Page 16 of Seducing the Sorcerer
The horse blew warm breath into his hair and nearly dislodged his new hat.
“Aye, well. But it’s a one-off trip. Got it?”
The bathroom was cheerful as a morgue but there was no dragon. And it was good and big with space for a dozen horses. Fenn hurried his sacking monstrosity inside before it could be noticed by a passing housemaid—not that he’d seen any housemaids—and encouraged it to stand in a corner.
In the middle of the room was a huge white porcelain tub with claw feet, a bar of yellow soap balanced on the edge. A speckled mirror hung on a wall that was lush with emerald moss. On a wooden chest beneath the mirror lay a pile of towels, a couple of flannel wash-cloths, a back brush, shaving gear, and a large pair of scissors.
He approached the bath-tub and saw that a pipe came down from the gloom of the lofty ceiling and finished with a brass dragon’s head. He pressed its nose experimentally and warm water came out its mouth in a steaming gush. He pressed it again and it stopped. That was all right then.
And in a minute—Gods, he could hardly wait to be clean.
He set the water running, put the new clothes on the chest and stripped off his rags. Generally, he tried not to think about his personal state because there was nothing he could do about it, but now he permitted himself a grimace of distaste. His clothes were stiff with dried sweat and dirt, and removing them released the odour of his body, sour-sweet and foul, only bearable because in a moment he could wash it all away.
But first, his hair. He took the scissors and hacked away at the long strands. It was mostly grey these days, with a bit of brown sprinkled through. He cut it as short as he could, all over. It had been itchy lately, and he wasn’t sure if it was lice or just dirt. He trimmed his beard as short as he could too. He’d shave after his bath.
He turned the water off, climbed into the tub and sank under. It was marvellously deep and blissfully warm. A pang of unease shot through him. Had he used more hot than he should? Better make it count. He lathered up and scrubbed every bit of himself, first with the back brush, and then again with a flannel until he was red and stinging, though no amount of washing would remove the dirt ingrained in his hands and the heels of his feet.
The bath water went the same threatening grey-brown as the clouds that were massing outside. The mist had cleared but it was going to come down heavy again any minute. More rain. And the rest of the country in drought. Could Morgrim have stolen all the rain clouds to hold the country to ransom—his price the hand of Queen Aramella in marriage?
Ah, but Aramella had given Morgrim an expensive saddle horse. That didn’t fit with the ransom theory, unless the gift wasn’t what it seemed. Maybe royalty made a habit of giving “sod off” presents. Or maybe the horse was a right bastard and the lady hoped it’d throw the sorcerer and kill him in the process.
Or maybe she actually liked him.
Morgrim was alarming, that was true, and it was easy to imagine him wanting the crown, but he’d been sort of decent in the end, giving Fenn a place to sleep and breakfast and all. That wasn’t the act of a monster who deliberately made cows die and crops fail. Mind you, people never did have convenient horns and fangs so you could identify them easy. Life would be a lot simpler if they did.
And who knew what would come next?
Fenn drained the filthy water and rubbed himself dry. All the washing notwithstanding, grey rolls of dead skin came off with the towel. He shaved and turned for the clothes feeling twenty pounds lighter, though it was only a bit of dirt and hair that was gone. He dressed, fixed his neckcloth in the mirror and stared at himself in awe.
He was a vagabond no longer. He was worn, with new lines in his face and his head a field of grey stubble, but he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders and Mr. Fennrik Todd looked back at him, ready to visit a saddler or bargain with a grain merchant. His guts were fair churning at the thought of his upcoming interview, but, strangely, it was more anticipation than fear. It felt like he was about to try out a new horse or maybe get a fuck from a handsome stranger at a fair. It was an echo of how he’d felt for a while last night, riding that silly looking sacking horse up amongst the stars.
Aye, it was marvellous what a full belly and a wash and some new clothes could do, but it was dangerous to hope for a good job at the tower, because hope made a man careless, vulnerable to the next sucker punch. Morgrim wasn’t the avuncular type who arranged staff parties and knew the names of his servants’ children. Young Jasper seemed scared, so Fenn should be too. Because life could always get worse. If Morgrim wouldn’t let Fenn go and the horse wouldn’t fly out, he was stuck here, surely as a man in a prison cell.
He leaned closer to the glass, noted the broken veins in the whites of his eyes. His hair was thinner on top than last time he’d had access to a looking glass. His nose was still askew and the ragged scar still marred his cheek from that fall thirty years since. He was still himself. Still an ex-criminal with no recommendation. Still aging fast. Still with a whole lot of skills nobody wanted anymore. He couldn’t change any of that. He glowered at himself until the light in his eyes died.
“Aye, watch it, mate,” he whispered to his reflection. “You ain’t all that. And this is Morgrim you’re dealing with. Morgrim. So be bloody careful.”
Chapter 5
At the last stroke of the eleven o’clock bell, Fenn presented himself at the main tower door. It felt mighty brassy to be rapping at the front door like a visitor, but he hadn’t been able to find a servant’s entrance, nor anyone to tell him how to find one.
Jasper seemed to have vanished, and while Fenn had investigated the bowels of the tower and found a cold and silent kitchen, a deserted scullery, a pump room, a box room, a bric-a-brac room and a room full of bats—he hadn’t found another single person. It was as if everyone had run away. Or died. Or been magicked off to Gods knew where. He’d been gladder than ever of the worple horse, which had dogged his every step and goggled at everything along with him.
There was no answer, so he knocked on the tower door again.
He was thinking of knocking a third time when the bolt shot with the same ear-piercing squeal as the previous night. Fenn’s heart beat faster, even while a distant part of him wished for a drop of oil.
The front door opened and his pounding heart began to gallop because it was no butler or footman, but Morgrim himself in his sweeping black robe. He was hatless today and his hair fell past his shoulders like two lengths of black silk, interspersed here and there with threads of white. His beard was so neat it could have been sculpted in jet. His dark eyes widened in surprise.
“Morning.” Fenn hastily removed his new hat. “Sorry to disturb. Couldn’t find no other way in.”
A faint flush—probably annoyance—appeared on Morgrim’s cheeks above his beard. He was staring up at Fenn as if he’d never seen him before.
Fenn added defensively, “Brung the horse. Like you said. Sir.”
“Mr. Todd.” The sorcerer stepped back and opened the door wide. “I scarcely recognised you. You’ve bathed, I see. And tidied yourself. You look very...different. I hope everything has been to your satisfaction? Please, do come in. Yes, the horse too.”
The room the sorcerer called “the hall” was vast, dimly lit and circular, taking up what must be the entire diameter of the tower, which was at least fifty yards across. Murky tapestries hung at intervals on the dark stone walls and a huge empty banqueting table split the room into two. To the right was a roaring fire, built inside a fireplace that could have accommodated a family of four. At the far side of the room lurked a confused jumble of shadowy shapes that could be furniture, or iron maidens and thumbscrews and so on.
