The Lion Mistress: Book 3 (EBOOK, LGBT)

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ONE

THE PROBLEM WITH BEING the figureheads for a rebellion, Kathrael thought, was that their new roles didn’t really do anything to change the reality of what was happening around them. The slave underground was still... underground. Still hiding. They still needed to obtain weapons. They still needed a plan. Allies. An agreed-upon military strategy.

In pursuit of the aforementioned allies, she, Ithric, and Favian were currently discussing the situation with Qaden—the leader of the gang that controlled the old warehouse district where the three of them had made a home of sorts over these past weeks. And Qaden was looking at Ithric like he’d grown a second head, now that the lion-shifter had given him an abbreviated version of the relevant facts.

“I told you when we first met that I didn’t think you were as stupid as you were pretending to be, boy,” Qaden said. “I’m rethinking that assessment as we speak.”

Ithric only raised an eyebrow, lounging with crossed arms against the corner of a rough wooden table in the old building Qaden used as a base. “Civil war is coming, Qaden. It doesn’t take a master strategist to see that. We just thought you might want to be on the winning side when it did.”

Qaden barked a laugh. “And yours will be the winning side, will it? How do you figure that, then?”

Favian cleared his throat. “There are a couple of points Ithric hasn’t touched on yet.”

“Such as? Because they’d have to be pretty fucking good ones to convince me to risk my men on a half-cocked scheme to commit treason against a king who executes people for skimping on their taxes by a handful of coppers. A king, I might add,” he continued pointedly, “with an army behind him.”

Kathrael met Qaden’s gaze. She had been terrified of him when he and his followers had first shown up on their doorstep, demanding protection money. Since then, however, he’d proven himself surprisingly honorable for a street thug. Still, she was painfully aware that they were putting their lives in his hands by talking to him like this.

It was a calculated risk. She didn’t think he’d turn on them. And with his loyal men and his weapons, he would be a very valuable ally if they could talk him over to their side.

“We’re planning to capture a warehouse full of weapons from the continent, in the coming days,” she said. “Crossbows. The best the king’s money can buy.”

The gang leader’s heavy eyebrows drew together. “Crossbows? A whole warehouse full? And you plan on… what? Just walking off with them? A stash like that will be heavily guarded, you realize—unless the weapons dealer is a fool.”

Ithric shrugged. “Of course it will be. But we know where the warehouse is located. We know where the dealer is staying. One of the slaves on loan to the villa where the king is putting him up is in the underground. He’s put a word in the man’s ear about a certain troupe of traveling entertainers who have been staging performances at all the most prestigious houses. That’s our way in.”

“You’re actually serious about this,” Qaden said, and gave Favian a sharp look. “You said there were a couple of points this one hadn’t touched on, Blondie. What’s the other one?”

Favian took a deep breath and turned his attention to Ithric. “Ithric? Your call.”

Kathrael felt her heart beat faster, as it did whenever another person learned Ithric’s dangerous secret. If it could even properly be called a secret anymore, now that the entire underground knew about it.

But Ithric didn’t move from his relaxed slouch. “I’m a shape-shifter,” he said.

Qaden stared at him for the space of several breaths. “Pull the other one,” he scoffed. “It’s got bells on.”

“Oh, please. It’s not something you’d really lie about in this city, now is it?” Ithric said. “But it’s cold tonight, and I don’t much feel like stripping down and shifting just so you can gawp at me.”

He stared at Qaden, and his hazel eyes flashed green-gold, glowing unnaturally in the low light of the hearth. Kathrael could feel an aura of otherness rolling off him in waves.

So could Qaden, obviously.

“Deresta’s tits,” the man breathed, before seeming to drag his composure back together. Kathrael had never seen him on the back foot before. She got the impression it wasn’t a state of affairs he had much experience with, either.

“You… turn into a wolf?” he asked, after another short stretch of silence.

“A lion,” Ithric said. “Though all three of us are well acquainted with the Wolf Priest of Draebard, as it happens.”

Kath swallowed the surge of bitterness that always rose at the mention of the Wolf Patron who had been prophesied to lead them all to freedom, and hadn’t. Though she had come to know Senovo as a person, in addition to knowing him as a legend, it was still a point of contention between her and the others.

They had grown up with Draebard’s High Priest as a guardian and, in Favian’s case, a father figure. She had grown up reviling him. And while she no longer blamed him for every bad thing in her life, she continued to resent his easy dismissal of the prophecy of the Wolf Patron.

Still, even the mention of Senovo was apparently enough to penetrate Qaden’s carefully cultivated facade of indifference.

“You three are barking mad,” he said. “You’ll get yourselves killed, and I’ll be out twenty-five pieces of silver a week in protection money. Why the fuck would I want to get involved in your suicidal scheme?”

Ithric didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Because you’re a natural leader who’s shown the ability to maintain order within a large territory, and inspire loyalty in others. What kind of people do you think are going to be running things when the king’s government falls to the rebels?”

