"Even if the Algarvians drop eggs on Priekule, they can't knock the Cellar down. We're already underground." He giggled as if he'd said something very funny.
"This is the place to be because it's the place to be," Krasta replied with a shrug. Had the Cellar been built atop the Kauman Column of Victory, she still would have frequented the nightspot. Anyone who was, or who had pretensions of being, someone came here. People who weren't someone looked on from a distance and envied. That was the way the world worked.
Valnu lifted his mug of porter. "So good to find you thinking as clearly as ever." Malice flavored the affection in his voice as the wormwood embittered Krasta's sweet brandy. I hope your brother is still safe, there in the west."
"He was well, last letter I had from him." Krasta tossed her head, send ing pale gold curls flying: old imperial styles had suddenly become the rage.
"But this is too much talk about the war. I don't want to think about the war." The truth of the matter was, she didn't want to think at all.
"Very well." Valnu's smile turned him into the most charming skull Krasta had ever known. "Let's dance, then." He got to his feet.
"All right, why not?" Krasta said carelessly. The room spun a little as she rose: that spiked brandy was potent stuff. She laughed as Valnu slid an arm around her waist and guided her out on to the floor.
Valnu was a thoroughgoing predator. His principal virtue was that he never pretended to be anything else. As he and Krasta danced, his hand slid from the small of her back to close on the smooth curve of her left buttock. He pressed her tight against him, so tight that she could not pos sibly doubt he had more than dancing on his mind.
She might have loosened some of his white, pointed teeth for him because of the liberties he took with her noble person. She contemplated it, in fact, as well as she could contemplate anything in her rather fuddled state. But his mocking smile said he was waiting for her to do just that.
Except when making sure commoners stayed in their place, she hated doing anything someone else expected of her. And, she realized, she was feeling randy herself She'd decide later how far she intended to let him go. For the moment, she simply enjoyed herself
And it wasn't as if she were the only woman in the Cellar whose companion was feeling her up on the dance floor. It was not a place to which women who minded being rumpled in public commonly came. I can [..ed..] always blame it on the brandy, she thought. But she didn't really need to of blame it. on anything. She did as she pleased. No one could make her do as, anything else.
The music stopped. Krasta set her hand on the back of Valnu's head [..the.] and pulled his face down to hers. She kissed him, open-mouthed. He tasted of porter: bitter, but not so bitter as the wormwood in her brandy.
Halfway through the kiss, she opened her eyes. Valnu was staning at her.
He was so close, his features blurred, but she thought he looked there astonished. She laughed, down deep in her throat.
He broke the kiss and twisted away. Now she had no trouble reading his [..nd-] expression. He was angry. Krasta laughed again. He must have realized he'd raged gone from predator to prey, realized it and not cared for it at all. "You're [..t.] the a fire-breather, aren't you?" he said, his voice rougher than usual.
"What if I am?" Krasta tossed her head again, as she had back at the table. She pointed toward the musicians. "They're going to start again in a minute. Do you want to dance some more, or have we already done everything we can do standing up?"
Valnu did his best to rally. "Not quite everything," he answered, more self-collected now. Bold as brass, he reached out and cupped her breast through the fabric of her tunic. His thumb and forefinger unerringly found her nipple. He teased it for a few seconds, then let her go.
Maybe he hadn't understood how hot and reckless Krasta was feeling.
Maybe she hadn't realized it herself, not till those knowing fingers [..furt..] inflamed her. She reached out, too, at a lower level.
Had he pulled off his trousers and lain down on the floor, she [..imi..] have mounted him then and there. Such things were said to happen the Cellar now and again, though Krasta had never seen them there.
Valnu, after shaking himself like a wet hound, went back to the table four or five long strides. Krasta followed him. Her cheeks burned. [..] heart raced. She breathed quickly, as if she'd just run a long way.
Valnu gulped the porter left in his mug. He was looking at Krasta a he'd never seen her before. "Brimstone and quicksilver," he mutter more to himself than to her. "Dragon-bitch."
After what she'd drunk, she took it as a compliment: indeed, she ne thought to wonder whether it might be anything else. Her own gob smaller than the earthenware mug from which he'd drunk, held bra yet. She poured it down. An egg might have burst in her belly. Warmth flowed out of it: to her face, to her breasts, to her loins.
