Chapter 29
There were a number of things that the Dervish would have liked to do, though some of them involved oil and a certain amount of preparation. Since he didn’t know what Edmund preferred, he was reluctant to push too far, too fast, particularly in light of their disastrous first attempt.
Still, two intelligent, aroused, and extremely naked people could almost always find some way to enjoy each other, and so they did.
He learned that Edmund was not completely inexperienced.
Edmund learned that the Dervish could do some quite impressive things with his tongue.
Mutual education eventually led to the Dervish working himself between Edmund’s thighs, fist wrapped around the other man’s cock, while Edmund whimpered and gasped and thrust into his hand.
“Not yet,” he growled into the scholar’s ear. “Not until I tell you.”
“Ah! God! Please—Dervish, please—”
The sound of his name undid him. His back arched, fingers tightening until Edmund moaned under him. “Now,” he said, and Edmund’s body bucked so hard it nearly threw him off the bed, which had not been designed for two people.
Spent, they collapsed together. The Dervish took the outside spoon and wrapped his arm around Edmund’s waist. Edmund started to cover the Dervish’s hand with his own, then stopped.
After a moment, he brushed his thumb lightly alongside the Dervish’s wrist, a gentle touch that did not leave the Dervish feeling pinned.
Good. That was good. The Dervish closed his eyes.
It was impossible to fully sleep on the narrow bed, but they dozed together for a few minutes, until Edmund finally sighed and got up to get a towel.
The Dervish watched him walk across the room, admiring the view.
He had excellent thighs. The Dervish had never quite noticed that, given the robes the scholar always wore, but they were superb. He’d always admired good thighs.
Edmund wet the towel from the basin and cleaned himself off, then wrung it out and offered it to the Dervish, who took it and cleaned both himself and the bed. They moved to the other one to give the mattress time to dry out.
“That was excellent,” the Dervish said, leaning back. “We should have done that much sooner.”
“We didn’t really have much opportunity on the road. Or beds. Just a lot of logs, and they’re really not the same.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” The Dervish imagined Edmund bent over a log, ass up, begging for release, and felt himself stir. “Though our traveling companions might have had a lot to say.”
Edmund snorted. “I shudder to think what Dog Violet would have had to say.”
“I’d be more worried about Large Francis asking if we were going to lay eggs.”
“Do you know that her people don’t engage in recreational sex at all? She seemed rather puzzled by the notion. Two females will agree to lay male eggs for each other, but that’s the closest they get.”
“Ancestors.” The Dervish stared at the ceiling in mild horror. “The poor things.”
“Comes of having non-sentient males, I suppose.”
“I guess. Though I’ve had a few lovers that were definitely borderline, so far as that goes.” He stretched. “I have to admit that I’m out of practice myself.”
Edmund scoffed at him. “Out of practice, he says.”
“It’s been a few hundred years. And I’m definitely older than I was.” He put his wrist to his forehead in mock sorrow. “Pretty soon the handsome young men will be saying, ‘Look at him, he’s so well-preserved.’”
Edmund rolled his eyes. “That one fellow at the inn didn’t seem to think so.”
“Who?”
“The one—the place with the sauna—”
“Oh, him.” The Dervish’s brow smoothed. Had Edmund been jealous? Delightful thought. “He wasn’t my type.”
“You said I wasn’t your type.”
“Yes, well, I lie a lot.”
“What is your type, anyway?”
The Dervish considered this question from all angles. “Do you know, I haven’t the foggiest idea?”
Edmund started laughing and the Dervish pulled him back down onto the too-small bed to show him that about some things, he had a great many ideas indeed.
The next morning, they returned to Chime Street, where the toad let them inside with every evidence of reluctance. “The scholar is very busy,” he said.
Edmund refrained from mentioning that the scholar had requested he deliver the sword and he wasn’t simply wandering in off the street. The important thing was that the scholar would see them, and, if the gods were kind, maybe she would know something about how the swords functioned.
The toad ushered them up a flight of stairs, past a workroom, and into a study.
Three walls were lined with bookcases, surrounding the windows on all sides, as if the resident had begrudged giving up even that much wall space.
An unlit fireplace dominated the fourth wall, and Scholar Andraste sat at a heavy oak desk with her back to it, writing busily.
If her butler looked like a toad, Scholar Andraste looked like a barn owl. She had wide, dark eyes set in a pale face that tapered to a pointed chin. Tan hair cut short completed the resemblance.
She looked up at the two of them and smiled as if she wasn’t sure what to do with her teeth. “You must be here about the sword?”
