For years, the faceless terror known as the Hand of Fate has been secretly manipulating the port city of Reyza for her shadowy ends. Those she favors rise in status while those who betray her are never heard from again. When the opportunity to elimi...
The crowd at The Stallion was thin and long-faced, making the place seem more like The Tired Mare. Sitting in a shadowy corner, Jarle poured himself a shot of raska and slammed it back. On the night of his most daring heist, the thrill of wrongdoing was absent. His lips felt dry and his stomach sour. He wished Doshmaan's beautiful wives were present to tease him with their wit and wayward hips, but the hour was late, and the women had retired along with the innkeeper.
Marcella, the night hostess, was the only source of brightness among the drunkards and late-night gamblers. The serving girl was tall and lean with dark brown hair and expressive eyes. A curskin like him, she lacked the elongated digits typical of Vendraedi bloodlines.
Jarle watched her as she made her rounds. She waltzed between tables with boundless energy, smiling as she went. She greeted newcomers and ushered them to their seats filling mugs and retrieving dishes along the way. At the stage, she exchanged words with the string player who immediately began playing something more cheerful. Everyone welcomed the livelier mood.
Catching her eye, Jarle raised his cup. The smile that followed warmed him like a ray of sunlight.
With a bounce in her step, Marcella walked to the back and joined him. She picked up the ceramic jar and refilled his glass. "Majster Jadien, allow me."
Jarle slammed back the shot and reclined on the upholstered bench. He took the woman's hand in his and kissed it. "Thank you, Smiley."
The serving girl sat on the lip of the table. "Don't mention it. I can do this all night."
"I know you can." A grin spread across Jarle's lips.
Marcella shook her head. "Flirt. I really should find myself a job where I can meet decent men."
Both of them knew no sane person would dilute their pure lineage with curskin blood. "You would be bored to death," mused Jarle.
Marcella pretended to swoon. "I can't get enough of those long fingers," she teased. "They're magic."
Jarle wiggled his hands. "Can't help you there."
As Marcella poured him another drink, Jarle spotted a familiar face. Irilio, beloved poet of the court, and his closest friend entered the tavern and took a bow. The swarthy man wore an embroidered emerald tunic and brown hose. A plumed hat, which would have looked ridiculous on anyone with lesser panache, adorned his head.
Tickled by fame, Irilio never missed an opportunity to aggrandize his legacy. He greeted all who made his acquaintance with sincere affection and obliged them with a few lines of verse. Everyone loved the poet; those who didn't simply hadn't met him yet.
"Your favorite person has just arrived."
Marcella set down the jar of liquor and turned in the direction of the dining hall. She smoothed her skirt and tucked loose strands of her hair behind her ear. "How do I look?" she asked.
"Like my favorite Smiley."
The girl turned to face him, eyes full of anxiety. "My infatuation is silly. Irilio can have any woman he wants. He will never notice me."
Jarle drained his cup, then reached up and plucked Marcella's hair sticks. Her dark, wavy mane tumbled free and framed her face. He stroked her cheek, recalling the one time they had made love. "You are beautiful, Smiley, and way too good for Irilio. Besides, he will soon be a married man."
The hostess untied her apron and pulled it over her head. "Jealousy doesn't suit you."
"Jealous? Of that proud peacock?" Jarle scoffed. "Truly, you know me better than that."
The smile faded from Marcella's face. "Can I tell you something?"
"Anything."
"The other night, Irilio came here with a cloaked woman seeking a room. When I told him all the chambers were full, he pulled me aside and offered me a load of sequins to use my quarters. The gods are bastards sometimes."
Jarle crossed his arms. "You agreed?"
Marcella shrugged. "At first, I refused, but he is very charming. Told me that if I did him this favor, he would owe me one. So finally"—she sighed—"I gave in."
Jarle sensed more to the story. "And?"
"I went upstairs earlier than expected. Caught Irilio rutting with his lady friend." A mischievous smirk curled the hostess' ruby lips. "He was with none other than the Rake's wife! That little tidbit is worth more than Irilio's gratitude, don't you think?"
Jarle grabbed Marcella's arm and pulled her down so he could whisper in her ear. "The Rake will kill Irilio if he finds out he's bedding Eloisse. Do you understand?"
Marcella stroked Jarle's face. "So, you knew and didn't tell me?"
"Gossip is a tasteless trait," Jarle said pecking her cheek.
"By your definition, you should find me rather unsavory."
"There are exceptions to every rule."
"You are a loyal friend to Irilio. Steer him in the direction of a woman who is not dangerous to his health. Give him a nudge in my direction"—Marcella bit Jarle's ear— "and who knows? I may owe you a favor."
Jarle released her. "Criminal."
Marcella winked at him. "You're one to talk!"
"Get out of here and take this poison with you." Jarle took several coins from his pocket and handed them to her. "You didn't see me."
In the dining hall, Irilio joined the fiddle player and engaged in a duet, which turned into a lyrical duel. The patrons encouraged the rivalry by banging their metal goblets and stomping their feet in rhythm with the music.
Marcella tucked the coins into her apron before grabbing the bottle and the glass. "Time to refill cups. Good night, Jarle."
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