A Painted Goddess by Victor Gischler Page A

Giffen’s underlings aren’t usually so . . . appealing.” He pushed back his hood. He was a little older than she thought he’d be, gray hair over each ear, hairline receding. He was clean shaven with an open face and an easy smile full of white teeth. He seemed amiable and fatherly.
    Darshia wasn’t falling for it.
    “Do you have it?” Darshia asked.
    “Do you have the gold?”
    Darshia had a bag slung over one shoulder. She wore only a plain dress, no armor, no sword hanging from her belt. She didn’t want to send the wrong signal. But there was a short dagger in the bag next to the gold. So far, there seemed no need for it, but situations like this were known to change rapidly.
    She took out the gold, jingled the purse.
    Knarr reached into his robe and came out with something wrapped in soft leather. He handed it to her. It fit into the palm of her hand but was heavy. She dropped the object into her bag.
    Knarr reached for the gold, but Darshia pulled back.
    “Not so fast,” Darshia said. “Sorry to put you on the spot, but I have some questions. I’d like you to come with me, and we can discuss—”
    He was surprisingly fast, reached out, latched on to Darshia’s wrist, and drew her close. The unmistakable feel of cold steel against her ribs told her Knarr held a dagger.
    “Forgive me, madam,” Knarr said. “But I’m afraid I have neither the time nor the inclination to answer awkward questions. I have no desire to mar what I’m sure is lovely skin underneath your dress, but I must insist on my payment. Simply hand it over, and I’ll be on my way and we can avoid an unpleasant altercation.”
    “Nobody wants anything unpleasant.” Darshia turned her head to speak to the others who were approaching at a fast walk. “Do we, ladies?”
    Knarr looked to see the approaching Birds of Prey, a dozen of them in full armor, hands on the hilts of their swords, expressions stern. They formed a circle around Knarr and Darshia.
    Knarr considered a moment and then stepped back from Darshia. He flipped the dagger over in his hand and gave it to Darshia hilt first. “It would be rude of me to refuse the hospitality of such lovely—and well-armed—ladies.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Alem lay shivering in the sand. He couldn’t quite decide if that were better or worse than baking on a hot rock, which was how he’d started the morning. Every muscle screamed pain. It had been a much farther swim than it had looked.
    He curled there a long time, listening to the surf. The upside to his situation was that he was far too exhausted to think about the things he didn’t want to think about anyway. He didn’t want to think of Rina hundreds and hundreds of miles away, planning her marriage to another man. He didn’t want to think about Maurizan possibly drowned or worse. Had she really been taken by Miko’s Fish Man? The world was crazy.
    But Alem was relieved for the moment from such concerns. All he could think about was that he was incredibly thirsty and hungry.
    And stranded on an island in the middle of nowhere that might have cannibals on it.
    He forced himself to his feet and took stock. His worldly possessions amounted to the ragged wet clothes he wore and his boots. He’d also managed to hang on to his coin purse but didn’t imagine there was anywhere nearby he might spend his coin. The moon hung huge and bright, and he took a good look at the island in front of him. Palm trees. Undergrowth not too thick. The smart thing would be to sit tight and wait for daylight.
    He couldn’t think why he should all of a sudden start doing the smart thing now.
    Alem pulled on his boots and cautiously moved inland.
    Water drove him to explore. The inside of his mouth was salty and dry. There had to be water somewhere.
    Under the canopy of palm trees, it was much darker, moonlight filtering through here and there. Alem tripped over a vine and almost went down. Some small animal rustling in the brush to his left startled him. He