The Temptress Ch 03

Hail and well met! I must apologize for having taken so long about getting Chapter Three posted for everyone's reading pleasure. I had to do a MAJOR rework on it and nearly had to write it completely over again since the file on my PC got corrupted and I could not find the manuscript. I really do appreciate all the votes and comments regarding my other works and hope you good readers continue to show your support by taking a moment to vote and leave a short comment about what you thought. ALL of the authors at Literotica like to hear from their readers. It's your comments that keep our fires burning to write more and try our hardest to tell better and better stories.

Thanks again.

*

The carved wooden sign above the tavern door proclaimed the establishment as being the Silent Lady. The painted, double-sided relief of a headless woman offered the original owner's opinion about the only way silence could be expected from a woman. But on this night (or most any other night, for that matter) the bar was far from being quiet. Janda's largest and most frequented tavern was quite the nightspot for many of the city's residents as well as those travelers who knew of the Silent Lady's reputation for being a "must see". The building itself was dome-shaped like most of the other buildings throughout the city but the main three-story structure was surrounded by six, smaller ones which were linked to it, and each other, by doors and short hallways. Two of the smaller domes on opposite sides served as stables while the other four were designated for housing those guests who decided to spend a night or two, with basic accommodations on the ground floor and the larger, more luxurious suites above.

But those had been added later, after the Lady had gained its notoriety.

No, the Lady's, as everyone eventually referred to it, main claim to fame was not her comfortable beds, first-rate food, hospitality, or nightly gala-like atmosphere (although all applied equally). Instead, the Lady's patrons gathered within her curved walls to hear the finest musicians play and the most skilled troubadours sing and tell their stories. Only per-formers who were invited to grace the Lady's stage were allowed to show off their talent, although some exceptions were made from time to time. The list of hopefuls who wished almost more than anything to set foot on that rostrum rarely dropped below a hundred---a fact which was always a source of amazement to Psalmanazar, the Lady's current owner, since it was unusual for a featured performer to stay any longer than a night or three.

Above the first floor's expansive dining hall and the second floor's nearly cavernous bar was what performers and patrons alike referred to only as the Stage. The audience would sit on pull-out wooden bleachers almost completely surrounding a slightly raised platform in the center. At the appointed time, the houselights would dim and the artist(s) appearing that night would be raised up through a trapdoor at center-stage. (Of course being artists, some opted to enter through the patron door, shaking hands and greeting their aficionados as the made their way to the stage.)

Trelat Sylvain, a troubadour of some renown throughout the western half of Tiaceor, and an irregular regular performer at the Lady, was sitting center-stage, slowly plucking out the notes to one of his songs on the the strings of his well-traveled lute. Gradually, the tune's tempo increased until Trelat's fingers were little more than a blur flashing back and forth across the strings. The song's rather abrupt end caught the audience off guard and, for a moment, there was silence.

But only for a moment.

Thunderous applause resonated throughout the domed hall, punctuated by whistles and earnest calls for more. Trelat flashed a beaming smile at the crowd before standing to take a deep bow, acknowledging each section of his audience in turn.

"Thank you!" Trelat half-shouted appreciatively, as he raised a hand and waved. "You are too kind!" For some time the clapping and cheering continued, fading away only after Trelat once more took his seat on the stool, the only thing on an otherwise bare stage.

While he was by no means tall or muscular, Trelat Sylvain was a man of exceptionally good looks---and even more remarkable talent. He had a roguish look about him that was only enhanced by his brown eyes. Trelat kept his hair cut somewhat short but maintained a thin, braided rattail that hung down the right side of his head to his shoulder blade. Of course, his appearance would have been incomplete without his thin mustache and well-groomed goatee. But Trelat's most notable feature was his smile. It was the rare woman who would not look at him twice when he smiled.

"With barely any effort," he once bragged to a friend, "I can almost guarantee that I'll not be sleeping alone on any given night. In fact, I'd wager that, by giving it my all, I'd not only be able to get away with murder but convince everyone that I did the world a favor!" To his credit, though, Trelat never had the opportunity to put the latter part of his boast to the test. Killing an opponent in a duel or in combat was one thing but cold-blooded murder was a far different matter altogether.

