Husk: A Maresman Tale (13 page)

The remaining bar wench was the only woman left in the room, and she was seated on the lap of a scar-faced bandit wearing an eyepatch. Wresting her away was more effort than Jeb wanted to commit to, and he still had the tang of Sweet’s beating in his mouth. Last thing he needed was a fight right now.

He let his gaze pass over the happy couple. Bones had gone. Least there were still small mercies. With heavy resolve, Jeb started to push up from his chair, but someone plonked a seat down beside him.

“Apparently, I quit before the axe fell,” Sendal Slythe said.

He was slurring his words, and his eyes were dull and unfocused. He held up a whiskey bottle in one hand, and a pair of glasses in the other. Jeb took one and Slythe filled him up.

“Thought you’d left,” Jeb said.

“Nowhere to go.” Slythe set the bottle on the floor and slurped back some whiskey. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about it.” He fixed Jeb with a look.

Seemed no point denying it. “You known the dame a long time, Slythe?”

“Long, long time. From back before she was famous—or should I say, infamous?”

“Oh?” The bitterness wasn’t lost on Jeb. Fact is, he’d seen how Slythe fawned all over her during the game. Wasn’t no surprise he was sowing bitter grapes with the man she clearly had an eye for—at least until Jeb had lost all their money.

“She was a joke, an insult to the arts. Couldn’t act to save her life,” Slythe said. He reached down for the bottle and topped himself up.

Jeb declined another and continued to sip his slowly. He was already too far gone, and that was dangerous, given what he had to do, and what might be hunting him.

“The only reason she was on the stage was her husband, may the Demiurgos defecate on him from a great height.”

“Money talks,” Jeb said. “She said he was a big businessman.”

“Pah,” Slythe said. He leaned in close to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “Guild boss is what he was, the thieving, conniving bastard. Time I found that out, it was too late, and I was tainted. Cost me my position, and my livelihood.”

“Yet here you are playing seven-card with his wife.”

“Widow,” Slythe said. “Koort Morrow had it coming, and apparently I wasn’t the only one to think so.”

Jeb nodded for him to go on.

“Poisoned. He had a penchant for cherry pie, and someone obviously knew. Word is, the Night Hawks were behind it, back in the days of Shadrak the Unseen. Anyway, when Morrow died, the theaters all united against Dame Consilia; told her to sling her hook. Oh, the title was bought, too, an affectation indulged by her husband. She’s been scrabbling around hand to mouth ever since with those insipid servants of hers in tow. She still believes she was the darling of the New Jerusalem stage. Only reason no one said what they really thought was fear of Morrow.”

Jeb had a feeling there was more Slythe wasn’t saying. Only thing for it was to call him out on it. “So, she’s a talentless bitch with a pretentious name. That why you’re all over her like a rash?”

Slythe gripped his glass tight and swilled the whiskey at the bottom. His lip curled at one corner, and then he chuckled. “That’s good, Mr. Skayne. You don’t miss much, do you? Should have gone into politics.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Jeb said. Malfen was one thing, but the senate of New Jerusalem was a whole deeper level of corruption. “Reckon I’d be out of my depth.”

“It’s a vocation, I’ll grant you,” Slythe said. For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten he’d been removed from office. An air of pomposity crept into his demeanor, gave a tilt to his chin, puffed out his chest.

“Must’ve been hard to let it go,” Jeb said.

That pricked Slythe’s haughty bubble. He caved in on himself, and it looked an effort for him to keep his head raised. “Is it so obvious?” he said. “About Dame Consilia, I mean.”

“Yep.”

“Oh.” Slythe scratched at the top of his head. “I knew her before she was married. Such a stunning woman, she was. Exquisite, and yet, she didn’t seem to realize. That was her charm, back then, until Morrow ruined her.”

“She’s still a fair looker,” Jeb said. “Maybe just a bit more seasoned.”

“Yes, yes,” Slythe said. “And with the right man, she might recapture that old innocence.”

Jeb doubted it somehow. Innocence lost was seldom found. He’d seen enough of that with the women he’d known. It was almost as if he’d infected them in some way, and once the poison had taken root, there was no place to go save down.

“I was talking to a Wayist earlier,” Jeb said.

Slythe turned his nose up at that. The senate might have changed their laws, but attitudes had a way of lagging behind.

