Many thanks to those who've reviewed and added this to alerts/favorites. And, of course, to brownc0at, my beta who helps me keep my commas in line.
This chapter travels into darker territory in the second section, told from Master Nylos' point of view. There are references to rape and torture, though I decided against any explicit depictions.
Strange, Zevran mused, as he crouched in the deep, cool autumn shadows cast by a wide tavern chimney and the three story apartment building behind him, how people never looked up. His grey cloak hood was pulled over his head to hide his hair. He'd chosen his position so that the sun would be directly in someone's eyes at this time of day if they did happen to glance in his direction. But no one did. Of course, being still and quiet as a mouse waiting out the cat didn't hurt, either.
He resisted the urge to scratch his nose, just to make some movement, while he scanned the street up and down from the expensive brothel his quarry had entered almost two hours ago. For the last two months, when the head of House Rubio visited the Pink Slipper every Thursday around mid-morning, he only lingered for about an hour or so. Not long enough for even a courtesy visit with one of the fine ladies who worked there. But today…
Zevran smiled. Perhaps there had been a change in plans, yes? Perhaps he'd decided to partake of some of the 'delicacies' for which this particular whorehouse was famous. Or perhaps, other negotiations were being conducted. The Pink Slipper was a popular spot for assignations involving plotting and scheming against one's rivals.
The rumors Master Nylos had mentioned had led to contracts that had proved quite profitable, mid-level accountants in House Rubio who'd been replaced the next day. If he had coin, Zevran would wager those replacements were, at the least, secretly sympathetic to House Alarcon's claim to The Serpent's Tail. It was a classic opening move in a bid for power.
Other than tracking those marks to determine their habits and patterns of movement, Zevran had not been involved in the actual hits. He'd been a little puzzled by that, since he 'knew his way around a dagger,' as the Crow saying went. And a master didn't have to share any of the profits with his apprentice. Though Master Nylos had given him a fine set of throwing daggers, both currently strapped to his forearms.
The buzz of mingled voices drifted over him as people strolled by in the street below.
"Can you believe it, Dalish camping just outside the city," a man's voice drifted up. "I've never heard of them coming so close."
"They do, from time to time," a woman replied. "Sometimes they come to trade. Though-"
Their voices blurred into the general background. Zevran noted the bit of stray gossip to add to his report when he returned. Master Nylos was fond of saying that one never knew when odd bits of information might be useful.
The gilded door to the Pink Slipper opened, and Zevran caught a glimpse of gauzy blue curtains stirred by a passing breeze as the latest customer, a fat merchant, slipped inside.
The only way to find out what the head of House Rubio was doing was to infiltrate the place under a short-term contract. Six months under Master Nylos' roof had seen his body take on athletic proportions that earned him more than a few lingering glances when he sauntered down the street on some errand for his master. Zevran had even dared to suggest such a contract. But Master Nylos had forbidden it. Antivan law put the age of consent at seventeen. Since Zevran had only just reached his sixteenth year, he couldn't lawfully sign such a contract.
Yes, as if that little legality has ever stopped those who preferred unripe fruit from enjoying it. Still, he supposed his master's prohibition made sense in that even the Crows had to show a token respect for the law. Sleight of hand, as it were. You pretend to obey some laws, and the authorities look the other way when you're obviously breaking others. Though, any law could be, and had been broken to fulfill a contract.
The chantry bell rang out the mid-day hour. Master Nylos had been quite explicit about returning by the first hour after that. Across the red tile rooftops, the trip back would only take a handful of minutes, which meant that he could stop off and enjoy a bowl of peppery fish chowder at the Tangled Net before returning. An inn favored by cut-purses, street-whores, and the rough sailors who worked the squat ships that hauled pig iron, undressed marble and limestone, and other heavy freight up and down the coast. But the clientele was only part of its charm. The Net was surprisingly clean and well-kept for being in such a disreputable part of the city.
Zevran smiled as his hand closed over his purse. Only a few silver lay within, pilfered from unwary pockets on his way through the marketplace this morning, but coin enough for a bowl of chowder and some of those buttery biscuits that melted on the tongue. Master Nylos' house rules didn't forbid lifting a few coins now and then.
He glided to the far end of the roof and jumped lightly down into a narrow deserted alley. Marks, especially human ones, were so easily distracted by a smile and a look that promised what would never be delivered. Well, it might be, if the mark were pretty or handsome enough, Zevran thought as he sauntered down the alley, flipping back the hood of his light autumn cloak.
