Healer's Touch (14 page)

“Come on then.”

Resigned, she followed him into the back room. Three crates had been set up, two for them to sit on, one holding a platter of cakes, ham and cheese, and two cups of
jaffha
that gave off wisps of fragrant steam.

Picking his way across the crowded floor, Karal crossed to the taller crate and sat. She took the crate opposite, avoiding his eye. He handed her a cup.

“Thank you,” she murmured, breathing deep of the aroma before taking a long, strengthening sip.

He grunted in reply, grabbing a cake and shoving it indecorously into his mouth. Her lips twitched in involuntary amusement as she watched him eat dessert before lunch like an errant child. Feeling a little better, she reached for a piece of cheese, wrapped a still warm slice of ham around it and took a bite.

“You've made better progress than I expected,” he said grudgingly around a second cake, scowling into the middle distance. “Good eye for detail.”

Inella swallowed hard, but the lump she'd thought was food remained stuck painfully in her throat. Blinking, she wondered what the devil was wrong with her that a reluctant compliment from someone she didn't even like should bring tears to her eyes.

“Salgrim's prick, girl, what is it now?” he muttered, glowering at her stricken face.

Her breath was coming too fast and she grabbed her
jaffha
cup, hiding her discomfiture behind its rim. Under its inadequate concealment, she dragged her hands across her cheeks. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

His eyes rolled skyward, his lips pressed together in a thin line of displeasure. “Fine,” he said at last. “Have it your way. I'll talk to Viera.”

Her chest tightened and she tried to thank him, but all that came out was a ragged sob as the tears began in earnest.

He stared at her, aghast. “Shite and blood, girl,” he growled, shoving to his feet and stomping out of the room. “I'll never fucking understand women.”

 

Karal stood hidden in the doorway, watching the waifling heft a keg half as big as she was onto a low shelf, and resisted an inexplicable urge to go help her. She'd impressed him, he was willing to admit that much. He had no real idea what had happened between yesterday and today to upset her so—surely she could not be this distraught because of Viera—but the fact that she didn't allow her dismay to affect her work was a pleasant surprise.

Almost as surprising as the fact that she was still here at all, after what he'd said to her this morning.

He knew she didn't like him. Her feelings were unlikely to change the better she got to know him, and that suited him fine. He had no illusions about himself. He had little patience for other people, and no inclination at all to hide the fact. In truth, Viera was the only woman he'd encountered who could remotely tolerate him, and he suspected that was because she never saw a man she didn't want to fuck. Still, he felt a certain fondness for her, and if she was in trouble or distress, as Inella seemed to believe, he supposed he ought to help. He had no friends to speak of, but Viera came close. He owed her.

His offer of intervention certainly had nothing whatever to do with Inella's ridiculous tears.

In the front room she crouched down with her knees apart, grunting in a most unladylike fashion as she wrestled the keg into position so the spigot faced outward. Sweat stood out on her forehead and upper lip and formed a narrow strip of damp down her back. Why the devil didn't she just ask for help?

He stared, perplexed, and was forced to conclude that womanhood was not a gender but a form of insanity.

Looking out the window, he judged the light outside. It was close enough to supper to call the day done.

“Girl,” he called.

She stiffened, clearly peeved. “I have a name.”

He grinned, enjoying her annoyance way too much. “Everybody does, girl.”

She sighed in exasperation, but made no further protest.

“That's enough for one day,” he told her. “Go home.”

She straightened and went to the counter, closing her ledger and setting the worn down stick of charcoal on top of it. Gathering up her cloak, she made a quick survey of her work. Evidently satisfied that everything was squared away, she turned to him. Her tears seemed to have dried up, but her eyes were still puffy and red from weeping.

“Good night.”

He reached into his pocket and tossed her a pouch. She fumbled it briefly, frowning up at him when it clinked with coin.

“An advance,” he explained. “Five falcons.”

She shook her head, her lips pressed together in a thin line and her cheeks filling with color. “I can't take this. I haven't earned it.”

