door off limits to the party guests
for the time it would have taken her to gain entrance. No, in the tradition
of many Harpers before her, she had to perform a difficult act in an impossible
manner: she would have to walk through walls.
Sembia, like many nations, had a solid tradition in intrigue. Spying
and information gathering was as hallowed a profession in this nation as
usury or trading. Thus when the mayor had constructed his mansion, he had
riddled it with secret doors and hidden passageways. While he had done
his utmost to keep the knowledge of his hidden passages from the populace
of Yhaun, the ears of the Harpers were close to the ground and heard many
illicit things. One of the things they had heard was that Menaster’s rivals
had done him one further: they had created secrets passages within his
secret passages. One of the hidden hallways that passed behind the mayor’s
study contained a false stone in one wall. It was situated directly behind
the mayor’s personal cabinet, and in the rear of that cabinet a false backing
had been constructed. That was Illystil’s destination tonight.
She had been told by her sources which passage to access (behind the
curtain in an alcove on the north end of the west wall) and the route to
take within the hall network to reach the study. Unfortunately, she was
unable to do so until she could find a way to escape the unbearable company
of Almaric Danthiir.
Almaric’s monotonous blather and constant leering was thankfully interrupted
by the arrival of two men, one older and taller with a beard, the other
younger and clean shaven. Both were quite handsome in separate ways, dressed
in high quality Cormyrian doublets and hose. As they neared, the ‘baron’
paused in his speech and for the briefest of moments his mask of civility
was replaced by open hatred; though for which of the two men –the elder
or the younger-Illystil could not determine. Within a heartbeat Almaric’s
facade of gentility had returned so convincingly that one would never know
it had not been there.
The elder of the two men spoke first, sketching a light bow over his
wine goblet. He was very handsome with striking features, a trim beard
and brown hair worn long behind his back. He was quite tall and towered
over Almaric -who was not a small man- by more than a hand width.
"Baron Danthiir." His voice, Illystil noticed, was rich and sonorous;
it carried great weight even with that simple greeting. "Are you enjoying
the ball?" His eyes were deep blue and met hers briefly. His words, in
combination with contacting her eyes, sent a shock through Illystil down
to her toes. Her throat was suddenly dry and she hurriedly sipped at her
punch.
"Sir Quinlan, Logan." Almaric nodded coolly but politely to the taller
man and his younger companion. "I suppose this ball is…adequate."
A knight! This dark, absorbing man-Sir Quinlan, his name was?- was a
noble warrior and defender of the realm. Looking at his quiet authority
and control of his environment, she thought that there was nothing else
this man could be. Who, then, was his companion?
"Only adequate?" Quinlan raised an eloquent eyebrow. "I think you do
Mayor Menaster a disservice."
Almaric gave a small shrug. "It is as fine as a ball as there can be
in Sembia, I suppose." He looked down his nose at the room and its inhabitants.
"A Tethyrian market festival would outshine this."
"That is a sentiment that would not be well received in these parts,"
Quinlan chided the baron. "You should have a care to whom you speak it."
He said it politely and neutrally, but obviously as a man would speak to
a subordinate. Illystil could not tell if it was meant as a warning or
a rebuke. She guessed that Almaric had no love for these men, but she did
not know if that ill sentiment was returned.
It was obvious how Almaric interpreted the comment and his irritation
was evident as he glowered at the larger man. Focussed on a lesser person,
the trade baron’s ire may have been an imposing thing, but when fixed on
the knight, the effect was closer to a housedog fending off a griffon.
Unperturbed by Almaric’s anger, Quinlan continued with a voice as smooth
as a morning pool. "You have not introduced me to your companion, Baron."
His eyes met with Illystil’s once more and again a lightning-like shock
coursed through her.
Almaric’s irritation vanished and in ingratiating smile took its place.
"Forgive me." He took Illystil’s arm and gripped it possessively, a gesture
easy to interpret and surely as old as man. "It was not my intention to
insult…" The corner of his mouth curled up minutely. "…her." Quinlan showed
no reaction to the obvious insult, but she could see his companion begin
to bristle until the knight placed a calming grip on the mans arm. Almaric
continued. "It is my pleasure, sirs, to introduce Lady Illystil Morninggold."
His grip tightened further and Illystil fought off the urge to drive her
elbow into his shortribs. "She is the ward of Fileyna Rowenmantle, just
introduced to this court."
The tall, charismatic knight stepped close to her and took her hand
in his own. "Lady Morninggold, it is a pleasure
to meet you." His eyes met hers and he smiled as he touched her hand to
his lips. The combination of his touch and smile made her breath quicken.
She barely heard his next words. "You look radiant."
She barely managed to find a response. "You are too kind, sir…" Her
mind blanked. His name? What was his name?
"Quinlan Truesilver, knight of Cormyr." He supplied adroitly. If he
noticed her gaff he was polite enough not to make mention of it. The knight
gestured towards his companion. "This is my squire, Alexander Logan."
The younger man plucked her hand from Quinlan’s grip and brought it
to his lips. "Enchanted, my lady." He was handsome, she noticed. If he
had not been standing next to Quinlan, perhaps she would have said very
handsome. He was perhaps a fingerwidth taller than her, with broad shoulders
and a muscular build. His hair dark blonde, and shorter than the elder
knights.
With difficulty, Illystil brought her whirling mind under a semblance
of control. Ignoring Almaric, who was still gripping her arm, she retrieved
her hand from Alexander. "A pleasure to meet both of you." The smile she
gave this time was genuine.
Truesilver. When he had said his family name aloud it had rang
familiarly in her ears. She had heard it recently, but where it had been
eluded her. It had been during one of her dull conversations earlier. He
had been called something. Some strange title...
It came to her suddenly. "You’re the King’s Hand!" She said it loudly
and without thinking. By unfortunate coincidence, the musicians had finished
their piece of music that very moment, and her abrupt exclamation echoed
throughout the suddenly quiet room. It seemed as if the head of every single
person turned towards her. Her companions, who had been glaring silently
at one another, now focused their attentions solely on Illystil. She began
to blush furiously.
In the deafening silence, Quinlan raised his eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
The musicians resumed their playing and the hubbub of conversation throughout
the room sprung up once more. Illystil struggled to explain her outburst.
"I was speaking with Lady Fileyna earlier." Words flew from her lips as
fast as she could form them. The fact that she was babbling before such
a cultured man embarrassed her further. "She was speaking of you. She called
you the Hand of the King." She found it hard to meet his eyes.
"I am occasionally known as that, yes," the knight quietly admitted.
"It-it is not a title I have heard before," Illystil replied. She was
beginning to feel uncomfortable in this conversation, but was committed
now to finish it. "What does a King’s Hand do?"
Quinlan seemed embarrassed and answered quietly into his wine. "It is
merely the name given to the king’s advisor."
Beside Illystil, Almaric chuckled. "Sir Quinlan is far too modest."
There was an edge to his voice. "He is far more than merely an advisor."
Illystil turned to him and saw a dangerous smile on Almaric’s face. "As
the King’s Hand, he personally oversees the affairs of the crown, including
I believe those that would be inappropriate for the royal family to deal
with themselves." His smile became a ritcus-like grin. "Is that not so,
Sir Quinlan?"
Quinlan’s face became hard as stone. His voice was still quiet, but
now full of intensity. "Any action beneath his majesty is equally inappropriate
for his knights or any other citizen of the realm."
The two men’s gazes locked once more, but this time it was Quinlan who
looked away. "What a stirring display of chivalry," Almaric sneered, "I’m
speechless." He turned to Illystil. "My lady, this man standing before
you without doubt is in possession of Cormyr’s most embarrassing secrets."
Quinlan’s eyes were blazing, but his words remained cool and conversational.
"In Cormyr, Baron, such slander against the crown would be punishable by
stoning." He smiled tightly. "It would be good for you to watch your words."
Almaric seemed unfazed and continued his verbal assault. "How fortunate
for me then that we are in Sembia." He pulled Illystil closer to him. She
wasn’t enjoying being used as a combination of weapon and prize between
the two men. "I would think the mayor would object to people hurling rocks
at his guests, especially a man of my station."
"It is not my wish to upset his lord, the mayor." Quinlan’s eyes flicked
disapprovingly at Almaric’s arm around Illystil’s waist. When the Baron
saw that, his grip tightened further. "I am merely making conversation."
"So there is no business that you wish to conduct with me, Sir Quinlan?"
He grinned wolfishly. "To what, then, do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
The verbal sparring continued. "I only wish to pay my respects, Baron."
Quinlan glanced at Almaric’s arm wrapped possessively around Illystil.
"Did you and Lady Morninggold not wish to be disturbed?" The edge of his
lips quirked up momentarily. "My apologies if I have interrupted you."
Illystil was tiring of being used. The longer these two men continued
their lanceless jousting match, the greater chance that they would create
a scene -well, a larger scene than she had already. "You have interrupted
nothing, sir knight," she assured the tall man, glaring at Almaric out
of the side of her vision. "I am delighted to meet both and your squire."
As she spoke she twisted and slithered her way free of Almaric’s grip.
"May I ask what brings you to Sembia?"
"Please, call me Quinlan, my lady. I am in Yhaun on business of the
king." When he glanced at her and smiled, it was if Almaric, the ball and
all her obligations disappeared. She could not help but smile back..
Their exchange of looks was not lost on Almaric. "Anything you care
to share, Sir Quinlan?" he asked cruelly, his eyes glinting, "or is it
another of Cormyr’s deep secrets?"
The glance Quinlan sent the man was lethal. "Not a deep secret, baron,"
he told Almaric flatly, "but certainly none of your business." Having said
that, the knight turned his attention away from the man as if he did not
exist and looked to Illystil. "I am afraid you have me at a loss, my lady."
"In what way, Sir Quinlan?" Illystil blinked at the sudden change of
subject. "And please, call me Illystil."
He continued to ignore Almaric, which seemed to have a greater effect
on the man than Quinlan’s verbal barbs. "As you wish, Lady Illystil." She
thrilled when he said her name. With his deep, resonant voice is was like
he was caressing her verbally. He sketched another small bow. "Well, you
see, I am cousin to the Rowenmantles," as he spoke alarm bells began to
ring in her head, "and I have never heard your name mentioned." His eyes
seemed
guileless, but she couldn’t tell. There was much about this man that was
hidden.
Mind spinning, trying with difficulty not to let her attraction to him
trip her up, she tried to remember her cover story. "In truth, I have known
Lady Fileyna less than a tenday." She didn’t think it sounded like a lie,
but Quinlan did not seem the type to miss much. "I am recently arrived
here from Shadowdale." He gave the impression he believed her, but would
he really tell her if he thought her a liar? "Her cousin, Shaeril," she
continued, "begged her to introduce me to gentile society."
"My lady, sirs." Behind Almaric’s oily charm, he was seething with anger."I
am afraid that I have pressing business elsewhere." He gave Quinlan a cruel
smile. "Also, were I to stay longer, I fear that I would end up gravely
insulting some aspect of Cormyrian lifestyle." He waited smirking for Quinlan’s
reaction, but there was none. After a moment the grin faltered and he turned
towards Illystil. "Lady Illystil, I will see you later." He looked straight
into her eyes as he said it. He gave an insincere smile at the two other
men. "If you will excuse me."
"Of course, Baron." Quinlan nodded to the man politely, but his civility
only seemed to fuel the baron’s rage.
As Almaric began to stalk off, the up-to-now silent Alexander spoke.
"When next your business takes you to Cormyr, Baron, you must come to Suzail."
His voice was mocking.
Illystil had no idea what the significance of the comment Alexander
made was, but Almaric seemed to. The trade baron stopped abruptly and spun
to face the younger man, his face livid with rage. After a moment in which
Illystil thought the man would launch himself at the young warrior, Almaric
turned on his heel and stalked angrily away. In the aftermath of the departed
baron’s anger, there was only silence.
Quinlan gave Alexander an angry, hard look and the young squire, while
he appeared slightly embarrassed, met the elder knight’s stare defiantly.
The two held their gazes in silent conversation for a heartbeat, then Alexander
looked away, his face flushed.