Favian added, “Without leaders like you to help keep order, there will be chaos. More chaos than there is now, I mean.”

“You’ve already shown that you can do a better job protecting people than the ones who are charged with doing so,” Kathrael said persuasively, not above stroking Qaden’s ego—especially when the words were true. “Think about it. You could be a regional governor. A man of real power and influence, respected by everyone in the city.”

“And you can promise me that, can you?” The words were skeptical, but Kathrael heard the waver of uncertainty behind them.

It was Favian who answered. “Qaden. If a shape-shifter who’s just brought down the king of Rhyth endorses you before the rebel leaders and the freed slaves, do you really think they’re going to ignore his suggestion?”

Qaden chewed his lip, thoughts flashing behind his eyes like quicksilver. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “I must be bent in the head to even be considering this.” Then, louder, “Lemme think about it for a day, you mad bastards.”

* * *

The villa where Tullus Coruscanus Abito of Alyrios was staying was not really on the same scale as the houses of the nobles she and the others had entertained in recent weeks. After all, that would be unseemly, since the weapons dealer was still a mere commoner.

Worse, Kathrael knew, he was a commoner who had dared to accumulate vast amounts of personal wealth. That alone made him suspect in the eyes of Great Houses, but Tullus was content to rely on the fact that the king needed his crossbows badly enough to hold his nose against the stench of low breeding and do business with him.

She, Ithric, and Favian were just finishing up the version of their show adapted for smaller spaces—the villa’s courtyard, in this case. Kathrael had watched the dealer as much as she could during the performance, and was confident she had him pegged. She’d run across his type many times before, during her years as a prostitute—a tourist from the continent, no doubt full to bursting with stories of the debauchery which might be found in the rich areas of Rhyth.

For such men, Rhyth offered a taste of forbidden fruit. A sweet nectar unavailable within the strict social order of Alyrios, where the vengeful religion and draconian government threatened ruin to anyone who dared step publicly beyond the bounds of morality.

Though it would offend the king and his fat nobles no end, most Alyrions still considered Rhyth to be part and parcel of the barbarian lands of Eburos. A place where the people threw great festivals in honor of their pagan gods, drinking and dancing and engaging in unashamedly public sex while high on the smoke of potent herbs.

It wasn’t a completely fabricated perception, to be fair. In the north, she’d seen just such a festival while staying in Draebard. The townsfolk cast themselves into their carousing with a refreshing sort of light-hearted innocence, and truly believed it to be a form of worship—a sort of thanksgiving to the Old Gods for their bounty.
At the time, she’d been in no fit mental or physical state to truly take part, but she thought now that it must be a wonderful feeling to surrender oneself to such carefree pleasure and happiness amongst friends and loved ones.

In Rhyth, such events had long since become mere stage shows, as the rich strove to outspend their peers on the biggest, the most depraved, the most flamboyant displays. Any sense of spiritual renewal had been wrung out of the practice, leaving only the spectacle behind.
We made a lot of money at those spectacles, Kath, Vesh’s ghost chided. Working the festivals was a damned sight better than hustling for marks on street corners or in the brothels.

Her lip twitched upward. I suppose. I remember you always seemed to enjoy them. Though I didn’t like the feeling that we were only there on sufferance, enjoying the largess of the rich for a few hours before being shunted back to the streets and alleys where we belonged.

And now? Vesh asked. Do you still resent it?

Her eyes drifted to Ithric, just finishing up the final verse of the Ballad of Ozias and Audris as she accompanied him on her sithaa, and over to Favian, who brought the two white horses on whose backs he was standing to a smooth halt before Tullus and his retinue.

Give me a choice between this fancy villa and our little room back in the abandoned warehouse by the river, she thought, and I’d be back there before the last echoes faded.

But that was not to be. Not yet, anyway.

She had a very good idea now of what they might do to tempt Tullus Coruscanus Abito of Alyrios into the net they had woven for him. She’d watched him watching her, as she danced and twirled in her feathered mask and flowing skirts. She knew that look very well, indeed—for all that she’d never expected to encounter it again after a vial of green vitriol ruined the left side of her face.

The question would be whether Ithric and Favian would follow her lead as she tried to lure Tullus into her trap. She thought that Ithric probably understood the use of sexual power as a tool, with no other meaning behind it. She was far less sure of Favian, however.

And, if she were to be brutally honest with herself, she was not entirely sure how far she was willing to take the ruse. Once, the answer would have been as far as necessary, no questions asked. Now…

Her eyes strayed back to the two men who owned her heart.

Then you’ll need to be smarter than that, Vesh chided. The Alyrion already covets you. Make him jealous. Make him start to lose judgment.

A new smile pulled at the corner of her lips. Were you always so devious, Vesh? she wondered.

Just be glad I’m on your side. The response was dry.
Her smile widened. Always, she thought.

