by Jenn Lyons
“Fine by me, Miss Morea,” Surdyeh said, readying his harp between his legs once more. “Assuming certain boys can keep their damn eyes in their damn heads and their damn minds on their damn work.”
He didn’t hear Kihrin’s response, but he could imagine it easily enough.
“Stop scowling,” Surdyeh said as he nudged Kihrin in the ribs again.
“How—?” Kihrin shook his head, gritted his teeth, and forced a smile onto his face.
Surdyeh started the dance over. Morea had asked him to play the Maevanos. If Morea had come from a wealthy house, the Maevanos was probably the best compromise she could manage. She’d have had no time to learn anything bawdier.
The story to the Maevanos was simple enough: A young woman is sold into slavery by her husband, who covets her younger sister. Mistreated by the slave master who buys her, she is purchased by a high lord of the Upper Circle. The high lord falls in love with her, but tragedy strikes when a rival house assassinates her new master. Loyal and true, the slave girl takes her own life to be with her lord beyond the Second Veil. Her devotion moves the death goddess Thaena to allow the couple to Return to the land of the living, taking the life of the philandering husband in their place. The high lord frees the girl, marries her, and everyone lives happily ever after who should.*
While the Maevanos was meant to be danced by a woman, the accompanying vocals were male. The story was told by the men the girl encountered rather than the girl herself. The scenes with the high lord and the slave trader were provocative, the whole reason Morea had suggested it as a compromise.
Surdyeh hated the dance for all the reasons it would probably do well at the brothel, but it hadn’t been his decision.
The crowd was larger than when the dance had begun; the first of the evening crowds had started to filter inside. Hoots and clapping greeted Morea as she gave a final bow. Kihrin trailed off his song. Surdyeh allowed the last notes to echo from his double-strung harp, holding his finger-taped picks just above the strings.
Surdyeh smelled Morea’s sweat, heard the beads as she tossed her hair back over her shoulders. She ignored the catcalls of the crowd as she walked back to his chair.
“What are you doing here?” Morea asked him.
Surdyeh turned his head in her direction. “Practicing, Miss Morea?”
“You’re amazing,” she said. “Does every brothel in Velvet Town have musicians as good as you? You’re better than anyone who ever performed for my old master. What is Madam Ola paying you?”
“You think my father’s that good?” Kihrin’s step was so quiet that even Surdyeh hadn’t heard him approach.
Surdyeh resisted the urge to curse the gods. The last thing he needed was Kihrin wondering why Surdyeh played in the back halls of Velvet Town, when he could have played for royalty.
“Hey there, pretty girl, leave off those servants,” a rough voice called out. “I want some time with you.” Surdyeh heard heavy footsteps; whoever approached was a large man.
Morea inhaled and stepped backward.
“Can’t you see she’s tired? Leave her alone.” Kihrin’s attempt to intimidate would have gone better if he’d been a few years older and a lot heavier. As it was, he was too easily mistaken for a velvet boy himself. Surdyeh doubted the customer paid much attention to his son’s interruption.
Surdyeh placed his harp to the side and held out his ribbon-sewn sallí cloak to where Morea stood. “Lady, your cloak.”
While Morea covered herself, Surdyeh rewove the spell shaping the sound in the room so the Veil’s bouncer, Roarin, heard every word. Morea’s would-be customer might be large, but Roarin had morgage blood in him—enough to give him the poisonous spines in his arms. Surdyeh knew from experience how intimidating the bouncer could be.
“My money’s as good as the next man’s!” the man protested.
Another voice joined him. “Hey, it’s my turn!”
“Oh great. There’s two of you,” Kihrin said. “Miss Morea, you’re not taking customers right now, are you?”
The beads in her hair rattled as she shook her head. “No.”
“There you are, boys. She’s not open for business. Shoo.” Only someone who knew Kihrin would have noticed the tremble of fear in his voice. The two men must have been large indeed.
“Bertok’s balls. You don’t tell me what to do.” The man stepped in close.
Even from the stage, Surdyeh smelled the stench of liquor on the man’s breath. Surdyeh clenched his hands around his cane and prepared himself for the possibility he would have to intervene.
“What’s all this?” Roarin asked. A hush fell over the crowd nearest the stage.
“I, uh … I want to reserve a bit of time with the young lady. Uh … sir.”
“Kradnith, you’re a mad one. I was here first!”
“Of course, fine sirs, of course,” Roarin said, “but this is just a dancing girl. Pretty slut, to be sure, but useless for a good lay. Too tired out. Come with me. Madam Ola will show you some real women! They’ll drain you dry!” He slapped his thick hands on the men’s shoulders and escorted them elsewhere in the brothel.
Surdyeh exhaled and turned to pack up the harp. “Some days I really hate this job.”
