Goldflower

The black night was filled with cries and shouted orders. Guards spilled from the temple complex into the street beyond, holding glowstones overhead as they ran this way and that. Shadows shifted and twisted between tall palm trees and low shrubs. Hanging over the shabby park was an edge of frustrated anger that grew as the search proved fruitless.

In the street beside the park a silent form flitted from building to building. It emerged from the blackness into the shallow light of a glowstone far above to reveal a tall lean man, dressed in tight hose and jerkin of dark wool, shoulder-length hair drawn back in a queue.

Voices sounded nearby, and the man glanced over his shoulder. Swiftly, silently, he stepped towards a statue standing on a tall pedestal. The stone warrior gazed implacably ahead, oblivious to the slender hands sliding aside a plaque to reveal a smooth, clean cavity.

The lean man drew an object from the satchel at his side -- a wooden box the length and thickness of his forearm. He placed it inside the cavity and returned the plaque. When he turned away it was as if the pedestal had never been touched.

Footsteps were approaching, slapping on the paving stones. Taking a scrap of vellum from a pouch, the man pressed it against his chest.

Instantly his form blurred, then vanished. A careful spectator might have noticed a slight breeze stirring the leaves in the still night air as a patrol of temple guards trotted past. The guards weren't careful, and the breeze went unobserved as it crossed the wide avenue to the mouth of a narrow alley on the far side.

In the blackness of the alley, with the heavy footsteps disappearing down the avenue, the lean man's form appeared again. A smile was on his lips as he turned and took a jaunty step.

He halted almost instantly as a light blossomed before him. A glowstone at waist height revealed a short shape clad in a heavy cloak facing him from half a dozen paces away.

The lean man paused, then gave a polite nod and stepped forward once more.

The stranger snapped plump fingers, and the glowstone rose to hover at shoulder height. The man halted again, caution clear in his stance. A hand disappeared behind his back and reappeared with a short, heavy blade that gleamed dully in the soft light.

Whether he planned to threaten, attack or simply defend himself was unclear. Before he could act, the stranger's hand shot out like a street entertainer might throw a knife.

There was no knife, but the lean man staggered back as if struck in his chest by a sudden force. The blade clattered on the flagstones and vanished into the blackness. A choked gasp was forced from the man's lips, followed by a grunt as he fell to the dusty stones of the alley.

Almost instantly he pushed himself up, still gasping, but the cloaked figure was standing over him now. A harsh voice whispered, "Duchess Lesla sends for you."

A gust of wind swept through the alley, and an instant later it was empty.

===

A hush fell over the tavern's common room as Avilia entered. Heads looked up from cups of wine and mugs of ale. Her spiked hair and pale skin marked her out as Dumrani as clearly as the scars on her hands and bare forearms proclaimed her a soldier. The two together meant only one thing: mercenary.

Behind the bar, a stout woman set down the bottle she was polishing and reached for something out of sight. "If you're here to make trouble," she said, her voice loud in the silence, "you can turn around and leave. I run a neat establishment."

Avilia ignored her. The city of Borton might be in decline, but it hadn't descended so far that she'd bothered to carry her spear today. Now she wondered whether perhaps she should have. The long dagger at her belt would do little to keep an angry crowd away if things turned ugly here.

But her business was urgent, she reminded herself, her eyes sweeping the smoky gloom. After a moment they settled on a hunched figure sitting by himself at a corner table. An empty plate lay before him and the clay cup in his hand was tilted far enough over to show that it held only one last sip of wine.

Alone among the patrons he hadn't turned to look at Avilia. The reason was clear: a rag, bound over his face and covering his eyes. The air that hung over him was one of quiet despair.

As Avilia took a step in his direction, a large man rose from another table and moved forward, as if to stop her.

She halted and locked her eyes onto his, letting her anger and frustration seep onto her face. For a moment he tried to match her stare, but then he stepped back to let her pass.

The blind man stirred as she sat at his table. "Fuck off." His voice was a rasp. His face looked like he'd made a long habit of running into temple walls.

"I need your help." Avilia's voice was calm, but she couldn't disguise the undercurrent of tension.

"You don't." The blind man raised his cup and drained the last drop. "Whoever you think I am, you're mistaken."

