The Skull Throne (55 page)

“
Hora
magic,” Leesha corrected.

Jessa laughed. “That makes more sense! Though whore magic can change the course of duchies, as well.”

Leesha resisted the urge to stroke her belly, though Jessa no doubt knew her condition. “Indeed.”

“To business, then?” Jessa asked.

Leesha nodded. “What is your assessment of Rhinebeck’s condition?”

“He’s seedless,” Jessa said bluntly. “I’ve been saying it for twenty years, but Araine won’t hear it. She’s desperate for a cure that doesn’t exist.”

“What is your evidence for diagnosis?” Leesha asked.

“Apart from six wives over twenty years, none of them so much as stuttering her flow?” Jessa asked. “Not to mention my girls. Whatever the sand witch might say, I don’t give pomm tea to Rhinebeck’s favorites. Araine would have her son divorced and remarried in an instant if she thought it would secure his line. More than one graduated and proved so fertile her belly swelled just from sitting in a man’s lap and tickling his chin.”

It was nothing Leesha did not already know. “Is that all?”

“Of course not,” Jessa said. She produced a leather-bound ledger, handing it to Leesha, who immediately opened it and began paging through. The book listed all the tests Jessa had run, the herbs and cures she’d tried and the results, all inscribed with a neat hand using the meticulous methodology Bruna had taught.

“I’ve even had my girls stroke him into a glass so I could look at his seed in a lens chamber,” Jessa said. “He’s precious few tadpoles at all, and those swim in circles, bumping into each other like drunks at a reel.”

“I’d like a look myself,” Leesha said.

“To what end?” Jessa asked.

“There may be a blockage I can clear with surgery,” Leesha said.

Jessa shook her head. “Even if you had all the resources of the Age of Science, that’s delicate work, and assuming the duke will let you anywhere near his manhood with a knife.”

“Then I’ll resort to
hora
magic,” Leesha said. “I know a woman decades past her fertile years cured by it.”

“You think Rhinebeck will let you put a spell on him?” Jessa asked. “That’s asking for the hangman’s noose.”

“We’ll see,” Leesha said. “But for now, I’d just like to see his seed. Could you … ?”

“Acquire some for you?” Jessa laughed. “Of course. But you could get it yourself if you wished. Pregnant or not, Rhinebeck wouldn’t hesitate if given the chance to cuckold his brother.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Leesha said.

“You wouldn’t even need to lie with him,” Jessa said. “My girls have given him a taste for a woman’s hand. Won’t take you but a minute.”

Leesha breathed deeply, burying her revulsion at the thought. “Will you get it for me, or shall I ask the duchess?”

Jessa saw she had pressed too far. “I’ll have it sent to your chambers on ice as soon as I can procure it. Tonight, perhaps.”

CHAPTER 22

BACHELOR’S BALL

333 AR WINTER

There was a rap at the door, and Leesha jumped. She glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight.

It could be Rojer again, but Leesha thought it unlikely unless there was some emergency. Dare she hope it might be Thamos? Late-night visits had been the norm when they were together, and he had stared at her all through dinner. Leesha had pretended not to notice at first, but then she met his eyes, expecting him to look away in embarrassment.

But he hadn’t. His eyes held hers, and she could feel the heat in his stare. They had not spoken privately since that night on the road, but he was to head south in just two days, and there was too much still unsaid. He knew it, and so did she.

Wonda had been dozing on one of the chairs, but since Rojer’s surprise visit, she had refused to retire before Leesha. She shook herself, casting off sleep and straightening as she approached the door.

Leesha reached quickly into the top drawer of her desk, taking her hand mirror and checking her hair and face. It was vain, but she didn’t care. She stuck a finger in the front of her dress, pulling it down and giving her bust a lift.

But it wasn’t Thamos. Instead, Rosal sauntered into the room, carrying a lacquered goldwood box.

“Did anyone see you?” Leesha asked, trying to keep the disappointment from her tone. “The duke …”

Rosal shook her head with a giggle. “I brought His Grace to a boil before I emptied him. He was passed out before I stopped stroking.”

She laid the box on the desk, lifting the lid. The inside was cured and filled with crushed ice. Resting atop the ice were three tiny crystal vials with a thick, cloudy liquid inside.

She closed the lid. “How fresh?”

“Not half an hour,” Rosal said. “I took the tunnel.”

Leesha wondered if the duke’s brothel tunnel was warded as well as the rest of his walls. “Pure? No other … fluids mixed in?”

Rosal smiled. “Are you asking if I spit it into the vials? Mistress Jessa would have my head if I delivered a sample like that. I don’t even use oil. I pull him dry.”

Leesha shuddered at the mental image of corpulent Rhinebeck grunting and twitching under Rosal’s ministration. “You seem to enjoy your work.”

Rosal shrugged. “Better than working in my da’s lacquer shop, head ready to explode from the fumes. Ent so bad, practicing a wife’s tricks on the Royals. Mistress Jessa taught us to lead the dance, emptying purses as well as seedpods.”

