“He’s out of the Quarry,” said Gabriel.
“Is he a mercenary?” Moog wanted to know. “Did he go solo? I mean, I understand he may not like us much, but … Ganelon never really seemed that interested in getting paid, you know? It was always more about the … um …”
“Killing,” said Matrick helpfully.
“Well, basically, yeah. It just seems odd he’d refuse to help save Rose unless you paid him.”
“The money isn’t to pay Ganelon,” Gabriel said, his eyes still glued to the sack of coins on his lap. “It’s to set him free.”
Chapter Nineteen
Guests of the Gorgon
The money, Gabriel confessed, was for a woman named Dinantra, in whose anteroom Clay and his bandmates were left to wait by a half-naked male servant who had greeted them at the door. Like Kallorek, who was often referred to as the Orc behind his back, Dinantra was known by a similarly monstrous moniker: the Gorgon. Whereas Kallorek’s nickname was a testament to his brutish manner and prodigious overbite, however, Dinantra owed hers to the fact that she was, in truth, a gorgon.
Despite that, when she finally swept into the anteroom Clay found her strikingly beautiful for a woman with a headful of snakes. The scales of her serpentine tail were the greenish gold of rain-washed copper, paling to cream at her throat and on the underside of her arms. She wore a tightly-cinched bodice that proffered her breasts like melons at a market stall, but it was all Clay could do not to drown in her eyes, which were the red of bruised apples in the fickle lamplight. The nest of serpents surrounding her face were the same colour. They hissed quietly whenever she spoke, underlying each word with a sibilant whisper.
“My dear Gabriel,” she said, “how pleasant to see you again. I’ll confess I didn’t expect you to return so soon, if at all.”
“I’ve brought your money,” said Gabriel.
“And friends as well,” she said, casting that smouldering gaze around what seemed to Clay to be a suddenly cramped room. There were plinths along each wall adorned with the sculpted heads of what, presumably, were the gorgon’s vaunted ancestors. “I do enjoy company,” purred Dinantra. “In fact, I already have some.”
Gabriel swallowed. The sack in his arms clinked as he shifted uncomfortably. “We could come back tomorrow,” he said, “but no later. I need—”
“Nonsense,” she said, her voice seeming to tickle the inside of Clay’s ear. “You’ve come all this way, and I think you’ll find my guest as diverting as I.”
Before Gabriel could muster a protest she turned and slithered deeper into the house. Gabe sighed, and started after her. Moog reached out to touch the snake-stone hair of one of the ancestral busts, while Matrick found his reflection in a nearby mirror and raked self-consciously at his tousled hair.
“I know the whole ‘gorgons turning men to stone’ thing is a myth,” he said quietly, “but I’m hard as a rock right now.”
Clay levelled a glare at the man who’d been his king less than a week ago. “Seriously?”
Matrick’s reflection winked in reply.
There was a dull snap, and Clay turned to find Moog holding a broken stone snake in his hand, looking as guilty as a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“Nothing,” said the wizard. “What? Wasn’t me.” He pried open his bottomless bag and tossed the shard inside, then motioned to the hallway down which Gabe and the Gorgon had disappeared. “Shall we?”
Clay had encountered a few gorgons in his time, and so knew a little about what to expect beyond the anteroom. Such creatures were avid art collectors, prizing everything from tastefully framed paintings to elegant furniture. What they loved most, though, were statues, and there were several in the expansive room into which Dinantra led them. Broad ramps curved up to either side, prompting Clay to realize that he’d never considered the difficulty a gorgon might have with conventional stairs.
The opposite wall was an open portico hung with gauzy curtains adrift on the cooling breeze. The room was aglow with the soft light of tall candles, and Clay watched Dinantra’s silhouette waver before them, marvelling that a woman whose lower half was a snake could manage an enthralling sway of her hips. The scent of cinnamon and roses wafted in her wake. There was music in the air, lilting Narmeeri twangs that reminded Clay of the desert, and of desert nights.
The gorgon’s other guest stood near the opposite side of the room, facing whatever lay in the darkness beyond. He wore a tattered red longcoat, and there were three scabbards slung sideways—
Oh gods …
Clay froze. Gabriel froze. Moog and Matrick, who’d been chatting to each other as they entered, fell silent.
The Duke of Endland turned, grinning his jagged druin grin. “Hello, Gabriel,” he said in a tone a cat might have used to greet a sleeping mouse stirring awake beneath its gaze. “And is that Old King Matrick I see behind you? I’d heard you were dead.”
Matrick tried giving voice to some jibe or another, but instead he just stood there, gaping like a fish left to die on the bottom of a boat.
Lastleaf’s mismatched eyes brushed over Moog, lingered a moment longer on Clay himself. “My apologies for not recognizing the rest of you at Lindmoor. I was rather preoccupied at the time, and in fairness you’ve aged considerably since last we met.”
Clay belatedly noticed at least a dozen heavily muscled men positioned around the room. Each wore a mirrored buckler on one arm, a close-faced helmet, and a loincloth sewn with gold coins. They each stood at rigid attention, clasping a long spear in both hands before them. Clay hadn’t decided yet whether or not to be reassured or worried by their presence.
Gabriel spoke to the gorgon without taking his eyes off Lastleaf. “What is he doing here?”
Dinantra slunk into a lowered seating area and began piling her coils onto a divan. “It has been my privilege to host the Duke during his visit to Grandual. He is an honored guest, as you are.” She extended her arm and a young man wearing nothing but white trousers cinched at the knee hurried forward to place a delicate bowl in her hand. “Come and sit, Gabriel. Have wine.”
Gabe shook his head, retreating a step. “We’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “Clay, let’s go.”
“If you wish to leave, leave,” said Dinantra. There was a new, impatient edge to her voice that had been previously absent. “But do not return. Ganelon can remain just as he is. In fact, I quite prefer him this way.”
That brought Gabriel up short, and Clay saw Lastleaf’s grin deepen into something decidedly more predatory before it disappeared behind the rim of his own wine bowl.
Clay and the others filtered down among the furniture. Gabriel, without taking his eyes off the druin, perched on the edge of a high-backed chair with the bag of gold at his feet. Matty and Moog squeezed into a small sofa. Matrick was stuck holding a silken, cylinder-shaped pillow that he was forced to wedge between his legs. Clay settled for something like a cushioned footstool that made his back ache the moment he sat down.
“There is room here,” said the gorgon, patting the empty space behind her rump.
Clay offered a tight smile in reply. “I’m good,” he said.
Wine was brought and poured into bowls for each of them. When the servants left, Dinantra made a show of raising hers and taking a sip, a custom among the Narmeeri (whose culture she seemed to have appropriated) to assure guests that the wine had not been poisoned. The snakes on her head seemed to strain forward as she did so.
“You two have a history, I understand.” She glanced between Lastleaf and Gabriel with obvious relish, a blood-hungry spectator watching bitter rivals face off on an arena floor.
“We do,” said Lastleaf.
“He ambushed us in the Heartwyld,” said Gabriel.
“He gave me this.” The druin touched the scar beneath his darkened eye.
“He tried to steal my sword.”