Taliesen stretched and yawned. "All right. I think we should be ready to move on her within another day or two at most. I'm looking forward to it," he added, smile going dark and cruel.
Zevran nodded, and slipped into the seat near the window as Taliesen vacated it. It was still warm from the other man's body heat, a not entirely unpleasant sensation. "I, too, am looking forward to it," he said.
Taliesen made no answer. He glanced up, and found the man's eyes resting on him, a brooding look, his eyes half-lidded. He hid a shiver as their eyes met, remembering the aftermath of his previous kill. Then Taliesen turned and walked away, without a word.
Zevran turned around and settled comfortably in the well-padded chair, keeping an eye on their target's home. They had her daily routine very well figured out by now; it just remained for Taliesen to decide a time and place for them to intersect with the mage, and then she would die. His own eyes narrowed in anticipated pleasure, hands closing tightly on the worn velvet arms of the chair, stroking slowly over the fabric in a sensual enjoyment of the feel of the soft nap of the fabric against his palms.
They never spoke of what had happened that night; never referred to it in any way. But the knowledge of it was still there, between Taliesen and he, of the darkness it had stirred in both of them, and the carefully unacknowledged desire they both felt for a repeat of that memorable night.
He'd... never enjoyed a kill that way before. He'd caused death before, of course, in training – sometimes accidental, sometimes quite carefully planned, it was part of the making of a Crow – but he'd never before experienced such an overwhelming feeling of power at the death of another living being. Such an intense enjoyment of the end of another's life, an enjoyment so strong it demanded physical satiation as well. Part of him knew that such exquisite pleasure over the death of another being was warped, was wrong, and part of him revelled in it. He was as the Crows had made him – a weapon of death. A weapon that craved the killing.
He shivered again, remembering Taliesen's response to his sudden lust. The darkness and cruelty and wantoness buried under the human's normally cold exterior. Shifted uncomfortably in his chair as his body responded to his memories of that night, a deep-seated warmth flooding through his groin at the memory of being pinned down by his partner, of rough hands on his skin and an urgent tongue invading his mouth, of a strong body grinding itself against his...
He balled his hands into fists, hissing curses to himself as he forced his mind back to the task at hand, forced his body to calm itself. Watch the house, he reminded himself. Keep notes over everything he saw. It was the sort of tedious work he hated most, but it had to be done, and done well, so that they knew their target well enough to take her out easily. Well enough, they hoped, to make her death seem accidental, rather then deliberate; they were due a sizable bonus if there was no proof that she'd been killed by the Crows.
His breathing calmed. His body stilled. He sat, and watched, and waited.
It was some time after midnight when a faint creaking sound roused Zevran from his contemplation of the shadowed view outside. He eased closer to the window, peering out but being careful to remain unseen himself. At first he didn't understand what he was hearing, then saw the darker area of blackness appearing in the gated archway across the street. A heavy wooden door, set within the larger door that was one-half of the gates blocking the archway, opening as silently as old well-oiled hinges allowed. A form slipped out; a second one; a third. The ones in front and back had the alert grace he associated with professional guards; the one in the middle, slightly shorter, must be who they guarded. She was swathed in layers of clothing and heavy veils that made her look dumpy and twice her age, but her lithe walk gave her away; he'd studied it too much in recent days to be fooled by a few extra layers of cloth. The mage. Their target.
There was only one explanation for her slipping out so quietly in disguise in the middle of the night. Something, or someone, must have tipped her off that she was being hunted, and she was seeking to escape the city before she ended up dead.
Zevran rose to his feet, muttering a curse under his breath. He quickly scrawled a note at the end of the neat list of observations he'd made over the course of the evening, then hurriedly slipped out of the building, ghosting along in the wake of the mage and her escort.
They didn't go far, just a few streets over, to a livery stable. A closed carriage was waiting for the woman, a coachman already settling into his seat at the front, a stable boy standing nearby with two more horses. Zevran cursed again as one of the guards handed her into the carriage. She leaned out the window for a moment, seemingly talking to the driver, while the two guards mounted up and fell in behind the coach, then she disappeared back inside. The coachman picked up his reins, and they moved out.