“Yes,” Edmund said. “I’m Learned Edmund”—he winced internally, but it would help to establish his bona fides—“of the Ghaston temple, and this is…”
“The Dervish.”
“Yes, of course.” Andraste rose to her feet and offered her hand to Edmund, although her gaze went over his shoulder to the Dervish, where it lingered for a long moment. Edmund couldn’t blame her for that, since he’d rather be looking at the Dervish, too.
“Please, sit,” Andraste said, gesturing to two chairs in front of her desk. “I requested the sword from the temple, but I understand that you wished to deliver it to me in person?” Her gaze went back to the Dervish again.
Edmund, too, looked at the Dervish. “Perhaps it’s best if you explain,” he said, not wanting to give away any information that the Dervish would prefer kept secret.
The silver-eyed warrior considered for a long moment, then unslung the sword from around his hips. “This is the sword,” he said. “I’m the spirit cursed to live in it.”
Scholar Andraste did not turn so much as a hair. “I see.”
“Perhaps a demonstration is in order?” Edmund knew how much the Dervish disliked being forced back into the blade, but this was also quite a claim to swallow at face value.
The Dervish nodded and handed him the blade. Edmund unwrapped the piece of cloth that kept the sword from going all the way into the sheath and waited for the Dervish’s nod.
Silver light spidered across him and he vanished.
Scholar Andraste made a small, wordless exclamation and sat back. Edmund hastily unsheathed it and the Dervish reappeared, standing behind his chair.
“My god,” she said. “It’s real. It was such a long shot—an artifact described as a sword that couldn’t be drawn—and here it is.”
“Here I am,” the Dervish said.
“You knew about these?” Edmund asked.
“I’d heard rumors. And of course I read the recent monograph along with everyone else.”
Ah, yes. The monograph that everyone at the temple thought was a load of barnacle pigeons. Edmund remembered telling the Dervish about that, approximately a thousand years ago, and how offended the Dervish had been.
Apparently Scholar Andraste hadn’t been so skeptical. She extended her hands. “May I?”
Edmund waited for the Dervish to nod again, then handed it over. Scholar Andraste drew the blade the rest of the way out and turned it over in her hands, her face alight.
The Dervish cleared his throat. “If you’ve heard about these, do you know some way to break the curse?”
“Curse?”
“The bit where I’m trapped inside it for eternity, serving the wielder, all that?”
“Yes, of course.” Andraste shook her head. “I’m sorry, this is a lot for me to take in.”
“We were really hoping that your research might have turned up something in that direction,” Edmund said. “Are there some references that you might have? A way to destroy the sword, perhaps?”
“Supposedly they can’t be destroyed,” Andraste said. She looked up from the blade at last. “Have you tried?”
“As much as I’ve been able to. It doesn’t rust, even when normal steel ought to. Fire doesn’t affect it at all. Neither does smashing it on a rock.”
“Hmm.”
A prickle of unease ran across Edmund’s skin. “I suspect that the Forge God’s temple would be very interested in the secret of indestructible steel,” he said.
“Of course,” Scholar Andraste said absently, still examining the blade.
“The possible uses in construction … bridges … machinery…” Edmund pressed.
“Uh-huh.”
Edmund had known a fair number of people in service to the Forge God. If given the opportunity to expound on the uses of an indestructible metal, not one of them would have been able to resist. The eyes of the most taciturn blacksmith in existence would at least light up at the thought.
Andraste’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker.
This is a trap, Edmund thought, with sudden, wonderful clarity.
“At any rate,” he said, “obviously since the Dervish is tied to the sword, he has the overriding claim on it. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes, of course.” She tested the edge with her thumb. “Have you ever sharpened it?”
“I’ve never needed to,” the Dervish said.
“Fascinating.”
“I’d be much more fascinated by a way to get out of it.”
“Mmm. Yes. What do you remember of the process?” She finally looked away from the sword, to look up at the Dervish. “Knowing how you got in is critical to getting out.”
“About as much as you’d expect. I was looking down at a red-hot sword, and then they stabbed me with it.”
Andraste pursed her lips. “Red-hot or white-hot?”
“Uh…” The Dervish closed his eyes, clearly trying to recall. “Orange? Maybe?”
“You know,” said Edmund helpfully, “around eleven hundred degrees.”
“Mmm.” Andraste rose, holding the sword in one hand. “I need to take this to my colleagues for a moment, to inspect. If you’ll wait here—”
“No!” Edmund said, half rising out of his seat.