“He’d likely have agreed with you. Course, Dame Consilia tells a different story, unless I misunderstood her.”

“Really?” Slythe said. “What’s that?”

“Well, it’s my interpretation, you understand, but given what she told me about you living on borrowed money, I’d stake my hind teeth that you’ve got your sights set on making a living from her looks.”

Slythe surged out of his seat. “How dare you! I’ll have you know I am a man of means and my intentions are entirely honorable.”

“Ah,” Jeb said, standing casually and tipping his hat to Slythe. “But what’s honor among politicians?”

Slythe looked like he’d been slapped in the face and didn’t know how to respond. Jeb knew he’d been harsh, but he was too rankled to care. It wasn’t anything about Slythe in particular—he’d just been close to hand. It was everything conspiring at once to push Jeb to the brink, bring his husk blood to the boil. Because that’s what it was; he knew from experience. Either he had to let off steam, and soon, or he was going to get a whole lot nastier, and in a town like Portis, as he’d already learned the hard way, that meant a heap of trouble he could well do without.

Slythe was shaking his head and muttering. “And after I bought you a drink, too!”

“Here,” Jeb said, and tossed him a copper. It should have been an insult, but Slythe snatched it out of the air and pocketed it.

“Good day, to you, Senator,” Jeb said.

He turned and left the bar. The way he felt, it may as well have been nighttime, not midmorning. In spite of his tiredness, though, he needed to fetch Tubal for the ride to Boss’s land. Just the thought of heading to the stables made his legs ache, and he barely stifled a yawn.

He hovered for a moment then decided a short nap might be best after all. It’d be suicide going after the stygian while he was half asleep. He made his way back to reception and climbed the stairs to his room.

16

C
LEANERS WERE BUZZING
about, carrying away dirty sheets, sweeping floors, and rubbing a sweet-smelling oil onto the banister’s intricately carved spindles and newels. Packs were arrayed outside some of the rooms, and a couple of punters in travel clothes were downstairs settling their bills with the receptionist.

Last thing Jeb expected was Dame Consilia leaning against his door. Her platinum hair had been set loose to tumble over her shoulders in coils and springs. Dark smears sat below her moist eyes, and her red dress hung lower on her shoulders, giving Jeb a glimpse of near-chiseled perfection. If it hadn’t been for the neck, he’d have taken her for half her age.

Her breasts heaved as he approached, straining at the fabric containing them. She dabbed at her eyes then flicked back her hair and parted her lips.

Jeb wasted no time in putting a hand on the small of her back and pulling her close. She gasped and leaned in for a hot kiss, full of want and passion. She stank of cheap perfume, but the musk in it inflamed him anyway. He fumbled his key into the lock, lips still snug with hers, tongues probing, darting, intertwining. The lock clicked, and he half-pushed, half-carried her into the room.

Before he could heel the door shut, footsteps came padding down the landing, and he broke free from Dame Consilia’s hungry mouth to see Malvin and Garth trying to bustle in behind them.

“Out,” Jeb growled. “Now!”

Garth whined like a four year-old. “But we always stay.”

Malvin was nodding like an imbecile. “We are both highly skilled.”

“What?” Jeb looked at Dame Consilia, and she smirked, a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Oh no,” he said. “Not my thing.”

“Oh, but they are such fun,” Dame Consilia said. “Go on, give it a try.”

“No, thanks, I’ve just eaten,” Jeb said, pushing Garth and Malvin back with the door.

“No need to be so rude,” Malvin said. “It’s perfectly natural.”

Jeb slammed the door on them.

Not in Malfen it wasn’t. Suggest such a thing and they’d string you up by your fruits. Funny how such a nest of vipers could prove so conservative on some fronts. Funny how he could, too, he realized. The husk blood was pretty indiscriminate when it came to women, but anything other than that left him feeling mighty oppositional.

Dame Consilia took off Jeb’s hat and flung it on the bed. “It’s all the rage in New Jerusalem.”

“Yeah?” Jeb said. “Well, thank shog we’re in Portis.”

Dame Consilia shrugged one shoulder out of her dress, then the other. Jeb forced himself to be patient. It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy the spectacle, but a nagging sense of urgency was hammering away at the back of his skull, and he wanted this over and done with. It wasn’t exactly shaping up to be the rest he’d been hoping for.