What had that been? What had any of that been? What had happened
between these men to have them spew such bile at one another? "I’m afraid
I don’t understand the Baron’s anger," Illystil said to the two men after
a few seconds of silence. "He was merely invited to see Suzail."
"The baron was the chief Cormyrian representative of a trading company
known as the Iron Throne," Quinlan explained, "They were forbidden some
years ago from trading within the borders of Cormyr." The corner of his
mouth turned up slightly. "It will be a good while before he conducts any
business there."
Ahh. That explained a bit. "Really." She sipped at her punch
but discovered that her glass was empty. She frowned. "However did that
come about?" She knew that the Iron Throne had been exiled from Cormyr,
but she had never heard why. Not that this information was wholly crucial
to her job this evening-in fact it was quite immaterial- but she was enjoying
the knight’s presence immensely, and besides she did not wish to be rude
by excusing herself so abruptly. She was merely maintaining her cover.
Yes, that was it. She was maintaining her cover.
"They were engaging in…" Quinlan paused to find an appropriate word,
"improper business practices." That was an understatement. The Iron Throne
engaged in so many ‘improper’ business practices. Which ones had prompted
their removal from the kingdom? A waiter bearing goblets of wine passed
within reach and Quinlan idly plucked one off of the tray. He handed her
the glass and continued without pause, "When their behaviour was discovered,
it was reported to the king by a young squire." As he said the final part
he glanced pointedly at his companion. "The trading company -and their
chief representative- were banished from the country for ten years."
Illystil looked over at Alexander, who was trying very hard to look
across the room. "That young squire…" she began, her voice trailing off.
"…has learned his lesson since that day, I would hope." Quinlan completed
her sentence, looking sharply at his squire’s back.
Illumination dawned. "Alexander? You?" The young man looked at Illystil
and merely smiled.
A lull came over the conversation. Illystil realized that as engrossed
as she had been in the dialogue –and Quinlan’s company, she guiltily admitted
to herself- that she had completely lost track of the rest of the ball.
It was her one of her duties to remain alert she chided herself; no matter
how distracting the man she was speaking to. As the three of them engaged
in idle, meaningless small talk, she casually surveyed the room and attempted
to gauge it with her Harper trained senses.
Under the large painting was ‘Baron’ Danthiir, ingratiating himself
with the mayor and several other very rich looking men. Good. If he was
still on the main floor then hopefully no one was in the upstairs study.
It was fully night outside, with Selune’s pale radiance visible through
the southern balcony. It was not yet midnight. The ball had begun to thin,
though she estimated it would be hours before it would end. She still had
time. Not a great deal of it –she would have to part company with the Cormyrian
nobles soon- but nothing was pressing yet. At least that was what she told
herself.
As she and the two men chatted and Illystil looked over the gala, she
noticed a very pretty young blonde woman in an expensive gown who was looking
pointedly at the three of them. "Do either of you know that young maiden
who is looking at us?" When Alexander and Quinlan glanced at where Illystil
gestured, the woman turned quickly away.
Quinlan recognised her. "That is Thilana Menaster, the mayor’s daughter."
He glanced at his squire. "If I recall, she was quite taken with you earlier,
Alexander."
The young man’s face blushed, his eyes darting across to look at Maid
Menaster. "Yes, she…" he struggled for words but failed. "…that is, I…"
He took in a gulp of wine as Quinlan and Illystil shared an amused look.
Finally, Alexander recovered enough to make a semblance of a reply, though
his face was still flushed. "I was under the impression that she had retired
from the ball with her mother." He glanced towards the young woman again,
who was at that moment doing a poor job of examining the punchbowl.
"It seems that she has returned," Illystil replied innocently, smiling.
"Perhaps she could like some company."
"Yes, perhaps she would." Alexander gave them both a wide smile. Tossing
back the last of his wine, he nodded absently to Illystil and Quinlan.
"Would you excuse me, Master? Lady?"
Shaking his head bemusedly, Quinlan gestured for his apprentice to take
his leave. "By all means, Alexander."
The young man took Illystil’s hand and sketched a quick bow over it.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Morninggold." He did not wait for
a reply before he turned away and crossed the ballroom. He quickly made
his way to the young woman who appeared to be casually studying a painting
on the wall.
Illystil and Quinlan watched in amused silence as Alexander introduced
himself to the young lady who feigned surprise at meeting him. It was obvious
that the two were smitten with each other. Illystil sighed with a combination
of nostalgia and envy. She had been that age once; a time when catching
the eye of and spending time with a young man was at least as important
as breathing. It had been a simple, happy (and highly enjoyable) period
of her life.
"He seems to be rather taken with her as well," Illystil commented to
Quinlan as they watched the two youths converse.
"Yes, he does." He offered Illystil his arm and she hesitated. Her conscience
berated her, saying that she still had weighty tasks before her this evening
and that spending time with Quinlan did nothing to further her cause. It
took only a glance at the handsome man beside her and her urge to touch
him to drown out that voice. The evening had not yet come to an end and
she had time still to engage in her Harper duties. A few more minutes in
the company of Quinlan would hurt nothing.
She lay her hand on his arm and noted how firm it was, no doubt made
so through hours of sword work. It felt good and comfortable to be in contact
with him like this; but it would only be, she insisted to herself, for
a few moments.
She and Quinlan strolled along the southern end of the ballroom, slowly
making their way towards the cool, wind-touched balcony. Across the room,
Illystil could see Alexander leading Thilana Menaster towards the dance-floor.
She was a very attractive girl, Illystil couldn’t help but notice. She
looked about the same age as Alexander -in her late teens- with pale blonde
hair and a slender, shapely figure. She wore a gown, Illystil noted with
jealousy, that seemed to fit her perfectly and while emphasising her figure,
did not distort it beyond recognition or prevent her from breathing. Illystil
sighed and for the thousandth time this evening, wished that the torture
device she had been told was called a dress had been tailored closer to
her figure.
Her loud exhalation did not go unnoticed by Quinlan, who glanced at
her and raised an inquiring eyebrow. Not wishing to reveal her discomfort,
which would lead to awkward questions and uncomfortable answers, Illystil
gestured towards Thilana. "She’s very pretty."
Quinlan glanced briefly at the maiden and then at Illystil, who received
a closer, more lengthy examination. She flushed under his scrutiny, feeling
his gaze pass over her like a hot wind. "Only compared to some."
Illystil found herself blushing furiously and any reply she may have
made vanished from her mind. "I, uhh…" Aware her mouth was hanging open
and of the weak feeling that had appeared in her knees, she tried to think
of something, anything to say. "Very charming, your squire," she
managed to get out once she had control of her voice.
If he was aware of his effect on her, he was polite enough not to show
it. "He is impulsive and headstrong," he led them to the balcony, "but
with a good heart."
"Can anything else be asked of a squire?" The change in air between
inside and out was dramatic. Illystil closed her eyes and inhaled deeply,
luxuriating in the feeling of the cool air caressing her body.
"Perhaps not," he replied after a moments pause. The tall knight led
her to the stone railing that overlooked the sculpted garden below and
for a few moments the two enjoyed the quiet serenity of the warm night.
Looking down at the unnaturally trimmed plants, Illystil was very aware
of the tall, muscular, very male body that stood next to her.
Why did she have to have met him tonight? Until his appearance, gallivanting
around this ball had been like a bard’s tale. Wearing a gown that would
have cost her a year’s wages, pretending she was a princess; despite her
required task and Loviatar-cursed dress it had been fun. A childhood
fantasy. Admittedly as the night had worn on she had fended off more than
her share of unpleasant advances and her dress had grown less and less
comfortable, but the fantasy had not lost its lustre.
Until she had met Almaric, who reminded her why she was here, and until
Quinlan, who made her regret that she was not the person she pretended
to be. She was becoming more and more drawn to him as the evening passed
and yet not one word that came from her lips was truthful. She did not
want to pretend with him; did not want to see her betrayal of him in his
eyes when he discovered the truth.
Quinlan interrupted her reverie. "I believe you said that you were from
Shadowdale?"
Turning to him and ignoring the nagging of her internal voices, she
smiled. "Yes." She found herself getting lost in his eyes and forced herself
to stop, fixing her vision on the collar of his doublet. "Have you been
there?"
"Many years ago." She could feel his eyes caressing her. "I believe
Lord Mourngrym rules now."
"He does still." Saying this, at least, was not a lie. She was
from Shadowdale; she’d lived there her entire life. "Lady Shaeril is his
wife."
"Yes. She is my cousin as well." The man seems to have many cousins.
Is he related to all the noble families in Cormyr? Something in his
voice made her look at him, but his expression gave nothing away. "How
is their son, Edward?" His eyes were locked with hers.
Edward? Her heart began to beat faster, and it took all her effort
to keep her face untroubled. That was not the name of the son of the Lord
of Shadowdale. A learned man such as Quinlan surely knew that. "Their son
is well," she replied cautiously, "but his name is Scotti, not Edward."
"Of course, Scotti. I was in error." His face may as well have been
made of stone for how much it revealed to her. "Are you enjoying this ball,
Lady Illystil?"
"Very much. I, um…" It was a very traditional question, one that she
had been trained to answer and the standard reply rolled off of her lips
before she could stop herself. It, like so many of the other things she
had said on this evening, though, was a deliberate falsehood; part of her
cover. She didn’t want to lie to Quinlan anymore. "In truth, no," she admitted.
"I confess that I am a commoner at heart, sir Quinlan." The words spilled
from her in a torrent. "All these people, all these manners. It is…" she
paused, trying to find the appropriate words.
": … overwhelming at times?" Quinlan inquired, putting words to her
thoughts.
Illystil beamed. "Yes, that’s it exactly." She did not know why she
was saying this to him. By revealing her true thoughts, she was in essence
betraying her cover. This was not the way a person of gentility, even one
from the uncivilized dales, spoke. Despite her inner voice of caution,
her mouth continued to speak seemingly of its own volition. "Everybody
has a different title, or some strange way of being talked to." She shrugged
sheepishly. "It’s a lot to take in."
Quinlan gave her a guilty smile. "I confess that I am the same way."
"You?" Illystil gaped. He seemed so completely comfortable here; in
his element. "Sir Quinlan, you are the finest example of a gentleman I
have seen." He seemed uncomfortable with her praise. "You are a knight,
and an advisor to the king."
"Yes," Quinlan agreed quietly, "and I will serve Cormyr until my last
breath, but I find these affairs…" he gestured with his hand. "…distasteful."
"Then why do you come?"
"Well, as you have pointed out, I am a knight," he replied. "it would
be…rude of me not to attend. A slight from his Hand is akin to an insult
from the king himself."
"It must be a great burden," Illystil stated quietly. She could never
imagine a man such as him being unequal to the task.
"Yes." He looked towards the party that continued without them and at
the dancing couples on the ballroom floor. "There is too much falseness
to a gala such as this. Everyone," he gestured to include all the room’s
occupants, "has a secret plan and a hidden agenda."
Beside him, Illystil froze. "Wh-whatever do you mean?" as much as she
tried to steady it, her voice quavered.
Quinlan turned away from the ball inside and faced her. He seemed
to
be earnest; she knew she wanted him to be. It was so easy to get lost in
his eyes… "Every person you see here is concealing something, and they
have been doing it for a very long time. It is what their lives are now."
He seemed sad. "They smile, they charm, they barter their deals and they
sign their agreements, but they have forgotten what it is those treaties
and agreements really are."
"W-what are they?" Illystil swallowed. This had to be honesty.
There was too much pain and emotion in his voice for it to be otherwise.
She sensed that what he was sharing with her was not something he revealed
to many people, and she felt privileged for it.
"They are people’s lives," he answered her with quiet passion. "What
these people treat as commodities are honest people’s sweat and toil."
His words echoed strongly within her. "Standing here, in this ballroom,
with their powdered wigs and their lordly ways," his voice was filled with
disdain, "they control and sign away the lives of the people that they
are responsible for." He frowned. "They are…out of touch."
It took Illystil a moment to find words. "Are you…in touch?" she asked
the tall knight.
Quinlan blinked and seemed to only now realize what he had said and
how much of himself he had revealed. For a brief moment she could see him
scolding himself, then his cool self assurance was once again in place.
