Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 02

"There's nothing there," he finally whispered, looking fearfully at everything but Cinder's face. "Nothing. No soul."

"Oh, I have a soul," Cinder told him with a harsh smile. "I just don't use it. Lady Daighton, can you recall your earliest memory of me?"

The grand dame of the ruling party smiled, a knowing 'I-told-you-so' sort of smile. At ninety, the younger lords and ladies rarely consulted her in Council meetings, unless they needed her long, sharp memory for a reminder of a treaty's finer points, advice on the suitability of a new ambassador, or for a vote on a close debate. Her family had little in the way of holdings outside the capital city, but it remained one of the Empire's oldest houses and thereby held a seat on the Council. Once she was gone, there were no more Daightons to take her place, her ancestral holdings would pass on to some distant cousin through marriage. The grand House of Daighton was slowly fading from the official roll like the last ray of son before dark. But while she may have been the eldest of the assembly, she remembered every event of the last seventy-five years with incredible clarity.

"Jonas Cinder, you bounced me on your knee on my sixth birthday, eighty-four years ago. I still have the brooch you gave me with the date inscribed on the back. The last time you attended on of my birthday celebrations was back before the War, in the year 886, just before you went to the Jotékoku, so don't think that I've forgotten. You have changed very little since that day eighty-four years ago."

"Very little," Cinder admitted, resuming his seat. "I assume you remember my terms then."

"Now that you have reminded us as to why we agree to them, I'm sure we all have," Lord Harrod, the Ruling Council's spokesman grumbled through his bushy gray beard, taking away the scroll bearing the land grant. He looked embarrassed. Not only had young Conover managed to make an ass out of himself, but he'd also made the Council look bad. Fortunately, he knew Lord Cinder would treat the incident like it had never happened. "You will take the Writ then?"

"Duke Victor Guinness? I wondered when you would get around to replacing him. His heavy-handedness has gone on for far too long. Even in Shadowholm we've heard merchants complaining about the problems in that part of the Empire. If I had been out that way on other business, I might have stepped in and taken care of him just on general principle. Why haven't you done anything about him before now?"

"He had influence here in the Imperial Council, too many friends in places of power."

"You looked the other way because of the man his father was."

"Yes," Lord Harrod admitted with a grim nod. "Many of us did not wish to think ill of Garrod's son, no matter what was spoken about him."

"What finally changed your minds? Do you have any idea why he's doing what he's doing?"

The graybeard baron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Cinder had stayed away exploring the Scilogthars for too long to be involved in the recent politics of Odgred, but he knew that much had happened in the capital of late that made his return visit warranted sooner than he had intended. Young Conover holding his father's seat was one such indication of the latest changes troubling the Empire. He needed to arrange for some sort of representative who would keep him apprised of current events, maybe even young Conover. Or Carter Stanton when the general retired.

"We captured the man responsible for a number of murders here in the capital over the past year. The dead had no connections, coming from the heights of society and the lowest levels of the peasantry. There may have been killings we will never hear of in the Broken Quarter. No one could find him, not the Watch, not the Inquisitors, not even the Diviner's College. Some magic hid him from all eyes. It took a stroke of the Lady's own luck, but we finally captured a master assassin who left a strange calling card at each murder. On each body we found a blessing for eternal life, stuck to the victim's chest with a stiletto. We are tracing the elaborate maze of blind trails and contacts that will eventually lead us to his employer, but it will take much time and many of our resources. Thus we turn to you to serve the Writ. If you hadn't arrived on your own, we would have sent for you. Before committing suicide, this assassin confessed to poisoning Garrod at his son's behest, long before his last campaign of murders began. We still have no idea why."

"You verified this?" Cinder felt that a complicated plot was being executed, and whether or not Duke Guinness fit into it or not, willingly or not, was yet to be determined. It seemed odd that an assassin as professional as this one had been would just volunteer information like that. He voiced his concern over that matter, adding: "I don't think many real assassins leave such a blatant calling card like that either. He sounds more like a fanatic."