Dressed in his finest blue silk doublet, matching hose and hat, Trelat looked to be quite the dandy (though in a slightly foppish sort of way) which made him always seem a bit out of place while performing. Once, because of his manner of dress, he had been mistakenly taken to the private balcony box of another city's local lord instead of being guided to the backstage area. Undaunted, Trelat simply introduced himself to the petty ruler when he and his family arrived and proceeded to give one of his most memorable performances to date, including the seemingly "private" one for those in the box.

As Trelat coaxed some soft, light music from his lute, his eye notice two young ladies sitting in the front row giving him the eye while whispering and giggling to each other. To show he noticed them too, Trelat winked at the pretty pair and smiled. Their surprise was plainly evident as they bounced excitedly, though discreetly, in their seats and whispered even more excitedly back and forth.

Ahhh. . .youth

, the troubadour sighed mentally. A wicked smile spread Trelat's mouth as the punchline of a particularly ribald joke sprang to his mind as he tried to think of just the song to sing next, suggesting activities he and the enamored duo could explore later, in more comfortable surroundings. From the purposely understated elegance of their pleasantly revealing dresses, Trelat guessed that the twosome were either the children of some wealthy merchants or a petty duke or baron passing through Janda. The exuberance in their applause marked them as being somewhat under the age typically allowed beyond the Lady's first floor. The worldly bard smiled inwardly.

It just goes to show how a little bit of gold---when slipped into the right hand---can open just about any door

.

It only took a few more moments for Trelat to remember just the right song. Giving a slow wink to his young admirers (and soon-to-be bedmates), Trelat launched into the love ballad.

* * * *

As the master troubadour wooed his ladies and stirred everyone else's hearts, an unseen someone was using the concert as a cover for his own activities. Stealthily, a black-gloved hand slipped through the narrow opening between the rise and run of the wooden benches and carefully lifted the burgeoning coin purse of the portly man to whom it belonged. As the strings tying the pouch to the man's belt slackened, a second hand joined its opposite and pulled gently but firmly at the dangling ends that would free the small money bag from its owner's side. A second later, the knot was undone and the hands were already slipping back from whence they came---taking the pilfered riches with them. The man never knew what happened.

Meanwhile, the owner of the nimble hands quietly slipped the coin purse into a larger bag containing more than two dozen other such prizes. As the black-clad thief pulled the draw strings on his own bag tight with a sharp jerk, not a sound issued forth. Even over the pleasant din of Trelat's music, the jingle of so many coins within should have been heard by those just above, but no one heard a thing. Beneath his black mask, the master thief smiled. Silently, he made his way back through the metal supports to his entry point.

In a few minutes, the burglar was slipping out the thief hole located in the inner wall of the Stage's dome. The descent back down to the crawl space connecting the guest rooms to the main dome was as easy as the ascent had been thanks mostly to the Lady's sloping walls. Soon the thief was entering his suite by means of the secret door in the back of his closet. It was due to such passages throughout the Silent Lady that made it as popular a place to visit, among those of his profession, as it was to those they victimized. Taking the bag from his belt, the still disguised thief quickly emptied the contents of the stolen purses into the larger one just before dropping each one into the space under a carefully pried-up floor board. Once finished transferring his ill-gotten loot, he slipped the small plank back into its correct place. His task completed, he hung what appeared to be an empty sack over the hook of a clothes hanger bearing one of his lady's more elegant dresses. Hidden within the garment, it would be all but undetectable during a cursory search.

At the thought of his paramour, the thief suddenly became very aware of how long he had been absent from her side. He had excused himself from going with her straight to the Stage after the sumptuous banquet Psalmanazar had thrown for Trelat Sylvain, one of his more honored visitors, stating that he needed to take care of some "personal business". It had been nearly an hour since then and it was essential he rejoined her. As he removed his mask, he took down the neatly stored attire he had been wearing during the feast and re-dressed.