He thought about telling her a way she could earn it right now—she was pretty enough when she wasn't sniveling—but something in her glance warned him to hold his tongue. “You won't be any good to me if you're weak from hunger or tossed out on the street. I'll deduct a falcon a month from your pay until you've earned it out.”

Her chin wobbled. “Thank you.”

God in Antuine, she was going to start up again! He held up one hand and took a step back. “Go home,” he growled. “I've had enough of your bawling for one day.”

Her glistening eyes narrowed in affront, but the tears in them miraculously evaporated. She opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut again. “I'll see you tomorrow,” she muttered at last.

He had to grin at her self-restraint. “I'll leave the back door unlocked.”

Chapter Nine

Viera wasn't at her apartment, so Karal opted for some supper before he started hunting in earnest. Judith's was full to its rafters, and so was the Silk Purse and the Cooper's Nook and just about everyplace else. Finally, hunger overcame good sense and he settled for Heffie's.

The girl who served him could only be described as delicious. The same, unfortunately, could not be said for his meal. His only recompense was the fact that when she deposited the platter of dry, overcooked fish, shriveled carrots and wilted salad in front of him, she leaned low enough to give him a generous look at her equally generous cleavage. The wine, however, was so vile he worried it might strike him blind and spoil the view. Sure, he'd had worse back in the Dragon's Head, but he'd been a slave then. People ought to be able to expect better in a free society.

He ate the fish and carrots without tasting them, then noticed bugs in his salad and ate it anyway. Squander was a trait unworthy of a Kurgan, and eighteen years of emancipation was unlikely to much alter that. His eyes traveled over the clientele. No one else cared to clean their plates, but they all left a little extra coin for the girls. Heffie might be a disaster in the kitchen, but she knew all it really took to sell a meal was a nice pair of tits.

After his disappointment of a supper, he walked to the Whore's Crown, Viera's favorite drinking spot. The place was mostly full, but Viera herself was not in evidence. No one seemed particularly glad to see Karal, and he didn't feel like contributing to the scintillating conversation. He bought a beer, quaffed it and went on to the next dive. Three taverns and three tankards later, Karal still had not found her.

Which was beginning to trouble him. There weren't many respectable places in the wharf district, and he'd already run the gamut of them. The rest were dens of crooked gambling, watered booze and halfpenny sluts. Karal spent a fair bit of his free time in dumps like this—rough company suited his disposition—but he'd never seen Viera in one. He searched them one after another, not bothering to waste any more coin on drink that was like to be sour or short-measured.

The sullen sliver of a moon was three-quarters high when he ducked under the sagging lintel and down the stairs of the Bull's Bollocks. A cacophony greeted him, nearly knocking him flat as he entered. Karal squinted into the smoky dimness. A half-dozen disgruntled-looking whores hovered near the entrance, unenthusiastically lifting their skirts to offer him a glimpse of their wares for sale. One of them seemed pretty, if a bit bedraggled, and Karal made a mental note to come back tomorrow night. Noticing his interest, she reached down to spread her nether lips for him, propping one booted foot on the bottom step.

“Another time,” he promised, pushing past her, much to the dismay of the lot of them. As he entered the open space before the bar, he realized why the whores were stationed hard against the door. The only way any of them would make a penny tonight was to catch the unwary customer before he could make it further inside.

Three-dozen men crowded the shabby interior, standing in a ring around one of the tables. Some cheered and clapped, others laughed, still others watched with glazed eyes and their hands stuffed tellingly in their pockets. Off in the corner, a scrawny youth plied bow and viol while a girl too fat and spotty to whore beat time on a drum. Karal elbowed his way through the audience of leering men to find Viera dancing on the table, one side of her skirt hiked high, her stocking-clad legs on display as she swayed. Rotating her hips, she swished her skirts and offered the crowd glimpses of her woman's triangle, to thunderous approval. Her hands slid up her torso to cup her breasts and push them high, until the nipples peeked over the low edge of her bodice. Her painted lips parting in a breathless smile, she leaned forward at the waist, massaging her breasts, tugging the nipples with deft fingers.