He paused at the alley's end and lounged against a wall, arms loosely folded as his amber eyes surveyed both sides of the wide street. A dark-eyed woman in a cloud of expensive perfume and rose-red silk drifted by, a red-silk parasol shading her creamy skin. She glanced at him and smiled, then hid her smile behind a fan. Her bodyguard glared at him. Zevran ignored the glare and returned her smile. He wondered if she was on her way to a client, or on her way back from one. Ah, well, either way, she was well beyond his meager purse at the moment.
No Crow apprentices he knew seemed to be lurking about, so he slipped into the street, sauntering in the opposite direction of the beautiful courtesan. The Net lay half a dozen streets away, at the edge of the warehouse district near the docks. The bakery he'd pass on the way there would never miss a day-old sweet roll or two from the outside stall.
It seemed he wasn't the only one planning on nicking a pastry, judging by the way that human was eyeing them, Zevran thought just after he emerged from a side street opposite the bakery. Slightly taller than average, his dark brown hair cut short and a light touch of beard along his jaw line, he leaned back against the pole of a street lamp, his brown cloak tossed over his shoulders and his thumbs hooked in his belt. Rather attractive for a human, in a rough, hungry sort of way, though his hands kept shifting on his belt. He rubbed the side of his nose and pretended to look elsewhere when a guard strolled by. Zevran frowned. The potential thief looked familiar, a face that nagged at his memory, though he couldn't quite place it.
The elf's eyes narrowed. Why would a man in plain but clean-looking clothes that weren't patched or faded be thinking of stealing a sweet roll? Zevran slipped back down the side street till he came to a long narrow alley that curved around and came out at the end of the street the bakery was on. Halfway down the rubbish strewn alley, he had to turn sideways to slip past a small, empty cart pulled up behind a dry goods store.
At the end of the alley, he eased out, using a display of intricately woven baskets to hide his observation of the human, who stood less than ten feet away. The man was younger than he'd first thought, not past his late teens. He turned sideways, giving Zevran a clear view of his profile. Ah, he remembered where he had seen this man, one of Master Aleta's apprentices. She'd brought him along on her last visit to Master Jepheth, the week before the master had discovered his mother's gloves during a random inspection. His stomach tightened and Zevran shoved the memory to a dark corner. They were gone, no point in dwelling on what one no longer had.
Now, as to why this one was here, eyeing day-old pastries…
Zevran's finger tapped the hilt of the small dagger at his waist. It wasn't uncommon for one master to 'loan' an apprentice to another for additional training. Master Jepheth wasn't noted for keeping a generous table or giving his apprentices even a single copper. And his house rules strictly forbade stealing without his clear permission. Punishment for breaking any rule was swift and severe, but only if one was caught.
He smiled. Maker, the opportunity to tweak his former master's nose without him even knowing it was too good to pass up. He sauntered out from behind the basket seller, making sure his path crossed into the other's peripheral vision as he eased up beside him.
"I can assure you, my friend, they're as tasty as they look. Though you might wish to consider if spending a few weeks with a bruised backside in the oubliette is worth satisfying a sweet tooth."
The man's hands tightened on his belt, though he displayed no other signs of tension. Zevran heard the man's belly rumble, but the elf kept his gaze focused on the pretty woman who tended the outside stall.
"Besides, wouldn't it be easier to pick a pocket or two, or relieve some overburdened mark of a purse and use the coin to buy them?" Zevran continued when the man's only response was to flick a pair of hazel eyes in his direction.
Zevran chuckled. "Ah, the strong, silent type, I see. Did I mention I have a fondness for that kind?"
"Do you ever stop talking, elf?" A pleasant, low tenor sent a shiver down Zevran's spine.
"Hmmm, that depends. Did you have, perhaps, something…else… in mind for my tongue?"
That elicited a brief chuckle. "I've heard about you, Zevran Arainai. Six months gone and Master Jepheth still manages to work you into a lecture at the drop of a dagger."
"Well, you have the advantage of me, knowing my name when I don't know yours."
Those hazel eyes lingered on him this time. "From what I've heard on the street about you, I'll take that as a compliment."
Amber eyes met his, and Zevran caught a flicker of desire from the human before his face smoothed over. He felt the echo in his own flesh. Ah, possibilities here…quite pleasant possibilities.