Avilia's hand shot out and seized his wrist before he could set the cup down on the table. "I'm not mistaken. You're Sniffer. And I need your help."

The man called Sniffer struggled against her grip for an instant, then gave up. "I'm done with that. Nothing but trouble. So you can fuck off."

Avilia's lips were pursed. "Please," she hissed between clenched teeth. "I'll pay you whatever you want." Slowly she let go of the scrawny wrist. "I

need

you."

Sniffer placed the cup on the table and nursed his wrist in silence. An alertness seemed to have crept into him. Around them, the sounds of the tavern picked up again, though not as loud and carefree as before.

At length Sniffer spoke. "You smell worried." When Avilia didn't reply he continued. "I don't help thief-catchers. Not anymore. You know what they did to my nose?" He gestured to his face. "I ain't got much going for me, and the gangs tried to take it from me."

"Not a gang member. No-one that anyone in this sewer mouth of a city knows. All I need is a trace. A lead. A direction to look in." Her hand vanished inside her jacket and reappeared with a pouch. It jingled as she dropped it onto the stained table.

At the sound Sniffer gave a start and leaned forward. "Silver!" His voice was a whisper, barely audible over the noise. He reached out, then stopped before he touched the pouch. "You promise? No trouble with the gangs?"

"None."

The blind man hesitated a moment longer, then jerked his head towards the bar. "Give the money to Shorri. She'll take better care of it than me. Takes care of me already."

===

It wasn't difficult to decide where to start. The temple area was still busy with guards and priests. Most were in the muted green of Life Priests, but there were plenty of other temples represented on the streets.

"Your man stirred up the ants fierce," Sniffer muttered. "Don't want anyone asking questions."

"Let me worry about them," Avilia replied. Her tone tried to convey a calmness she didn't feel. "You just find him."

What's Sligh been up to?

she wondered.

What kind of trouble is he in?

She'd known that he was plotting something. More than half a moon had passed since they arrived in Borton, and while the days -- and nights -- had flown by in a heady rush of passion and happiness, she'd sensed that Sligh had started to chafe.

Then some days ago that changed. Suddenly he had a purpose. His walk became a stride. He rose early and headed out, coming back hours later full of energy. When she asked, he only smiled and kissed her. That always led to them stripping and fucking, so she didn't really care what he was doing.

Last night he'd gone out late. "Don't wait up," he told her. "And don't take Farflier out first thing in the morning, either."

"I won't," she replied. "I know it's Spring Blossom Day, even if you don't. That means you're supposed to present me with a year's supply of flowers."

"I prefer the other tradition." He grinned that grin of his that made her want to punch him in the face, then rip his hose off. "The one that calls it Love Demon Day. And whoever you fuck on Love Demon Day, you'll fuck them for the rest of the year."

Somehow he managed to keep his clothes on and escape.

He hadn't returned by morning. For a moment she was overwhelmed with doubt. What if he'd decided he was done with her? That two weeks was more than enough, and now he was off to find someone closer to his true social station?

But Zretha was still in the stable of the inn across the street from the house they'd rented, placidly nibbling at the aromatic twigs an awed stablehand fed her. Even if Sligh grew tired of Avilia, he'd never leave without his eight-legged riding-lizard. There were times when she grew jealous of the care he bestowed on the giant creature.

The logical conclusion was that whatever he'd been up to had gone wrong. She had to assume, for her own sake, that he hadn't been killed. Just in case, she'd checked the looming bulk of Borton's goal. There was no fresh head on the spikes over the gate, no insufferable smirk that would be Sligh's last laugh at the world.

So wherever he was -- hiding, on the run, captured -- he needed her help.

A mutter from Sniffer drew her back to the present. "He was here."

They were standing in a wide avenue that ran along one of the city's few parks. Statues that had seen better centuries faced each other at regular intervals, and opposite the park stood tall buildings that spoke of lingering wealth and disapproval.

Avilia felt her heart skip a beat. Until now she hadn't been sure she'd find Sligh, even with help from this tracker. "Where did he go?"

Sniffer turned his battered face this way and that, sniffing the air like a cat hunting for the scent of grilled fish on a summer's breeze. A frown, mouth twisting in confusion, then he stepped across the avenue towards a narrow alley between two mansions.