"Forgive me, my lady," he said to her with the suave carriage of a veteran
courtier, "I fear I am growing long in years and short on reason." He offered
her his arm. "Would you dance with an old fool?"
"You are neither old nor a fool, Sir Quinlan," she assured him. Dance,
walk, run; if it was in his company it was too tempting an invitation.
She wanted to, she truly did; but if he held her in his arms she knew that
it would be oh-so-easy to forget her mission. As much as she would enjoy
losing herself in his embrace she was at this ball as more than just a
simple debutant. She was a Harper, and lives depended on her task here
tonight. "Please don’t take this as a refusal," she told him apologetically.
"I’d like to, I really would, but it has been a long evening and I feel
the need to freshen up." Both her words and her smile were sincere. "Perhaps
later?" Oh, yes please, later.
"Perhaps." He smiled and stepped closer to her. She could feel heat
radiating from him like a furnace, but did not step away. "It has been
a long evening, and it is high time I retired. I have stayed at this ball
far longer than usual." He took her hand in both of his and his eyes sparkled
humorously as they met hers. "I am sure Alexander will remain here...entertaining
for a while yet." He glanced over to where his squire and his paramour
the mayor’s daughter had last been seen. They both laughed. "Enjoy the
ball." His eyes assured her that they would meet again.
Illystil flushed and despite her inner protestations lost herself in
his gaze. "I will." Neither of them made any move to separate.
For a silent eternity neither of them moved or said a word. Beyond them,
the singing of birds from the garden competed with the gliding music and
gentle conversation of the ballroom, but she did not notice. There was
a moment she thought their lips would meet but instead he simply nodded,
squeezed her hands and turned away.
He had not even gone one step before he stopped and turned to her. "Are
you staying with my cousin Fileyna?" he asked after a moment.
Illystil paused. While she was officially in residence with Lady Rowenmantle,
she had stayed maybe two days in seven there; the majority of her time
she was with her fellow Harpers. "I can be reached there," she said finally.
"Then perhaps I can call on you, once my business is concluded."
Ah, yes. The business that he would not discuss with Baron Danthiir.
Not
that I blame him. "I would like that," she said aloud.
He brushed her fingers with his lips. "Well then. Goodnight, Lady Illystil."
It took her a moment to find her voice. When she spoke her voice was
husky. "Goodnight, Sir Quinlan."
With a final heart quickening smile, the tall charismatic knight re-entered
the ballroom and vanished into the crowd. She did nothing but stand on
the balcony, leaning on it more than she should have had to, and watch
him leave. Oh, how she wanted this man and she would have him…but not tonight.
She stood there, alone and unseen on the dark balcony, for far longer than
she should have. Finally, when she had brought her thoughts (and libido)
under control she walked on shaky legs across the crowded room to the women’s
privy. She noted as she went that the alcove that hid the secret door was
ill-lit and unoccupied. Good. Hopefully, she would be able to slip
behind the curtain, replace Almaric’s paper with her own and be done with
it. She was ill-suited for this sort of work, and the sooner it was over
the better it would be.
Ten minutes later, her body refreshed and her mind purged of Quinlan
(at least partly), she made her way with mincing steps -damn this dress!-
along the outskirts of the ballroom, noting that it had grown even emptier
in her absence. It was not quite at the level where her appearance and
disappearance would be noted, but it was nearing it. She had to act quickly.
She politely deflected the four men who introduced themselves to her,
claiming fatigue, as she privately kept her attention focussed on the alcove.
A young couple had taken up places in front of it, standing close to each
other and staring into each others eyes. Damn. She couldn’t do a
thing until they left. All she could do was stand about, attempt to deflect
the inevitable male attention, and wait for them to leave. Then, and only
then, could she continue with her task.
A minute passed, and then two. The couple showed no signs of leaving.
It
must be nice to be young and in love. Assuming it was love, of course.
It was just as likely a couple that young was concerned mainly with more
primal urges. The two of them certainly seemed to be attracted to each
other. Illystil sighed and despite herself, her loins twitched.
She had more important things on her mind right now she chided herself,
but as usual her loins weren’t listening. She had been too long without
a man. In truth, Illystil’s own primal urges had been making themselves
known to her since she had spoken to Sir Quinlan. Now he was a man
she wanted to know more intimately. If she had read the last bit of her
exchange with him properly, it was a sentiment he had returned.
In her quick fantasy, he was riding up to her on a large, magnificent
war horse. He was wearing a open necked chemise, and his hair was flowing
in the wind as he galloped towards her. A weathered, engraved broadsword
hung from his hip--
An odd looking man entered her field of vision, interrupting her (rather
inappropriate) fantasy. It had happened again! Not once but twice on this
evening she had been so distracted by her internal musings that she completely
lost track of her surroundings. Her caller was a rough looking sort, as
broad as he was tall and his clothing, while elegant in cut, was made from
an eye-jarring combination of yellow and purple striped brocade. His hair,
while vaguely resembling the current popular style, was unkempt and stood
on end. He looked like a ragamuffin. How had he gained entrance to this
place? He must have snuck in. "My lady," he said to her in greeting with
a polite nod. His voice was low and gruff; he sounded like a river pirate.
"Sir," Illystil greeted him coolly and did not offer him her hand. The
engrossed couple looked as if they may leave soon, and she did not have
time to trade banter with yet another would-be paramour; especially an
odd one like this…gentleman.
He seemed oblivious to her concerns. "Lovely evening, isn’t it?" He
smiled a wide, gap toothed grin at her.
"Uh, yes, it is." Not trying hard to hide her lack of interest, she
glanced over at the alcove and its occupants. The couple, each holding
the others hands between them, held their heads close together and were
speaking quietly. "Would you excuse me, sir…"
"Name’s Ulmar," he supplied. "Ulmar of the Sword Coast, and I ain’t
no sir."
That much was readily obvious. She gave him a completely insincere smile.
"I’m sorry…Ulmar." In the alcove, the young man gave his lover a lingering
kiss, and then turned to leave. The maiden departed a few moments later,
travelling in a different direction. Finally. As soon as she could
pry herself away from Ulmar –who did not seem to possess even one attractive
quality- she could make her way into the alcove and enter into the hidden
passage network that filled the mansion. "I hate to be rude…" Her last
comment was a bald faced lie. It was taking a great deal of effort for
her not to be rude. She was impatient and annoyed, and it would
have been all to easy to curse this…man to the nine Hells. However, that
was the behaviour of a woodland ranger, not a cultured Harper. As hard
is was to do on occasions like this one, she had appearances to maintain.
"…but I’m afraid I have to—"
The man ignored her brush off and interrupted her. "You find what you’re
looking for?" He looked deep into her eyes, eyes that she saw now were
sharp, intelligent and piercingly blue; not the eyes of a bumbling
party crasher.
"I-- Excuse me?" Caught off guard, she stumbled out her reply. It was
obvious that this man was more than what he seemed.
Eyes still piercing hers, Ulmar continued. "It’s a simple question.
You heard it." Indeed she had. "We’re all looking for something." His eyes
sparkled mischievously. "You find what it is you’re looking for?"
Mind whirling, she scrambled to find something to say. "Have we met?"
He shrugged and was once more merely the garishly dressed bumpkin. "Maybe.
I get around a lot." He reached behind himself and scratched his rump.
"You ain’t answered me, missy." He eyed her slyly. "You know, sometimes
the things we look for are hidden away; hard to find."
"Do I know you?" she pressed the enigmatic stranger. "You seem familiar."
She could see that the alcove was empty; there would be no better chance
to sneak in than now.
Again he shrugged. "I get that a lot." He grinned and waggled a crooked
finger under her chin. "Word of advice from an old man, missy." His sharp,
sharp eyes again met hers. "You’d do best to figure out what it is your
looking for, ‘cause it ain’t what you think it is."
What did he mean by that? Illystil plastered a fake smile onto
her face. "Thank-you for the advice…" her mind blanked.
"Ulmar," he supplied innocently. No sign remained that he was anything
more that what he appeared to be.
"Yes, Ulmar." Who was this man? "Would you excuse me?"
"Sure, sure." He looked behind him at the empty alcove and gave her
a lopsided smile. "I’m sure you got things to do and all."
Her hear skipped a beat. "I, uh, yes, I do." The odd man in his bizarre
clothing turned and ambled away from her, idly scratching his ass as he
went and whistling tunelessly. "Pleasure meeting you," she said in a half
whisper to his back.
He knew about her mission here tonight…or did he?. Her training told
her that if her identity was discovered she should cancel her mission immediately.
It was what she should do, but it felt wrong. She did not know with
certainty that Ulmar knew of her purpose here. This party was her one chance
to switch the Baron’s document with her own. She had no other means to
enter the mansion and Almaric was departing for the north in two days time.
The previous six attempts to replace the contracts had all ended in failure
and once he left the mansion there would be no more opportunities.
Besides all that, it was her first real mission for the Harpers, and
she did not want it to end in failure. She had endured too much –the discomfort
of her dress, her debasement at the hands of the baron as well as being
treated like a trophy to be won by every man at the gala- for it to have
been for nothing.
Banishing doubt from her heart, Illystil stole her way into the shadowed
alcove and –with a final furtive look to see if she was being observed-
slipped behind the heavy, floor length curtain. Illystil was partly elven
by birth, though she thought seldomly of it. She had been raised chiefly
in the hands of humans and thought of herself more as a child of man than
by elvenkind. However, she had been given a few birth gifts by the Quessir:
her youthfulness (though she was almost thirty winters old she looked barely
more than twenty), slightly pointed ears, and –the one she appreciated
at the moment-: elven vision. Not only did she have very keen eye-sight,
she could see perfectly in anything less than full darkness. It was that
ability that allowed her in moments to see the handle to the hidden doorway
then to open it and step through.
Once in the hidden stone passage, the noise and oppressive air from
the ball seemed to almost vanish. With her acute hearing she could vaguely
make out the murmurs of music and conversation but it was mostly absorbed
by the thick walls. She could not say the air was cleaner here –that claim
could not be made within a league of any city- but most of the stink of
the ball was absent, replaced by stale air, stone dust and the odour of
rat droppings. The dark was close to absolute; even to her eyes the way
was dim and hard to see.
The passage was narrow, barely more than shoulder width, and proceeded
six paces in a straight line before meeting a steep set of stone stairs.
Illystil made her way slowly along the floor but balked when she arrived
at the stairs. The skirt of her dress was too tight to allow her to climb
easily, and her progress was slow and frustrating. She attempted to control
her breathing as she crept up the dark, narrow stairway. She did not need
anymore distractions tonight. No more repulsive merchants, charismatic
knights or peculiar…whatever Ulmar had been. She had an important task
before her and was running out of time to do it in.
The young Harper reached the top of the twisting stairway and stood
before an intersection of two passages. She consulted the map she had memorized
and turned to her left, which would lead her to the study and the secret
panel that was her destination. The right passage travelled, if memory
served, to one of the family bedrooms, currently occupied by his Lordship’s
slumbering mother-in-law.
The secret passageway she cautiously crept through was fairly wide,
about four feet, and not that much taller in height. Her current attire
being what it was, her passage along the hall was going to be quite difficult.
Her Loviatar-cursed dress made ducking through these low ceilinged passages
impossible.
With a sigh Illystil stopped and gripped the hem of her skirt between
the fingers of both hands. Slowly and not without difficulty she pulled
the tight fabric up over her hips, returning blood flow to her legs. She
sighed and could not help but wriggle in pleasure at her newfound mobility.
Of course her dress still crushed her chest and waist in its ogre-like
grip, but even a partial release from her torture was wonderful.
She wanted to rip the damned thing off. The hours she had been trapped
inside the garment completely justified the hatred she felt for the cursed
thing. As much as she wished it, though, she knew she could not. She still
had to leave this ball and that would be difficult if all she returned
to the main floor wearing nothing more than a smile. If she could have
simply removed it she would have, but it had taken two maids and a great
deal of determination to get into it the first time. There was no way for
her to undo the ties in the rear of it, and she certainly had no way to
put it back on by herself.
She was alone in the corridor, and yet she felt highly embarrassed walking
about with her dress pulled up to her waist and her smallclothes exposed.
