Holger clenched his fists. He felt strangled. That worthless Saracen—
But Alianora had fallen all over herself to heed Carahue’s flatteries. The little bird-brain!
Rusel laid one hand on Holger’s neck. Her lips were close to his. He saw how they swelled. “All right,” he said thickly. “Let’s go to your house, at least.”
“How you gladden me, gallant sir! You shall see what dainties have been prepared. And what pleasures undreamed of by the oafish land dwellers there may be in these depths, where no weight hinders, the freedom of the body.”
Holger could well imagine. If he was caught, why not enjoy it? “Let’s go,” he repeated.
Rusel fluttered her lashes. “Will you not first remove that ugly sack?”
He looked at his water-logged garments and back at her. His hands fell to his belt.
But instead he clapped hold on Duke Alfric’s dagger. Memory flashed in him. For a moment he stood rigid. Then he shook his head, violently, and said, “Later, at the house. I expect I’ll want them again sometime.”
“Nay, Morgan will garb you in silk and vain. But let us not anticipate my sorrow when you must depart. Come!” The nixie arrowed off. Holger followed, threshing by comparison like a paddle-wheel steamer. She returned and laughed as she swam circles around him. Often she darted in to touch his mouth with her own, but slipped free before he could grab her. “Soon, soon,” she promised. The pike trailed after. Their eyes were dull lanterns behind the jaws.
Rusel’s house was not the coral palace he had half expected. Walls or roof were useless here. A ring of boulders bore weeds that streamed upward out of sight, forming curtains of green and brown which stirred, shifted, rippled. Fish darted in and out, minnows that fled at the nixie’s approach and trout with iridescent scales that nuzzled her fingers. As he passed through the weeds, Holger felt their touch cool and slimy on his skin.
Beyond, partitions of the same sort marked off a few large rooms. Rusel conducted him to a feasting chamber. Here stood ghostly frail chairs woven of fish bones, around a stone table inset with shell and nacre, laid with covered dishes of gold.
“Observe, my lord,” she said. “I’ve even gotten rare wines for you, by the help of Queen Morgan.” She handed him a spherical vessel with a stoppered tube, not unlike a South American bombilla. “You must drink from this, lest the lake water spoil the contents. But do drink, to our better acquaintance.”
Her own clinked against his. The wine was a noble vintage, full and heady. She leaned close. Her nostrils dilated, her lips invited him. “Welcome,” she repeated. “Would you dine at once? Or shall we first —”
I can afford one night here, he thought. His temples hammered. Of course I can. I’ve got to, even to disarm her suspicion before I try to make a break. “I’m not very hungry at the moment,” he said.
She made a purring noise and began to unlace his jerkin. He fumbled again with his own belt. As he took it off, her eye fell on the empty sheath and the filled one beside.
“But that can’t be steel!” she exclaimed. “I’d have sensed the nearness of cold iron. Ah, I see.”
She drew the blade and regarded it closely. “The Dagger of Burning,” she spelled out. “Strange name. Faerie workmanship, not so?”
“Yes, I won it from Duke Alfric, when I overcame him in battle,” Holger bragged.
“I’m not surprised, noble lord.” She rubbed her head against his breast. “No other man could have done so; but you are no other man.” Her attention wandered back to the dagger. “I’ve never seen that metal before,” she said. “All I have down here is gold and silver. I keep trying to tell the barbarian priests I want bronze, but they are so stupid even when conscious, let alone in a prophetic trance, that it never occurs to them the demon of the lake might have use for something with a good cutting edge. I have a few flint knives left from ancient times when such were offered me, but they’re worn down to nubbins.”