Avilia strode after him, waving her apologies at passers-by and a mounted patrol who had to draw up suddenly to avoid the blindfolded man. Ignoring the curses and glares, she followed him into the alley, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the sudden dark.

The tracker had walked a few paces along before stopping and sniffing the air again. "Sorcery." There was disgust in his tone, and on his face. "There was a hint of it before, but here..." He spat.

Avilia looked around, hoping to see some sign, dreading what she might find. Her eye fell on something glimmering faintly in the soft light that ventured into the space between the buildings. She stepped forward and kneeled down.

It was a dagger. Short and heavy-bladed, with a notch near the hilt that had resisted her best efforts to polish it away. She remembered where it had happened: in Duke Gharre's treasure chamber, with Sligh catching the demon-mannikin's swinging arm on his crossed blades...

"Is that his?" Sniffer had come to stand beside her.

Avilia nodded, picking up the dagger and holding it like a baby.

Sligh!

She swallowed, and spoke. "I see no signs of a fight."

"Sorcery," the other said again. "Powerful sorcery." He hesitated, then continued. "No blood, though. No death."

Avilia let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

No death. No death!

"Where was this sorcery?"

Sniffer gestured a few paces away. "A spell-slinger, standing there."

Skies!

Avilia's heart lurched again. She knew a sorceress who might want to harm Sligh. Or perhaps not harm him, but keep him as her pet.

Avilia wasn't sure which thought was the most worrying.

Pushing her fears aside, she gritted her teeth and asked, "Anything about this spell-slinger? About where they came from?"

The tracker threw his head back, inhaling deeply. "River mud," he muttered. "And goldflower."

"Goldflower?"

Sniffer waved absentmindedly. "Thick dark leaves. Bright yellow petals. Used to grow in big bushes along the river bank, until it became unfashionable." He snorted. "Posh people and their fads. Fuckers."

Avilia turned to stare out of the alley, running her hands over and over the dagger. Beyond the avenue, beyond the park and the dusty temples, lay the sluggish waters of the Brownhills River. Later in spring it would flow swifter and wider, fed by the melting snows, but for now it was little more than a shallow stream in a bed of mud.

There were mansions and palaces along its banks, built when the Brownhills River had run deeper all year, bringing trade from the highlands and the sea to make Borton a prosperous city. Now the towers crumbled, the walls flaked, and gardens were untended. The merchant princes had moved out, leaving Bolton to the temples and the slums.

It seemed as good a place as any to search for Sligh.

===

A nightmare of pain slowly resolved itself into an awareness of pain. His chest was a dull ache, and his shoulders were on fire. Dry lips begged for moisture, and it took all the discipline his mind had mastered to stop himself from licking them with a tongue that felt just as dry.

Without opening his eyes, Sligh took stock of the situation. Pain in his shoulders, with his arms pointing up. He realised his wrists also hurt. So, shackles. That didn't bode well.

From the movement of air on his skin he deduced that his torso was naked. His feet were bare too, but he still wore his hose. A small asset if he escaped and found himself in public.

His charms had been in his jerkin, and his tools in his satchel. Both seemed to have been removed. But his hair wasn't hanging loose, so he could assume the cord tying it into its queue was still there. And inside that cord was his final charm. A powerful one, if only he could reach it, and if his captors came close enough.

The ache in his chest was a memory from last night's encounter. He could breathe easily enough, but the blow he'd taken had left a bruise. It shouldn't be a problem, he decided, unless he had to run, or climb a steep hill.

He didn't bother to try and free his hands. Anyone who went to the trouble of abducting him by sorcery and shackling him to a wall wasn't going to be careless about something like that.

So, what else could he do? Without opening his eyes he could tell that it was light. Judging by the heat, he guessed around mid-morning. His ears caught the cries of birds -- water birds -- and little else. The warm air carried the scent of mud, mixed with sewage and dead fish. The smells of Borton, and beneath them a sweet scent, with a hint of spice, that took a moment to place.

Goldflower.

The name brought the lore to mind.

Flourishes in warm, damp climes. Used by the priesthood of the Two Suns to help them achieve visions, and according to some sources as an aid to fertility, or at least an aphrodisiac.