It was made more silly by the fact that she both bathed and sunned herself
while fully nude. Besides, if she were discovered skulking about in these
secret passages, being found with her underwear showing would be the least
of her troubles. Not only would her mission be a failure, she would be
exposed and as marked as an enemy by the Iron Throne, which if it did not
end her life would certainly end her career as a Harper.
Her newfound freedom allowed her to negotiate the low passage, though
still not with as much ease as she would have liked. Bending at the waist
was still difficult, and so she had to proceed along the twisted corridor
with her back held straight in a sort of knee bending half crouch that
quickly became painful. She proceeded this way for ten paces that seemed
much longer along her westerly route before turning to her right. The passage
proceeded eight more yards before coming to a dead end. On the north wall-the
one shared by the mayor’s study- a foot before the end of the hallway was
her destination.
The false stone was discovered exactly where she had been told it would
be. She released a breath she did know she had been holding. Coming to
a halt and kneeling with difficulty before her target she allowed herself
a moment to slow her breath and heartbeat before she proceeded.
A few moments and hurried prayers later, she pulled a thin pry-bar from
the inside of her left thigh and as silently as she could, attacked the
sides of the false stone. What would have been a simple job under normal
circumstances was made both complex and taxing as she endeavoured do it
making as little noise as possible. Every breath and scrape of stone seem
magnified in her ears, surely loud enough for the guards and guests on
the floor below to be alerted and to investigate, but when finally the
hole through the wall lay before her she was –as far as she knew- undetected.
Her arms shaking with the effort, she eased the stone cover to the floor
of the concealed hall and examined the hole she had just uncovered. She
hadn’t thought that it would be so small. At barely a foot high and maybe
twice that wide, it was going to be difficult for her to work in. She frowned.
With a sigh, Illystil did her best to banish her dark thoughts. I’ve
no time for that sort of thing now. It was time to get on with it.
Illystil peered into the dark hole. Even with her elven vision it was
quite shadowy, but not so much that she was unable to make out some details.
The tunnel was the same at both ends and about fifteen inches deep. There
was the barest hint of light at its far end, but something –presumably
the cabinet- was pressed firmly against the hole, blocking it. She reached
in cautiously and felt varnished wood brush against her fingers.
So far so good. Perhaps Beshaba has finished with me for the night.
She gave one more short prayer to whatever gods may have been listening
for the room she was about to break into be empty. While she could hear
nothing through the wood of the cabinet, that did not mean that someone
was not talking quietly or reading in the study. She had no way of knowing,
and whether she did it sooner or later made no real difference. Either
the room was empty or it was not, and since she wanted to spend as little
time as possible away from the party, it made no sense for her to delay.
It took a bit of exploring with her fingers, but Illystil found the false
back to the cabinet and with a determined tug managed to wrest it loose.
It had taken more effort and made noise than she would have liked. Anyone
inside the room would have been able to heard her easily. She waited for
a tense, nerve wracking minute, then another as she listened for any untoward
sounds from the study. Only when her arms began to burn from fatigue and
she still heard only silence did she set it aside and attempt to peer within
the cabinet’s confines.
Illystil could see lamp light streaming through the hole and froze.
The cabinet was supposed to be locked and sealed. Locked and sealed cabinets
were by their nature dark, so where was that light coming from? If it wasn’t
closed, if someone from inside the room could see her—
She peered at the light and realized that the doors to the cabinet were
closed; there was some sort of wooden latticework set into them, and that
was how the light she saw was getting through. She released a long, ragged
breath, then set about finding the Baron’s mercenary contract so she could
replace it with her own and be gone.
The contract. At first she hadn’t understood why she had to come here
and replace it anyways. Surely stealing or destroying it would have been
enough to stop him from hiring the Chill, but that, she had been told,
was not the point. Stealing the contract was comparatively easy. In fact,
the contract already had been stolen. That was when they had found
out what it’s contents were. It gave the Chill the dates and times that
a trade caravan of the Seven Suns Trading Company (The Iron Throne’s closest
competitors in this region), filled with valuable Vaastar wheat seed, would
pass by on its route to drought-stricken Scornubel in the west, and contracted
them to attack it. The Iron Throne controlled the only other supply of
replacement seed to the region and with no competition, they could charge
crippling rates for it, which would destroy the economy of the Scornubytes
and put them under the Iron Throne’s power.
However, just destroying the contract would have done no good; Almaric
had the authority within the Iron Throne to draft a new contract if the
old one disappeared. The only way for the Harpers to spoil the Iron Throne’s
plans was to replace it with the forgery Illystil currently had laced against
her leg. It was in almost all ways identical to the original, but the dates
and descriptions of the Seven Suns convoy were replaced with those of the
wheat caravan belonging to the Iron Throne. It was a perfect Harper plot.
For the (comparatively) small effort of some forgery and thievery, the
Seven Sun Caravan was protected, the Iron Throne’s influence reduced, the
people of Scornubel saved from oppression and (if all went well) all of
it would be blamed on Almaric, who would be hopefully either killed for
his seeming incompetence or demoted by his superiors.
After peering as best she could through the lattice and assuring herself
that the mayor’s study was in fact unoccupied, Illystil examined the seemingly
secure cabinet. With the backing removed, she was soon able to determine
that there were three separate levels of shelves that she had access to.
The topmost one (and the easiest for her to access) contained the latticework
door and was unlocked. It contained worthless carvings and knickknacks.
The second layer was harder for her to investigate. The top of that shelf
was only inches above the level of the tunnel she had stuck her head and
shoulders into, and it was difficult for her to slip her arm and wrist
inside to see what was there. Judging by feel, Illystil determined that
it contained jewellery and gold trade bars, but no papers.
The third and lowest shelf in the cabinet was the hardest to access,
and of course where ‘Baron’ Danthiir had placed his valuable goods. It
seemed that Beshaba was not done with her yet. The opening to that shelf
with the backing removed was a narrow gap nearly at floor level that Illystil
could barely fit her wrist into. The only way she could get to it was to
insert her entire upper body inside the hole in the wall –it was a tight
squeeze- so that she could slide her arm down the rear of the cabinet nearly
to her shoulder.
It was uncomfortable, to say the least. Not only was the rest of her
body left sticking out the other side of the wall like a bizarre trophy,
but the only place she could place her head was inside the uppermost shelf
of the cabinet. The only benefit to this was that she had a wonderful view
of the study through the latticework door.
The Baron had many papers, and it was impossible for Illystil to tell
which was which by feel. That meant that she had to insert her hand inside
the shelf, find a likely shaped paper by feel, grip it and -while extricating
her entire body from the hole- damage or crease it as little as possible.
Once she had removed herself, she had to visually examine her prize to
see if it was the twin of the forged paper she carried. It was a frustrating,
laborious process.
She felt horribly exposed. There was far too much wood and stone between
her eyes and ears and the secret corridor that the rest of her was in.
If for some reason something or someone happened in the hall while she
was busy, there would be no way that she could detect it. A guard, a rat
or even a herd of cattle could pass behind her and she would remain completely
ignorant of it. And to make it worse, for all the time she was stuck in
the wall, the only clothing she wore was a single pair of sweaty all-to-small
smallclothes.
She couldn’t worry about it. As she had determined before, compared
to the other hazards of getting caught, flashing her almost bare behind
to a passer-by would be the least of her problems. The best means she had
of not getting caught while she worked was to do so quickly. She had already
been away from the ball far longer than she had estimated; almost thirty
minutes, and as of yet had nothing to show for her effort.
The mercenary contract was not the first paper she pulled out of the
lower shelf, not was it the second. It was not even the third. In fact
it took Illystil another thirty minutes of slow, deliberate work –including
pulling one paper out three times- before she finally found the contract
that she was to replace. Kneeling in the dusty corridor in the dim light,
she found it almost impossible to believe that the simple, wax-sealed sheet
of vellum in her hand was the culmination of the time and effort of so
many Harpers, including herself.
Gods above and below, but she was tired, thirsty and sore. Not only
was her hair a shapeless mess, her dress had become even tighter around
her waist and chest. She had scraped it and herself on all sides of the
stone of the tunnel more times than she wished. Not only did the scrapes
hurt as her constant motion ground them with dust and sweat, but they would
be difficult for her to hide when she returned to the ball. If she
returned to the ball. She had been up here almost an hour and she was worried
as to whether there was still a ball left. It had to be nearing midnight.
With a tired sigh, Illystil ensured that the contract she was about
to place in the bottom shelf of the cabinet was in fact the correct one
(this entire evening would be an absolute disaster if she made that
mistake)
she raised her arms over her head and inserted them into the accursed stone
tunnel for what would hopefully be the last time of the evening.
She hissed angrily as her elbow, already rubbed almost raw, brushed
once more against the rough stone. Illystil knew from painful experience
that it was when a person was tired that they made stupid, careless mistakes
and she did not want that to happen. She proceeded with exaggerated care,
doing her best to keep her motions controlled and steady. For the seventeenth
time that evening, she slowly stretched her hand down the back of the cabinet,
rotating it as it went so that the paper she carried would remain undamaged.
All of this would be for naught the contract came to Almaric’s attention
for being creased or with its seal broken. As her arm slowly slid down
the interior of the cabinet, her body moved further and further into the
stone tunnel until she felt the hard edge of the outside wall rest against
her naval. She rested her head in the crook of her free arm and settled
her weight as evenly as she could against the floor of the tunnel. Not
only did she have to replace the contract, but she had to replace all of
the papers in the secured shelf to the order they had been in when she
had first encountered them. She had done her best to stack the Baron’s
other papers in order against the side of the shelf, and wracked her brain
for as many of the small details of how things had been arranged before
she had intruded. The contract was the second last paper of the pile, followed
by the thick letter. After that –placed seal side down- was an unbound
sheet of parchment. Beside that, on the right side, was a scroll--
The sound of a door unlocking interrupted her. Heart starting to beat
rapidly, Illystil froze as much of her body as she could as she slowly
raised her head to look through the lattice work set into the door. Nothing.
Her field of view let her see the couch and the fireplace, but little else.
She resisted the urge to panic and pull herself out of the cabinet and
the stone hole in the wall. There was no way she could do so quietly, and
any sound she made would surely be heard by whoever had just entered the
room.
Who had entered the room? Almaric was one of the few people that
possessed a key. She held her breath in an effort to control her breathing.
There was no way for her to silently replace the false backing on the cabinet.
If she was caught with her hand in the proverbial bag, then it was over.
She supposed she could pull herself out before her identity was discovered
but her mission would still be a failure.
Over the sound of her racing heart and muffled by the wood of the cabinet,
Illystil heard a quiet murmuring of voices. There were two of them, she
estimated, but was unable to make out anymore. There were a few moments
of nerve-wracking silence and then a feminine giggle followed by the sound
of the study door closing and locking.
She heard another voice, a man’s this time. "Are we alone now?" It was
very familiar. Illystil had heard it earlier, during the ball.
She could discern nothing for a next few moments but the rustling of
cloth, then the first voice she had heard–definitely a woman’s’- spoke
again. "This is daddy’s study. He and the baron staying with us have the
only keys. No one should interrupt us." Daddy’s study? If this study
belonged to the woman’s father, then that made her the mayor’s daughter.
The only daughter of the mayor that Illystil knew of was Thilana, and that
would mean that the man she was with was…
"Oh, Alexander, I’ve had such a wonderful evening." The young blonde
Illystil had seen an hour earlier across the dance floor stepped into view,
holding the hand of Sir Quinlan’s handsome young squire. Staring into each
other’s eyes, the young couple settled onto the couch right in Illystil’s
view.
For a panicked moment, she worried that one or both of them would spot
her face behind the door of the cabinet, but soon realized that the pair
had eyes only for each other. They were seated quite close to each other,
their legs touching; her hands were holding his in her lap.
The two of them made idle small talk, discussing tales of eastern barbarians,
as Illystil pondered what to do next. It was obvious why the two of them
had come to the study, and she doubted that anything they did would involve
her hiding place. However, the longer she remained jammed inside the cabinet,
the greater the chance that a passing glance in the right light would reveal
her. If she was discovered by them, she had no idea what would happen.