"Taliesin."
Zevran arched a golden brow. "Just Taliesin?"
"For now."
"As you wish," Zevran said with a low chuckle. "Now, about those pastries…"
"I heard rules against lifting coin, nothing about baked goods."
"Oh, that wasn't mentioned in one of the sub-paragraphs? Or perhaps an addenda? Of course, it might have been slipped in between the sub-sections about not scratching your ass without permission."
Taliesin choked back a laugh, then shook his head, amusement still dancing in his eyes when he looked at Zevran.
"Trust me, my friend," Zevran said softly, "when it comes to the rules, they are whatever Master Jepheth wishes them to be at that moment." His grin returned. "Now, if you're still interested in a hit, I think adding a suitable distraction would greatly facilitate the endeavor."
"Master Jepheth was right about one thing, you do like to run at the mouth. However," Taliesin leaned forward, his breath warm against Zevran's ear tip, "I'm open to suggestions."
Zevran re-settled his cloak around his shoulders. "Watch, and be ready to move quickly."
He sauntered up to the human woman and flashed a radiant smile. She smiled back, blushing prettily.
He scanned the tray and made a tsking sound. "Ah, no polvorones, my lovely flower?"
"No almond cookies today, I'm afraid." She glanced at the bin to her right. "However, there are plenty of bunuelos, filled with orange or lemon marmalade."
Zevran leaned in just a little and motioned to the tray. "Please, one of the lemon ones sprinkled with the rose colored sugar that matches the blush in those lovely cheeks."
She smiled, her blush deepening as her fingers covered her mouth, then turned to the tray on the far side of the table to his left.
Taliesin glided up. Zevran pretended to stretch, pushing out the edge of his cloak so that it blocked her line of vision to his right for a few crucial seconds. Taliesin strode past, his eyes flicking briefly at Zevran, before the human headed for a bench on the far side of a small fountain in the middle of the square. Zevran paid out the few coppers for his pastry and blew the woman a kiss as he left.
Taliesin was nibbling on a cinnamon bun when Zevran settled beside him.
" '…matches the blush in those cheeks?' Isn't that a bit much?" Taliesin said.
"Hmmm, she didn't seem to think so," Zevran murmured, then took a bite of his lemon filled pastry. He dropped a cinnamon bun on Taliesin's lap. "Here, have one for dessert."
The human stared at it, then chuckled as he slipped it under a fold of his cloak. "I take back what I said. Damn, you're good, elf."
"You have no idea."
Zevran quickly finished his treat, then rose, brushing crumbs off his lap. "Well, I have business elsewhere." His mouth tilted up in a smile, and his eyes drifted over the human in lascivious appraisal. "If you ever find yourself in need of a partner for business or other…endeavors…I'm sure we can come to some arrangement."
"I'll keep it in mind," Taliesin murmured.
Zevran inclined his head, then turned, feeling the human's gaze following him as he glided away into the crowd.
One got used to certain absurdities of Crow life, such as sharing a glass of thirty-five year old brandy, while moving through the intricacies of a social visit that Antivan etiquette demanded, with a man who would slit your throat in a heartbeat if it proved profitable for him to do so. Nylos had concluded long ago that Fortune had a very twisted sense of humor. Ah, well, it kept life interesting, if balanced on a precarious edge.
Jepheth, seated in the cushioned chair, held his brandy glass up to the broad parlor window, admiring the way the sunlight streamed through the clear amber liquid within it. The two lieutenants he'd brought with him waited in the small sitting room just off the front door. Though, since Nylos couldn't see them from here, he couldn't assume they were still where he'd left them.
"You have such exquisite taste." The flat, dark eyes of a serpent slid off the fine crystal and met Nylos'. "I find myself wondering how such a man can tolerate the likes of that vulgar whoreson. How long has it been? Six months?" He took a sip of brandy. "Yes, I believe it has."
Get to the point, shem. We both know why you're here. "I'm still of a mind to keep him. There's some promise there," Nylos said.
Jepheth waved a ringed hand and leaned back in the thickly padded chair. "Oh, I'll admit he has some natural talent. He might even be useful to the Guild, once all the rough edges are sanded off."
You mean once he's properly submissive.
Jepheth took another sip of brandy, regarding Nylos over the rim of his glass.