Favian and Ithric were bowing, accompanied by the enthusiastic applause of the dealer, his bodyguards, and his little group of hangers-on. Kathrael set her instrument aside, rose gracefully to her feet, and joined them, dropping into a deep curtsey and meeting the weapons dealer’s gaze through her eyelashes. His clapping slowed as his attention caught on her, and held.
Yes, she could definitely work with this.

Their purpose tonight was reconnaissance. Somehow, they needed to capture Tullus and transport him in secret to the warehouse holding the crossbows. The question was where and how best to do so. It had quickly become obvious that plucking him directly from his borrowed villa would be a difficult prospect, and one fraught with risk.

In addition to his two hulking bodyguards, the household was populated by a gaggle of servants, some of whom were Rhytheeri slaves on loan from the king, and some of whom were Alyrion and had traveled over with Tullus from the continent. There were also the status seekers, Rhytheeri from lower stations who hoped to curry favor or make connections by cozying up to the powerful visitor.

Even if members of the underground snuck into the residence in the middle of the night with help from their slave contact, there was every likelihood that the resulting commotion would draw attention and end with fighting, or at least end in someone raising the alarm. They needed a different option. A way to get the dealer somewhere relatively isolated, and off his guard.
They had one good chance to accomplish such a thing, and this was it.

“Please,” Tullus was saying in his heavy, continental accent, “you must all join me for a drink. I find your talents intriguing, and have many questions for you.”

Kathrael stepped in before either of the others could answer. “We would be honored. Favian and Ithric will need to care for the horses first, but that will only take a few minutes. Perhaps I could beg a glass of wine from you while we wait for them? I always feel so parched after I’ve danced.”

She threw Ithric and Favian a swift glance, wishing—not for the first time—that she shared Dex and Petra’s gift for silent communication with them. Trust me, she tried to convey.

Favian drew breath and opened his mouth as if to say something, a furrow forming between his eyebrows. Ithric’s expression remained smooth as glass, even though his gaze on her narrowed. He placed a hand on Favian’s arm, cutting off whatever he might have said.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Why don’t you keep our host company for a bit, pet? We won’t be long.”

He shot Tullus one of his sharp, disconcerting smiles and steered Favian away, toward the entrance where they’d parked the caravan. Kathrael let her breath out, confident that Ithric understood the general thrust of her plan. She would be the flighty female lover, susceptible to seduction by a rich, powerful man who might offer her more comforts and shiny baubles than she could get from a pair of street performers.

Not only would Tullus stand to gain the pleasure of a fleeting conquest—for fleeting it would surely be, if she were actually foolish enough to desire such a thing. He would also gain the satisfaction of cuckolding another man, taking his woman from under his very nose. It would make an amusing story for cold nights back in Alyrios, to impress his acquaintances over a bottle of wine. Based on the way he surrounded himself with sycophants, she gathered that such things were important to him.

“Slave,” Tullus ordered one of the servants with a snap of his fingers, “fetch this woman and her friends the best wine we have.”

Kathrael looked down demurely as Tullus ushered her to the low table that had been set up at the far end of the courtyard. Lit braziers crackled merrily on either side of it, pushing back the winter chill and dark night.

Furs and pillows were strewn around, and she allowed Tullus to guide her down onto a pile of them with a touch to her elbow. He reclined across from her, and studied her for a moment as the servant hurried back with wine.

The Alyrion was not an unattractive man, by any means—fit and of medium height, with patrician features and dark, shoulder-length hair swept back from his face. Kathrael imagined that he was well practiced at beguiling naive young girls and luring them into his bed.

Don’t let him… don’t let him, daughter! Her mother’s spirit, usually a quiet, unhappy presence lurking in the background, had grown deeply upset. That’s what happened to me…

The ghost of Kathrael’s unborn daughter began to whimper, roused by her grandmother’s distress.

Hush now, Thea, Vesh warned. You’ll wake the baby. Kath is just pretending. It’s only a ploy to steal away his shiny crossbows. Favian and Ithric won’t let anything bad happen to her.

Her mother subsided, only muttering, Careful, daughter… be careful…

I will be, Mother. I promise, she thought.

Despite the distractions lurking in her mind, Kathrael made herself focus on the here and now. She smiled shyly and accepted the flagon of wine set before her, taking a sip.

It was quite good.

“So,” Tullus began conversationally, “your companions are certainly an exotic pair. Not from Rhytheeri stock, I gather?”

She looked up at him through the eyelashes of her good eye, playing the role of coquette to the hilt. “No, indeed,” she said. “They’re from up north somewhere. The barbarian lands. But as long as I dance and play the sithaa for their show, and warm their beds at night, they are surprisingly good to me. I have a safe place to stay, and enough food to eat. It is more than many in Rhyth can say, these days.”

His eyes darkened. “Warm their beds,” he echoed, surprise coloring his tone. “What… both of them?”