Would Thilana scream? Would Alexander confront her?
Also, the longer she remained stuck half in the wall and away from the
festivities below, the greater the chance that someone –a servant, a family
member- might come across her nether half on vulgar display in the hidden
passage, or that her absence (and subsequent reappearance) would be unduly
noted.
On the couch, the couple surpassed the need for speech and slid into
each other’s arms. Despite the precariousness of her situation, Illystil
could not help but be aroused at the scene before her. Alexander and Thilana
were quite an attractive couple, and the passion between them was evident.
They were both quite young, and watching them it was easy for Illystil
to recall when she had been of a similar age. The young man she had been
involved with then…what was his name? Oh, yes, Dunduld. She had been so
sure that she had been in love, that they would be together forever…
Through an act of willpower, she forced the memory out of her head.
Yes, her time with Dundald had been passionate but it had also been brief,
and had ended badly. Right now, she had other things to concern herself.
If this had been another day -if she were not half sticking out of a wall-
she might have enjoyed watching the young couple exploring their passion
for each other. However, this was not any other day and she was
sticking
out of a wall. Her main focus had to be escape.
Gambling that the contents of the bottom shelf were restored enough
not to arouse Almaric’s suspicions, Illystil began to oh, so slowly pull
her arm back out. She had raised it about four inches when her elbow struck
the side of the cabinet with a noise that to Illystil’s ears seemed louder
than a dragon’s roar. She stilled herself and held her breath.
On the couch, Alexander pulled away from Thilana and looked alertly
across the room. "What was that?" His voice was sharp and alert.
The young blonde blinked and straightened up. Her face was flushed and
her hair in disarray. "What was what?" Her voice was muddled.
"I heard something." Alexander stood and peered about the room. Illystil
could have sworn that he looked straight at her, but his eyes continued
to examine the study. "It sounded like it came from that cabinet," he mused
as he walked to the left outside her field of vision.
Illystil willed herself invisible, hoping that by some miracle she would
remain undiscovered.
Thilana blinked and looked about, her mind obviously interested in more
immediate matters. "It was probably a mouse, or the fire popping." She
stretched out her hand. "It is nothing to worry about." She smiled invitingly.
"Come sit down." A moment later Alexander came back into view, looking
sheepish.
"You’re right." He took the young girl’s hand and kissed it, then sat
down beside her. "Now where were we?" Thilana smiled, and opened her arms
to him.
Only once they had resumed their embrace did Illystil allow herself
to breathe. Obviously, she was stuck. She couldn’t risk making another
noise and there was no guarantee that she could extricate herself without
revealing herself. Alexander -damn his alertness- would surely hear her
and would not be brushed off a second time by as simple an explanation
as a rat. It seemed that her only real option was to stay where she was,
precarious or no, until the young couple left and until then to make absolutely
no sound. In her current situation, more than any other, silence was golden.
Oblivious to Illystil’s dilemma not ten feet from them, Alexander and
Thilana continued their embrace. Illystil was torn. While she was enjoying
the scene playing out before her, it was a moment of private intimacy between
Alexander and Thilana. If the two discovered that they were being watched,
they would no doubt be mortified and angry. If Illystil possessed any decorum,
she would avert her eyes and wait for them to leave.
On the other hand, it was not like she could leave. She was quite stuck
and the couple’s drama was playing out quite literally right before her
eyes. Even if she did close her eyes, she could not shut her ears and the
moaning, rustling and smacking of lips told quite a sordid tale all on
its own. Since there was no way she could avoid it, she may as well enjoy
it, right? It was a rather base rationalization, Illystil guiltily admitted,
but she soon ceased to care as she watched the young couple.
Thilana, Illystil noted, was really quite lovely. Her blonde hair was
long and slightly curled and had earlier been elaborately coiffed, thought
now it was quite dishevelled. Her face was innocent and pixie like, with
the smooth skin of youth and sparkling blue eyes. She had the slender build
common to Sembian women, making her appear smaller than she was and increasing
her sylvan resemblance. Her pale blue dress furthered that impression,
being cut in the elven style and emphasising her un-pixie like cleavage
and shapely, slender legs.
Those legs were at that moment almost completely in view as Alexander
slid his hand under the hem of her skirt and moved up her thigh. While
they were still embraced, their lips were currently apart and their heads
on each others shoulders as his hands caressed and explored her. Illystil’s
breath began to get ragged as she watched him slip his hand beneath Thilana’s
buttock and pull her towards him. She moaned passionately.
Alexander’s lips once again met hers, but did not stay long as he began
to kiss along the length of her jaw to her ear. Illystil could see that
Thilana’s hands were firmly latched onto Alexander’s shoulders and were
gripping and ungripping as the girl breathed.
As Alexander drew his lips down Thilana’s neck and his hands slid up
her sides to her breasts, Illystil realized that she had another problem.
The action before her was very arousing. Usually when Illystil’s ardour
was roused, either she or her partner (whoever that may have been at that
moment) did their utmost to sate her carnal hunger. Unfortunately, in her
current predicament, her hands were trapped and could not be lowered to
where she desperately needed them to be. In spite of her situation (or
perhaps, she admitted to herself, because of it) the scene before her was
getting her quite wet and she was powerless to do anything about it. Perhaps
her enforced voyeurism was not an accidental blessing after all. If Thilana
and Alexander continued as they were doing, Illystil’s frustration was
going to become unbearable. In the secret passage out of sight of the young
couple, her legs began to rub and squeeze together in a futile attempt
to satisfy herself.
Oh the couch, Thilana dipped her chin down and reclaimed Alexander’s
lips with her own. They kissed with more passion now, and this time it
was she who pulled her lips away to explore his face. Up until now, the
couple’s embrace, while passionate, had been rather chaste. That changed,
however, when Alexander slid his hands up her body to cover her breasts.
Thilana threw her head back and gasped as he began to squeeze and kneed
at her cleavage through the blue fabric of her dress. She wrapped her arms
around his neck and pulled his head to her shoulder tightly as he continued
to caress her. Illystil could see the girl’s face as it lay on his shoulder
facing the cabinet. Her eyes were half lidded and Illystil froze as Thilana
seemed to look straight into the cabinet’s lattice work, but it was soon
obvious that the girl was seeing nothing.
Alexander’s hands moved up to the shoulders of Thilana’s dress and began
to pull them down. Still looking sightlessly off to the side, the girl
did nothing but grip his shoulders.
Oh, Sharess, how Illystil wished that she could touch herself right
now. Was this some godly punishment, or a trial for her to overcome? Whichever,
it proved to her that gods were cruel, fickle beings. In the hallway behind,
she could feel her smallclothes becoming soaked from her passion.
"Alexander." Thilana put her hands on his chest. "Alexander, stop."
Her voice was enflamed with desire, but her hands pushed the young man
she embraced away from her. At her words and actions, the handsome squire
visibly reigned himself in and slowly pulled away.
Illystil was both disappointed and relieved that the mayor’s daughter
had called a halt to hers and Alexander’s activities. While she would have
enjoyed to see them reach some culmination (and, she admitted, to see either
or both of them naked), this way not only would she not have to explode
from unconsummated passion, but the sooner they left the sooner she could
get out of this wall and return to the party. After, Illystil promised
herself, she relieved her sexual frustration.
Alexander quickly got to his feet. Illystil could see his erection easily
through his hose. "I’m sorry, Lady Menaster." His face was flushed and
he was breathing heavily. He did not meet her eyes.
Illystil was impressed at the squire’s self control. Most of the men
she had known would not have been able to control themselves so quickly,
especially after being in the arms as someone as lovely as Thilana. He
continued. "My behaviour was unacceptable." As he was not looking at her
he did not see that she had stood also and was looking at him with passionate
eyes.
"Alexander." With her bosom heaving and her hair wild, she was the image
of wanton sexuality. Even Illystil, who had never looked at women in that
way, was drawn to her.
He didn’t seem to hear her. He straightened his clothing and turned
to the door, words streaming out of his mouth. "I should never have presumed…"
He walked out of Illystil’s field of vision.
"Alexander." Once again her words fell on deaf ears.
Alexander’s apology continued somewhere off to Illystil’s right. "…to
make advances to a noble woman such as yourself." There was the sound of
a doorknob turning, then Thilana ran over to him and was lost from sight
as well.
"Alexander." Finally, he seemed to hear her and stopped talking. "Don’t
leave," she asked quietly and Illystil took his silence as an affirmative
answer. Both of them reappeared in Illystil’s view, Thilana walking backwards
towards the couch and leading Alexander by one hand. There was a moment
of pregnant silence in which she examined the hand she held and he stared
at her lowered head. Illystil held her breath.
"What I was going to say…" she hesitated, her voice quiet. "…was that
you to were ripping my dress." Dropping his hand, she raised her eyes to
his. "I didn’t say you should stop." Her eyes still on his, she raised
her fingers to the lace of her bodice and began to fumble with the knots.
Alexander (and Illystil) did nothing but watch her hands work at the tight
laces, mesmerized.
After she had undone three laces, Alexander stepped in and replaced
her hands with his. Still saying nothing, the air thick between them, he
began to unlace her gown until it loosened enough for her to slip it off
of her shoulders onto the floor. Beneath it she wore a thin, linen chemise
that covered up to her mid thigh. The brief sleeveless garment bared most
of her long arms and legs, emphasising her slenderness and femininity.
Her breasts were barely contained and jutted out proudly from beneath the
thin cloth. Her hard nipples were plainly visible through the garment.
All three of the room’s inhabitants were breathing raggedly. Thilana’s
eyes were locked on Alexander and his were roving appraisingly across her
body. Thilana spoke. "Are-" she swallowed nervously. "Are you worried about
your clothing?" Her vision was fixed on the top of his doublet.
Eying her thinly covered breasts with their erect nipples, it took Alexander
a moment to understand what she meant. When he did, he smiled. "Yes. They
should probably come off then."
The young woman needed no further invitation and reached towards his
collar. As she began to undo the many small buttons that ran down the length
of his top, Alexander caressed her bare arms with hands and lay feathered
kisses along her cheeks and brow. Thilana flushed whenever he touched her
and her nervous fingers fumbled with his buttons.
The itching between Illystil’s legs was growing unbearable. Her thighs
were firmly clamped together but it was doing no good. The juices of her
desire had soaked through her brief small clothes and ran down her legs
to her knees. It was all she could do to keep her gasping breaths silent
and prevent her limbs from thrashing about in the cabinet. Oh, how she
wanted to move. Not even to between her legs, though that would have been
wonderful, but even the smallest of movements. Her left arm was still deep
inside the cabinet and her right was bent in front of her. She wanted to
stretch, to move, to—
Something brushed against her leg.
Illystil froze. Had she imagined that? Her mind was a little, ah, distracted,
and she had just been thinking about moving.
She felt it again, but against her lower back this time, near her tail
bone. It had felt like a…finger…giving her a single stroke from left to
right. Oh, gods, who was it? Out there, behind her, someone (or something)
was standing over her. Over her nearly bare bottom, with only passion stained
smallclothes covering her, and her own fluids dripping down her legs.
In the room in front of her, though she barely noticed it, Thilana helped
Alexander pull his doublet over his head, revealing his lean muscular torso.
The two fell into each other’s arms, their hands exploring and pulling
at each other’s clothing.
Illystil waited with a combination of dread and anticipation for the
next touch. The fact that she hadn’t been pulled out or the room been alerted
confused her. If she had been discovered by a housegaurd, or a skulker
working for either the mayor or Almaric, surely they would have done something
against her. However, her mysterious…person had done nothing but touch
her. Did he (if it was he; perhaps he was an it, or a her) have…other intentions
in mind. Did she want to know what they were? Did she have any choice but
to wait and find out?
A minute passed and nothing more happened. She had to have imagined
it. If a person was standing there with a half naked rear sticking out
of a wall in a secret passage in front of him (her? It?), he would do something.
In the time that had passed, her anticipation and dread were leached out
of her by the scene that continued to unfold before her.