Zevran flitted across the street in their wake, darting into the stable yard. He managed to catch up to the stable boy at the door to the stable. The boy yelped and flinched away from him, frightened, but calmed when Zevran held up some silver coins.
"The coach. Where is it going? Did you hear?" Zevran asked sharply.
The boy looked warily back and forth from his face to the coins, then abruptly held out his hand. "Bastion," he said.
Zevran cursed, then produced another coin – a gold sovereign – and held it up. "A horse. A good one," he demanded. "And this is yours."
The stable boy's eyes widened, and he nodded, then darted into the stables, returning a few minutes later at a run, a tall grey-speckled mare in his wake, head up and nostrils flaring, eyes wide, hoofs almost dancing as the horse set them down and snatched them up again. Zevran bit back an exclamation at the fineness of the horse; someone's valuable saddle horse, if he had to guess. "Won't she be missed?" he asked sharply.
The stable boy grinned. "A second coin will see to that – I know her owner, he is fallen on hard times and was fearing he would have to sell her away. If a night or two of adventure lets him keep her longer..." he shrugged.
Zevran laughed, and tossed the boy two gold sovereigns, before climbing into the saddle. The mare responded beautifully to the reins, clattering out of the stable yard and turning south to follow the route the carriage had taken.
He was on the outskirts of the city before he thought of Taliesen again. Reining the horse to a stop, he looked around, quickly spotting one of the ubiquitous street urchins and whistled for the child's attention. The child – boy or girl, he wasn't sure, the urchin was too young for the difference to really be noticeable yet – trotted over and looked expectantly up at him, maintaining a wary distance. "Yes, master?"
"I need a message carried. I'll pay you ten silvers, and the man the message is for will pay you ten more."
"Yes, master!"
"Go to the Golden Dancer. There is an outside stair, to the left as you face the door. Knock there, hard, you will need to wake the man, then say that the bird has flown her nest, and that the elf follows, to Bastion. Here are your coins – now, go, run!"
The child nodded and ran off, bare feet flashing as it disappeared into the darkness, hurrying in the right direction, Zevran was relieved to see. Still no guarantee that his message would actually reach Taliesen, but at least he'd made the effort. He lightly set heels to mare again, and headed out of the city, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the carriage, hoping the stable boy had been correct about its destination.
Taliesen cursed as he rolled out of bed and stumbled down the hallway to the main room. Who was pounding on his door at this time of night, and why? A look out the peep hole showed a young raggedly-dressed child, pounding on the door with both fists to make enough noise to rouse him.
He yanked the door open. "What is it?" he barked.
The child flinched, then drew itself – herself, he thought – upright. "I am to tell you that the bird has flown, and the elf follows, and you will pay me ten silver."
"Follows? Follows to where?" he snapped, already digging in the bowl near the door for some coins for the messenger. The child bit her lip, and shook her head, looking pointedly at the coins in his hand. He snorted, and held them out.
"To Bastion," she said as she snatched them, then turned and ran off down the stairs and away. Taliesen cursed as he closed the door, hurrying back to his room to change. That ruined his carefully laid plans; they would have to either improvise an ambush of the mage on the way there, assuming he could even catch up with Zevran and their target, or follow behind, and hope to catch her unawares once she thought she was somewhere safe.
He dressed hurriedly, equipping his usual array of weapons and tools, then threw together a small travel bag with changes of clothing for both himself and the elf, and an adequate supply of money – no telling how long they'd be on the road, with their target on the move as she apparently was.
He hurried out, heading for the nearest stables, hoping it wouldn't take him too long to rent a good horse and join the hunt.
He was walking the mare, letting her rest a little, when he rounded a curve and spotted the carriage ahead of him. To his surprise it was pulled to one side of the coast road, the woman, guards and driver standing in a cluster around it. He eased back around the curve, loosely tied the mare's reins to a handy bush, and snuck forward, watching his footing carefully, wishing it was nice hard cobblestones and not twig- and leaf-littered ground he was having to cross.
