Shamera nodded wisely: his sly reminder of Kerim’s bastard origins had removed her few remaining scruples about humiliating the Reeve’s brother. “Now, I remember. What can I do for you? Does Kerim want me? He said he was going to rest this evening and I should amuse myself, but if he wants me now I’ll be happy to leave.”
There was another round of smothered amusement.
“No, Lady,” answered Lord Ven, managing, with an effort, to keep his voice soft. “I haven’t spoken with Kerim since I left this morning. I just wanted to speak with you in private.”
“Oh,” Sham said, in obvious disappointment. “I suppose that as long as you are certain that Kerim doesn’t need me, I can talk to you. What did you want?”
Before he got a chance to speak again there was a tentative touch on her shoulder. Sham turned to see Kerim’s valet standing behind her.
“Dickon!” she exclaimed, then she said to the gathering in general, “Dickon is Kerim’s servant.”
Dickon cleared his throat, but otherwise maintained his usual equanimity as he nodded to the cheerful greetings.
Sham regained his attention by tapping Dickon’s arm. “Is Kerim awake yet?”
Dickon, looking uncomfortable with all the attention, said, “Yes, Lady. Lady Tirra—”
“His mother,” interrupted Sham, as if she were announcing a new discovery to a group of the uninitiated.
“Yes, Lady,” said Dickon patiently. “His mother has discovered a new healer who has a reputation of working miracles. He is with him now.”
Sham considered that briefly. It was obvious that Dickon had come to her to save the Reeve from a charlatan. Naturally the servant thought she would care—she was, after all, his mistress. Although she’d dropped her false mannerisms in front of Dickon since the night of the demon attack, he didn’t know everything—or perhaps he did. The strength of the anger she felt frightened her.
When Sham spoke, she carefully displayed nothing more than the possessiveness of a mistress whose position was threatened. “His mother’s healer? How long has this man been with Kerim?”
Dickon shuffled his feet and said, “Since dinner.”
Sham smiled blindingly. “Gentlemen. I pray that you will excuse me. Lord Van ... er, Ven, we shall have to have our talk at another time. Dickon—”
“—Lord Kerim’s servant,” supplied Halvok’s fosterling, Siven, with amusement.
Shamera nodded and continued with dramatic flair, “—“has come to get me. Lord Kerim has need of me, and I must go.”
With a quick curtsey, she followed Dickon out the door. As soon as they were alone in the maze of hallways, she dropped her facade and broke into a less than decorous trot.
“How bad is he?” she asked grimly.
“Bad enough—I didn’t know what was happening until I brought in some of his lordship’s clothing from the mending rooms. It seems that one of her ladyship’s cronies discovered this miracle worker who has the reputation of making the lame walk. Lady Tirra has found several such; most of them are harmless, but this one ...”
“I’m a miracle worker too,” said Sham direly. “Watch me make the healer disappear. Is her Ladyship there?”
“Kerim’s mother?” asked Dickon in an innocent tone.
Sham snickered, despite the urgency that kept her pace only nominally under an outright sprint. “Liked that one did you? Yes, the Reeve’s mother.”
He shook his head. “And be in the same room with a partially clad man? Never.”
“How did someone like Lady Tirra conceive an illegitimate son?” questioned Shamera with a touch of wonder.
Dickon shook his head. “Things happen in life that are so strange not even the most daring bard would relate them for fear of being ridiculed.”
Sham glanced at the servant’s face.
“Dickon!” she exclaimed in surprise, “you can smile!”
In true Lady Shamera fashion, she threw Kerim’s door open so hard it almost hit the wall. She rushed to the wooden table where Kerim lay face down. He was oblivious to her entrance, as his face was buried in his arms—but the dirty little man standing beside him certainly was not.
His mouth dropped open unattractively, revealing several blackened teeth. He began a protest of her entrance, but he widened it into a smile as he took in the sensual being that was the Reeve’s mistress.
“Kerim!” she exclaimed, touching of the Reeve’s bare shoulders gently. “Dickon said that you couldn’t be bothered, but I knew that you wouldn’t mind if I told you that Lady Sky had the most interesting little hat ...” Kerim turned his face toward her and Sham was enraged at his stoic expression, though she was careful not to show it.
She looked at the “healer” and frowned. “You need to leave now. I have to talk to Kerim, and I don’t like strangers listening to my private conversations.”
The man drew himself up in outrage that outweighed his lust. “Do you know who you are talking to?”
“No,” she replied, putting her hands on her hips. “I don’t care, just as long as you leave now.”
“Her Ladyship ...” began the man.
“Dickon,” called Sham, knowing that he was waiting anxiously in the halt to assess the damage done.
The door opened and the bland-faced servant entered, showing no sign of his recent dash through the Castle.
“Take him away,” Sham ordered airily. “You may come back and dispose of his belongings later.”
“Yes, Lady,” agreed the servant with remarkable composure as he seized the protesting man in a grip that spoke of the soldier he had been. “I shall return directly.”
When he left, Sham hurried over to shut the door behind him.
“Dirty, filthy, little leper,” she muttered in an evil voice, though she was intimidated enough by her surroundings not to use stronger language.
Turning back to the hard wooden table where the Reeve was still lying, she saw that he had turned his face into his arms. Careful not to touch him, she inspected his back carefully for damage. “Why did you let him do this?”
Kerim started to shrug then grunted. “It can’t do any harm, and it makes Mother happy.”
Sham muttered something suitable about the stupidity of males, Cybellian males in particular, under her breath. Beneath the beautiful brown skin, his muscles, heavy from years of battle, were twitching and knotted. Dark mottled bruises told her that Tirra’s healer had used the small wooden clubs that were set carefully on a nearby table, but there were no blisters from the iron rod that was being heated over a large candle.
Taking one of the set of clubs in her hands, she traced the misfortune rune she’d used to avenge Maur. She wished she were powerful enough to add an extra year to her curse, and had to argue with herself before she added the mark that limited the amount of damage that the spell could cause.
“What are you doing?” asked the Reeve, his voice only slightly hoarser than normal.
Shamera looked up to see that he had turned his head to watch her. She also noticed he was being very careful not to move anything else. She was tempted to alter the limits of the spell again.
“It’s just a little spell,” she said in her best mistress style. “About that hat—
He smiled, tiredly, but it was a smile. “About that spell.”
“I thought that you had your doubts about magic.”
“I do, but I have made it a policy never to dismiss any possibility completely—one of the reasons you are here now. About that spell,” he repeated firmly, his smile becoming a little less strained.
“Just something to occupy that little worm ...” Sham paused as an intriguing possibility occurred to her. “I wonder if the Shark knows about him. I’ll have to ask.”
Kerim started to laugh, and then stopped abruptly and gritted his teeth.
Dickon entered the room quietly. Judging by the air of satisfaction that he wore as well as a slight redness on the knuckles of his right hand, Shamera assumed that he’d gotten a little of his own version of vengeance.