Telling Marlec the second husk wasn’t his problem didn’t take away the threat it posed, and he was starting to think he’d be better off walking into the trap his fellow Maresmen had cooked up for him. After all, if he was lucky, he’d be killing two birds with one stone. Last thing he needed was them accusing him of not getting the job done, and his ploy to claim the stygian was the one he’d scented was wearing thinner by the minute.

He raised an appreciative eyebrow at the firmness of her breasts, then the dress fell below her waist and collected on the floor around her finely tapered ankles.

Jeb drank in the view just long enough to be polite, and she cocked her head to one side and smiled, knowing full well what she had. She shuddered as she breathed. Beads of sweat collected in her cleavage and trickled down to her flat belly, where a fake ruby glinted from her navel. He had half a mind to push down the urge to get on with the hunt and take his time ogling her, running his hands over every inch of that perfect body. She must have mistaken his hesitation for teasing, and winced with suppressed lust. She stuck one hand on the curve of her hip and posed for him, daring him to resist, but then her own resolve collapsed and she dropped to her knees and started to unfasten his britches.

Jeb shut his eyes. Suddenly, it was Maisie going to work on him, and the nagging distraction shattered into a thousand pieces. He bucked, and Dame Consilia gasped. She pulled away, and the spell was broken.

Jeb pulled her roughly to her feet, bent her over the bed. She shuddered and sighed, wriggled and cooed with delight.

Before Jeb knew it, she was thrashing about like a fish on the line and spitting obscenities. She rocked back and forth, growling and moaning. Jeb did little more than watch as ripple after ripple ran beneath her skin.

“Koort!” she cried her dead husband’s name, again and again. “Koooort!”

That was nothing new. They all came to Jeb for the lust his husk blood incited, not because of who he was. Maybe calling out the names of loved ones helped appease the guilt.

The tremors ripping through her raced to a crescendo. She slapped her rump against him with ferocious abandon, panting for air, gasping over and over, as if a scream she could never give voice to were building at the back of her throat. The tremors turned to spasms so violent it seemed her bones rattled. Her skin was aflame with the heat of the Abyss, and the stubborn scream lodged in her throat seeped out as a never-ending moan. Long seconds turned into longer minutes, and still she groaned like the keening of the damned.

“P-p-please,” escaped her lips in between pants. “N-no m-more. P-plea—” There was a sudden change to a surging, triumphal release way beyond what she’d already given vent to. “Shog!”—Not a word you’d expect to burst from the lips of a dame. “Oooooh! Shooooooog!”

Had Jeb wondering what kind of plays she’d acted in. He’d assumed high culture, but hearing her like this, she’d have been at home declaiming the crudest bawdy of Bent Horrigan’s theater of lust, or reciting the pathetic prose of Quintus Quincey in his erotica phase. That was about as good as entertainment got in Malfen—and for most it was the pinnacle of sophistication. Say what you like about their writing, but Horrigan and Quincey sure knew their audience.

Dame Consilia’s shogs gave way to an incoherent wail, and Jeb succumbed to his own need. Her cries went up a notch, and then she slid back off the bed onto the floor.

At first Jeb thought she was play-acting, making a show of her appreciation, but then he heard the faint sound of her snoring.

Jeb fastened his britches and sat on the edge of the bed, all the while appraising her. He had to admit, she had fire. If only she’d performed like that on the stage, she’d still be in demand. She snorted and woke herself up. Immediately, her hand found his leg and started to rub.

“Now let me ride you,” she purred.

This time, when they were spent, Dame Consilia smoked on a weedstick before sleep overcame her once more. Jeb was feeling it himself, and so when he was sure she wouldn’t be roused, he opened the door and dragged her outside and dumped her red dress on top of her.

Farther down the corridor, Malvin and Garth were huddled together on the carpet. Garth was apparently asleep, but Malvin raised his head and blinked blearily, starting fully awake as he saw the dame’s naked body. He caught Jeb’s eye and opened his mouth in shock, but Jeb just shrugged, went back inside, and locked the door.

He reclined on the bed, picked up his hat and settled it on his chest. Soon he found himself slipping in and out of sleep.

17

D
AMN, HE WAS
thirsty. It felt like all the trail dust that had gotten into his throat on the ride to Portis had lain dormant these past few days, and was now spreading like abrasive spores, clogging his airways and burning the roof of his mouth.