Fox's Bride (6 page)

The chaos was beautiful.

Thrills of pleasure ran through Inannis as he bent over the helpless Golden Scoundrel. He pushed open one eye and felt for breathing while petting the sleek coat.
The dose didn't kill him. Good.
Inannis' eyes whipped around for a final check. People ran about. None marked him.

When he leaned above the drugged fox, his over robe spread out, concealing the fennec. He lifted the god into the nearby jar, which was coated in green glaze. At the same moment, he reached deep into his robes and pulled out a stuffed fennec and set it on top the vacated pillow. The cotton-filled fennec was curled in a sleeping pose, complete with fake emerald earring and collar.

Living or dead, the fennec was only as large as a kitten, and the decoy had fit in his robe without trouble. Inannis trusted no one would discover the switch for a few minutes.

Inannis carried the jar holding the paralyzed god to a room with a candle, which he had lit earlier. The emerald bracelet dropped from his hand in with the fennec. A clay stopper plugged the jar, and he dribbled wax around its edges to seal it, though he left a few cracks for air flow. With the jar tucked under his arm and out of sight in his robe, he strode to the kitchen and told the servants to search the inn for the enchantress' maid. They scurried. He walked out the servant's door to the alley.

His personal servant waited for him. The man wore a loincloth, and he stood with his belly pushed forward to display his plumpness from ample eating. Inannis had picked him from the tent slums for his large ambition and small imagination. The servant bowed. “Halmut listens.”

“The fennec's bride has fled,” Inannis said, careful to keep the glee from his voice. This was turning out better than he could have planned.

“The bride of the god?”

Inannis ignored the question. “Did a woman climb off the roof?”

“Not while Halmut waited here.” The servant held his face downward.

“She might've bribed servants.”

“Not Halmut, He Who Speaks. Halmut never take a bribe.”

“I trust you, listener.” Inannis lifted the servant from his bow. The thief loved staring straight into a man's eyes and lying. “The Golden Scoundrel is testing his priests, we must recover his bride. My recent sickness has only made my trial harder. I need—this is rather embarrassing—but I need to check my shit for worms.”

He handed the jar with the god to the servant. “He Who Speaks...” The man tried to hide his wince. “...you wish Halmut to search for worms?”

“You will not,” Inannis said. “All sickness is sent by the gods. My treatment is part of my trial. You wouldn't wish to step between a priest and the gods, would you?”

“No, He Who Speaks.”

“Good. Now take this shit to my quarters at the temple.” Inannis could not help but grin as he told him where to go. “Be careful with that jar, it's good work.”

The servant held the jar with both hands. Inannis did not even stay to watch him leave the alley, as if the jar were only worth brief consideration.

The pleasure of deception aside, Inannis hated relying on the man. He longed for his past partner. Inannis allowed himself to hope he would succeed in his task, that the theft of the god would lead to his partner's freedom. On the way to the inn's back door, an image of a woman's face flashed through his mind.
Eyes of dark honey, pink lips parting over white teeth, brows like wing beats.

A long breath forced away her memory. He would not let himself so much as think of his partner’s name, not when her escape depended on his work.
Think of the tumblers, not the treasure.

Inannis returned to the inn soon enough to hear the next scream.

“He's dead.” A priest knelt before the pillow with the stuffed fennec, clawing his own chin and neck. “Our lord god isn't breathing.”

The second priest lifted the fennec by its front feet. The animal stayed in a stiff curled position, and the priest dropped it.

Inannis caught the stuffed animal and masked his joy with an expression of shock. People expected thieves to run, so he loved staying close.

“The Incarnate is no more.” The younger priest displayed his fortitude by holding his voice calm, though he breathed in gulps. “The Golden Scoundrel has withdrawn his soul after the wretched enchantress deserted him.”

“Wait.” Inannis tested the firmness of the animal's joints. “This is too fast for rigor mortis. And didn't the Incarnate's earring lie farther from the tip?”

A priest pointed a trembling finger at the fennec's face. “His nose, it's different. Lacks definition. And those whiskers! Too straight and thin.”

“What does this mean?” Inannis asked, glee swirling inside him.

“This—this is not the Incarnate.” A priest laid a hand over his heart.

The older priest asked, “Then where is he? Who has taken him?”

“We must search everyone,” Inannis said. “Every servant, every guard. No one must leave.”

“But the guards have already left. Any of them could have our lord god.”

“No,” the younger priest said, his voice calm.

Tension wracked Inannis' guts. “No?”

