Cursor's Fury (67 page)

“Countess,” Rook said, her tone frank, “you’ve got to move your hips. Your back. You’ve got to look like a slave so conditioned to her uses that she anticipates and enjoys them. You look like you’re walking to market.” Rook shook her head. “Watch me.”

And with that, the spy paused, her stance shifting subtly. Then she slunk forward, eyes half-closed, mouth curled into a tiny, lazy smile. Her hips swayed languidly with each step, her shoulders drawn back, and her back arched slightly, her whole manner daring—or inviting—any man looking on to keep looking.

Rook turned on a heel, and said to Amara, “Like that.”

The change in the woman was startling. One moment she’d looked like a courtesan in her private chambers with a young lord after half a bottle of aphrodin-laced wine. The next, she was a plainly attractive, businesslike young woman with serious eyes. “It’s all about what you expect. Expect to draw every man’s eye as you pass him, and you will.”

Amara shook her head. “Even in”—she gestured vaguely—“this, I’m not the kind of woman men like to look at.”

Rook rolled her eyes. “Men like to look at the kind who breathes and wears little. You’ll qualify.” She tilted her head to one side. “Pretend they’re Bernard.”

Amara blinked. “What?”

“Walk for them as you would for him, “ Rook said calmly. “On a night you have no intentions of allowing him to go anywhere else.”

Amara found herself blushing again. But she steeled herself, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine it. Without opening her eyes, she walked across the room, picturing Bernard’s chambers at the Calderon garrison.

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“Better,” Rook approved. “Again.”

She practiced several more times before Rook was satisfied.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Amara asked her quietly. “Your way in?”

“It isn’t even a question,” Rook replied. “I’ll get you in there. I’ll find where your prisoners are. The difficult part will be leaving afterward. With Kalarus, it always is.”

Bernard knocked on the door, and said politely, “Are you almost ready, ladies?”

Amara traded a glance with Rook and nodded. Then she slipped the headdress onto her hair and fit the false steel collar around her neck. “Yes,” she said. “We’re ready.”

Chapter 43

One would think that sneaking into the citadel of a High Lord of Alera, the single most secure bastion of his power, would be a nigh-impossible task, Amara mused. And yet, when guided by that same High Lord’s master spy, the task was evidently quite simple.

After all, Fidelias had demonstrated the same principle only a few years before, when he led Lady Aquitaine into the First Lord’s citadel in Alera Imperia on a desperate mission to save the First Lord—so that she and her traitorous husband could be assured that they, not Kalarus, would be the ones to replace him.

Politics, Amara decided, really did make strange bedfellows. An idea that acquired an uncomfortable spin, given its proximity to the focus of thought demanded by her current role.

Amara swayed sleepily along the streets of Kalare in her slave costume, holding herself with a loose-limbed air of decadence, her lips constantly parted, her eyes always half-lidded. There was a peculiar sensuality to the movement, and though some part of her was fully cognizant that they were in mortal danger simply moving openly through the city, she had forced the reasoning, analytical
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aspects of herself to the rearmost areas of her mind. Walking, then, became an activity that carried a sensuous, almost wicked sense of indulgence, in equal parts sweetly feminine and sinfully titillating. For the first time in her life, she drew long, silently speculative looks from the men she passed.

That was good. It meant that her disguise was more complete than if it hadn’t happened. And, though she could barely admit it to herself, it gave her an almost-childish sense of pleasure, simply to be stared at and desired.

Besides, Bernard, dressed in the plain garments and equipment of a travelling mercenary, walked only an arm’s length behind her, and she knew from the occasional glance over her shoulder that he was staring at her far more intently than any of the men passing by.

Lady Aquitaine walked in front of Amara. She had altered her appearance via watercrafting, darkening her skin tone the deep red-brown of the inhabitants of the city of Rhodes and changing her hair to waves of exotic, coppery red curls. Her shift was emerald green, but other than that her outfit was a match for Amara’s. The High Lady moved with the same half-conscious air of wanton sensuality, and if anything, was better at it than Amara. At the front of the slave line was Odiana, in azure silk, all dark hair and pale skin and sweet curves. Aldrick paced along in front of her, and the big swordsman carried such an aura of menace that even in the teeming streets of Kalare, they were never slowed by foot traffic. Rook walked beside him, her expression bored, her manner businesslike as she guided the party toward the citadel.

