"All right, Sergeant. All night." Bembo raised a placating hand. "I'm going, I'm going." As he went, he muttered under his breath: "Fat [.ol.] fraud wouldn't know anything about real work if it paraded past his naked."
After donning the regulation tunic and kilt, he paused in the reconing section, where Saffa was sketching a portrait of a haggard-looking miscreant. Bembo thought of the little artist parading past him naked definitely a more attractive prospect than real work. What he was thin ing must have shown, too, for Saffa snapped, "Drag your mind out of the latrine, if you please."
Bembo's ears heated. He glared over toward the wretch whose image Saffa had been committing to paper. Had the fellow said a word - had he even smiled - Bembo would have taken out his rage on him. But the captive, wiser than Martusino, kept his mouth shut and his expression blank
Doubly baulked, Bembo walked fuming to his desk.
Plenty of forms and reports awaited him there, as was true for most constables most of the time. Bembo ignored them. He worked diligently enough when he felt like it, but not when work was forced upon him.
As most Algarvians would have done, he avenged himself by disobeying.
He pulled a historical romance out of his desk and started reading. 'T show you what I know about the Kaunian Empire, he mumbled
Pesaro's direction, though not loud enough for the desk sergeant anyone else - to hear.
Mercenaries' Revolt, the cover screamed in lurid red letters, Vith a smaller subhead reading, Mighty Ziliante sets an empire afire! The bo showed a stalwart Algarvian, his coppery hair washed with lime to gn,c him a leonine mane, brandishing a sword. Clinging to him was a Kau doxy wearing no more clothes than she'd been born with. Her hand poised, as if about to reach under his kilt and caress what she found th
The text lived up to, or down to, the cover. Bembo couldn't remember a romance he'd enjoyed more.
The Kauman Emperor had just ordered Ziliante made into a eunuch.
Bembo was sure that wouldn't happen; the virile hero had already got too many blond noblewomen's drawers down. Which of them would rescue him, and how? Bembo read on to find out. e age he ing.
"I'll [..d in or ith a book give unian..]"
Krasta sipped cherry brandy laced with wormwood. A band thumped away in the background: tuba and accordion, bagpipes and thudding kettledrum. On the dance floor, Valmieran nobles swayed and spun to the loud, insistent beat.
"This is the place to be," Valnu said, leering across the table at her.
"Even if the Algarvians drop eggs on Priekule, they can't knock the Cellar down. We're already underground." He giggled as if he'd said something very funny.
"This is the place to be because it's the place to be," Krasta replied with a shrug. Had the Cellar been built atop the Kauman Column of Victory, she still would have frequented the nightspot. Anyone who was, or who had pretensions of being, someone came here. People who weren't someone looked on from a distance and envied. That was the way the world worked.
Valnu lifted his mug of porter. "So good to find you thinking as clearly as ever." Malice flavored the affection in his voice as the wormwood embittered Krasta's sweet brandy. I hope your brother is still safe, there in the west."
"He was well, last letter I had from him." Krasta tossed her head, send ing pale gold curls flying: old imperial styles had suddenly become the rage.
"But this is too much talk about the war. I don't want to think about the war." The truth of the matter was, she didn't want to think at all.
"Very well." Valnu's smile turned him into the most charming skull Krasta had ever known. "Let's dance, then." He got to his feet.
"All right, why not?" Krasta said carelessly. The room spun a little as she rose: that spiked brandy was potent stuff. She laughed as Valnu slid an arm around her waist and guided her out on to the floor.
Valnu was a thoroughgoing predator. His principal virtue was that he never pretended to be anything else. As he and Krasta danced, his hand slid from the small of her back to close on the smooth curve of her left buttock. He pressed her tight against him, so tight that she could not pos sibly doubt he had more than dancing on his mind.
She might have loosened some of his white, pointed teeth for him because of the liberties he took with her noble person. She contemplated it, in fact, as well as she could contemplate anything in her rather fuddled state. But his mocking smile said he was waiting for her to do just that.
Except when making sure commoners stayed in their place, she hated doing anything someone else expected of her. And, she realized, she was feeling randy herself She'd decide later how far she intended to let him go. For the moment, she simply enjoyed herself
And it wasn't as if she were the only woman in the Cellar whose companion was feeling her up on the dance floor. It was not a place to which women who minded being rumpled in public commonly came. I can [..ed..] always blame it on the brandy, she thought. But she didn't really need to of blame it. on anything. She did as she pleased. No one could make her do as, anything else.
The music stopped. Krasta set her hand on the back of Valnu's head [..the.] and pulled his face down to hers. She kissed him, open-mouthed. He tasted of porter: bitter, but not so bitter as the wormwood in her brandy.
Halfway through the kiss, she opened her eyes. Valnu was staning at her.
He was so close, his features blurred, but she thought he looked there astonished. She laughed, down deep in her throat.
He broke the kiss and twisted away. Now she had no trouble reading his [..nd-] expression. He was angry. Krasta laughed again. He must have realized he'd raged gone from predator to prey, realized it and not cared for it at all. "You're [..t.] the a fire-breather, aren't you?" he said, his voice rougher than usual.
"What if I am?" Krasta tossed her head again, as she had back at the table. She pointed toward the musicians. "They're going to start again in a minute. Do you want to dance some more, or have we already done everything we can do standing up?"
Valnu did his best to rally. "Not quite everything," he answered, more self-collected now. Bold as brass, he reached out and cupped her breast through the fabric of her tunic. His thumb and forefinger unerringly found her nipple. He teased it for a few seconds, then let her go.
Maybe he hadn't understood how hot and reckless Krasta was feeling.
Maybe she hadn't realized it herself, not till those knowing fingers [..furt..] inflamed her. She reached out, too, at a lower level.
Had he pulled off his trousers and lain down on the floor, she [..imi..] have mounted him then and there. Such things were said to happen the Cellar now and again, though Krasta had never seen them there.
Valnu, after shaking himself like a wet hound, went back to the table four or five long strides. Krasta followed him. Her cheeks burned. [..] heart raced. She breathed quickly, as if she'd just run a long way.
Valnu gulped the porter left in his mug. He was looking at Krasta a he'd never seen her before. "Brimstone and quicksilver," he mutter more to himself than to her. "Dragon-bitch."
After what she'd drunk, she took it as a compliment: indeed, she ne thought to wonder whether it might be anything else. Her own gob smaller than the earthenware mug from which he'd drunk, held bra yet. She poured it down. An egg might have burst in her belly. Warmth flowed out of it: to her face, to her breasts, to her loins.
With a rumbling blast from the tuba player and a thunder of drum beats, the band started up again. The rhythm seemed to be inside her, [..ing..] her to the brim; the laced brandy kicked like a wild ass. As if [...fr..] very far away, Valnu asked, "Do you want to go out on the floor again."