Burning Bright Page 4

  Ferapont leaned in, eyes taking on a luster that always appeared when jewels and money were involved. "What does it look like?"

  "This," Ailill said and pulled out a piece of paper that had clearly been folded and unfolded many times. Opening it, he set it on the table. "The jewels are rubi, esmeralda, and diamonds; the comb itself is gold cut with nickel."

  "White gold set with precious gems, eh? Nice bit," Karp commented, picking up the drawing and examining it closely. "Very nice bit. Do you know how long it's been in Pozhar?"

  Ailill shook his head. "Not really. It vanished from Verde three centuries ago. We learned the owner was blackmailed into surrendering it. I managed to trace the blackmailer this far, but I have only supposition and educated guesses to work on so I simply do not know where else to go with it. I prefer not to involve my ... higher resources, you could call them. Whoever possesses it knows they should not, and advertising that a White Beast has arrived in search of it will cause more problems than it solves."

  Gleb took the drawing from Karp, bending over it with Ferapont and sipping at his beer. "We can nose around without causing too much notice. Not the first time we've had to track down an object like this, though I admit they were never quite like this. Finding it will be the easy part."

  "Oh?"

  "He's right," Ivan said. "Figuring out who has it is easy. The hard part will be nicking it, but if we can't nick it we know who can. For the present, we'll just focus on finding it. Luka, are you still on speaking terms with that girl from the jewel shop?"

  Luka snorted. "Speaking terms is one word for it."

  Ivan rolled his eyes. "Then go speak to her and see if she's ever seen such a piece. Someone will have wanted to confirm authenticity—discreetly—and there's no better place. Ferapont, go catch up on your gossip. Maksim, Gleb, go make it clear that anyone who is still thinking of crossing Ailill will be crossing us. Karp, go find Raz and Pechal and let them know we may have a job for them in the near future."

  "Rumors are going around the Duchess of Ilionor was scorched last night. Lost some fancy necklace. Think that's our little songbirds?"

  "Yes," Ivan said. "No one else could break into that house while there were still people in it. Go find them. Tell them to stay in town because I'm sure they're already on their way out after that theft. If they absolutely can't stay, pay them to come back early."

  Karp nodded, and the men all stood as one to go off in their separate directions. Luka lingered. "Where are you going, boss?"

  "To get rooms since it seems we'll be staying in town a few days longer than we originally planned," Ivan replied. "Not here. Probably the Red Lantern, and if not there, the Wolf & Horse."

  "Got it," Luka said and slipped away in his silent way, leaving Ailill and Ivan alone at the table.

  Ailill dropped several coins on the table and stood. "I should go fetch my things from my own rooms since I prefer to stay with the work—unless you prefer I simply go off and wait for you to bring me word."

  Ivan glanced at him in surprise. "Not many prefer to tag along, your grace. Should be pretty quiet business, but the quieter it should be, the louder it tends to become. You're far too valuable to be getting into more fights than strictly necessary. I shudder to think what Verde would do if a handful of fire children got one of their Beasts killed."

  "I can handle myself," Ailill said.

  "Never doubted it," Ivan replied. "I didn't pull you out of there to save you. I was trying to save Roc and his men, stupid and useless though they are." Ivan doubted Ailill had lost many fights in his life. For one, it barely looked as though Ailill had been in a fight. There was one tiny bruise high on his left cheek, and his clothes were heavily rumpled and mussed, but otherwise he might have been about to go to tea at the royal palace. Ivan never came out of a fight looking that put together.

  Ailill laughed. "I was only going to ensure they did not attempt to fleece their next client."

  Snorting in amusement, Ivan finished his beer and stood. "I promise it would have been a waste of your time, your grace. But I conceded that it would have been amusing to see. Still, for the best they continue to live. Shall we be on our way, your grace?"

  "Oh, do stop calling me that," Ailill replied. "I'm not much of a duke while I am gallivanting about on treasure hunts. Ailill will be fine unless you must be formal, in which case simply call me 'le Blanc.'

  "Lord Ailill le Blanc," Ivan said. "What a mouthful."