Even as she concentrated on her role, though, Amara noticed details of the city and extrapolated on her observations. The city itself was, for lack of a more accurate term, a squalid cesspool. It was not as large as the other major cities of the Realm—though it housed a larger population than any but Alera Imperia herself. It was hideously crowded. Much of the city was in savage disrepair, and impoverished shanties had replaced more solid construction, in addition to engulfing the land around the city’s walls for several hundred yards in every direction. The city’s waste disposal was abysmal, likely because it had been designed for a much smaller population and never updated as the city overflowed with inhabitants, and the entire place reeked of odors that turned her stomach.

The inhabitants of the city were, as a group, the most miserable-looking human beings she had ever seen. Their clothing was mostly rough homespun, and mostly in disrepair. They went about their business with the kind of listless deliberation that screamed of generations of deprivation and despair. Vendors hawked shabby goods from blankets spread beside the street. One man whose
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clothes proclaimed him a Citizen or a wealthy merchant passed by surrounded by a dozen hard-eyed, brawny men, obviously professional bruisers.

There were slaves everywhere, even more beaten down than the city’s free inhabitants. Amara had never seen so many of them. In fact, from what she could see, there were very nearly as many slaves as freemen walking the streets of Kalare. And at every crossroads and marching along at regular intervals, there were soldiers in Kalare’s green-and-grey livery. Or at least, there were armed and armored men wearing Kalare’s colors. From the slovenly way in which they maintained themselves and their equipment, Amara was sure that they were not true legionares. There were, however, a great many of them, and the automatic deference and fear they generated in the body language of those passing nearby them made it clear that Kalarus’s rule was one of terror more than of law.

It also explained how the High Lords of Kalare had managed to put together a fortune larger than that of every other High Lord in the Realm, rivaling that of the Crown itself—by systematically and methodically stripping everything from the people of Kalare and its lands. Likely, it had been going on for hundreds of years.

The last section of the city before the citadel itself was where the most powerful lords of Kalare kept their homes. That level of the city was at least as lovely as those she had seen in Riva, Parcia, and Alera Imperia—and the contrast of the elegant white marble, furylit fountains, and exquisitely artistic architecture made such a stark contrast to the rest of the city that it literally made her feel physically ill to see it.

The injustice proclaimed by even a simple stroll through Kalare stirred a deep anger in Amara, one that threatened to undermine her concentration. She fought to divorce her feelings from thoughts, but it proved to be nearly impossible, especially after she saw how richly the elite of Kalare lived at the expense of its non-Citizenry.

But then they were past the Citizens’ Quarter, and Rook led them up a far less crowded road—a long, straight lane sloping up to the gates of the innermost fortress of Kalare. The guards at the base of the road, perhaps slightly less shoddy-looking than their counterparts in the city below, nodded at Rook and waved her and her party of slaves by them without bothering to rise from their seats on a nearby bench.

After that, they had only to walk up a long hill, which led to the main gate of the citadel. Kalare’s colors flew on the battlements, but the scarlet and blue of the House of Gaius were conspicuous by their absence.

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Amara sensed immediately that the guards at the gate were nothing like those they had seen at the bottom of the hill or in the town below. They were young men in superb physical condition, one and all. Their armor was ornate and immaculately kept, their stance and bearing as suspicious and watchful as any Royal Guardsman. As they drew nearer, Amara saw something else—the metallic gleam of a collar at their throats. By the time they had ordered Rook and her company to halt, she was close enough to see the etching on the steel:
Immortalis.
More of Kalarus’s Immortals.

“Mistress Rook,” said one of them, evidently the leader of the guards on station. “Welcome back. I received no word of your coming.”

“Centurion Orus,” Rook replied, her tone polite but distant. “I am certain that His Grace feels little need to inform you of the comings and goings of his personal retainers.”

“Of course not, Mistress,” the young centurion replied. “Though I confess that it surprises me to see you enter here, rather than by air coach upon the tower.”