The face beneath could have passed for someone in their mid twenties even though its wearer was ten years older. His clean-shaved face was marred only by the small scar on his left cheek and short, sandy blond hair framed his youthful face. To any who met him, the still innocent glimmer in his eyes made them think him to be someone who had yet to experience much---if any---of the world. His lean frame and the almost elf-like grace in his movement suggested that he was of well-to-do or noble parents, though he was truly as far from being either of these as he was from being a frog.

He was, however, Snaggit Ansplit: consummate thief and master con artist. While he was known by some of the other thieving guilds across Tiaceor through his reputation, it was in his native Galamoor and especially in Karroz that Snaggit wielded very nearly the same amount of power as his guild's master there. Supporters urged him to challenge Ioz de Corde for leadership of the guild, but Snaggit always politely declined to do so, opting instead to remain loyal to his long-time friend; he was more than content to be the "power behind the throne". Snaggit knew there would come a time he would have to contest Ioz for the position of Guild Master (even if it meant he would have to face other would-be's before hand), but that was still several years down the road. Besides, he often mused to himself, there are still so many over-burdened purses to relieve and a like number of grand homes I have yet to "tour".

After fastening the wide, white ruff around his neck, Snaggit reversed his black gloves, revealing a contrasting pair of egg shell colored ones, complete with wide lace cuffs. As a finishing touch to his look, he took down a fashionably plumed hat which he tucked under his arm just before stepping into the room he shared with his lady fair.

Gone was the thief Snaggit Ansplit.

In his place stood the well-to-do dandy Gainstan P. Glits: a persona Snaggit had care-fully honed during his twenty-some years of traveling. Much to Snaggit's amusement, his alter-ego had taken on a bit of a life of its own. Those of note who met "Gainstan" often remembered having met him when encountered elsewhere and usually introduced him to the host of the celebration in whose home they found themselves.

A place that would be robbed mere days

after

Gainstan P. Glits left town.

Snaggit counted himself fortunate that a connection between him and his other self had not yet been made. But, then, who would suspect someone like Gainstan to be a thief?

Before Snaggit opened the door to his room, he tightened the strings of his own purse. After all, he chuckled,

with a thief lurking about, one can't be

too

careful, can one?

On that thought, the disguised malefactor headed to the public entrance to the Stage.

* * * *

As Snaggit-come-Gainstan opened the double doors to the Lady's rostrum, a moment of silence followed by thunderous applause greeted his entrance. For the briefest second, he allowed himself the belief that it was for him, although he knew full well it was intended for Trelat. His unhurried approach toward the Stage became all but hidden to most everyone near the aisle when the audience rose as one and cheered the troubadour's latest song. In the prolonged commotion, Snaggit slipped past the excited patrons and took a seat next to a beautiful, red-headed woman dressed in a lavender gown with a deep, plunging neckline. When she finally registered his presence, she regarded him only with a casual glance before returning her attention to Trelat. Light music from the troubadour's lute quickly quieted the audience's appreciative din and had them resuming their seats and listening once more with rapt attention after only a handful of notes.

For a while, Snaggit sat and enjoyed Trelat's performance, too. However, as Snaggit admired the woman's beauty out of the corner of his eye, he also saw the matching money pouch hanging loosely from her waist sash. The temptation was too great for the die hard thief. Snaggit knew he needed a distraction but none availed itself.

His hand inched closer to its intended prize.

Snaggit was fully confident in his light touch since he had retrieved many harder-won prizes than this before. Still, a minor disruption would be of help to him.

As if on cue, the man to the lady's left coughed loudly.

Immediately, Snaggit seized on the moment and leaned behind her and shushed at the man harshly. The woman in lavender likewise looked at the offender and scowled at him. Snaggit smiled to himself and reached out to take hold of the dangling purse strings.

But, much to his surprise, her hand was squeezing his tightly before the knot could be loosened the least bit. Snaggit froze. It seemed like an eternity was passing between them as she held him fast. Options raced through his mind like arrow fire but one with any kind of pleasant end was not very forthcoming. A fight seemed inevitable: a fight he could not hope to win.