"None of the mentalists from the Magister's College could stay in his sick mind for long. Nor could they retrieve much while there; he had a strong will. Strong enough to make two mages violently ill and burn the talent completely out of one novice. After the truth came out, Victor lost what little support he had remaining at Court. Not even his own representative has sent messages to him."

The room fell silent while Cinder leaned back in his chair and regarded the ceiling. His mind searching the myriad litany of his concerns for the one best served by the might of the Royal Council. He rose finally and closed his hand around the Writ of Execution.

"I will act as regent over Glankis and its lands until the representative arrives to take over. He is to arrive by the end of this month or I shall leave the city to its own devices. I have no desire to rule Glankis or any other city. I suggest you keep the choice simple and obvious. Shadowholm needs grains, several tons of oats and wheat, lumber and various other items- silks, fruits, cheeses, and the like. I'll have a list delivered to young Lord Conover before we leave for Glankis and collect upon my return. These items I will want to purchase in large quantities, or trade for with Shadowholm goods. What I want from you is a ship, a good sturdy river merchantman capable of short sea voyages fresh from the yards. Waiting on ships to come all the way up to Shadowholm has become tiresome and unprofitable, so I want to be able to trade without depending on them. Send me Victor's representative, please. I'd like to interview him before I set out.

"A pleasure as always Lady Daighton," Cinder said with a short bow before turning on his heel and marching out of the room.

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Six separate merchant caravans arrived in Glankis in the space of a week, most coming from the north and east. Built at the crossroads between several main overland routes to the grain-rich southern provinces and the broad Cath Casir, the large town was accustomed to such traffic. Situated on a natural river harbor with deep-water allowing the easy loading and unloading of ships, the town was a vital way station on the voyage to the southern capital of Antilles. Barges would fill the river at harvest time, carrying lumber and metals from the northern forests and western mines to the broad southern plains to trade for the plentiful wheat and beef cattle. In the off season between late spring and early summer, which it was, merchant caravans would often gather near the town to trade goods, news and supplies.

That was in the better days of years past. Since Duke Victor had replaced his beloved father, the richer merchants had begun bypassing the town, sometimes going days or even weeks out of their way to avoid the Duke's patrols and more importantly avoiding the heavy tariffs on trade. Only the most desperate, or the most greedy came near the troubled town, bearing goods that were second-hand at best, shoddy at the worst. For six years the town had suffered in this way. Some people had escaped by moving on with no warning, leaving behind nearly everything save that which could be carried away on their backs in the night. Those that had given warning to friends and neighbors were often discovered by the Guard and punished. Soldiers came in the night and made away with whole families. Those that called for resistance found themselves on the courtyard stage until they begged for death. Many houses now stood empty save for the ghosts of former residents in better times. Despite the riches available to it in trade, the town had been beaten and become quite poor.

Thus the excitement created when a veritable flood of off-season caravans arrived ready to spend hard coin for what little goods and services could be had. A hodge-podge of tents and low pavilions was erected in the long-unused fairground fields just northeast of town. Visitors from town felt welcome comfort in the hustle and bustle of this mad circus of trade. Goods were bought and sold amidst the shouts of teamsters and laborers, merchants haggling with housewives and farmers, children shouting amidst the chaos of market. A wainwright from town repaired a doubtful axle. A cooper made barrels for salt pork and the small hard apples that traveled well, kegs for potent wheat beer, and tuns for butter. Eventually the gathering took on a carnival atmosphere in spite of the caravans' ever present mercenary guards and the Duke's own bullyboys.

The whole event was a total sham.

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Cinder sat alone in his tent near the center of the 'merchant camp', a pile of notes and maps heaped on the camp table before him. Before him lay the complete layout of the town- every building, alley, and street as well as patrol routes, empty houses, and a grim note about the complete lack of dogs and cats. Condition of the walls, guard strengths of the three gates, the current strength of the river, the dilapidated condition of the water-mill- all had been carefully observed, including the most direct routes from several points to the manor house. He made a habit of considering more than his own opinions of the enemy, but under anyone's scrutiny the Duke's troops were poor quality soldiers. Someone had even noted where he'd found a comely and willing wench for a small fee and a loaf of bread. Someone else later added a note that he'd seen the woman thus described and advised the taking of a burlap sack for her looks, unless one had no morals or taste, as well as adding a few comments about the mating habits of the first man.