You're going to force me to ask, aren't you? Very well, I've no stomach to prolong this farce. Nylos set his glass on the elegant rosewood serving table positioned between their chairs.
"I assume you're here to exercise the option in our arrangement concerning Zevran."
"Of course. Every master has his strengths…and his weaknesses. Those apprentices who've survived to this point deserve to be trained by the most skilled among us when certain aspects of their education come due. Wouldn't you agree?"
Like almost every other Crow that Nylos knew, Jepheth's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"I've never disagreed with that principle." Not openly, at least.
Jepheth's stone flat eyes flicked past him. Nylos turned to find Malusa entering, carrying a porcelain plate of slender spicy sausages wrapped in flaky pastry. Zevran trailed her, smiling. Unlike Jepheth's, his reached into his eyes, then slipped out, turning forced and brittle when he spotted his former master.
He bowed deeply enough, though it lacked the casual grace that had slipped into that gesture of respect in the last few months. He kept his eyes down, like any well-trained apprentice, when he straightened. But his body had shifted forward, poised on the balls of his feet. Though Nylos knew it was instinctive, Jepheth would read it as a challenge.
Malusa set the plate on the table, bowed briefly to the two masters, then left the room, her stride stiff and hurried, unlike her usual languorous grace.
Jepheth put down his glass and rose, gliding up from the chair with the sinuous grace of a serpent rising from a rock. Say what you will, few could match his skill with a blade…or a whip. The scars on Nylos' back could testify to the latter.
The human circled Zevran, his eyes roaming over every inch of the boy. A sick, tight knot gathered in the pit of Nylos' stomach. Pain came in many forms, and a Crow had to survive them all…or perish.
"I always forget the difference six months can make, even at this age," Jepheth said and glanced at Nylos. "I assume you've continued with his sword training."
Zevran's fingers twitched, as if his hand had started curling into a fist and then he'd stopped it. The corners of his mouth tightened slightly.
"Of course," Nylos said as he leaned back and picked up his brandy glass.
Jepheth's smile held nothing of amusement and all the hungry anticipation of the predator.
"I know your fondness for less conventional training methods and weapons. But our traditions exist for a reason. They've proven their effectiveness down through the centuries. Neglect one, and the result is a dangerous imbalance of skills, particularly in those that require…endurance."
He glided over to the snack Malusa had brought and plucked up a pastry wrapped sausage, then nibbled on it while he returned to studying the boy.
"Yes, exquisite taste," he murmured, finishing his snack. Nylos half expected him to lick his fingers in anticipation in front of Zevran.
Best to get this over with, Nylos thought, rising. "When can I expect to collect him? I've an extended exercise planned for-"
"I'd planned on conducting his training in your indoor exercise room, Nylos. More convenient if you don't have to travel to retrieve him, wouldn't you agree?"
No, I wouldn't, you sodding sadist. But why waste an opportunity to show me my place? Quick and hard that thought came, too fast to keep something of it from showing on his face. Judging by the way Jepheth's smile thinned, he'd caught that flicker of anger. Nylos knew, with a soul-sick lurch, that Zevran would pay the price for that.
"Now, why don't you escort him there, hmm? I expect him to be ready for training when I arrive." Then he picked up his brandy, and walked over to the window, turning his back on Nylos as he would a servant.
The elven master pivoted, catching Zevran's eyes as he turned. He saw apprehension, and a hint of fear, though he quickly buried it. Sod it, boy. Haven't you yet learned to hide that?
"Come," he said, short and abrupt, then headed towards the indoor training room that had been added to the back of his house when he'd started taking on an apprentice. Zevran trailed him, his step so light, his boots barely whispered against the polished wood floors.
"Take off your shirt," Nylos ordered as soon as they stepped into the exercise room.
"Master?"
Nylos whirled. "Do it. Or do you wish to feel my whip as well as Master Jepheth's?"
"I-"
For the first time, Nylos struck him across the face, hard enough to sting and redden his cheek. Zevran's eyes widened and he almost backed up a step. He should have dropped his gaze, but he didn't. Nylos couldn't assume that one of Jepheth's underlings wasn't hiding in the shadows on the roof, listening. Safer to assume one was and hope that Zevran would read between the lines.
"I've put up with much from you these past months. But there are limits, Arainai, to what many will tolerate." Safe enough, but his next words ventured into dangerous waters. "One master's training weakness is another's strength, as Master Jepheth so graciously reminded me. He excels in areas where I have yet to develop his level of…expertise. I expect you to conduct yourself as befits a Crow. We do what is expected. Do you understand?"
