Betrayal

Chapter Four Hidden Treasures

“What say you and I start a fire, honey? One that’ll make this hot summer day seem like it’s the dead o’ winter.” Dhamon Grimwulf didn’t reply. He stared at the woman, dark eyes catching her watery blue ones and holding them. Faint lines like birds’ feet edged away from her eyes, the lashes thick with kohl, the lids colored a deep shade of purple and reminding him a little of Rikali, a halfelf he used to keep company with and who was more skillful and garish in painting her much younger face. Finally he looked away, and the woman blinked and shook her head as if to rouse herself from a bad dream.

“An odd one, you are. You know, you could be a little friendlier, sweetheart. C’mon, give Elsbeth a big smile so she can see your teeth. I like a man what has all his teeth.” The woman leaned over to gently kiss the tip of Dhamon Grimwulf’s nose, coloring it red from the paste she had applied to her lips. She pouted when his stoic expression didn’t waver.

“You haven’t cracked even the teeniest grin, honey. How ’bout just a little one?” she cooed. “You’ll make me think I’ve lost my charm. Everyone who spends time with Elsbeth smiles.”

Dhamon remained impassive.

She made a soft huffing sound then, angling her breath up with her lower lip and causing the collection of curls that hung over her forehead to flutter and resettle. “Well, I suppose I could be cheery for the both of us. Wait! I know what this calls for. A touch more Passion of Palanthas. That’ll get your blood stirring.” She sauntered to a tray perched on a narrow wardrobe, ample hips swinging. Plucking up a crystal-blue vial, she generously dabbed some of the perfumed oil on her neck and behind her ears, let a little trickle run down the V of her dress, then turned to study Dhamon Grimwulf.

Dhamon sat on the edge of a sagging bed that smelled of mildew and stale ale. The entire room smelled of old wood and sweat and of various fragrances of inexpensive perfume, including now the potent, musky Passion of Palanthas. All the odors were warring for his attention, and the spiced rum he’d been drinking made his head swim. There was a basin of water on a small table a few feet away, and for a moment he considered dipping his face to clear his senses and cool himself—it was so hot today. But that would entail rising up from the bed, and the rum had numbed his legs and turned the rest of his body into lead.

Above the basin a large yellowed mirror hung on the wall. In its crooked glass he could see himself. His cheekbones were high and hollow, giving his face a slightly gaunt appearance. Shadows clung beneath his dark eyes, and a thin, crescent-shaped scar ran from just below his right eye and disappeared into an ill-trimmed beard as night-black as the tangled mass of hair that fell to his broad shoulders. Despite his disheveled state, he looked young and formidable. Through the gap in his black leather tunic his chest looked lean and muscular and tanned from the sun.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Smile for pretty Elsbeth.” Dhamon sighed, and in an effort to shut her up offered her a lopsided, put-on grin. She twittered, wriggled out of her clothes, and gave him a wink. She spun like a dancer so he could admire her long, blonde hair gleaming in the light of the setting sun that spilled through the second-story window. Finished with her display, she made an exaggerated show of stalking toward him, catlike, placing her hands on his shoulders and pushing him on his back, reaching for his legs and swinging them around so he was laying stretched out on the bed. She tugged off his boots, wrinkled her nose, and waved her hand to chase away an odor that he knew couldn’t have been nearly as offensive as the other smells in this too-close room.

“You ought to go buy a bath, and then find you some new boots,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “These boots have more holes in them than a slice of Karthay cheese.” She playfully ran her long fingernails across the bottoms of his feet and scowled when he didn’t react. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna have to relax or you’re not gonna enjoy yourself.” She slid down next to him and toyed with the lacings on his tunic.

“Elsbeth, I think you’ve lost your touch.” This from an overly thin, long-legged girl who was lying on the other side of Dhamon, her inky hair cut so short it looked like a cap on her head. She was dark-skinned, an Ergothian by her accent, and her small fingers traced invisible patterns on Dhamon’s cheek. “I think maybe you’re a mite too old for him, Els. I think he prefers younger women, ones with not so much flesh hanging on them.”

Elsbeth made a spitting sound and with a sigh feigning hurt feelings tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Satin, there’s just more o’ me to love. And you know I just turned twenty.”

The long-legged girl laughed, the sound musical, like crystal wind chimes. “Twenty? Els, who are you kidding? Maybe twenty in dog-years. You said goodbye to thirty quite a few months ago.”

The two women playfully pawed at each other over Dhamon’s chest, laughing and taking turns grabbing at his tunic. Finally, they managed to tug the garment off and drop it on the floor.

“Lots of muscles,” Satin said appreciatively, her fingers drifting down to trace a jagged scar on Dhamon’s stomach. “You might want a man with all his teeth, Els. Me? I’ll always take a man with muscles. Even if he is a little skinny.” She leaned close to Dhamon and whispered something into his ear. He actually smiled then, though it was fleeting, his face returning to its imperturbable mask. Elsbeth was studying the scar on Dhamon’s cheek. “What’d you say your name was, honey? I’m not so good at names.”