“So you’re there willingly?” Leesha asked.

Rosal nodded. “Ay. But I won’t miss it when I graduate. Looking forward to starting my real life.”

The girl swept back out of the room, leaving just a hint of rose in the air. Leesha immediately began polishing and assembling her lens chamber. She set a drop of the duke’s seed on the glass and adjusted the lens until the cells came into focus. Much as Jessa described, Leesha saw few active seeds. She slipped on her warded spectacles, and it was worse. A healthy sample should glow bright with teeming life. Rhinebeck’s was gray, like a cloudy sky.

So much for the Duchess Mum’s hopes of surgery. If the seeds were not reaching his issue, she might correct that. If they were dead … 

Gared paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his huge hands. A young squire watched in horror as his bunched shoulders threatened to tear the seams of his fine jacket.

“Night, Gar, sit down and have a ripping pipe.” Rojer was already sucking on his own, feet comfortably on the tea table.

Gared shook his head. “Don’t want to smell like smoke.” His hair was oiled and tied at the nape of his neck with a velvet bow. His beard was cropped close, and his wool coat was emblazoned with his new crest, a two-headed axe crossed with a machete before a goldwood tree. Gared had stared at the crest for hours when the tailor had presented him the patch for his approval. The man had needed to wrestle it from his hands just to sew it on the jacket.

“A drink, then,” Rojer said, pouring two cups as the big man continued to pace.

“Ay, so I can slur whatever stupid words I manage to stutter out,” Gared said.

“Stop that talk,” Rojer said. “You’re not stupid just because you weren’t raised in a manse.”

“Then how come I feel like every other word anyone says is just there to poke fun at me?” Gared asked.

“It probably is,” Rojer said, emptying his brandy. “Royals are always cutting each other, even as they smile and talk about the weather.”

“Don’t want a wife like that,” Gared said.

“Then don’t pick one like that,” Rojer said. “You’re in charge tonight, even if it doesn’t feel that way. You don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to.”

“What if I don’t want any of ’em?” Gared asked. “Duke said I had to go back to the Hollow with a girl to court. What if the Duchess Mum gets fed up and just picks one?”

Rojer gave a short, sharp laugh. “You stand toe-to-toe with twenty-foot rock demons, and you’re more scared of a woman half your size and thrice your age?”

Gared chuckled. “Hadn’t thought of it that way, but … ay. Guess I am. Reminds me o’ Hag Bruna, only scarier.”

“You’ve just got stage fright,” Rojer said, taking the brandy he had poured Gared and emptying that as well. “You’ll be fine once it starts.”

Gared started pacing again, but then he paused.

“Ya think Rosal will be here?” He inhaled deeply, as if to catch her perfume. “Pretty name, that. Smelled like roses, too.”

“Careful, Gar,” Rojer warned. “I know she was a sight, but you don’t want to marry one of Jessa’s girls.”

“Why not?” Gared asked.

“Because the duke and his brothers will be laughing the whole time.” Rojer made a face. “Besides, you want to kiss a mouth that’s been on Rhinebeck’s pecker?”

Gared balled a meaty fist, putting it right up to Rojer’s face. “True or not, don’t want to hear that kind of talk about her, Rojer. Not if ya want to keep your teeth.”

Rojer let out a low whistle. “You really fell for it, didn’t you?”

“Fell for what?” Gared asked.

“Jessa paraded that girl in front of you on purpose,” Rojer said. “I’ll bet she’s the mistress’ star pupil. Everything that girl did was meant to catch your attention.”

Gared shrugged. “How’s that make her different from the others? Only with her, it worked.”

“I’m just saying, be careful,” Rojer said. “Jessa’s girls can be … jaded. They get what they want from a man and make it think it’s his idea.”

“My da said that’s what all marriage is like,” Gared said. “Sayin’ it’s different for you?”

Rojer stuck his pipe in his mouth, neglecting to answer.

Rojer and his quartet stood in a sound shell behind Gared, who stood center stage with Duchess Araine. The young baron looked very much the bridegroom waiting at the altar.

The ballroom was already filled with the cream of society, Royals, wealthy tradesmen and their wives, all in their finest dress. But outside the great double doors on the far end of the room stood a long line of hopeful young debutantes, waiting to be announced.

The duchess gave a few tugs to Gared’s collar. “You ready, boy?”

“Think I might be sick,” Gared said.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Araine said, brushing a fleck of dust from his jacket. “But I doubt it would thin your dance card. Not every bachelor has a barony in his pocket. That’s worth ignoring a shirtfront of sick for.”

Gared paled, and Araine laughed. “A young bride to make children with is hardly a death sentence, boy. Glory in it while it lasts.”

She gave him a swat to the bottom with her walking stick, and Gared jumped. “All you have to do now is stand here while Jasin introduces the debutantes. Once that’s done, you can go backstage and empty your stomach before the dancing.”