  "You should hear the whole title," Ailill replied dryly. "Shall we go?"

  Ivan gestured for him to lead the way, enjoying the view as he followed Ailill out of the pub and back out onto the street. They walked side by side through the crowd, Ivan keeping one hand resting lightly on his sword after he spotted three of Roc's goons skulking about. "Where are your rooms?"

  "A place called The Golden Apple."

  "You're not much for discreet are you?" Ivan asked, shaking his head in amusement.

  "I was tired and it was the first place I saw. You do better stumbling off a ship at three in the morning and after a tussle with some particularly bold and stupid street thugs."

  Ivan grunted, half certain he knew the thugs in question, at least by reputation. He dropped back slightly to follow behind as Ailill led the way into a fancy-looking inn that definitely catered to the wealthy. Rumors had it that they offered very select services, but Ivan had never bothered to learn the veracity of them.

  Ailill paused at the counter in the main hall, speaking with the clerk there before he motioned to Ivan and led the way up a set of wide stairs and down the hall to a room at the end. "I ordered a bath, figuring that was the least I owed you. If nothing else, I should tend that cut on your cheek that you've been ignoring."

  Ivan made a face. "I promise I was a mess before we met and had plans for a bath."

  "Then I should definitely provide it, since I waylaid your plans." He smirked. "I'm happy to help with any other plans I might have waylaid, Vanya."

  Laughing, Ivan unbuckled his sword belt and hung it over the back of one of the two chairs at the small table in the room. Then he began to work on the lacings of his leather armor, setting the pieces aside in a neat pile on the chair. "You're bold, especially for a fancy. But then again, I never met a faerie child who was shy about a fuck when he wanted it."

  Ailill sat down on the foot of the bed, leaning back on his hands with his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, eyes fastened on Ivan and bright with a promising heat. "No, we really have no need of shyness. I do owe you for saving me, and I like to pay my deb—" He broke off when someone knocked on the door and stood up to let in the parade of servants who entered with a tub followed by several others carrying buckets of water and a tray with soap and other assorted bathing items.

  When the servants were gone, Ivan stripped off the rest of his clothes and climbed into the tub, groaning at the hot water. The most he got in the way of a bath was a cold stream or a bucket of warm water and rough soap when they held still long enough for such a thing.

  Given his head was very badly wanted by the crown, they did not hold that still very often. Reaching for the soap, amused that it smelled like flowers, he began to scrub it into his thick, dark brown-red hair. "Purely out of curiosity, you are aware that you're consorting with criminals?"

  Ailill laughed. "Yes, I am aware. Last I checked, mercenaries weren't really legal anywhere except possibly Piedre, and there only in a 'don't talk about' sort of way. Are you especially popular?"

  "Let's just say life will get interesting for you if you are caught consorting with the Wolves."

  "Is that what you're little group is called?" Ailill asked. "Anyway, I have a business arrangement with the Wolves. I only plan on consorting with one of them."

  Ivan laughed and rinsed his hair, and then started scrubbing off his body. He would be laughed at for ages when the others noticed he smelled like fancy soap, but he really could not be bothered to care. He was clean, about to enjoy what promise
d to be a very enjoyable fuck, and already had new work that would definitely pay well.

  He could not remember the last time he'd had such a good day. Rinsing off the soap, he reached for a razor to get rid of the two day's growth on his face—and stopped when a hand covered his. He looked up at Ailill, who had stripped down to just his breeches, stockings, and shirtsleeves. "Leave it for now," Ailill said, approval plain on his face.

  "You're the oddest noble I've ever encountered," Ivan said, but went obediently when Ailill tugged, urging him to his feet. He climbed out of the bath and, ignoring that Ailill was still dressed, pulled him close, plastering Ailill against him.

  Ailill took a kiss, bold as a whore and hotter than a bonfire, sucking on Ivan's tongue as if he was starved for it. Ivan kissed back just as eagerly, ignoring the parts of his mind that wondered why in the Flames a duke of Verde wanted him—and wanted him so badly. He just wasn't one to turn down a fuck unless it seemed like he would wind up dead at the end of it.