As he drew closer he could see what they were doing; reseating one of the wheels on its axle, the two guardsmen grunting with effort as they wrestled it into place, the driver guiding their work and standing ready to knock in the cotter pin that would hold it in place.
Even as Zevran drew close, the man drove in the pin with a practised knock of a mallet, then turned and bowed to the mage. "Sorry, m'lady, I should have checked the condition of the carriage more closely before we set out," he apologized.
She sniffed and nodded. "Check it now, before we continue," she ordered sharply. "I would rather not have another such delay after we resume our journey."
He nodded subserviently, and began circling the carriage, checking the other wheels. The mage walked across the road and stood staring downhill in the darkness, toward the moonlit waters of Rialto Bay.
The two guardsmen put their heads together, talking quietly for a moment, then one turned and walked into the bushes, passing within a couple of feet of Zevran as he sought out a convenient tree. A human, but a short one, not much taller then Zevran himself was. Zevran grinned, and followed him. He waited until the man had finished his business before coshing him over the head – having style counted in these little matters, he always thought – then quickly stripped off the guard's voluminous hooded cloak and wrapped it around himself, and strode back confidently, headed for the second guard.
The man wasn't expecting any danger out here, and only saw what he expected to see, his partner returning – Zevran was in striking range before the man realized there was something off about him. Zevran leapt forward, clamping a hand over his mouth even as he stuck a knife into him. He quickly backed off, dragging the dying man with him, dropping the body in the bushes and hurriedly returning to the road.
The mage was still looking out of the bay, the driver out of sight behind the carriage. Zevran grinned, feeling a surge of anticipation as he walked soft-footedly up behind the woman, silently drawing his favourite dagger. He'd killed that one guardsman too suddenly, too fast to have any real pleasure in it, but walking up behind the oblivious woman, dagger in hand, he felt a warm anticipation coiling through him. His vision narrowed, so all he saw was her, the shape of her, the posture, knew exactly how he'd reach forward, up over her shoulder, and cut that smooth, white throat before she even knew he was there... he drew a final silent breath, hand already rising for the killing caress of blade across throat...
A scuff on the road behind him was his only warning before something crashed into his head with shattering force, sending him down into darkness.
He was surprised to wake up. The usual outcome of a Crow being discovered and captured was the death of the Crow; usually as immediately as could be arranged. To be captured and then allowed to wake – his target was either exceptionally stupid, or exceptionally self-confident – or both.
He kept his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even, trying to evaluate his situation as much as he could before his captors realized he had roused. He could tell he was stripped down to his smallclothes, hands bound together over his head, seated upright with ankles also bound, but widespread. By the jolting movements that were throwing him around, he must be in the coach. A careful sniff brought him the smells of road dust, old leather, sweat, a hint of delicate perfume and female flesh. He noticed his head, which should have been aching abominably from the blow that had knocked him out, felt fine – the mage, he decided. She must have used healing arts on him.
"You might as well open your eyes," a warm, rich husky voice drawled, sounding coolly amused. "I can tell you're awake."
So he did. He was, indeed, in the coach, tied in place on the rear-facing bench. The mage lounged on the opposite bench, her enveloping disguise discarded around her, a nest of richly coloured and textured fabrics. She was a beauty, with dark golden skin, eyes a brown so dark they seemed nearly black, masses of rich brown hair cascading in an artful tumble of curls to the small of her back, held back from her face by a pair of golden combs. She was dressed as casually as if she was lounging in her own chambers, rather then on a furtive nighttime flight from the city; a sheer dress of cream-coloured muslin fabric that clung to her voluptuous curves, revealing almost as much as it hid. The corner of her mouth quirked, and she drew a deep breath, subtly changed her posture, back curving, displaying herself before his appreciative gaze. A necklace of fine gold chains set with milky white moonstones shifted with her movement, the slide of the loops across her skin drawing the eyes to the smooth curves of her bosom, barely confined by the plunging neckline of the dress.