With a rumbling blast from the tuba player and a thunder of drum beats, the band started up again. The rhythm seemed to be inside her, [..ing..] her to the brim; the laced brandy kicked like a wild ass. As if [...fr..] very far away, Valnu asked, "Do you want to go out on the floor again."
"No." Krasta shook her head. The room seemed to keep moving a she stopped. "Let's ride around the town in my cam-age - or even into the country."
"In your carriage?" Valnu frowned. "What win the coachman thin[..]."
"Who cares?" Krasta said gaily. "Powers above! He's only a coachman."
Valnu silently clapped his hands. "Spoken like the true woman nobility you are," he exclaimed, and got to his feet. So did Krasta, hoping the process looked smoother to him than it felt to her. They retrieve their cloaks from the little antech amber just outside the main room - the night had its full share of autumn chill - then went upstairs and out in the darkness.
That darkness was well-nigh absolute. Though no Algarvian dragons had yet appeared over Priekule, the city escaped itself in black.
A good many carnages waited outside the Cellar while their nob owners reveled the night away. Krasta had to call several times before could sort out which one was hers.
"Where to, milady?" her driver asked when she and Valnu climbed up into the seat behind him. "Back to the mansion?"
"No, no," Krasta said. "Just drive about for a while. If you happen to come on a road that leads out of the city - well, so much the better."
The coachman stayed quiet longer than he should have. When at last he spoke, he said was, "Aye, milady. It shall be as you command." He clucked to the horses and flicked the reins. The carriage began to move.
Krasta hardly noticed his words. Of course it would be as she commanded. How could it be otherwise, when she was dealing with her own servitors? She turned to Valnu, a vague shape in the darkness beside her.
She reached out for him as he was reaching out for her. The coachman paid no attention. He knew better than to pay attention… or, at least, to be seen paying attention.
Under the cover of their cloaks, Valnu's hand found the bone toggles that held her tunic closed. He undid a couple of them and reached inside the tunic to fondle her bare breast. Careless of the coachman, Krasta moaned. When her mouth met Valnu's this time, the kiss was so fierce, she tasted blood: his or hers, she could not tell.
His hand slid out of her tunic. He rubbed at the crotch of her trousers.
She thought she would burst like an egg then. Valnu chuckled. His hand dived under her waistband, His fingers, long and slim and clever, knew exactly where to go and exactly what to do when they got there. Krasta gasped and shuddered, for a moment blind with pleasure. Valnu chuckled again, as pleased with himself as he was with having pleased her. The horses plodded on, hooves clopping on cobbles, Stolid as the animals he drove, the coachman minded the reins.
Krasta thought of ordering Valnu out of the carriage now that he'd given her what she wanted. But, sated and tipsy, she felt more generous than usual. She rubbed him through the wool of his trousers. After an abrupt inhalation, he murmured, "I do hope you won't make me explain myself to my laundryman."
She laughed and rubbed harder. Nothing could have made her more inclined to do just that than his hoping she wouldn't. After a moment, though, still in that uncommonly kindly mood, she unbuttoned his fly and drew him forth. She stroked him some more.
"Ahhh," he said softly.
Had Krasta gone on for another minute or two, she would have made Valnu explain himself to his laundryman: of that she had no doubt.
Instead, she lowered her head, saying, "Here. I will give you a treat you could have only from a noblewoman." She took him in her mouth. His flesh was hot and smooth.
His fingers tangled in her hair. Above her busy lips and tongue, he laughed. "You are quite a lot of woman, my sweet," he said, "but what you're doing there hasn't been a secret of the nobility for a long, long time, if it ever was. Why, only last week this pretty little shopgirl-"
In spite of his hands, she raised up so suddenly that the back of her head caught him in the chin. "What?" she hissed as he yelped in pain. Fury filled her as quickly and completely as lubriciousness had. Before he could even start to set himself to rights, she pushed him with all her strength.
He had time for only a startled squawk before he tumbled out on to the cobbles.
"Milady, what on earth -?" he began.
"Shut up!" Krasta snarled. Careless of her left breast peeping out from the undone tunic, she leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Take me home this instant. Make your stupid beasts move or you'll be sorry for it, do you hear me?"
"Aye, milady," the coachman answered: not a word more, which was wise of him. He flicked the reins. After what sounded like surprised snorts, the horses moved up into a trot. Krasta looked back over her shoulder. Valnu took a couple of steps in pursuit of the carriage, then gave up. He vanished in the darkness behind her.