They were both nude now, their clothes scattered on the floor around
them. Thilana was sitting on the couch with her legs spread slightly as
Alexander knelt beside her and suckled her breasts. Thilana’s head was
thrown back, her blonde hair a careless cascade behind her and her eyes
closed as she moaned and caressed Alexander’s head with her hands.
Oh, but Thilana was lovely. Illystil was caught between admiration,
attraction and jealousy. Her breasts were full, with large pink aureole
and small, raised nipples. They were maybe a bit larger than Illystil’s,
but not as firm. She had a slender waist and lovely legs, but it was obvious
from the lack of muscle tone that the girl did not share Illystil’s active
lifestyle. A tuft of light brown pubic hair lay between her legs, and because
they were lightly spread Illystil could see her glistening, fur covered
mound.
If Thilana’s body was lovely, Alexander’s was magnificent. The young
squire was the perfect combination of muscle and leanness. His proportions
were perfect, and as he knelt over his lover, Illystil could see muscles
playing and unplaying in his back and arms.
As she watched, her mysterious guest momentarily forgotten, Alexander
snaked one hand down Thilana’s body until he cupped her mound. The girl
moaned in appreciation and spread her legs wider, giving Illystil a clearer
view of her sex.
Admittedly, she had never watched another woman making love before,
but Illystil had never been attracted to the female body. Despite that,
she watched entranced, squeezing her legs together in frustration, as Alexander
slid his finger along the length of her glistening slit and then buried
it inside her. Thilana moaned as he caressed her and cried out in ecstasy
as he plunged his finger into her. Bringing his mouth up to hers, he kissed
her deeply as his hand continued to plunge and stroke.
As Illystil continued to watch, enthralled, her guest’s finger touched
her again. She had almost completely forgotten the touch, had passed it
off as fevered imagination, but this time it was definitely real. It took
all her willpower not to jerk and startle as she felt it touch the inside
of her knee, where her juices had trickled. As she waited with baited breath,
it slowly followed the thin stream of her fluid that ran down the inside
of her thigh. It neared her cloth-covered quim, and her breath quickened.
Now, more than before, she desperately wanted to know the intentions
of her guest. Was he here to apprehend her? Torture her? Or was he just
another person making his way through the secret corridor? By Sharess,
she needed a sexual release badly. Watching Thilana and Alexander had filled
her with so much pent up desire that she was dizzy, and if her mysterious
guest was doing what she thought he was doing, then she was not about to
stop him.
Alexander knelt on the floor between Thilana’s spread legs and lowered
his head to the juncture of her thighs. They mayor’s daughter looked both
surprised and pleased by his action, though her expression quickly changed
as Alexander began to pleasure her and her mouth formed a silent ‘o’ of
pleasure.
Illystil was struck again by how lovely the girl was as she slowly writhed
and gasped under Alexander’s ministrations. Her normally pale figure was
flushed to a rosy hue and her legs slowly rose until they rested on the
young man’s shoulders. If Alexander had not been there, Illystil would
have had a wonderful view of the girl’s quim.
Behind Illystil, the not forgotten finger continued its teasing journey,
gliding across the back of her leg and up her left buttock. Is he enjoying
the view? She did not know where that thought had come from; it really
had no bearing at all on her precarious situation. Illystil was very proud
of her figure, including her behind, and was gratified that if her body
was exposed for her guest to see, that at least it was a very well formed
legs, ass and quim that was on display.
It was obvious that her guest had noted her degree of sexual arousal,
but was he going to do something about it or was he just laughing at her?
No matter what he did to her (or with her) she was not exactly in a position
to stop him. At the moment she was little more than the ultimate sexual
object: a eager quim ready to be taken without requiring any of the normal
briberies or flatteries. All that one needed to do was remove the intervening
clothing, sheathe his sword in her womanly scabbard and be done with it.
If this situation had been explained to her, the idea of a mysterious
man ravishing a helpless women like this would have been repugnant. It
was akin to rape and Illystil held a very dim view of rapists. However,
abhorrent as it may have been at any other time, here and now she was so
aroused and so frustrated that she welcomed any ravishing her mysterious
guest might do to her. If she could have risked speaking aloud, she’d have
begged
for it.
Her guest’s finger continued to slide along her sweat slicked skin,
tracing the swelling outline of her one buttock and then into the cleft
that ran between both of them. Her smallclothes covered most of her rear,
but there was still an inch or two of bared crack for her guest to explore
before he began to stroke the thin cotton of her undergarments. Now he
used all four fingers as he traced the damp cloth along the slope of her
rear and down between her sensitive legs. Almost unconsciously, Illystil
parted her legs as much as she could to give him better access. Please,
oh please, she thought, do more than tease and stroke me.
In the study, Alexander continued to kneel between Thilana’s legs. The
young blonde’s eyes were closed and her jaw was clenched as she thrashed
about on the couch, her arms and legs gripping her lover. Her breath was
coming out in pants and moans, and that sound was so alluring that Illystil
had to clench down on her jaw to keep herself from moving or crying out.
Thilana cried out breathlessly as her hips began to buck uncontrollably
and her hands gripped his shoulders. "Oh, Alexander, oh…"
Behind Illystil, her guest rubbed down firmly on her soaked smallcloth
covered mound. The touch sent such a strong jolt of pleasure through her
that she had to press her head firmly into her arm and tighten her fists
until she could feel the tendons groan. Oh, that felt so good. If
only she could join her cries to Thilana’s; to make a chorus of female
ecstasy.
In the room, Thilana continued to cry out and moan as she crushed her
groin into Alexander’s face. In the throws of her climax the girls’ face
could only be described as rapturous. For ten seconds, while Illystil did
her best to pant quietly in response to her mysterious guest’s rubbing,
the mayor’s daughter revelled in Sune’s Gift before calming down. Languidly,
she tugged on Alexander’s shoulders until he pulled himself off of the
floor and sat beside her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed
him passionately, visibly even to Illystil sticking her tongue deep into
his mouth.
Close to her receiving Sune’s Gift herself, Illystil still managed to
catch a glimpse of Alexander’s proud, rampant erection jutting forth from
his body. It, like the rest of him, looked magnificent and she envied Thilana
for soon being able to experience it.
Oh. Oh, yes. Oh, Sune. Sune. Sune. She was close, so close. If
only she could cry out, could bang and thrash as she wanted to instead
of clenching her body and remaining silent. While Alexander, preoccupied
as he was, might not have heard a few light moans from the cabinet, there
would have been no way he would have missed the loud cries that Illystil
would have made if she gave herself even a sliver of her release. No, for
her right now, there was either total silence or complete abandonment.
She did not have the willpower for anything in between.
Before Illystil could test her willpower, her guest suddenly stopped
his stroking of her loins. Keeping her heartfelt moan of dismay and frustration
from echoing throughout the entire upper floor of the mansion was her stronger
test of willpower yet, but somehow she succeeded.
Damn her guest, whoever the man may have been! Did he believe he was
teasing her, or was he a true sadist? Perhaps he was a houseguard or agent
of Almaric and was inflicting her with torture, or maybe her guest was
an avatar for the Maiden of Pain herself. Withholding a woman’s pleasure
so close to her release was at least as effective a means of torture as
mere pain. Curse the man’s eyes. Once she released herself from her prison
she would strangle him with her bare hands…after she satiated the feral
hunger of her loins.
Oblivious to Illystil’s aggravation, Thilana and Alexander continued
to kiss naked on the couch. Having come down from her height of ecstasy,
then young woman seemed content to lay languorously as Alexander kissed
and caressed her, but it was obvious that his passion had not been assuaged.
He cupped and kneaded her breast with his one hand as he hungrily assaulted
her mouth and pressed his body against hers. His free hand took one of
Thilana’s and led it down to his turgid erection.
Illystil seethed and twitched her pelvis in a vain attempt to bring
herself across the threshold, but did not succeed. Her mysterious ‘guest’,
if he was still there, did nothing. Damn the man! Had he left her like
this? It was beyond cruelty. It least in the forest, an animal was put
out of its misery.
Thilana stopped kissing Alexander and peered down between their bodies
at his hard shaft. She looked like she was going to do something, but hesitated.
After a moment Alexander rolled off of her and she half turned on the couch
to face him. Her hand was still wrapped around him.
"Have you been with a man, Thilana?" he asked gently.
"Once." She seemed entranced with his member and stroked it idly as
she answered. Her eyes did not move. "But it didn’t last very long, and
he wasn’t as, uhh, large as you are." She flicked her eyes to his and smiled
shyly. "I liked what we just did much more."
"That was only the beginning," he assured her. He reached out and cupped
one of her breasts. "It gets farmuch better."
Illystil was as engrossed in Alexander’s member as Thilana was. Oh,
but it was perfect and it very little imagination for her now to picture
its hard, red length sliding into her. Her mysterious guest had still not
touched her again, and she was beginning to wonder if he had abandoned
her. If he was no longer there, was he off to get reinforcements? Or was
he taking matters into his own hands? At least when he was touching –and
torturing- her, she knew where he was.
Thilana had both hands wrapped around Alexander’s shaft and was staring
at it hungrily, but doing little. "What, uhh, do I do with it?" she whispered
in a little-girl voice.
"Thilana, darling," Alexander said to her as he groaned in frustration,
a sound that had never failed to arouse Illystil. "You can’t just hold
it and do nothing else," he scolded her in tortured tones. "You’re going
to drive me mad."
"What do I do?" she whispered. Take him in your mouth. Use your hands.
Mount him! Illystil’s lust filled mind silently shouted out answers,
but the girl didn’t hear. Alexander cupped her neck with his hand and began
to lower her head to his member. Thilana seemed to understand what he was
doing and slipped off of the couch. When she knelt between his legs and
lowered her head, though, her cascades of light blonde hair blocked Illystil’s
view of what she wanted to see.
Another torture to add to the list. Illystil had to content herself
with watching the back of Thilana’s head begin to bob up and down as Alexander
moaned his appreciation. She had taken her third bob when Illystil once
more felt the elusive finger of her guest upon her defenceless body.
Illystil silently cursed the masochist behind her as Thilana slowly
taught herself how to take Alexander orally. Her guest trailed the edges
of her smallclothes with his finger, slowly and tantalizingly sliding along
her rear, into her anal crack and almost into the folds of her quim before
once again stopping. Illystil bit her lip in frustration and cursed him
with greater intensity. Just as she thought he was going to leave her again
–if in fact he had left before- she felt a tugging against the knots that
held her underwear in place, and then the moist fabric was being pulled
gently down and off her legs. She gasped as she felt air brush against
her now exposed mound.
Her body now totally exposed to the man behind her, Illystil alternately
cursed and gasped as his fingers –he was using his whole hand, now- thoroughly
explored all of her intimate regions. He brushed his fingers through her
thoroughly soaked pubic hair, along her slit and even inside her slick
tunnel. He cupped both globes of her rump and squeezed, then traced the
valley that separated them. Never, though, not once did he touch her sensitive
nub. What he did felt wonderful, but was continually frustrating because
he constantly (and perhaps purposely?) just missed the mark.
In the room, Alexander pulled Thilana up from his wet and glistening
member. He was still rampantly erect and flushed from passion. Sitting
on the edge of the couch, he took her in his arms and while kissing her,
gently pushed her backwards onto the couch.
Illystil, faint and dizzy from her constant stimulation, felt something
new press against the lips of her quim, something soft and delicate. It
was his tongue! With a single deep pass, it licked her entire slick length
before penetrating her deeply. Despite her best efforts, a moan escaped
her lips and she desperately covered her mouth with her arm. Her guest’s
tongue explored her hot, moist depths for a moment, then abruptly left
her. Muffled by her arm, Illystil gasped. Why didn’t the man either stop
or follow through with his actions? This infernal teasing was driving her
mad.
It seemed that he either heard her silent plea, or he simply tired of
playing, for the next place his tongue touched her was her swollen, aching
clitoris. One moment there was nothing touching her and the next his tongue
and lips were wrapped around her most sensitive spot. For Illystil, after
a seemingly endless period of aborted climaxes, it was if her world exploded.