He swallowed, feeling himself respond to her presence, her beauty, his own rather intriguing situation. He licked his lips, running his eyes over her in a frankly admiring way.
Really, it was a pity that such a lovely creature had to die. But even as he admired her, and one part of his mind idly imagined what carnal delights such perfection might offer, a second part of him was coldly evaluating their relative positions, running through a mental inventory of what weapons – granted quite limited in number at the moment – might still be left on him when he was as thoroughly stripped as he currently was.
She smiled at him, a warm, delighted, and above all pleased smile. "My remaining guard was quite wroth with me for not killing you immediately, once he woke up. The driver was all for finishing you off right away as well, seeing as his first blow with that dreadful mallet of his hadn't quite killed you. But you're too beautiful to kill so quickly, you know," she continued. "Not when I have a long, boring coach ride still ahead of me," she purred, eyes lighting up with an anticipatory gleam. "I decided I might as well amuse myself with you first."
"Oh?" Zevran said, raising an eyebrow at her. "And what do you plan to do with me once you are sufficiently... amused?"
She shrugged, smiled wickedly. "Kill you, of course. You're a Crow; it is the only way."
He nodded. "Of course," he agreed dryly.
She settled back comfortably in her seat, then stretched out one long leg, until her bare foot touched the inside of his right leg, just above the ankle. She smiled pleasantly, wiggled her toes, then began moving her leg so that her foot made a gentle up and down stroking motion along his leg, working its way a little more up then down on each pass.
Her smile deepened. "Just so you know, you've been very thoroughly searched already. It was quite astonishing, the variety of deadly little odds and ends my guardsman found on you even after you'd been stripped down to your current state," she said, then licked her lips, grin widening. "I believe he quite enjoyed searching you so very intimately, you know," she said, voice dropping to a low, husky murmur. "Maybe I should allow him to enjoy your charms as well, before killing you."
Zevran swallowed. Her foot had made it all the way up to his inner thigh now, and the kneading pressure of her toes so close to his favourite body part in combination with the husky tone of her words was causing an inevitable reaction. Her foot moved, turned, the sole of her foot pressing warm and firm against his erection. He couldn't keep back a hiss of reaction as she stroked her foot up and down, the silken fabric of his smallclothes sliding exquisitely against his sensitized skin.
She grinned widely, then withdrew her foot, and curled up in her nest of clothes again, eyes narrowing in thought. She shook her head after a moment. "Even tied up and naked, I have a nasty feeling you could still find a way to kill me," she said darkly. "I'll have to... take steps," she said, and raised her right hand, magical energies gathering around it, a dark fog that enveloped her hand then stretched in languid threads toward him, wrapping his limbs, holding him motionless. She smiled cruelly, clenched her hand just slightly, and he gasped in pain as the magical bonds tightened sharply. "Just so you know," she whispered. "I could kill you with this... slowly, crushing the life out of you..."
Her lids slid half shut, and she slowly, almost dreamily rose to her feet, licking her lips as she stepped closer, her left hand reaching out to brace herself against the motion of the carriage, right hand carefully held out and to one side. She moved her fingers in a slow, curling wave, drawing a second pained gasp from him, then leaned down, right hand snaking out to grasp his throat, resting tightly against the line of his jaw. Her eyes narrowed even further, and he felt his mouth gaping open, muscles going lax as the dark energies wreathing her hand numbed them, taking them out of his control.
She leaned down, lightly kissing him, lips and tongue lightly brushing the curve of his open mouth, then covering it, her tongue darting in, invading his mouth, probing and curling around. It would, he supposed, have been deeply erotic if he'd had any ability to do anything in return, but as it was he couldn't even move his own tongue. The helplessness had its own eroticism, of course, bringing back memories as it did of his painful training in Master Edelbach's dungeon. He'd been entirely helpless there, too, of course, or so his tormentors had thought...
