The Unseen Hand

Ch 27: The Mistress of Rats

Meldi, Twelfth of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel

Deneven opened his eyes to darkness. A searing line of fire throbbed on the side of his forehead. Every heartbeat thundered against his temples. He would be feeling Ianto's fists for days to come.

A tight roll of cloth cut between his clenched teeth to secure the wad of silk stuffed in his mouth. He was blindfolded and tied down to a chair with what felt like leather straps.

The captive justiciar used the only senses that remained unfettered, intent on determining his situation without betraying his return to consciousness.

The pop and crackle of a small fire, the smell of glowing coals, and an undertone of spices in the air tantalized but revealed nothing. As the silence deepened, Deneven felt a growing unease. The lack of discomfort in his leg caused his stomach to drop. His wooden leg was missing.

"You are still a terrible actor." The feminine voice was as cold as the breeze from an ice-bound mountain gorge.

Despite the long years that had passed since their last conversation, Deneven recognized the voice. He was in the presence of the Mistress of Rats; the woman he'd known during the war as Fhaen.

The woman removed the blindfold from Deneven's eyes. After a few blinks, blurriness gave way to sight. For a moment Deneven believed he was hallucinating. He was sitting in the candlelit kitchen of a small apartment that he had not set foot in for over twenty-two years. Time had passed, but the cramped room was the same as he remembered it. Memories of a time when things were much simpler flooded his consciousness. The rekindled emotions were far more painful than his bruises.

Across from his chair, flames sputtered inside a ramshackle coal stove. Deneven could feel its heat from where he sat. A familiar tea kettle hissed among the glowing embers. A curl of steam wisped from its dented spout. In the far corner, a tallow candle guttered, filling the room with shifting light. The apartment that had once witnessed laughter and the urgent passion of lovers was—in those flickering shadows—nothing more than a museum of broken dreams.

"I see that you haven't forgotten but don't flatter yourself by thinking that keeping this place had anything to do with nostalgia. Considering the rising prices of villas in this city, it was purely a business decision." Fhaen remained out of view. "Besides, a rat can't have too many hidey holes."

Deneven didn't buy the lie for a moment. He turned his head in an effort to catch a glimpse of his hostess. The dancing shadows served their purpose, creating a theatrical milieu that was at once warm and intimidating. The irony of the situation was not lost on Deneven. Fhaen was using his own technique against him—illuminate the prisoner, obscure the interrogator.

"I would apologize for Golias and Ianto's rough handling, but we both know how much you enjoy that sort of thing." Fhaen placed her hands on the back of his chair. "My instructions were clear should you ever come looking for me, but as you know, pride can often supersede reason. Some years back, you jailed poor Golias' father for commercial fraud. He was guilty, but you know how it is between sons and fathers."

Fhaen was near enough that Deneven could smell her fragrance, a heady blend of lush jungle flowers and aromatic herbs. Jacaya! The perfume inspired memories of endless nights spent entangled between the woman's legs. Fhaen still played dirty.

Some things never changed.

Deneven grit his teeth as his loins stirred. Tied as he was, there was nothing he could do to hide the awkward tension in his pants.

As if sensing his discomfort, Fhaen reached out from behind him and caressed the gash on his scalp. Her touch sent a spasm of hot agony coursing through him, but Deneven refused to give her the pleasure of a groan. The fingers moved away from his wound, and the cord of twisted silk loosened and fell free from between his swollen lips.