She shuffled off, signaling Jasin to open the doors. Immediately Rojer put his fiddle to his chin, mirrored by Kendall as they played the first entrance. Each woman had chosen her own entrance music, the song they requested on the dance card. Rojer’s quartet had been practicing for days to learn them all.

“Miss Kareen Easterly,” Jasin called, “daughter of Count Alen of Riverbridge.” Rojer changed tune. Kareen had chosen a slow song, both for the intimacy and the chance to saunter down the walkway at a crawl, maximizing her time as the center of attention.

A poor choice, as it would have Gared’s nose buried in the young woman’s perfume cloud for the entire dance, at which point he wouldn’t be able to get away from her fast enough.

Kareen ascended the steps stage left, then moved to the center, enjoying the spotlight as Gared bowed to her. She might have stayed there all night, basking in the cheers and applause, had Jasin not opened the door to admit the next woman. Kareen winked at him as she moved slowly to descend stage left.

“Miss Dinese Wardgood, daughter of Lord Wardgood of South Klat.”

Dinny had chosen a waltz that was sure to have Gared tripping over everyone in the room. Odds were she’d compound the punishment by reciting poetry the whole time.

Araine had arranged for many young hopefuls to occupy the seats beside Gared at dinner each night, but none more often than these two. Their powerful fathers were able to buy access the others could not afford. They were the clear political favorites, but unless the rest of the debutantes were farm animals, they had little chance of making Ball Queen.

Dinny gave Gared a hidden wave as she left center stage, but as with Kareen’s wink, the young baron gave no sign he noticed. He kept his eyes on the doors, waiting for something to give him hope.

Rojer played in woman after woman, but Gared remained unmoved.

“Miss Emelia Lacquer, daughter of Alber Lacquer of Merchant Hill.” For a moment Gared remained still, but then he stiffened and leaned forward.

Rojer looked to door. He should have known. All Jessa’s girls chose “downstairs names” while they were working, cast aside on graduation as they reentered society by their given names.

It was Rosal.

Gared watched intently as she glided down the walkway, though if it was the look of hunter or prey, Rojer could not guess.

From that moment on, Gared only had eyes for her, to the point of ignoring the last few women to enter, save when they passed into his line of sight crossing the stage. Thankfully there were only a few, but much of the crowd had already picked up on Gared’s distraction, pointing at Emelia and whispering to one another.

Rojer sighed. Everyone who was anyone was in attendance, including more than a few who had likely been to the royal brothel in the last eighteen months. Emelia had changed her hair and chosen a modest gown, looking quite different than she had at Jessa’s, but sooner or later someone was bound to recognize her.

Leesha stood alone at the ball. She had done everything she could to get Wonda into a gown for the event, but finally the girl shrieked, tearing the last dress from her body. Leesha thought the seamstress was going to have a heart attack.

“This ent me,” Wonda said. “Love you, mistress. Take a hundred crank bow bolts for you. But you and all the demons in the Core can’t get me to wear another rippin’ dress so long as I live.”

What could Leesha do, but apologize? Wonda now stood by the wall with the other guards. She had cut her hair and oiled it back, proudly showing the jagged lines the demon’s claws had left across her face.

Leesha smiled. It was a start. She would have to thank Jessa. Her words had reached the girl where Leesha’s could not.

There was a gasp, and she looked up to see Gared ignore the steps, hopping off the stage as easily as other men might from a foot stool. Guests, taken by surprise at the informality, hesitated, then moved to greet him.

But the hesitation was all the time Gared needed to sweep past, his long legs carrying swiftly across the ballroom to where Emelia stood with her parents. Royals and highborn stood openmouthed at the snub, and Alber Lacquer noticed, even if Gared was oblivious. He twitched nervously as Gared pumped his hand, but Emelia’s mother, no small beauty herself, beamed with pride.

Gared had always been a simple man. Direct. It was good sometimes, to remind the Royals that not everything was a secret game of hidden cards.

Leesha had been promised to Gared once, but he was a better man by far now, even if he had been sleeping with her mother. Part of her wanted to advise against the match. Emelia was devious and controlling. But Elona was that as well. And Leesha, if she was honest with herself. Perhaps that was what Gared needed in a woman.

Emelia carried the risk of scandal, but no more than Gared himself, even if he did not know it. If Elona gave birth to a giant, it wouldn’t be long before someone figured things out. Even Gared couldn’t be thick enough to miss that.

“I’d give anything to know what was going through that mind of yours,” a voice behind her said.

Leesha started, so lost in thought she hadn’t noticed as Thamos came up behind her and bowed. But she had been praying for this moment, and she was ready. She gripped her emotions in a cruel fist, shoving them down a dark hole as she turned and dipped into an elegant curtsy.

However hard Wonda had been on the seamstress, Leesha had been worse. She fretted over every stitch and ruffle of her silk gown, designed to hide her growing belly in the shadow of cleavage even the women could not ignore.