hide. Under it, she was the skinniest, boniest living person Garfist had ever seen; all warts, wrinkles, and gray skin, she looked like a withered corpse, not a woman. Not that he hadn't tasted her favors a time or two; a man has needs, after all. And she did know spices-and poisons, and antidotes-better than anyone he'd ever met, besides being uniquely gifted for thievery.
Years back, somewhere way out east, she'd stolen her crawlskin: the magically preserved, semi-alive skin of a long-dead sorceress. It melded to her own hide when she wanted it to, and held the shape she gave it, so she could be all hips and breasts a man would hunger for, or as stout as Garfist, or barely larger than her own naked hide-and-bones. It could also part when she wanted it to, allowing her to reach in and hide gems and coins and other stolen things in leather bladders she strapped to herself. Right now it was carrying a surprising number of coins, all folded in flesh so they wouldn't clink together. It could even turn into a long fleshy rope or worm, and reach farther than her arm could, turning like a snake and clutching at her bidding. Without it, she was as skinny as a lance and as desirable as a corpse.
Best of all, she liked Garfist, and he liked her, and they trusted each other; something neither of them had dared to do with anyone else for years and years.
Iskarra's looks were slipping, but her face still had some of the dark-eyed beauty that had caught men's eyes when she was younger, and her body was wrapped in enough clothing to fool them. And that profane mouth still had the skills of a Stormar pleasure-lass.
To say nothing of her wits and fearlessness, that both outstripped Garfist's own. And were both good things, when one was stealing magic.
Here in Bowrock, houses seemed full of enchanted gewgaws and even the occasional battle-wand. Moreover, many of them seemed to have been turned inactive, and left in the keeping of folk who didn't even know they were magical. Garfist and Iskarra could scarce believe their good fortune, and hadn't yet dared to snatch much.
Yet the only wizards they'd thus far seen in Bowrock were strutting Stormar alley-mages, who knew a few tricks, four or five real spells, and how to make and peddle 'charms' and enchanted oils that might or might not do what they claimed to do.
'Grow us a really striking bosom, old Viper mine,' Garfist rumbled now, reaching across the table. 'I need to remember how to fondle.'
Iskarra gave him a disgusted look, and dealt his hand a half-hearted slap. 'No biting,' she snarled. 'Like last time.'
Garfist tried to chuckle, but it erupted into a choking snort that quite spoiled his leer, so he settled for thrusting one great paw of a hand into the open front of her leather bodice, and squeezed.
She gasped and shuddered, half-closing her eyes and moving under his hand with her lips caught in her teeth, moaning as if in need, and then stuck out her tongue at him, made a rude sound, and snapped, 'Where's that ale? Are they all out back pissing into a keg to fill it for us, then?'
'D'wanna stay here for the night? I think they rent rooms, Isk.'
'Not if you're going to try to crawl on top of me. My love for being crushed is fading.' Iskarra belched loudly, and then winced. 'Gorge rising, throat afire,' she croaked. 'Get them to bring that glorking ale!'
Garfist growled in agreement, swung himself around, and heaved himself upright. The movement was heralded by great creakings from the stout chair beneath him.
The deserted taproom of the Gauntlet and Feather heaved and rolled for a moment under his boots, like the deck of a ship in heavy seas, but he was used to that, and just kept striding, reaching the door beside the bar at about the same time as the master of the house and a sweating Narjak started through it with a full keg between them.
Garfist scooped it out of their shared grasp with one hand, and bore it away back to his table with a satisfied purring sound, leaving Narjack open-mouthed in awe, and gaping, a moment later, when the decaying woman at the table stood up eagerly and held out an empty tankard, her bodice fell open, and he could
Garfist sat down with the keg in his lap, as if it was a giggling tavern maid, and roared, 'Where're all yer other patrons, friend? All upstairs bouncing the beds? Or are they out there running around in the streets like all the rest? Ye'd think there was a siege coming, the way they're preparing!'
The tavern master managed a weak smile.
'W-well, as a matter of… aha… fact, there, ah, is.'
Garfist looked up and dropped his own jaw onto the keg beneath it. 'Well, shit me! Who're the belligerent would-be conquerors?'
'Ah, well… almost all of the Lords of Galath, they say. They're not here yet, mind.'
The tavern master half expected the two drunkards to explode into profanity and swaying, doomed attempts to hasten out of his establishment and flee the city.
He did not at all expect Garfist to slap the table, grin broadly, and growl, 'Well, that's grand! Always wanted to be lord of somewhere, and sounds like some vacancies're going to open up soon. Lord Garfield Gulkoon of Galath; has a ring to it, don't ye think?'
The tavern master of the Gauntlet and Feather prided himself on being a seasoned, unflappable professional, and proved it to himself then and there. He managed to entirely quell his strong and instant impulse to shudder.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The soup was wonderful, a rich broth thick with onions and the leavings of many spit-roasted fowl. Taeauna and Rod both ate heartily until they were more than full; Rod was amused to find that Aumrarr belched and groaned and sat back in chairs holding their bellies just like everyone else did.
They'd expected their summons to the velduke's table would mean sitting at a long table in a lofty and echoing hall feasting with a lot of haughty people, but instead they'd been shown into a cozy, book-lined study with a magnificent map of Falconfar on the wall that Rod spent a long time studying.
The room had no guards or servants or anyone but the two of them in it, and held books on shelves all around the walls, and a littered desk that had a lone dagger floating point-down in the air over it. ('Guard-blade,' Taeauna had murmured. 'Don't go anywhere near yon desk, even if papers blow off it by themselves.') It also held a table with four stout chairs drawn up around it. The soup had been served to them at the table, along with lemon-scented drinking water, a fragrant-smelling fresh loaf of bread, a sharp saw-knife to cut it with, and a bowl of garlic butter to spread on it. Rod could remember few meals as good, in all his life.
They'd sat over the remains of the repast until the last heel of the bread was quite cold, and Rod was fighting back yawns and wondering when a servant would appear to guide them back to their bed in those distant guest chambers.
'Shouldn't we…?' he got as far as asking Taeauna.
Her response was a sharp look and a firm, 'Patience.'
As if that had been a cue, a bookshelf swung open and Velduke Deldragon strode in, stroking his flaxen mustache. He nodded a silent greeting to them, his ice-blue eyes seeming somehow dull and washed out, and scaled the helm under his arm into a corner where it thudded down on a cushion Rod hadn't noticed before.
Suddenly the room was full of silent, deftly hastening servants, bringing a housecloak, wine and a platter of goblets and sugared nuts, and steaming platters of roasted meat. Just as suddenly, they were all gone again, and Velduke Deldragon was wearily forking meat running with red juices onto his plate and saying, 'Lady of the Aumrarr? This is choice young stag; I smoke and hang my own.'
'I'd love some, Darendarr,' Taeauna said gently, 'but let me carve and serve. You look tired.'
'I am tired. I've been rushing around all day talking. I'd prefer to swing a sword daylong, any day. By the Falcon, it's tiring giving orders and explaining, explaining, explaining! You'd think my people of Bowrock would know about catching rainwater and bringing in hay for the beasts and all of that by now, but every time-'