Oh,
Sune. Oh finally. Oh, don’t stop. Don’tstopdon’tohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Her ecstasy continued for what seemed to be an eternity as her guest’s
divine tongue suckled at her nub like a mother’s teat. Even after he had
stopped, she still continued to be wracked by waves of pleasure that smashed
against her like an unending tide. Sune’s Gift indeed. The goddess of Love
had been generous beyond words this time, perhaps in apology.
Her senses slowly cleared and she realized that her body ached. Unable
to move or cry out during that incredible experience, her body had compensated
by locking up her every muscle at once. She froze. That orgasm had been
more powerful than any other she had experienced in her life. Surely some
sound of her occurrence had penetrated into the room before her. Able now
to focus her eyes, she looked through the wooden lattice to Alexander and
Thilana.
The young couple were laying joined on the narrow couch. Alexander and
his fabulous physique lay inside the crook of Thinala’s spread legs while
she gripped his shoulders and moaned. Illystil thought that their coupling
on that furniture would be an uncomfortable fit –though certainly more
comfortable than her hole in the wall!- but the two seemed to have found
a way. He seemed distracted from his task, however, and was looking around
the room suspiciously even as he was inside his lover.
"I heard something," he muttered. "it sounded like a wounded animal."
He made to get up.
A wounded animal? Illystil did not know whether to be amused
or insulted. They do say that pain can be the same as pleasure. Perhaps
the description is apt.
"Alexander, no!" Thilana’s voice was breathy with passion as she wrapped
her legs around his body and pulled him firmly against her. "You can’t
leave me now. Not like this." She tugged his shoulders and kissed his chest
and face until the young squire relented. "Please."
"I’m sorry, I’m being foolish." He kissed the young women beneath him,
then reached to take her breasts into his hands. She gasped and moaned
her pleasure as he began to slowly pump his member into her depths.
Illystil sighed with relief that she had escaped detection despite her,
uhh…mistake. Her whole body was still sore, but pleasurably so and she
could feel her guest still idly exploring her quim with his tongue and
fingers. In the aftermath of her ‘gift’, Illystil would have thought it
impossible to feel her passion rise again so soon and yet she could feel
the heat already building in her loins.
The slow coupling of Thilana and Alexander soon gained in speed and
intensity and the two of them became as one being made of thrashing limbs
and pumping bodies that gasped, moaned and cried. As Illystil watched Thilana
approach her orgasm, the maid’s passion feeding her own, she felt Sune’s
Gift approaching once more.
History seemed to repeat itself as Illystil’s heat continued to rise.
Abruptly her guest stopped his ministrations and she gritted her teeth
in frustration. Any curses she may have made at that time ceased before
they began, for at that moment she felt two hands on her hips and an object
that could only be her guest’s erection press against her moist, well lubricated
lips.
There was little subtly or gentleness in her guest’s taking of her.
He entered her hot, molten depths in a single, hard stroke and Illystil
could not help but gasp when he struck home. Oh, but he was large. With
little preamble he withdrew his massive organ almost completely from her
and then again thrust it in deeper inside her than any other had. His rapid
pumping of her continued without falter, each stroke as strong as the one
before and building her excitement in a way that his tongue and fingers
had been unable to do.
Thilana’s fervent cries echoed throughout the study and Illystil had
to bite down upon her hand to keep from echoing them herself. There was
a primal female satisfaction to being thoroughly filled by a man, and no
other sensation or action could rival it. Alexander’s body was covered
in a sheen of sweat and Illystil could only watch entranced as his well
formed buttocks, partly covered by Thilana’s shapely legs, repeatedly pumped
up and down. In her mind she could see his hard shaft as it penetrated
the young girl’s folds, glistening with juices much as her guest’s was
doing with hers.
Alexander was grunting now, adding his sounds to Thilana’s every time
their hips met. Illystil’s guest’s furious rearward assault upon her continued
without falter. Her entire body was rocking, being pushed by him deeper
and deeper into the tunnel, and she had to brace as well as she could with
her arms and legs to keep the cabinet from banging into the wall. Her breath
was coming in heaving gasps, the tight constraint of her dress against
her heaving chest unfelt.
Through the wooden lattice Illystil saw Alexander thrust himself deeply
against Thilana and arch upward with a wordless cry. Thilana cried out
a half moment later and the combined cries of their ecstasy sent Illystil
over the edge as well. While her orgasm was powerful –Oh, by Sune was it
ever- it did not debilitate her so much as to force her to reveal her position.
While she could not prevent making a few sounds, her mouth was pressed
firmly into her arm, which muffled it and besides, neither of room’s occupants
were in condition to distinguish what sounds were being made by whom or
from where.
Both Thilana and Alexander lay on the couch filled with languor. As
Illystil’s quim continued to be reamed by her mysterious lover’s yet-unseen
member, she was only able to look upon two of them: sweaty, flushed and
sated. She envied them the ease with which they were able to relax as right
now it was a luxury that she could not share. Even if she were not being
taken from behind like a woodland beast, it was impossible to forget that
she was jammed into the back of a cabinet while half stuck in a wall, with
her one arm painfully stretched down into a tiny crack and her other cramped
awkwardly in front of her. Her body was till laced into a tight, uncomfortable
dress, with her partner’s ongoing rutting digging the stone of the tunnel
into her sides and stomach. All of this was with a ball probably dying
down on the floor below that she was very overdue to be returning to. At
least the mercenary contract –the reason why all of this had happened in
the first place- had been successfully switched.
Her guest’s powerful shaft continued to drive into her without respite.
With Alexander and Thilana no longer coupling and nestling in each other’s
arms, remaining unheard was now more important than before but no less
difficult. She wanted to grunt, to moan, to encourage her unknown lover
with her words and her hands. She wanted to see truly how large his manhood
was; to wrap it in her hands and worship it in her mouth. He was certainly
strong and vigorous. Was he tall? Handsome? Did he have charm and speak
well? Did she care?
Her loins were on fire, bruised and sore yet still burning with pleasure
as her guest’s organ pumped into her again and again. An unheard of for
her third orgasm was nearing. Her entire body began to tremble with the
combined effort of keeping still and remaining unheard. Could she endure
another one of Sune’s Gifts? She was unsure and reluctant to find out.
Exactly how long did her guest plan to take her like this? Did he have
any plans for her once he had spent his load? She was still ignorant of
his motivations and did not know what he would do when (if!) he sated himself.
Clenching a jaw grown sore from much to much of that activity, she watched
as Alexander and Thilana lay in each other’s arms, murmuring to each other
in voices too quiet to make out. The girls’ hand was idly playing with
his chest hair. She said something, and he replied to her with a chuckle.
Thilana giggled with him for a moment but then sat up abruptly, blonde
hair tossing about and pert breasts swaying. "The ball!" She pulled out
of her lover’s embrace. "I have to get back. I didn’t think we’d be in
here for this long." She scrambled naked around the room, looking for and
finding her linen chemise. Illystil and Alexander had one last glimpse
at her naked form before it became shrouded by clothing
"How long did you think we would be?" Alexander sat up on the couch,
watching her dress and seemingly unconcerned about his own lack of clothing.
He was smiling. "I think you have a rather low opinion of my talents."
Any reply Thilana made went unnoticed as further waves of pleasure swept
over Illystil. Oh, gods, oh yes. Oh, don’t stop. Ohhhhhhhhhhh. The
power and speed of her phantom lover’s strokes amazingly increased.
She could feel his fingers gripping into her sides strong enough to leave
bruises as he pounded into her with greater and greater intensity. Oh,
by Sune but she was close. Never had she had two such powerful orgasms
in one session and here she was going to have three, so long as her unknown
paramour did not do her the discourtesy of spending his load too early.
Oh,
yes. Almost there. Ohhh. So close. Don’t…don’t…oh…ohhhh OH! OH! OH! YES!
YES! YES!
She felt his hips ram into hers one final time, slamming his turgid
member into her molten depths harder and farther than he had yet and that
urgent motion tipped her completely over the edge. Jaw clenched, mouth
muffled, every muscle in her body stiffening, Illystil gave herself over
to a final, mind shattering almost religious climax as she felt the organ
within her swell fill her with milky seed. It seemed to go on forever,
both her orgasm and the stream of jism that flowed into her. The hands
that held her loosed their grip and fell away, and she could feel the weight
of a body leaning against her. It was with genuine sadness that she felt
her guest’s iron hard erection begin to soften and shrink.
When Illystil was able to open her eyes and focus on the study, she
was amazed that neither of the room’s occupants seemed to have heard anything
untoward. As much as she had tried to keep herself from making noise, she
knew that a climax as powerful as hers had been was impossible to stifle
completely. Yet the two young lovers seemed unaware of anything other than
themselves, and she was not about to ignore Tymora’s favour.
With Alexander’s help, Thilana was lacing up her dress while she fussed
with his doublet. "I have to get this key back to my father’s room before
he finds it gone," she said to him. "Oh, I hope its not too late when we
get down there." Illystil agreed with her wholeheartedly. "I was supposed
to have been in bed hours ago. If the guests are gone when we return downstairs,
Father will tan my hide."
The two lapsed into silence as they finished dressing. As was typical
of men, Alexander’s job was much easier than Thilana’s. He had only to
slip on his doublet, hose and shoes while Thilana’s dress, slippers and
hair required much more attention.
Illystil’s mysterious visitor had pulled out of her but he had not disappeared.
He had filled her with a prodigious amount of seed, and now it was slowly
oozing out of her, dripping out of her quim and down her thigh. She could
feel the press of his shoulder into her leg where as he sat beside her
against the wall. He was wearing some sort of quilted velvet jacket, or
at least that was what it felt like brushed against her leg. It was not
the dress of a servant, so did that mean that the man who had coupled her
within an inch of her life was a noble? One of the guests at the party?
Perhaps she had met him; even danced with him.
What exactly do you say to an anonymous man who comes up behind you,
strips you and lays claim to you as only a man is able? That particular
subject had not come up during her etiquette lessons with Lady Shaeril.
As fair Thilana had pointed out, the evening was getting on and after the
two lovers had departed, she would be able to waste no time finishing her
task and returning to whatever was left of the gala below. If he chose
to remain, she would be unable to force him to leave.
"I’m afraid that I must return to Cormyr in two days time," Alexander
told Thilana quietly after they had finished dressing and preparing themselves.
"I don’t know when I’ll be returning." They were standing out of Illystil’s
sight by the door and she had to strain to hear them through the thick
wood of the cabinet.
"Can I see you again before you leave?"
"I don’t know," the young squire replied. "I would like to, but I do
not know if your father will allow it."
"My father did not allow this, and yet here we are." Illystil could
see in her mind’s eye the pretty blonde saying this; picture her mischievous
smile.
There was a moment of silence, and Illystil guessed they were kissing.
"I see your point," Alexander murmured. The door opened, there were footsteps,
and then the sound of a key locking. Then were was silence.
Free at last, Illystil sagged bonelessly against the stone tunnel and
wooden cabinet and let out a long, very audible sigh. She didn’t care that
her action caused the wood to rock and knock audibly against the wall.
She knew that she should waste no time and return quickly to the ball,
but at the moment all she could do was lay there. She had no recollection
of actually starting, but suddenly Illystil found herself laughing.
What a bizarre night! When she had woken this morning –how far away
the previous dawn seemed now!-could she possibly have imagined what she
would be doing by night’s end? Never; not in a thousand years would she
have guessed that she would be wearing a ball gown, flirting and dancing
with nobility and the hands of kings, then creeping half naked through
secret halls and being ravished by a mysterious man with a gifted tongue
and huge, tireless tool.
She was laughing harder now, taking deep breaths between and chortling
so hard that her sides began to ache. Her loud peels echoed throughout
the now quiet library and tears began to form in her eyes as she laughed
the stress, tension and unreality of everything out of her.
Behind her, in the hallway, she her leg felt the shoulder of her unknown
ravisher slowly rise. For a moment she thought he was going to dive once
more into her sore, leaking mound with either his hands, fingers or tongue,
but he only brushed his fingers along the top of her bare bottom as if
to say ‘good bye’. A pair of lips touched the spot just below her tailbone
with a soft kiss, and then there was nothing.