  Tearing away, Ivan shoved Ailill over to and down on the bed and made quick work of Ailill's remaining clothes, throwing them to the floor, uncaring where they landed. He climbed on top of Ailill, running his rough, calloused hands over the smooth, tanned skin. Well-tanned and all over. Ivan's brows shot up at the realization. "Make a habit of enjoying the sun naked, your grace?"

  "Yes, actually," Ailill said and dragged him down close enough to kiss, one hand searching out and finding Ivan's cock, fisting it as though he had done so on many previous occasions. Ivan bit his lip hard, and then sucked on it, moving into the hand stroking him off, enthralled with Ailill's wanton behavior. He knew whores who weren't half as bold even when well paid.

  He really wanted to see Ailill lying in the sun without a stitch of clothing so much as in sight. Shaking off that errant thought, he reluctantly removed the hand around his cock and shifted so he could get his mouth around Ailill's cock.

  Ailill sank his hands into Ivan's short, thick hair, fisting them so tightly in it that Ivan grunted at the slight pain—but it was nowhere near enough to make him stop sucking Ailill's cock, tongue and throat working, jaw beginning to ache with the effort, saliva and precum covering his unshaved chin. It wasn't long before the fingers in his hair pulled to the point of true pain, and Ailill spilled hot down his throat. Ivan sucked him until he calmed, and then reared up to take Ailill's mouth.

  "I was beginning to think my stay in Pozhar was not going to be very pleasant," Ailill said, rubbing against him, long fingers running along his skin, nails digging in teasingly. "I am glad I was wrong. There's oil in my bag at the foot of the bed. Get it and fuck me, Vanya."

  "Yes, your grace," Ivan replied and obeyed.

  Chapter Four: The Hunt Begins

  Dym took a sip of the dark, dry red wine he favored and bent back over the drawing he was inking: a young man with a face that still held a hint of the child he had only recently been. Seventeen, eighteen years old, perhaps. Too young for the fires he would soon be facing. The hair was curly, floppy, and cut crudely short. A brighter red, Dym thought, making a note for later when he began to paint. The eyes were green, a rare color in Pozhar. It was a pity they would soon turn the color of flames, if they had not already.

  The young man's name had not come to him yet, but it would soon. He wore a rough, homespun shirt that fit poorly, so it was likely the Vessel was of poor or very modest means. His nose had a hint of having been broken before. If left to grow fully into himself, he would prove to be an extremely handsome man.

  Ignoring the guilt that flared because the young man would never reach his potential, Dym continued to ink the drawing. He had woken in the dead of night with the image clear in his head; it meant it would not be long before someone found him. Already, he knew, Krasny was on the hunt. That he had returned to the palace meant the next Vessel was probably in the Heart itself.

  Which meant it would not take long to find him. Dym touched up the Vessel's mouth, the happy smile shaping it pulling his own mouth down in a frown. He wished there was another way to save Pozhar. Setting aside his pen and sketchbook, Dym picked up his wine and drained it. Setting the cup down, he refilled it from the pitcher beside it on the side table. He lay back against the settee, head resting on the curved back, staring up at his office ceiling and the mural of Holy Zhar Ptitsa painted there.

  Two left. What was he going to do when it was all finally over? Nearly his entire life had been spent in pursuit of the Vessels. What would he do when his mission was finally complete? He did not dare think about it because the answer he thought most likely was not the one he wanted to hear.

  Sitting up, he drained half his wine and resumed inking his drawing. When at last he finished, he set it aside to dry. He would spend the following evening painting it, and then mount it in a suitable frame. The painting would join the others in the Hall of Vessels.

  Swinging his feet off the settee, Dym slowly stood up and stretched out stiff limbs, groaning as he did so. He flexed his sore hand and contemplated going to bed—but he did not feel nearly tired enough and was in no hurry to toss and turn the rest of the night.