“Age does that to you,” Satin cut in. “Ruins your memory.”

“Dhamon Grimwulf,” came a deep voice from across the room. “His name, ladies, is Dhamon Evran Grimwulf. Dragon-fighter, spawn-slayer, treasure-hunter extraordinaire. You’ll find no more handsome rogue in all of Krynn. Except, of course, for me.”

The speaker was a man even more muscular than Dhamon. He was nearly seven feet tall and stretched out on the other bed, a larger one that was threatening to collapse under his considerable weight—and the weight of the three scarcely clad women clinging to him. Their pale skin stood out starkly against his sweaty, sun-bronzed form, and two of them waved in unison to Dhamon, who had lifted his head to regard the others. The third woman was busy twining her fingers in the big man’s chestnut hair and feathering his angular face with kisses.

“And you, sir, are…?” Elsbeth asked, following Dhamon’s glance across the room. “I don’t believe I caught your name either.”

The big man didn’t answer her, pulling the sheet over himself and his companions.

“That’s Maldred,” Dhamon finally said. His voice was thick from the rum, his tongue felt clumsy in his mouth. “Maldred, crown prince of all of Blöten. He isn’t in the least better looking than me. In fact, he’s really blue and…”

“Hey,” Maldred shot back, his face poking out from under the covers. “Watch your tongue, my friend. Dhamon, don’t you have something better to do than talk? Coming here was your idea, after all.”

All the women giggled.

“I don’t mind if he talks, O Crown Prince of Blöten,” Elsbeth said, her voice all silky now and her fingers brushing at the knots in Dhamon’s hair. “You and he can do whatever you please. Talk or…”

The crown prince wasn’t listening to her. He had disappeared again, thoroughly losing himself in the arms of his three ladies, the sheet ballooning and billowing like a full sail. Elsbeth returned her attention to Dhamon, making a face when she saw that Satin was draped around him and that Dhamon’s fingers were moving slowly across the Ergothian’s smooth features.

“I know an Ergothian,” Dhamon was telling her. “A former pirate.” He hiccoughed and scrunched his nose when he smelled his own sour breath. “Name’s Rig Mer-Krel. Ever hear of him?”

“No.” Satin cocked her head and tugged at his short beard and tried futilely to snuggle into an even closer embrace with him. “Ergoth’s a big place, O mighty dragonslayer.”

“Spawn-slayer,” Dhamon corrected. “I’ve never killed a dragon.” Well, there was that sea dragon Brine, he thought, but he had had considerable help with that feat.

“Never heard of your Rig Mer-Krel,” she continued.

“Good,” Dhamon said. “You wouldn’t like Rig anyway. A braggart and a fool. I never cared much for him.”

“I like you,” she returned, managing to insinuate a hand under his neck. “Now how about you take these off?” She tugged at his pants with her other hand.

He shook his head and hiccoughed again.

Elsbeth gave Satin a smug look and leaned over Dhamon. “Then how about taking them off for me, sweetheart? Maybe you do appreciate a woman with a few years on her, one what ain’t so bony. Experience is better’n youth, you know. Like fine wine, I improve with age.”

“And then turn to nasty vinegar,” Satin whispered so softly only Dhamon heard.

“No.” Dhamon shook his head stubbornly and made a move to rise from the bed. Elsbeth held him down. “I think I’ll keep my trousers on, thank you.”

Elsbeth made a throaty sound, which was quickly echoed by Satin.

“You are the odd one,” Satin breathed. “You keep him put,” she said to Elsbeth, “and I’ll go get our spawn-slayer something to loosen his inhibitions. He was liking that spiced rum, right? Maybe the crown prince and our sisters over there would like another drink, too.”

The sultry Ergothian crawled out of bed, grabbing Dhamon’s tunic and slipping it on. Satin glanced at the bed across the room, then turned to wink at Elsbeth before she glided out the door. Elsbeth brushed at the bit of red paste she’d gotten on Dhamon. “You’d be a real looker, Mister Dhamon Evran Grimwulf, if you cleaned yourself up a bit. All fancy with that nice sword…” She turned so she could see the scabbarded blade hanging from the bed post. The sword’s crosspiece was fashioned in the likeness of a falcon’s beak. “Bet it’s valuable.”

She stretched an arm down to a satchel that had been shoved partway under the bed. “This, too. Heard it chink when you dropped it. Like there’re lots o’ coins in it.”

“Not coins,” Dhamon said flatly. “Gems. There are quite a lot of them.”

“We’ve quite a gem here, too,” came a high-pitched voice from across the room. The speaker was hidden by the sheet. “The crown prince—and what he’s wearin’. He’s got himself a big diamond hangin’ around his neck.”

