The Ogre's Pendant & The Rat in the Pit

Wurhi broke the hot spring’s surface.

Suffused in its heat, the Zabyallan breathed the steam deep to clear her senses.

Her eyes immediately sought the grand bath’s entrances - open passageways framed by carven marble and lit by oil lamp. Nothing lay out of place to her eye. Next, she scanned the balconies above. They ringed the darkened spring in a circle far above the bathhouse’s black and white mosaic floor. Paradise’s finest rooms lay through their doorways.

No Merrick the Hawk emerged onto a balcony. No stream of guards poured from the lower entrances. Only the low splash of wall-fountains and the rush of a steaming waterfall greeted her ears: not the irate cries of an overbearing young patriarch.

She sighed in relief, cautiously glancing toward the opposite end of the pool.

Kyembe’s lithe form reclined against shimmering lapis and white marble tiles - his wiry body half obscured by steaming mist from the waterfall. Thesiliea’s athletic figure leaned against his chest. They whispered to each other. The wall mounted oil lamps left little dancing flames reflecting upon the water around them, leaving them lost in their own secret world.

A world of lechery, Wurhi thought bitterly.

Earlier, she had worked up the nerve to confess to him, only to find the lusty bastard so ‘occupied’. Part of her wished to wade over anyway and tell him that angry guards might be en route to kill them.

Yet, how would she put it, exactly?

‘You gotta bit, Kyembe?’ she imagined. ‘I just wanted to stop you both from plunging into carnal bliss ‘cause I went completely behind your back and robbed that little whiny shit spewing maggot spawn of a noble! Yeah! And I took that jewel you think is cursed and someone nearly killed me and knows who I am and where I am and maybe he’s gonna show up tonight! Or next week! Or next month! And he’s gonna try to kill me in my sleep, and you and the crazed knight too because I’m the village idiot and told him you were with me! Or he’s gonna tell the guards and they’re gonna come throw us in a hole or cut our heads off and we’ll find out if the crazy knight can actually jump back up after she’s dead! You know? Like we will be! Dead! Maybe! Because maybe they’re not gonna come! Or maybe they’ll come later and-why are you strangling me, Kyembe?!’

And then she would make choking noises and then-

Wurhi shook her head rapidly.

No, no, no, no, no!

She forced herself to breathe. It was time to take stock of her situation with a clearer head. That was the reason she’d come to the baths. She needed to get her head right. Caution could be a thief’s friend, but paranoia could kill or catch one as surely as any cobra.

For now, she was safe, she decided. If anyone wanted to come for her tonight, they would have already kicked the doors down. She glanced back at Kyembe and Thesiliea.

Why trouble the Sengezian now?

Whatever brewed between him and the Vestulai was about to come to a climax, so to speak. Tonight, of all nights, of course. Why interrupt and irritate him? She could abide until the morning when he would sport an enormous, foolish grin and unbearably high spirits.

Yes. That was it. Best to give bad news to someone in good humour.

No doubt things would go well that way. He would simply give that easy laugh of his. Or make his normal jest: that she had ‘rescued’ the jewel from its owner. Then they would plan their counterattack. Just as they had against Cas. Just as they had against Lukotor.

It would be as it always was…wouldn’t it?

Troubling images flashed before her: Kyembe’s face, twisted in betrayal. St. Cristabel’s countenance darkened by disappointment. Their backs receding into the distance, leaving her alone and to her fate. Just as Kashta had.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

No! It would not go that way, she promised herself. The saint might leave, but Wurhi and Kyembe were oath-bound. They would protect each other and they had never promised to stop going after things on their own. No fault lay in what she had done.

She glanced at him again. None at all.

The Zabyallan made a sour face; even she couldn’t convince herself of that.

“Are you troubled?” St. Cristabel asked from behind her.

“Water in the ear.” Wurhi muttered, slapping the side of her head.

The saint leaned back on the edge of the bath, her wet curls pouring over her powerful shoulders. Beside her Ippolyte floated across the steaming water’s surface, her feet fluttering like butterflies. She wore only closed eyes and a relaxed, dreamy smile.

Wurhi’s gaze was drawn to the Vestulai’s lean, strong form. Firelight danced over droplets on the warrior’s glistening skin. Her well-developed limbs swept into curves that quickened the little woman’s breath. With her blood racing from nerves, it took little to heat it.

She tried to shake such thoughts away. Focus was needed now.

“At last it begins.” Cristabel’s full lips curved in amusement.

“What?” Wurhi startled with an abrupt splash.