“The enchantress stole him. The strength of their magic lies in bringing one thing closer to another. Thus water is bound to the chains in the sky. The elder enchantress has used this power to pull the Golden Scoundrel to her. She has taken him.”

Inannis would have found the words suspicious if he did not already know who had stolen the fennec. The priest sounded too certain, especially when the enchantress had likely left the inn before the fennec's morning nap. Even if she had the power to summon the sleeping fennec to her, she would have had to replace him with the stuffed animal. Such a swap seemed unlikely using the magic of enchantment. Inannis had mainly heard of enchantresses making objects weigh less, such as blocks of stone to help build the pyramids. Still, he was not about to point out the discrepancies.

“Then,” Inannis said, and true passion caused a tremor in his voice, “then we must catch the god thief.”

Chandur was sorry the Royal Embalmer had not come to see them off at the docks, even though the vulture-masked man had mentioned not to expect him. The enchantress, maid, and spellsword boarded their ship shortly before noon then had no choice but to wait.
He had to think the priest’s guards would have discovered them gone by now, but he dared not pressure the captain to launch the ship. It would only draw suspicion.

In their cabins, Hiresha fell asleep muttering. “I don't care if I never see another fox.” Chandur and Janny shared a room meant for four passengers, and jars had been packed in half the space.

Janny said,
“To think they wanted to kill Hiresha. Won't be happy until the ship's sailing, I won't. Aren't you worried for her?”

“That's my job, isn't it?” Chandur unwound his turban.

The time crawled by. Janny dozed with a wet snore. Chandur wanted to relax on his cot, so he
positioned both hands on his sword hilt and hefted it out of the metal and leather tongs that held the enchanted blade in place behind him. Setting the weapon down, he found the cot’s
smallness dug into his sides.

When the maid woke she badgered him with suggestions about how and where he should kiss the enchantress. Chandur could imagine himself doing just that with alarming ease, and he knew he had to get out before the maid caught on to the full extent of his interest.

“Guess I'll check the ship's Lightening stone,” he said.

“On the way, give Hiresha her dress.” The maid lifted purple silks folded across her arm.

“Me?” Chandur collected his weapon then reached toward the gown. The fabric caught on the calluses of his hands. “I mean, shouldn't it be you—”

“Just leave it on her bed.” Janny scolded him with a glance. “Now off with you. I have to unpack.”

The door to Hiresha's cabin was unlocked. He felt like an intruder, and tiptoeing while wearing his greatsword only caused the floorboards to squeal. She was sitting on her bed, leaning against the wall. With her head back, her black hair had slid to the side to reveal an earring of jewels that twinkled like blue stars.

Her eyes were closed, and something in her grip glowed red.
She's sleeping, then. Maybe enchanting.
Hiresha had a gentle face, he had decided, with lips that he believed would be ever so soft.

Chandur rested the gown beside her and turned to leave.

Someone had closed the door. He heard the click of it being locked from the other side.

He jiggled the door latch, assuming whoever had taken the key would realize their mistake. When he heard the mischief of Janny's voice, the extent of her plot hit him like a punch to his side.

“Hiresha,” she called through the key hole. “Hiresha, wake up.”

“Janny.” He bent over to try to see through the keyhole, and he felt the weight of his sword in his knees and ankles. “Open this door.”

He heard the maid walk away, whistling to herself.

Thumping a fist against the door, he turned to see the enchantress blinking her eyes open. His heart was beating at a surprising tempo. His mouth felt stuffed with linen, and he wondered how he would explain his presence in her locked cabin.

The enchantress managed to open one eye long enough to spot Chandur. She asked, “Have we set sail?”

“What? Oh, no. But Janny, she—”

“No matter.” She pointed to the floorboards. “This will be more dignified if you kneel.”

Either the ship heaved under his feet, or spinning and tipping sensations caused him to lose his balance. His back clunked against the wall. “Enchantress Hiresha, I don't think—”

“This circlet will protect you.” She draped a length of gold segments between her hands. The jewelry was crafted to look like a snake, with two ruby eyes. He had seen the gems shining in her hand. “It will Burden metal or wood approaching you at speed. But only twice a day, so preserve some vestige of caution.”

His legs shook as he knelt and likely not only because of the greatsword's weight. The enchantress rested the jewelry over his brow. One section of circlet caught on his hair, but he refused to wince. He was grateful that she had thought of him and his safety. The gold held the warmth of her touch.