“The Sorrow of Lahue,” Dhamon breathed, recalling that it was named for the Woods of Lahue in Lorrinar where it was found, that it was priceless, and that he’d taken the gem from the ogrechieftain Donnag and offhandedly tossed it to Maldred three months or so ago. Elsbeth sat back, keeping her hands firmly on his chest. “So you are a mighty treasure-hunter indeed, Dhamon Grimwulf. Your friend, too. Hidden treasures under my bed. And gem necklaces!”

Dhamon shrugged, the unexpected motion knocking Elsbeth off him and onto the floor.

“Of all the lousy…” she stopped herself and smiled, then scampered to rejoin him, throwing a leg across him and sitting on his chest to keep him in place. “I’ve got some treasures, too, O mighty spawn-slayer. What say we exchange some?”

Dhamon stared up at the woman. “Maybe we’ll give you ladies a few gems before we leave.”

Softer, he added, “Maybe use them to get out of this gods-forsaken country.”

“You’ll give us gems?”

“Aye. We’ll give you some gems.” But not the best of the lot, he added to himself. The rum hadn’t addled his senses that much. “You can have my damned sword, too, for all I care. Pawn it someplace and buy yourself some better perfume. That blade’s done me little good.”

She eagerly rained kisses on Dhamon’s forehead and cheeks, spreading the red paste. “Honey, we don’t get many folks passing through like you and the crown prince over there. Trappers, thieves, mostly ogres and their half-breed brothers. None o’ them with more than a few coins in their pockets. None o’ them with so many fine gems.” She rocked back on her haunches and fixed her eyes at a spot on his chin, then dropped her gaze to a thick gold chain that hung around his neck.

“So what brought you and the crown prince into—”

“We’re on our way out of Blöde,” Dhamon told her. “We’re done with ogre lands. We’re thieves, dear Elsbeth, like most everyone else who passes through here. But I wouldn’t want to give away too many trade secrets.” He laughed hollowly, draping his hand over his brow. His head was aching, the effects of going too long without a fresh splash of rum. The heat of this summer day was fierce. That, and the heat of Elsbeth’s body rubbing up against him made breathing seem difficult. He wanted another drink.

“Handsome thieves.” She toyed with a thin gold hoop that hung from his ear, then grinned wide and snuggled closer. “Now, about those pants.”

“No,” Dhamon’s answer was curt. He held her stare until he was certain she was more than a little uncomfortable. “When it’s dark,” he added after a few moments. “Then I’ll lose the trousers.”

“A thief and a proper gentlemen,” she cooed, eyes again drifting to the gold chain around his neck.

“So who’d you steal all o’ those gems from anyway, honey?”

Dhamon laughed. “Those I earned,” he said.

“Earned? Wanna tell me about it?”

Dhamon shook his head.

“Then how ’bout you tell us in exchange for something to drink?” Satin stood above the pair, a long-necked ceramic jug in each hand. “Spiced rum, right?” She moved so quietly that Dhamon hadn’t even heard her return.

He sat up in the bed and reached for what looked to be the larger of the two jugs, thumbed the cork off it and drank copiously, letting the potent liquor slide down his throat. It burned for a moment, then turned into a pleasant warmth that spread to his head and chased the aches and pains away. He took another long swallow and offered the jug to Elsbeth.

“Oh, no, honey,” she cooed. “I’ll have some after.”

“There might not be any left after,” Dhamon shot back. He took another deep pull and held the jug beneath his nose. The scent of the spiced liquor was preferable to Passion of Palanthas and whatever sickly sweet fragrance Satin had managed to sprinkle on herself. Satin thrust the second jug toward the other bed. Maldred’s arm shot out from beneath the sheet to grab the neck of it. He mumbled a “thanks” as he pulled it beneath the covers.

“Yes, after, Mister Grimwulf,” Elsbeth purred. “I’ll share some after you tell us the tale of those gems. And after it’s dark.” Once more she playfully tugged on his pants. Satin joined them, climbing over Dhamon and sliding down along his other side. “If your tale’s a good one, dear, I’ll fetch us another jug of rum. Or two.”

Dhamon’s dark eyes gleamed. He wasn’t much for bragging or storytelling, but it was still light outside and there was plenty of time. He ran his thumb around the lip of the jug, downed nearly half of it in another deep swallow, and began.

“Mal and I had to run an errand for Blöde’s ruler, an ugly-cuss ogre named Donnag. Our job was to rescue some slaves from a silver mine for his lordship and to haul the freed slaves back to Blöten. Cheery place, Blöten.”

“It was the black dragon Sable’s silver mine,” Maldred pitched in from beneath his sheet. “The mine was guarded by spawn.”

There was a pause. “But as I said, Dhamon is good at slaying spawn. He’s just not good at dealing with the folks of Blöten. Dhamon, go on. Tell them all about our trip to the ogre city….”