The knight indicated the opposite side of the bath with a thrust of her chin.

Kyembe and Thesiliea strolled toward an exit, arms wrapped around each other’s waists. Wurhi had not noticed them leave the water. Their bodies still dripped as they walked, and they paused briefly to exchange quiet words.

The Sengezian gave a wide, coy smile and leaned down to whisper something into the Vestulai’s ear. She gasped, and the look she gave him might have boiled blood. Wurhi was sure it boiled his. In the low light, they swept each other into a hot, lingering kiss. After, their exit from the room was swift.

“Wow,” Ippolyte rose to her feet with a splash. Water streamed from her skin and Wurhi fought the urge to stare. “Well done, Thesi,” the Vestulai chuckled. “Thought you’d never get it. Good for you, it’s been too long.”

“Aye, and not just for her.”

Splash.

The saint climbed up onto the pool’s edge; her eyes fixed on another entranceway.

Wurhi startled as a lean figure suddenly appeared in the passage. She prepared to bolt from the pool. ‘Wait…’ she thought. ‘He looks familiar…and harmless.’

Taking a calmer look, she sighed in relief. She recognized the beautiful young man that peered into the bath uncertainly: he usually sang on Paradise’s stage. The performer seemed out of place outside his silk garb decorated by peacock feathers. He looked somewhat awkward, but waved as the knight smiled at him. Even in the poor light, Wurhi could see his brilliant blush.

“Wait, what?” Ippolyte blinked. “Are you…” She looked back and forth. “You mean you’re going to-”

“Share a cup of spiced wine with a beautiful man that has the voice of a nightingale? Absolutely.” St. Cristabel wrapped herself in a towel. “Perhaps more if all goes well.”

“Aren’t you some kind of holy woman?” the Vestulai cocked her head.

The knight chuckled. “I swore oaths of valour, glory and bravery to Amitiyah. No vow of chastity was amongst them.” Her freckled countenance clouded. “And when one passes so close to death, one learns to take life’s little joys while one can.” In the next breath, her cheer returned. “Never mind such grim thoughts. I shall see you both in the morning. Possibly late morning.”

St. Cristabel left Ippolyte and Wurhi alone.

The saint’s words lingered in Wurhi’s mind: ‘…take life’s little joys while one can.’

She swallowed. How would things be for her tomorrow morning?

Drawing a deep breath, she turned to Ippolyte. “Listen-”

“You going to bed?” The Vestulai eyes were already lingering on Wurhi’s lean form.

“Uh…no?” the little thief muttered, caught off guard.

“Oh.” The taller woman ran a hand through her hair, looking away. “You…umm…have nimble fingers?”

The Zabyallan stared at her. “…what?”

Ippolyte’s cheeks grew flushed. “I’m saying…are you as quick…you know…good as…you know when you cheat at dice-”

“I don’t cheat at dice.”

“…whatever. So…you…always so good with those fingers?”

Wurhi gawked at her. “What in all hells are you talking about?”

“Well,” the warrior looked away, her face reddening further. “…we’ve nothing to do and…if you’re as nimble on your back as...on your feet…you know…”

“…you been eating those funny mushrooms?”

“Wurhi.” Ippolyte’s face burned scarlet. “Everyone has taken someone to bed. I’m asking if you don’t want to be left out.”

“What’re you-Oh. Oh! Yes. Yes!” Wurhi nodded vigorously. “I’d like not being left out a lot.”

“Thank the gods,” Ippolyte muttered, climbing from the bath and offering Wurhi her hand. “Shall we?”

The Zabyallan grinned.

She took Ippolyte’s hand.

Warmth spread through their joined fingers.

The guardsman brought his hands closer to the fire.

His breath misted as he breathed in the odour of burning cedar. Glancing at the moon hovering above Paradise’s roof, he noted its position. “Looks like we’re near done. Shift’s changing soon,” he reported to his partner.

Crackle.

Only the flame answered.

He scowled. “Hey, what’d I tell you about dozing off in the cold-”

A massive hand clapped over his mouth.

Schnk.

A bronze dagger sank into his neck. Agony burned. The blade opened both jugular and windpipe, sending the guardsman toppling in a shower of spurting blood. The snow dyed crimson around his body. The sweet scent of burning cedar met the tang of rust.

Berard wiped his dagger, watching his pack mate finish the other guard. “Sweep the grounds,” he ordered in low tones. “Ensure all is clear. Then we enter.”

His nostrils flared in exhilaration.

“And we hunt.”