Her throat quiet once more, Illystil forced her arms and body to move,
ignoring the loud, painful protests that they made. She had to see him;
she had to know if he was real. She slithered out of the stone tunnel that
had acted as a bed and womb for her and crouched on stiff, tired legs to
peer about the dark passage. There was nothing; no sign that a man had
ever been there. She reached down, dipped her fingers into her sore, tired
slit and brought them to her lips. It tasted of the combined juices of
man and woman; the only proof of her phantom lover, save
for memories of ecstasy and tired muscles.
She did not know how exactly she ended up once again on the main floor
of the mansion, standing before the secret passage into the unlit alcove.
The previous ten minutes had been a blur. Replacing the false backing to
the cabinet and the hollow stone cover on that damned secret tunnel and
been surprisingly difficult. Her arms had shaken with exhaustion and her
mind clouded with fatigue so much that even those simple tasks had almost
been too much. She had stumbled through the secret passage and down the
spiral stairs in a daze, her dress still pulled up over her waist and her
juices (as well as her phantom lover’s) still running down her leg. Her
smallclothes were conspicuously absent.
She cautiously opened the hidden door and listened through the covering
tapestry for sounds from the ballroom beyond. The alcove seemed to be uninhabited.
She did want to walk out from behind the curtain and into the middle of
another romantic rendezvous (one per night was enough!) but she was able
to make out the subdued sounds of music and conversation beyond.
She wasn’t too late! The ball sounded smaller, even muffled through
the tapestry, but it was still there. Despite all the damned delays and
complications (though not all the delays had been bad ones…) the festivities
had not yet run their course. She had been gone more than an hour, which
would be a trick to explain, but not half as much as leaving without paying
her respects to his lordship, the mayor would be.
By Mielikki she was tired. All that stood between her and her bed was
a farewell to Lord Mayor Menaster, then she could finally be rid of this
dress (she was unsure as to whether she would burn it, tear it to shreds
or throw it beneath a team of horses. Perhaps all three) and fall into
a blissful slumber.
Oh, no. Curse it all to the nine hells. There was no way she
could return to the festivities with her present appearance. She looked
as if she had been ravished by a pack of ogres; which wasn’t too far from
the truth, really. She was supposed to be maintaining a low profile, and
emerging from the shadows looking more used than an army whore would definitely
be noticed. Damn and double damn.
She spent the next few minutes trying vainly to make herself presentable.
She pulled the hem of her dress down to its previous, far too tight position
and used the tapestry to wipe the primal cocktail of sexual fluids off
of herself. Getting her hair back in order was a harder task, as was cleaning
the dust and grime off of her dress, but she managed. There was nothing
she could do about the scrapes on her arms and legs.
The lamps had been dimmed, thankfully, casting the edges of the large
room into shadow. Between ten and fifteen couples bobbed and spun on the
dance floor with maybe half that again eating canapés and sipping
wine along the hall’s darkened borders. Illystil searched the room for
the distinctive dress of Mayor Menaster. All she needed to do was give
a quick farewell and she would be gone. With the aid of her elven vision,
the tall man and his titular sash was soon spotted under the same painting
she had first seen his daughter. He was speaking to a group of men, one
of whom —oh, damn— was the last man she wanted to see again, on
this night or any other: Baron of Sevelaya, Almaric Danthiir.
There was no way around it. She walked slowly and cautiously towards
Almaric and the mayor, both to draw as littler attention to herself as
well as to ensure that her legs did not give out underneath her. As she
slowly walked past the rooms remaining people she found herself eying every
man suspiciously, especially the ones with quilted velvet on their jackets.
Did one of them have a pair of soaked smallclothes in his pocket?
She was acutely aware of her dishevelled appearance. With her rumpled
dress, dazed look and unkempt hair she knew she looked…used. She
drew the eyes of both men and women as she passed, earning looks of contempt
from the latter and knowing smiles from the former. Conversation stopped
as she neared people and became flurries of whispered comments in her wake.
Her cheeks grew warmer and warmer as she proceeded, and she was quite glad
that Sir Quinlan had left the ball previously. She did not want him to
see her like this.
Oh, but she did not want to deal with Almaric now. Her mind was not
up to any sort of verbal sparring and she felt soiled enough without having
to endure his lecherous grin and undressing eyes. As she approached Mayor
Menaster and his gaggle of companions, Illystil used the last of her reserves
and plastered her sunniest smile firmly upon her face. It felt as though
it would crack at any moment, but hopefully would get her through the upcoming
conversation. Almaric was there, looking far too smug and polished, staring
at her and smiling. His tunic, she noticed with horror, was made from quilted
velvet.
It was suddenly hard to breathe.
As she approached the mayor’s conversation ceased. The mayor was standing
with Almaric and three other men, all obviously nobles or rich merchants.
All had their eyes firmly glued to her. She curtsied Lord Menaster as well
as she was able with her tight dress and shaky legs, feeling all five men’s
attention focus on her burgeoning cleavage. Her face (as well as the rest
of her) flushed hotly as she greeted the mayor and thanked him for her
hospitality, speaking quickly so as to not give Almaric a chance to interrupt.
Before she could turn to leave he spoke. "Lady Illystil, I told you
we would meet again." She gritted her teeth behind her smile.
The Mayor, a slender, hawk-featured man who looked more than a little
drunk looked at Almaric and laughed. "Oh, so is that why you’ve been spending
all this time with me, Baron?" He looked more kin to Almaric with his sculpted
appearance and drunken demeanour than his fine featured, shapely daughter.
"And here I thought it was because of my charming personality." All of
the men save Almaric laughed.
Only Illystil saw his grief flash of anger before his ingratiating smile
returned. "Perhaps a touch of both, your lordship." He stepped towards
Illystil and extended his arm. Shielded from the other men, he grinned
triumphantly. "If you will excuse me, the Lady has asked me to escort her
home."
Behind her grinning lips, Illystil’s jaw clenched. There was no way
out of this, at least not for a Lady. Slowly, reluctantly, she reached
for the Baron’s arm. It seemed her night was not yet over.
"The lady has already promised that honour to me," a familiar voice
proclaimed from behind her. Illystil snatched her hand back as if burned
and turned to see Alexander, alone and rather rumpled, standing near her.
There was only one man in this world she would have been happier to see
at that moment.
"Alexander!" She quickly gripped his arm in both of hers; perhaps harder
than she needed to. "I…" she scrambled to think of something to say. "I
thought you were otherwise engaged." It was odd to see him fully clothed
when in her mind’s eye he was sweaty, naked and entwined with Thilana Menaster.
"I was not aware your offer was still open."
"My other engagement was not meant to be," he with said smoothly with
a hint of regret. Beside them, Almaric glowered angrily. "My lady, I am
yours."
Baron Danthiir smirked and briefly glanced at Alexander’s rumpled appearance.
Though he was not as bad off as Illystil, it was obvious that he had dressed
hurriedly. "What was your other engagement’s name?" The other men laughed
and Alexander reddened.
"A gentleman does not discuss such things," he said quietly, not looking
at the mayor.
Lord Menaster was not laughing with his fellows. Instead he laced his
arms in front of his chest and glowered at the young squire. "You’re Truesilver’s
boy."
Alexander still did not meet the man’s eyes. "It is my honour to be
his squire." Only Illystil saw Almaric’s contented smirk. Alexander bowed
to the mayor. "Allow me to thank-you for your hospitality and congratulate
you on your birthday." He and Illystil began to withdraw.
The mayor was still staring. "I saw you dancing with my daughter earlier,"
he stated accusingly. "My sights for her are set higher than you, boy."
The man filled that last word with distain. Almaric’s smirk was now a wide,
cruel grin. "Don’t be getting any ideas."
Alexander’s features hardened in anger at the mayor’s rudeness and he
men the man’s glare levelly. Illystil could feel the tension in his arms.
Finally, he turned and nodded to Illystil. "My Lady, shall we be leaving?"
He pointedly ignored the mayor, who turned away from the young man with
a snort.
"Forgive me, Baron." Illystil tried to her keep her urge to gloat out
of her voice. "I promised myself to Alexander before you made your generous
offer." The knowledge that she had beaten him, both in escaping and foiling
his plans, powered her smile.
"By all means, Lady," his face and eyes told her that she had perhaps
won a battle, but not the war. How little he knew. "Perhaps I can
call on you later."
"I am occupied through the rest of the week, Baron" she lied to him.
"Perhaps after that?" Her smile was still sunny
His eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Unfortunately, I am leaving the city
on business in two days. Perhaps another time?"
She smiled enigmatically. "Perhaps." Hopefully your masters will
have your head on a gibbet before that, ‘baron.’ She executed a half
curtsy towards the mayor and his cohort. "Excuse me, your lordship, sirs,
but this night has exhausted me." That much was the complete truth. "Lord
Menaster, thank you once more for your kind hospitality. Good night." Before
the mayor, Almaric or any of the other men could speak, she and Alexander
quickly turned and left.
She had done it! Getting past the mayor had been her final hurdle, and
now she was free. Except for the minor complication of having a complete
stranger swive her within an inch of her life, her mission had been a complete
success.
She was still no closer to determining her phantom lover’s identity.
Her only clue was his sleeve was made from what felt like quilted velvet.
On her final passage across the ballroom she had seen no less than ten
men with jackets made of that fabric. Almaric wore it. (even the thought
of that made her shudder) Quinlan had worn it as well, she realized belatedly,
and almost stumbled.
Alexander reached across and steadied her, smiling reassuringly. It
was still odd to be so close to him; touching him when so recently he had
lain with another woman right before her eyes. She could still hear him,
groaning in ecstasy as Thinana had taken him in her mouth.
Just recalling she had witnessed caused her breath to quicken. Illystil
forced her thoughts back to mundane reality. Beside her, she could tell
Alexander was still tense from his confrontation with Thilana’s father.
She squeezed his arm thankfully. "Once again you come to my rescue." She
was glad to hear that her voice was steady.
Alexander snorted. "From that man it is both a pleasure and an honour."
The two of them exited the mayor’s mansion and began to walk down the
cobblestoned street. "With you being...occupied" she continued, "and Sir
Quinlan having left, I was out of alternatives."
"It was my pleasure," Alexander reassured her. Above them the moon shone
down brightly. It was a lovely night. "But I think Sir Quinlan may still
be here."
"R-Really?" Illystil’s stomach turned to glass. "He told me he was retiring
over an hour ago." Despite herself her words came out in a squeak.
"Its not like him to stay long at these sorts of things at all." Her
companion shrugged. "I am surprised he stayed as long as he did, but I
am sure I saw him near the balcony, not fifteen minutes ago."
"Near, near the balcony?" She choked out. "On the south side of the
room?" Near the alcove, and the secret door…
"Yes, how did you know?" He looked at her with surprise. "I went over
to speak to him, but he was gone."
Her mind was spinning. "I thought I may have seen him myself," she managed
to get out. "We both must have been mistaken."
Please, Meilikki, let us both be mistaken.
* * *
It was dark on the roof of the Mayor’s mansion; the only light being
that of Selune’s radiance far above. The tall, broad man who looked down
at the couple walking along the streets below was unconcerned. He glanced
at the his sleeve, chuckling at the yellow and purple patterns that ran
along it. While it was considered garish and ugly now, when he had first
worn them centuries ago on the streets of Myth Drannor they had been all
the rage. My, how the times have changed.
With Selune as his only witness, he reached into the blank air before
him and plucked a long carved pipe from nothingness. There was a brief
flash of light and then the welcome smell of tabac filled the air. The
man known on this evening as ‘Ulmar’ grunted happily as he pulled the fragrant
smoke into his lungs, then released it in a series of concentric smoke
rings.
He always liked a good pipe after an evening’s…adventures.
"Ye’ll be a fine Harper, Illystil Morninggold," he muttered to himself.
"Ye may not have found what ye’re looking for, but I think at least ye’ve
discovered the proper path." With a simple gesture, the clothes and appearance
of the grim river pirate fell away. He sighed, wishing (not for the first
time) that his real body could be as young and vital as the disguises he
sometimes took on. With another arcane hand movement, he caused a shimmering
portal between the Mayor Menaster’s roof and his study, so many miles away,
to come into being.
"Yes, I think ye’ll do fine."
He stepped through the magical doorway and vanished, leaving only the
light of the moon.
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