Outside his soldiers played the parts of the merchant, the down-at-the-heels-mercenary, and the rowdy teamster...and played those parts badly. Few of those arriving with the caravans were not in his direct employ and those that weren't didn't know what was going on. While certainly not one of his better experiments in intelligence gathering, the caravan ploy was otherwise ideal for this town starved not only for fresh money, but a spark of life to distract them from the iron grip of a cruel and demented ruler. He couldn't even use his own wagons because they were in too good repair, too easily seen as military in purpose.

He'd already listened to a dozen reports of the town's low morale- poorly kept homes, conversations cut short with the appearance of the city guards, half-hearted attempts at haggling, and a wealth of other small signs. Eventually his soldiers would weary of their roles and the poor spirits would spread from the townsfolk to the mercenary army. Soon discipline would flag, and while desertions were not likely, fights between his Shadows and the Duke's men were more than a certainty. Small shoving matches and brief, one-sided confrontations had already happened, all ended before the real roles of the Shadows was revealed and Guardsmen died.

Nothing seemed right about Glankis. A lord, no matter how twisted, drove a whole town into the ground with oppressive taxes. The militia had been decimated by attrition while those that could still fight felt cowed by the threat to their families. The men-at-arms of the City Guard were all mercenaries and that never happened. No one from the father's reign held any position of power. It felt like Duke Guinness had decided to play with the town until it no longer amused him. Money, in taxes and confiscated goods, flowed into his coffers but was never spent. Defenses were falling into disrepair and the vital industries that kept Glankis functioning threatened to crumble like dominos at any moment. Not even the whitewashing had been done to the smallest buildings in seasons. Cinder felt deeply disturbed because he couldn't fathom what Victor could possibly be doing. The man couldn't be that mad, or mercenaries wouldn't work for him.

He could almost smell Death taking a hand in things here and he didn't like it.

"My lord?" Anastasia, slinking into the tent, breathed in a low husky voice that purred. He smiled wryly. She seemed to walk in only one of two ways- an aggressive strut and a seductive slink. The strut was her masterpiece; she would suck in her stomach, throw her shoulders back, keep her head perfectly centered and lead her stride ever-so-slightly with her hips, walking a line like a tightrope. Her hips would sway just enough with every step to make her dress billow out and give a glimpse of the inviting treasures not quite hidden beneath nearly sheer silk. Her thighs were slim enough to show light high up between them when she walked. The total effect could make a dead horse turn its head. The slink, however, signaled a sexual need that could only be satisfied by her Master. It was a more cautious walk, slower with less sway of the hips, less erotic but with more of a glowering hunger in her eyes.

She had to be on the brink of carnal madness by now, not having been with him in over a week. From an early age she'd had the physical madness, the need to lay with another as frequently as possible or she would feel as if she would burst into flames. Her natural beauty and inherent carnal skill had helped her earn a prosperous but unfulfilling living as a highly paid courtesan in Imperial Odgred under the tutelage of the well-connected Madame Jocelyn Hunbo, where Cinder had found her. After demonstrating her virginity through a sensuous dance ending with the rupturing of her maidenhead with an ivory phallus before a wealthy crowd, she had been auctioned to the highest bidder to be her first man. From that moment on, she'd been the center of a carnal carnival whispered about in nearly every corner of Odgred and many places beyond. Following the rumors and recommendations, he had been introduced to the famous madam and her prize harlot.