  He may as well get more work out of the way, then. Dym headed toward his desk, but paused when he heard footsteps: running, to judge from the sound. He turned toward the door and stood calmly when it burst open and a panicked looking guard tumbled into the room. "Holiness! It's the Tsar—" He dropped clumsily to his knees and bowed his head. "He's taken—taken—"

  Crossing the room, Dym laid a hand against the guard's cheek and silently cast a calming spell. The guard slumped slightly and looked up. "The Tsar is having a fit, and her Highness fears the worst. She bids you come, Holiness."

  "Of course," Dym replied and left the guard where he knelt to make his way quickly through the cathedral and palace and up the stairs to the royal wing and the king's private chambers all the way at the end.

  Two guards were stationed on either side of the double doors leading into the king's chambers. One lady-in-waiting and two other guards stood on the other side of the hall.

  "Holiness," they all greeted, bowing their heads, the lady-in-waiting dipping into a curtsy. The guards pulled open the doors, and Dym swept inside, striding through the front room and into the bedchamber.

  Sonya sat on the edge of her brother's bed, holding his hands and crying quietly. She looked up when she heard him, relief filling her face. "Dym," she said softly. "He only just calmed from his fit. I do not understand how this keeps happening. Why can no one figure out what is wrong with him?"

  Dym shook his head in silent reply. He and many others had searched and searched for the source of the king's illness. He and Krasny had investigated the possibility of poison, but that too had turned up nothing.

  No matter what they did, the Tsar was dying. Though he hated to admit it, even silently, Dym suspected it was only a matter of days. Moving around the bed, he squeezed Sonya's shoulders reassuringly, quietly casting a calming spell. She stood up and held him tightly, crying into his shoulder. Dym just held her, knowing there was nothing he could say that would ease the pain of losing a loved one.

  "He keeps asking for Kolya," Sonya said looking up, eyes wet and red in the weak light. "I don't know what to do anymore, Dym. Nothing I say will get through to him. My brother holds on only because of Kolya, but he won't come!"

  "And yet, here I am," Krasny said from the doorway, making Sonya whip around, gasp, and knock into Dym, who stumbled back and barely regained his footing. Krasny did not move from the doorway, simply stood there and stripped off the riding gloves he still wore. "I was just riding into the city to look for the Vessel while it was quiet. They told me he was dead."

  Sonya practically flew across the room, and the sound of her hand landing on Krasny's cheek was shockingly loud. "You! Fire and ash, Kolya! That is the only reason you came? He's not dead yet, you heartless bastard!" She made to slap him again, but Krasny grabbed her wrist, and then the other. "He just wants to talk to you. Why won't y
ou just listen?"

  "That is between him and me," Krasny replied. "I know you care, Sonya, but it is our business, not yours. If that is all—"

  "Bastard!" Sonya snarled and kicked him, and then shoved him away and stormed from the room. Krasny watched her go grimacing and touching one still-gloved hand to his cheek, which had gone a livid red in the shape of a hand print.

  Nodding to Dym, he turned and stepped back out into the front room, closing the door behind him. Only a moment later, Dym could hear shouting. He lifted his hands, palms out and fingers spread, and silently cast a muffling spell.

  In the bed, Zarya moaned faintly. Dym returned to his side, reaching out to take the hand that fumbled out from under the blankets. "Who—"

  "Me, your Majesty," Dym said softly. "Be at peace."

  "Kolya?" Zarya whispered.

  Dym said nothing, merely reached out to stroke Zarya's brow and smooth back what remained of his hair, humming softly until Zarya slipped back into sleep. After several minutes, when it seemed as though Zarya would stay asleep, Dym tucked him back into his blankets and broke the muffling spell. Walking to the door, he opened it and stepped out into the front room.

  The fight between the cousins was clearly over as Sonya was nowhere to be seen. Krasny, however, stood by the far window, staring out into the night. "How is he?"

  "Asleep," Dym replied quietly. "He thought I was you—or wanted to think I was you, your grace."

  "Good for him," Krasny said, not quite able to keep all the bitterness from his cold tone.

  Dym tilted his head thoughtfully, watching Krasny's back, noting that his long hair had slipped free of the ribbon that had bound it. The ribbon, he saw, was on the floor by the couch. So Sonya must have really lost her temper. "I do not understand, your grace, why you are so determined not to see him."