Free The Devil's Concubine (The Devil of Ponong series #1) by Jill Braden Page A

the town.
    “He could have asked
them to hold it for us,” Ivitch said. He covered his ears as the engine that
powered the funicular’s drive chain gave off a shrill whistle.
    QuiTai pointed to
the steep road leading up the hillside. “You could always walk.”
    “I’ll wait for the other car to come down.”
    “Suit yourself.” She walked away from the
ticket booth.
    “Where are you going?”
    “As long as I’m here, I thought I’d pay a
social call. Run along. I no longer need you to protect me from Mister Zul.”
    “I take my orders from the Devil, not his
whore.”
    “I am wounded, Ivitch, simply gutted by your
scathing condemnation.”
    Confusion spread over his features slowly, in
keeping with the speed of his thoughts. It was as if his brain were surrounded
by thick paste. It was almost painful to wait for her barbs to hit their mark; she
used to lose patience and try to push the process along, but that only seemed
to confuse him more. It was a mistake to ignore him, though, the same way it
would be lunacy to turn her back on a mob.
    She was sorry he wasn’t Kyam. There was a man
who could hold his own in a conversation, and understand an insult, no matter
how veiled.
    Finally, Ivitch grinned, as if it had been a
compliment. She could have wept for him, but never would.
    “If you’re about the Devil’s business, then I
should come along.”
    If she said no, he would tell Petrof, and
then she’d have to explain her reasons. It would be easier to let him come. All
she planned to do was find out if the dirt Thampurian who’d helped the
smugglers was a black lotus addict. If so, she could return later and question
him alone.
    They crossed the beach to the far end of the
harbor where small sailing skiffs and fishing boats moored. She pointed to a
skiff at the end of a line of boats tied together; used, weathered wood was
bound together to shape a ramshackle lean-to at the stern behind the sail. That
matched the information from PhaNyan that the dirt Thampurian lived on his boat,
which made sense since his brother was the harbor master. “That one,” she said.
    “How do we get out there?”
    After checking to see that no one watched,
QuiTai stepped from the narrow dock onto the deck of the first boat in the line.
She reached for the tieline to the next boat and pulled it close; then, carefully
balancing, stepped from one boat to the next.
    Ivitch tried to follow and nearly lost his
balance as he stood with each foot on a different boat and a wave sent them
rocking. “This is stupid.”
    She turned to press her finger to her lips,
and kept going.
    “Why are we doing this?” Ivitch asked.
    “I heard a rumor this man might know something
about the smugglers.”
    Ivitch cracked his knuckles. “It’s a good
thing I’m along.”
    She put her hand on his shoulder. “No, it’s
good that I’m along.” He wrested away from her touch, setting the boat they stood
on to rocking violently. QuiTai said, “We only want to question him.” To be
sure that Ivitch understood, she had to be clear. “Don’t kill him. Threaten to
if he won’t cooperate, but offer the forgiveness of the Devil before you damage
him too much. He needs to be able to work off his debt.”
    Ivitch climbed onto the skiff. QuiTai ducked
under the boom of the main sail and followed him to the lean-to.
    Ivitch already held the skeletal dirt
Thampurian by the throat. From the smell of the shelter, the man was a heavy black
lotus user, although that didn’t explain the sharp scent of vinegar under the
sweeter stink of vapor. A spirit lamp and clay pipe with a tiny bowl sat on an
upturned crate. The cot he lay on was held together with leather straps and
hope. There wasn’t much else in the tiny, dank space – probably not even
food, QuiTai assumed.
    The Thampurian wore only trousers. Every bone
in his chest protruded, and his skin barely stretched over his skull. His lips
were deep red, in stark contrast to his unhealthy pallor. QuiTai