With his political position smoothing the introductions to Madame Hunbo, and his rumored reputation as a lover with deep appetites stirring Anastasia's primal interests, a meeting would have been arranged by any one of the three in any event. He'd sensed the spark of more than just carnal fire within her, seen the ability to wield arcane power fueled by the energy of sex. The very smallest passionate act made her power grow, and their first night had been anything but small. He offered her a chance at attaining magnificent power after sharing a night of intense pleasure, promising that she'd find satisfaction in more ways than simply opening her legs for strangers. She accepted his challenge with the same degree of enthusiasm she'd demonstrated in bed with him. Her training had been relatively simple, due mainly to her already intensely sexual nature, but also, in part, to her keen and moldable mind.

She became a new woman, better rounded in spirit and intellect without losing her carnality or sensuality. Gone was the wanton slut who had been the center of attention in secret orgies thrown by the wealthy, exhausting lover after lover in her incessant search for fulfillment. Now she knew love and contentment after her own fashion. She transformed into a truly bewitching blend of passion, heat, lust, and presence bound together in an erotic, elemental parcel. And despite the multitudes of suitors since, many rich, noble, or both, her love and loyalty had remained for Cinder alone.

"You sent for me, Master?" she asked in a sugary voice, trying to appear shy and subservient. Unsuccessfully, but trying. She should have been with the reserve force stationed miles away instead of here in his tent.

"Not that I recall," he said, glad for the distraction, pushing his chair away from the table. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know." Her wobbly voice made husky with her runaway desire. Her hands roamed suggestively up her tantalizing body, fingernails making small scratch traceries along her bare flanks. Already he could smell her perfume, and not just the expensive scents bought in the markets of Odgred. Something more intimate. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"The layout of the Manor, a solid night's rest in a real bed, a good meal cooked by a competent cook in a real kitchen, a few hours of undisturbed peace with a good book, a fine bottle of two-hundred year old brandy; but other than that, nothing comes to mind. Why? Do you need something?"

She came around and imposed herself between his chair and the table. With hooded hungry eyes she gathered her skirt front into a bunch at her waist, exposing her honey frosted treasure to him as if offering a clean shirt. She'd been shaved hairless and the sheen of eager, sweaty flesh was offset by the golden gleam of the thin chain connecting her navel to the tender button at the top of her slit.

"See," she said, stroking the moist outer contours of her sex. Her fingers twisted around the gold chain, rubbing the gleaming silver-blue skirsteel ring piercing her clit. The soft pink tip of her tongue slipped out, moistening the hot red of her pouting lips. "I need you. I want you."

Her body exuded a deep, musky odor and she shivered when he brushed the tender skin between knee and crotch with his fingertips. He slowly traced inside her thigh, then pushed a little against her lips, pushed slowly inside. He started moving his fingers across the silky strip, pressing them harder and harder as they got wetter and wetter. Her melting pot got so hot and juicy that her eyes glazed over and her head fell back, tickling her tight ass with her long hair. Her legs opened enough to allow him to cover her moist heat completely with one hand, spreading her glistening folds wide open before gripping her underslung pouch, pressing a thumb hard against the jewel of her clitoral flesh. A deep, passionate moan ghosted out between her parted lips as he gently but powerfully lifted her by her crotch to stand on tiptoe.

"Your wants and needs aren't at issue here, now are they?" She ground herself against his hand as he spoke, biting her lower lip and widening her eyes in hopeful sadness.

"I'm sorry Master," she whispered huskily. "I've been bad."

"Yes," he replied with a thoughtful nod. "I suppose you have."

With practiced ease, he turned her over his knee, ensuring her head would hang near the ground, a pile of crimson curls pooling around the legs of the chair, while her rump pointed to the tent's roof. She could smell the rich odor of his boot leather. A simple leather thong looped through the ready rings of her bracelets secured her wrists together behind her back. The punishment began with a single smart crack across her ass delivered with his open hand; each loud retort interspersed with thrilling caresses of intrusion. She squirmed and struggled but had no real chance of escape from someone of his strength and skill. Wild surges of erotic excitement shook through her body, vying with the stinging jolts of pain every time his hand fell with a loud crack. After a dozen or so strokes, he noticed that she ground her crotch against his leg madly.