So it was safe to assume he was somewhere by the river. Probably one of the empty and dilapidated mansions.

Does this knowledge help me in any way?

Not immediately, he decided, but no knowledge was ever useless.

The thought entered his mind that Avilia would be wondering where he was. Knowing her, she'd be furious with him. He pictured her in his mind, eyes flashing, a flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.

Dawn, you said! I was waiting for you, waiting for my flowers and your tongue...

Well, he'd have to find a way out of this predicament by himself. She had no way of knowing where he was, or even that he'd been abducted. Probably she assumed he'd run off, or was out carousing.

A pain stabbed at his chest that wasn't from the bruise. The thought that Avilia would despise him, that she'd be upset for being lied to and abandoned, made him despise himself. Not so long ago he hadn't cared much about anyone but himself and Zretha, and he'd left a string of lovers behind, heartbroken and often much poorer than when he entered their lives.

But Avilia -- a foul-mouthed mercenary and bandit from the uncivilised Dumran Mountains in the distant north -- Avilia made him want to be a better person. Not to the world at large, perhaps, and not enough to give up breaking into temples. But to her at least. Just at the idea of hurting her, of causing her pain or anguish, it was as if a giant fist was clenched around his heart and squeezing.

The sound of a key turning in a lock broke the near-silence and drew him out of his reverie. He forced himself to hang still, to ignore the screaming pain in his shoulders and wrists.

A heavy door opened, and footsteps approached. Light, in boots that were both dainty and well-made, if he was any judge. The heels clicked on wood. Other footsteps came behind. Leather soles, and a heavier step.

"Mezler."

With that one word, he knew who'd taken him. No need to feign unconsciousness any longer. He opened his eyes and raised his head. "Your Grace." The smile he added was carefully measured: friendly, slightly apologetic, hinting at their shared past without suggesting a shared future.

Her Grace the Duchess Lesla of Menia had changed since he last saw her. True, that had been from a dark alcove, watching with his breath held as she pleaded with her father -- her late father -- to spare his life and let her marry him.

Now she stood before him with confidence, feet a little apart on wooden floorboards, sunlight from the open window picking out golden stitching on her clothes and shimmering on jewels on her ears and at her throat.

Her face, once pleasingly plump if a bit sulky, had been transformed with magical artifice to a more classical idea of beauty. It showed as much expression as a statue, and was less attractive. Her hair was carefully coiffed, her skin artfully smooth, her lips perfect in shape and shade.

Her form, too, had undergone a change. The curves had disappeared, as had her slight slouch. The pale flesh that once had almost burst from her low-cut dresses was now carefully contained by a tailored travelling gown, with only a measured amount on display.

All this took only an instant to notice, without his eyes running over her like he once would have. Once, when they were lovers.

Realising that there was no need to slump in his chains either, he got his feet beneath him and let them take his weight. The relief in his shoulders and arms was instant, but again he tried to let none of it show.

Lesla stepped closer, reaching up to touch his face with the fingers of one hand. "My father thought you were soft. I knew better, though. I can't imagine the pain you're in. And yet not a trace of it on your face."

"As the poet Anyel said, what is pain if not part of pleasure?" He added the same smile as before. "What is sweetness without sorrow?"

"Hmm." She smiled, fingers stroking his cheek softly. "You're still the philosopher. Lord Brago wasn't so philosophical when he was shackled in my dungeon. Do you remember him, my love? My father's loyal servant."

My love?

Well, at least it didn't seem as if she was going to kill him right away. "I remember. A sorcerer."

Behind Lesla the second form shifted. It was a man, Sligh saw, in a soft robe of dark purple with silver runes worked into the material. He recognised the pudgy shape from his encounter in the alley the night before.

"A second-rate demon charmer." The words rasped out in a whisper. An affectation, Sligh decided, intended to make people listen more closely.

Well, none is lonelier than the dancer without a partner, as the poet said.

"Sorry, what was that? You might need to speak up."

The other man glared at him, but before he could reply Lesla interrupted. "A second-rate demon charmer indeed. With his pet gone -- which I've always assumed was your work, my sweet -- he had little to offer me after my father's... sudden death."

There was a subtle smirk in her eyes.

So Princess Terena was right. The cause of the Duke's death was an ambitious daughter.