“Not the snake I thought I'd have.” Chandur felt a moment of disappointment even though he knew the rarity of the enchantment she had given him.
More precious than the gold, and she made it for me.
Appreciation flickered in his chest and warmed him.
“Suppose this way I won't have to hunt rats for him.”

“The circlet is more practical than any pet.” She straightened the lapels of his coat. One of her hands strayed toward his chin, but instead of touching him she leaned away. “I am sorry, Chandur.”

“You're sorry?”

“I meant to have that circlet enchanted by this morning.” She slumped on the bed, covering one half of her face with a hand. “I anticipate we may not be able to return to the Academy, and I'm sorry for bringing you into this.”

The voices of sailors murmured through the ceiling. Chandur braced himself against the wall as his stomach lurched. The boards beneath his feet slid forward and down, and the ship had to be slipping free of the docks. Sand made a shushing sound around them.

Hiresha swayed in time to the moving ship, and she looked like she might collapse with worry. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, but thought it was not his place.

“Hiresha,” he said, touching the gold snake on his brow, “you honored me by choosing me for your spellsword. I'm not going to prove myself less than unworthy. I mean—that is—I won’t leave you.”

The enchantress did not speak, but she sat straighter.

Chandur tried the door again, found it still locked. Measuring air in and out of his lungs, he decided he would not have a better time to tell her. He could give her his loyalty and the power of his arm but nothing more. He dragged one foot at a time to face her.

“Hiresha, you deserve to know something.”

She lifted her chin to him, her lashes dipping as if trying to hide the dark mystery of her eyes. A tremor ran through him, and though he was sure of his skill with weapons, he was not so confident that he had the strength to speak.

Hiresha struggled to focus on the spellsword. The ship listed to the side beneath her, and she pressed a hand against the wall to steady herself. The rocking motion lulled her toward sleep, and she fought against it, wanting to hear Chandur.

His teeth flashed white a few times as he started to say something then stopped. He struck the wall with a fist.

The cracking sound jolted her closer to wakefulness.

“We can't ever marry.” He rubbed his knuckles. “We won't. It's not in my fate.”

Hiresha felt that something deep within her was felled with a booming crash and chopped to pieces. Her future trembled with uncertainty, and she hated nothing more than changes to her life plan. Her eyes pinched together in a red line of pain.

She asked, “The Priest Salkant of the Fate Weaver told you this?”

“He did.”

Hiresha had met with the priest last year in Morimound when he had predicted a flood that never came. She knew that the Fate Weaver spun the futures of all men and women in the cavern at the center of the world.
But priests must interpret the webs, and man can err.

A warm breeze of hope flowed over the enchantress. She could tell the spellsword of the failings of the priest, that the fate he had been given could be false. She and Chandur might yet marry.
Not now, maybe not even soon, yet someday.
The thought comforted Hiresha.

She still hesitated. “The fate the priest read you, it was a bright one?”

“Bright as a blade at midday.” The spellsword began to grin, but he straightened his face.

“Mine, too.” A gulf of pain opened within her. “He—he said someday I'd wake.”

She had toiled for years to delve into her own mind, searching for a cure for her condition. The brain was a maze of complexity, and she had struggled with her resolve even when she believed she would succeed in time. Now she had no assurance she would reach that fate. She had taken wounds before and regenerated herself with magic, but no pain had struck deeper than her loss of hope.

I will not hurt Chandur the same way,
she told herself.
It'd be nothing but selfishness. He chose to side with me over the Oasis Empire, and maybe the priest told him his true fate. Maybe he told me mine.

“Now I understand,” Chandur said. “That's why you couldn't marry the Golden Scoundrel. You know your fate.”

“Yes.”
No.
“You should go.”
Before I blurt out something you may regret forever.

He fiddled with the door latch.

Hiresha hurt with each breath she took. She wanted to tell him,
We might yet marry,
felt the pressure of it building within her. The only thing that kept her from speaking was the knowledge that she could always tell him later.
Not now, maybe not even soon, yet someday.

“It's locked,” he said. “Janny locked it. Not me.”

“Janny.” Hiresha raised her voice. “I know you're there, Janny.”

With a click, the maid snapped open the door. She shook her head at both of them. “You're disappointments stacked on frustrations.”

“Thank you, Hiresha.” Chandur touched the gold snake wrapped around his forehead. “I promise not to let a hawk or eagle or anything feathered and hungry snatch it from my head.”

He closed the door, shut her in. She let herself fall onto the bed and discovered someone had left her dress there. The garnets stabbed her back.