She leaned back, a displeased frown crossing her face, apparently having found the kiss as unsatisfactory as he did. For a moment he hoped she'd make a mistake and free his jaw while her own creamy throat was so tantalizingly near, but she was too wary, backing off again before letting his control of his own mouth return. A pity... while tearing out throats was not his preferred method of making a kill, it would have been one way to succeed in his mission before she could kill him.
She leaned over her discarded nest of clothing, reached down, and turned back with a length of cloth in hand. No, two lengths of cloth, one of which she was crumpling into a ball even as she returned to his side. He had time to spit a single low curse, then she had him frozen again, and was grinning in delight as she open his mouth and stuffed it with the silken fabric, using the second length to tie it in place, very effectively removing the last real weapon left in his nearly non-existent arsenal.
"There," she said, voice a satisfied purr as she stepped back. She dismissed her magic, returning control of his limbs to him. "A pity that I can't enjoy you more thoroughly, but one thing I've heard about Crows is to never trust them with anything sharp... even their own teeth."
He snorted, glaring at her, which appeared to delight her even further rather then displeasing her. She smiled prettily at him, then hitched up her dress, baring a delightful length of leg before lowering herself to straddle his outspread legs, setting her hands lightly on his shoulders. She leaned forward, her masses of sweet-smelling hair spreading like a cloak around them, wispy ends tickling against his sides, then began running her hands across his skin in slow, teasing strokes, one hand exploring the muscles of his upraised arm while the other slid down between them, across his chest, and lower yet, coming to rest on his stomach, fingertips toying with the dusting of golden hairs leading down under the hem of his smallclothes. The coach lurched as one wheel climbed over some small obstacle, and she was momentarily thrown forward, muslin-clad breasts rubbing deliciously against his chest, the hardened buds of her nipples noticeable even through the restraining fabric, her hand slipping even lower down as she braced herself against the unexpected movement His hips jerked, his body responding to her weight and scent and touch.
She laughed, the gust of her breath like a warm touch on his throat, then sat back, a smug look on her face. She shook her hair back, then lifted both hands, pushing it even further back, slipping her hands under the mass of it to fumbled with something at the nape of her neck.
"We're going to have so much fun," she purred, and released some fastening, the bodice of her dress slithering loose to pool around her waist, her large firm breasts freed to his greedy view.
Well. He might as well surrender to the inevitable, he supposed. And hope that his message had reached Taliesen, and that Taliesen would reach him before she tired of amusing herself and killed him. Best he seek to be as amusing as he could be, then, at least as much as was possible within his currently rather restricted range of options.
He did his best to smile around the gag, lowering his lids to look at her through trailing eyelashes, and gave a tiny, suggestive thrust with his hips. She laughed again, then an unsettlingly predatory smile crossed her face, before she leaned forward again, beginning to kiss her way down the line of his throat, one hand once again slipping lower to tease and torment him.
Taliesen had been certain the very fine speckled grey mare he found along the side of the road must be connected to Zevran, and even more so when just around the curve from where he'd found it, he found clear signs of a coach having been pulled over. He quickly stopped the horses, and cast around for any clues as to just what had happened here. There was distressingly little he could make out, at least until his nose led him to the body hidden in the bushes off the road. A guard, judging by the armour and weapons, and dead – a single thrust to the heart. Zevran's work, at a guess.
He returned to the road, chancing lighting a lantern for long enough to examine the dusty dirt surface a little more closely. A pair of small footprints at one side of the road, facing the bay... worn around the edges and deep, as if someone had stood here for a while, their shifting weight deepening and blurring the prints. Drag marks, from behind those prints over to where the coach had been, a few dark drops and smears of blood indicating that whatever, whoever had been dragged had been injured.
He cursed, then mounted and set out again. At least he'd be able to maintain a good speed, now that he had a remount and could switch off regularly, keeping both animals reasonably fresh. He should be able to make better time then any coach, especially since at some point it would have to stop to either rest or change horses, and as far as his admittedly poor memory of the coast road went – he'd only ever been this way twice before – there wasn't a place where they could change horses anywhere within the next few hours ride.
He dug his heels in against the horse's flanks, urging it to greater speed.