A moment later, the woman turned to Snaggit and locked his brown eyes with her light blue ones. "Do you know," she whispered loud enough for him alone to hear, "just how quickly I could have a dozen armed guards around you?"

"And do you know," he asked, "just how beautiful you look tonight, my lady?"

"Flatterer," the lavender-clad woman replied as she released Snaggit's errant hand and leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Just remember, we've not been together this long without me picking up on some of your tricks. One would also think that you'd be tiring of this 'game' you like to play whenever we out like this. But, I take it, that the 'business' you tended to earlier went better than this or else you'd not be here now."

"Indeed," was all Snaggit said as he affectionately slipped his hand on his lady's thigh and rubbed gently. The master thief could not tear his eyes away from her beautiful face even after her attention had returned to Trelat.

Irala Muün: wayfaring priestess of Korrmalin, the Horizon Walker, patron god of the road, travelers, merchants---and adventurers. Although Irala had spent more than half her thirty years of life in the clergy, she hardly looked it. By most outward appearances, Irala could have passed for being a lady of the court. Fine apparel was a daily mainstay, except on days of religious observance when she would don her well-traveled adventuring attire and conduct the proper ceremonies and sermons in whatever town she was residing in at the time. Apart from those occasions, it was only Korrmalin's constantly displayed holy symbol that revealed her true calling. The golden disc hung on a gilded rope necklace around Irala's neck, where it would brush the tops of her ample breasts, and was etched with a half visible sun beyond the horizon and a winding road heading toward it. Irala wore her shoulder-length, loosely curling auburn hair in a variety of styles and ways, depending on her mood, situation, or the local fashion. Her milky white skin was completely dappled with seemingly countless freckles which added an extra measure of beauty to her still youngish countenance. Irala also possessed the shapely figure other women endured the torture of a corset to attain and her natural skin tone allowed her the luxury of wearing only the bare minimums of facial colorations and enhancements. Many were the looks of disgust and envy she saw beneath thin smiles on other women when she would draw the attentions of their other halves when wearing one of her "simple" dresses. Even by the wide-ranging standards of most of Tiaceor's races, she was quite the beauty.

Irala's initial three years in the order had been spent traveling across much of western Tiaceor, assisting in restoring shrines that had been vandalized or destroyed. Korrmalin's temples and shrines were almost always rather small places of worship typically presided over by a single priest and his or her acolyte but there were also a great many unattended road side alters dedicated to the god where wanderers could offer up a prayer for a safe journey. Not long after receiving the honorific of

curate

, Irala was out on her own. Within a month, she had signed-on as part of a caravan heading to the city of Stellof. She had heard the stories of travelers being attacked whilst on the road and it was clear that the presence of a practitioner of the healing arts was a welcome addition to their number.

It was during this fateful journey that Irala received her "second calling".

While their destination was still several days away from Stellof, the caravan was besieged by the same notorious raiders she had heard about. The first round of arrows fired into the caravan had the uncanny luck of striking dead the leader of the adventuring company who had hired on to protect the procession of wagons. With their morale severely shaken by the loss, it was all the defenders could do to just hold their attackers at bay.

Despite her lack of experience and limited prowess in combat, Irala felt a sudden desire to act, as though divinely inspired. Leaping from the relative safety of the circle of twenty wagons, Irala charged out into the midst of the marauders, her twin-bladed sword leading the way. Her weapon struck without error, slaying all whom it hit. Although wounded by a few arrows and a like number of sword slashes, the enraged priestess still continued her advance through the raiders. The seasoned group of adventurers could only watch in awe as this lone and impossibly brave woman literally fought the battle single-handedly.

For a full minute, no one noticed that Irala was no longer running but just standing. Instead, she was looking down at her most recent kill. It took everyone just a little longer to realize what she had done. Irala had delivered a crushing blow of her own to the bandits: their leader lay dead at her feet.