For a moment Karal could only stare, his organ stirring despite his best intentions.

As Karal watched, one of the men reached up and pawed at her, trying to grab hold of her skirts. She danced away with a laugh, skipping down the length of the table. A chorus of pleas and cajoling resounded, and more arms reached up for her. Karal's stomach clenched with mingled arousal and unease as one of the men got hold of her and lifted her down.

Viera only laughed, but there was an edge to the sound he had never heard before. As another man shoved his hand down her bodice, her head fell back and her eyes squeezed shut. There were four men holding her now, their hands roaming her body, jerking her bodice down and shoving her skirts up around her waist as they backed her up against the table. She went without protest, but something in her expression wasn't right. Karal had enjoyed her body on many occasions in the past, and had never seen her face so pale before.

They pushed her down on her back on the tabletop. One of them began unfastening his trousers.

Karal had seen Viera do a lot of crazy things, but this…this was unprecedented. This was not the sane reaction of a woman who'd just been dismissed from her job, or sent from a lover's side. Goddammit, what the fuck was she thinking? This wasn't the Crown. The men here were the dregs of society, no cleaner than the mud under Karal's boots. If she kept this up, she was bound to end up with a baby or a disease, or some extremely unpleasant combination of the two.

Her eyes were still shut tight as the men continued to maul her. Karal stepped closer, weaving through the crowd, and thought he could see tears on her lashes.

Shite and blood.

Shoving bodies aside, Karal marched up to the first man just as his cock sprang free of his trousers, and grabbed him by the scruff. To a deafening surge of protest he yanked the idiot away from Viera and tossed him like a scrap of garbage into the throng. Hooking one hand inside her bodice, he jerked her to a sitting position, much to the annoyance of the other three men who were waiting their turn.

Viera's eyes met Karal's, glazed with drink and desperation. It took her a moment to recognize him. When she did, an enormous smile broke across her face.

“Karal!” she cried, her arms closing around his neck. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she scooted to the edge of the table so she could press herself against his recalcitrant organ. Her tongue drew a wet line up his throat to his lips, then pushed deep into his mouth. “Come for a bite of something tasty?” she asked, laughing, then proceeded to demonstrate, sinking her teeth into the skin of his jaw. His cock twitched in reply but he ruthlessly forced it to the edges of his awareness.

The men surrounding him had begun to make rumblings of displeasure at his intrusion—no one likes a fellow who jumps the queue. Only those who had imbibed too much to function in matters carnal continued to cheer with tepid enthusiasm. Then they realized the show was over, and all cheering came to an abrupt end.

“You're coming with me,” Karal told Viera, grabbing her around the waist and hoisting her onto his shoulder. Howls of protest resounded as he headed for the exit, but no one was drunk or reckless enough to try to physically stop him. He wasn't well known here, but they could see what he was. He held Viera as if she were a bag of feathers, had hefted her erstwhile paramour with one hand and tossed him half the length of the room. No one here had the guts to fuck with a Kurgan.

Except Viera, that is.

She shrieked in indignation as he carried her off, hammering at his kidneys with her fists as he climbed the stairs up to street level. Gritting his teeth, he slapped her sharply on the backside, hard enough to redden her bottom even through her skirts. She squealed, wriggling against the pain. Then, incredulous, he felt her hands steal under the waist of his trousers to squeeze his buttocks.

As he emerged out onto the darkened street, her fingers slipped down between his thighs to tease the sensitive skin of his balls. For a moment, he considered clouting her unconscious, but though the idea held a certain appeal, he was supposed to be here as her friend. A couple seconds more and he was already contemplating something entirely different. A few stabs of a Kurgan spear in her greedy cunt and she'd learn to behave.

“Have done, goddammit,” he growled instead, and kept walking, his cock like an iron rod, until they finally reached her apartment.

Clomping inside, he tipped her back onto her feet. An instant later, her arms were around his neck, her legs around his waist and her tongue in his mouth. Cursing inwardly, he took her by the upper arms and set her away from him. “Viera—”