Tyriel glanced around. “Oh, I’m done.”
Once they were at a table, closer to the door and far from the guards, the swordsman lifted a tall, pewter mug in her direction. “To interesting nights.”
She inclined her head, watching as he drank before shifting her attention back out over the crowd. She’d been in this inn before, had rented a room in the inn on her last trip through.
The town hadn’t been like this.
“Can I buy you one?”
“I’ll pass.” She glanced at him a serving wench put another mug on the table in front of him. She shuddered in distaste, remembering the one taste she had taken earlier. He took another drink, licked foam from his lower lip. Her belly tightened as she imagined echoing that movement herself, licking his lower lip. For that pleasure, she might even torture herself with the taste of shitty ale, if she could taste him.
But there was no sign of interest in his eyes. At all.
There goes my pride, Tyriel thought.
“You seem to know quite a bit about the kin,” Tyriel said after declining the offer of ale. “How is that?”
He flashed her a grin. “I get around.”
“That knowledge doesn’t. At least not easily.” She ran the tip of her finger idly over a scar in the worn table’s surface. “You’ve already mentioned two things about the People that some of my family might consider worth killing over.”
“Some… but not you?”
The blue of his eyes didn’t darken the way a fae male’s would, but Tyriel felt his interest sharpen all the same. She told herself she should get and walk away from this intriguing man now.
Right now.
“Call me…undecided.”
“Very, Lady Undecided. Tell me, did your eyes truly glow earlier? I’d swear they did, but I’m not entirely certain if I saw what I think I saw or if it’s another myth about the fae told to scare bad little human boys.”
Tyriel laughed.
Around them, a brief lull in the conversation fell, eyes drifting their way and lingering on her before conversation slowly resumed.
“Be good, little boy, or the elves will sneak into your room like a monster and snatch you from your bed?” she said, a smile on her face as she looked him over.
“Just so. And…you have not answered.”
“What do you think?” When he merely arched a pale gold brow at her, she sighed. “Swordsman, you might have pried certain secrets from a fae or two along the road but that doesn’t mean I’ll tell you more.”
“Fair enough. You know, you saved that boy from a sound beating.” His eyes drifted over to the guard who sat staring sullenly into his wine. “The guard will forget by morning, but that wouldn’t help the boy. He would have been hurt badly enough to not work for a day or two. If he can’t do his job here, he would likely be sold.”
“Sold.” She spat the word, bile coating her throat. She looked around the inn’s public room and shook her head. “Slaves. That’s one of the reasons I head out this week. There was a time when slavery wasn’t lawful here. I didn’t believe it when I was first told some fool lord had pushed for it to be legalized. Barely out from under an oppressive rule a century and already the monied and privileged seek to oppress those beneath them.”
Her eyes drifted over to where the serving boy hurried back and forth between the kitchen and the tables. Often, he cast grateful eyes her way as he carefully avoided the area around the surly guard. A handsome child, if you could overlook the overly long, tangled hair and obvious malnourishment.
More than one patron had overlooked.
Body slaves were bad enough. Forcing a child into that role was unthinkable. And it wouldn’t be long before the innkeeper did just that. Tyriel had noticed the appraising looks the innkeeper gave the boy when a particular customer would stare at him overly long.
“I’ve only been here a month myself. Hired on for a job. Once the contract is up, I’m northbound.” Sympathy darkened his eyes as he watched the boy.
Yes, a handsome child.
At his back, his sword seemed to weigh down heavily on him for just a moment. Automatically, he shifted the harness as he turned his eyes back to the elf. “I’m Aryn. May I ask your name?”
“Tyriel,” she murmured, dragging her eyes from the child and studying the outrageously beautiful man in front of her. Over the morass of scents in the inn, she could smell him, and he smelled delicious…warm, male, clean. The sword strapped to his back was harnessed across what looked to be a lusciously powerful chest.
The sword…it drew her eye, flashing far more brightly in the dim light than it should have. The carving in the pommel was scrolled and marked, letters—familiar, they seemed to move and twist, and call—
Tyriel shook her head slightly as Aryn shifted his shoulders once more. The movement distracted her, drawing her attention away from the sword’s hilt and pommel, and back to him.
His shoulders were wide and strong, arms were long, lean and muscled under the clean cotton of his shirt. The sleeves of that shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscled forearms, thick wrists, long-fingered hands with wide palms. And his scent—
It was maddening, how good he smelled.
A small hand appeared on the swordsman’s shoulder. Turning her eyes upward, Tyriel watched as one of the serving girls lowered her lips to speak quietly into his ear.
Tyriel tuned the words out, although she could have listened in—and was tempted.
She already knew what was likely to be said and when Aryn gave the woman a slow smile and short nod, Tyriel felt an unwelcome twist in her belly—envy.
How odd. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt envy.
The girl, well, woman had large breasts, a narrow waist, and full hips. Exceptionally clean, which was unusual in a dive like this. Her gaze landed on the brand marking the young woman’s wrist and the pieces fell into place. It was the shape of a quarter-moon—the girl was an indentured servant. She could work off her five years here, or be bought by a willing party and work off the time with another. Once her debt was paid, that quarter moon would be filled in and people would know she was no longer obligated by some law or another to work off whatever sentence had been placed on her slim shoulders.
So young, Tyriel thought. So, so young.
Had the mark been an ‘X,’ it would have meant she was a slave and she’d never know freedom, not unless something extraordinary happened.
An ‘X’ encircled meant a body slave, basically a body whored out at her master’s pleasure, with no choice in his or her bed partners, or any say in where he or she bedded that partner. Tyriel had seen body slaves who knelt in alleyways in broad daylight to service or be mounted.
Judging by the look in her eyes, this girl likely sought a new keeper.
Tyriel recognized the satisfaction in the serving girl’s eyes as she strolled away, hips swaying subtly beneath the plain blue wool of her skirt.
Ah, well, Tyriel thought, too bad.
Damn it all.
* * * * *
Aryn the swordsman at least had the decency to take his tumble upstairs. The girl was clean and soft and sweet-smelling—looking for a way to a better life.
Aryn couldn’t, and wasn’t interested in, offering that, but a soft female beside him for the night wasn’t a bad thing. He’d leave some extra money with her so she could stash it. Most indentured servants skimmed a little money here and there, hoping to earn enough to buy their freedom a year or two sooner.