Zevran looked at him for a long moment and then dropped his eyes. "Yes, master, I understand."
The boy's face showed nothing as he pulled off his shirt and then stood, holding it in his hands. Nylos gently retrieved it. Zevran's jaw tightened.
Maker help me, boy, I hope you do. Nylos draped the shirt over his shoulder, and then went over to the rope wrapped around a cleat on the wall. After unwinding it, he lowered the punching bag it secured to the floor, and untied the rope from the bag. Zevran's face still showed nothing as Nylos bound his wrists. He flinched just a little when his arms were raised above his head.
Nylos might have said something at that point, but then Jepheth, trailed by his two underlings, glided into the room, a coiled whip in his left hand.
"Excellent, I'm pleased one of you shows some discipline."
I'm not your sodding apprentice anymore, shem.
Jepheth let the whip uncoil, his eyes gleaming as his gaze locked on Zevran's back. "I'm sure you have business that requires your attention, Master Nylos. You can retrieve him at sunrise...if you still want him."
Nylos inclined his head. "Very well, I'll return then."
He didn't linger to see Jepheth's reaction and didn't slow his stride till he found himself in Malusa's kitchen. It had always belonged to her, from the first moment he'd brought the apostate healer into his home.
She sat at the small round table. A bottle of his favorite brandy had been set beside a fine green porcelain teapot. Two cups were set out, together with the plate of pastry-wrapped sausages. He shook his head.
"Malusa, I can't afford to get drunk, not today."
She picked up the teapot. "Then have one to settle your nerves."
He leaned on his hands on the table. "My nerves do not need…settling. They need…" He closed his mouth against the rest and slid into the chair opposite her. She poured for both of them, then picked up her cup.
"I've everything ready for when that bastardo is finished."
"He's a master," Nylos said, sharper than he meant.
"He's a beast that walks on two legs."
"Being able to endure such things is a necessary part of training. You know that."
Too carefully, she placed her cup on the table. "Does that mean he has to enjoy inflicting it? And it won't end there, you know that."
Nylos slammed his fist against the table, rattling the cups. "Enough."
She stood abruptly. "I'm going for a walk, Nylos. A long one, down by the docks. When you need me, I'll be in my room." She retrieved her shawl from the chair next to her and draped it over her shoulders. Black silk jacquard with long beaded fringes, his gift to her last Satinalia.
For long moments after she left, he focused on his breathing and forcing his hand to unclench. With his equilibrium restored, he returned the brandy to the cabinet, and then slipped back to his room.
He stripped off his clothes and tossed them into a corner. He would burn them in the morning. If only some memories could be so easily disposed of. He pulled on the soft gray pants and shirt he wore when he stalked the shadows. Soft soled boots and a long dark cloak, his favored throwing knives, and a slender dagger in his right boot completed his preparations. A quick glance out his window showed dark clouds gathering over the harbor. It meant he couldn't use the sun to blind an onlooker, but the shadows would be darker, deeper, easier to hide in.
He slipped through the shadows of his house, taking to the rooftops from his training yard. Malusa knew never to take the same path twice in a row, but there were only so many ways to the docks from his house. Gliding over the rooftops, it didn't take long to find her. He trailed her to a small tea shop, then settled into the deep alcove of a side alley. By the time she re-emerged and returned home, it was close to sunset.
Keeping watch over her had given him something to focus on, or at least, the illusion of something. He crouched in the shadow of his chimney, watching the light fade from the western sky. When true night came, he slipped to the section of his roof that covered the indoor exercise room. Lower than the rest of the house, the shadows were deepest here. A strategically placed crack carried sound, though he couldn't see inside.
Nylos closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool ceramic roof tiles. Underneath the sound of a lash snapping against bare skin, he caught the faintest whimper from time to time. Zevran still lived. And he endured. He wondered, hoped the boy had understood the hidden warning to guard his tongue.
The sound of the whip stopped. Nylos' hands balled into fists when a few minutes later, a strangled cry replaced the faint, sporadic whimpers. From the sound, he knew Zevran clenched his teeth. The whimpers returned, and after what seemed too long a time, the sound of the whip returned.
Maker, keep him strong. Let him survive. And let me survive long enough to ensure his. With such prayers, Nylos kept his vigil.