“Are you all right, Miss Morea?” Kihrin asked.
The young woman groaned and stretched her neck. “I can’t believe—” She cut off whatever she’d been about to say. “It was nice of you to stand up for me like that.” Then her breath caught in her throat. “You have blue eyes.”
Surdyeh’s heart nearly stopped beating.
No. Damn it all, no.
“I only wear them on special occasions,” Kihrin said. Surdyeh could tell his son was smiling. Of course, he was smiling. Kihrin hated it when people noticed the color of his eyes, but now the attention came from a pretty girl he wanted to notice him.
Surdyeh racked his brain. Where had Ola said the new girl was from? Not a Royal House. Surdyeh had forbidden Ola from ever buying a slave from a Royal House. Too risky.
Morea said to Kihrin, “I’m going to lie down in the Garden Room. Would you bring me an iced Jorat cider? I’m parched.”
“We’re leaving,” Surdyeh said. “We have a commission.”
“I’ll fetch you a cider before we go,” Kihrin said.
She slipped out of the room, now emptying as customers who had stayed for the rehearsal looked for a different sort of company.
“No, Kihrin,” Surdyeh said. “We don’t have time.”
“This won’t take long, Pappa.”
“It’s not your job to play hero, swoop in, and save the girl. Leave that to Roarin.” He knew he sounded peevish, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“She took your cloak,” Kihrin reminded him. “I’ll bring it back. You wouldn’t want to show up at Landril’s without your Reveler’s colors, would you?”
Surdyeh sighed. Unfortunately, the boy was right: Surdyeh needed the cloak. That it was just an excuse didn’t mean it wasn’t a good one. He grabbed his son’s hand and squeezed. “Don’t help yourself to the sweets for free. We need to keep in Ola’s good graces. It’s her goodwill that keeps us off the streets. There’s a dozen musicians better than us who’d give their eyeteeth to perform at the Shattered Veil Club. Remember that.”
His son pulled his hand away. “Funny how Morea doesn’t agree with you.”
“Don’t scowl at me, boy. You’ll put wrinkles on that face that Ola tells me is so handsome.” His voice softened. “We have to be at Landril’s at six bells, so you have a bit of time, but don’t linger.”
Any resentment his son might have harbored vanished in the face of victory. “Thank you.” Kihrin gave Surdyeh a quick hug and ran out of the room.
Surdyeh sat there, fuming.
Then he called out for someone to find Ola.
7: THE MISERY
(Kihrin’s story)
—don’t want to hold the damn rock. I don’t want to keep talking about this, Talon. I don’t even rem
ember where I left off.
Right. I was on board The Misery. Thanks so much.
Fine.
* * *
I don’t remember much about those first hours back on the ship. Sailors made their knots, raised their sails. The men shouted, yelled, and cast off. I paid little attention. I waited in our cabin.
Or rather, I hid there.
I found it eerie to watch these normal, humdrum-looking people enter the cabin and yet know that their appearance was a lie. It was odder still to know they had disguised me in the same way; if I looked in a mirror, my real face wouldn’t stare back.
“What do you people want with me?” I asked Khaemezra when they returned. “Don’t tell me it was a coincidence that you paid for me with a necklace of star tears. My grandfather used a necklace just like that to pay for his vané slave Miya, a slave he bought from ‘an old vané hag.’ Someone told me once, after I was finally reunited with my darling family. I always thought that was just a story, since there’s no such thing as an old vané, but here you are, an old vané hag.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I cleared my throat. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Khaemezra said. She looked amused, even though I’d called her a hag to her face, twice.
“Is the reason you bought me something to do with my grandfather?” I demanded.
She looked at me kindly but said nothing.
“Enough of this,” Teraeth said. “It’s a long trip back to Zherias. Find the Captain and ask him if he keeps a weather witch. I’d like to know when we’ll arrive.”
This was what I’d been waiting for, what I’d been dreading. An order from my new master, directly contradicting a previous gaesh order from Captain Juval. I already knew the answer to Teraeth’s question: yes, Juval had a weather witch. But talking about her, and talking about Juval, would disobey the orders he had given me when he had me gaeshed. As soon as I returned from my errand, Teraeth would demand an answer. If I gave him that answer, the gaesh would kill me for disobeying Juval’s earlier command.
But if I didn’t give Teraeth an answer, the gaesh would still kill me, this time for disobeying Teraeth.
The edges of pain surged inside me as I hesitated too long.
I figured it had been a short, weird life. Maybe Thaena would laugh when I told her about it past the Second Veil. “The gaesh won’t—”
“Go!”
I gritted my teeth as the pain washed through me. My only chance of survival was if I could somehow communicate the problem quickly enough for Teraeth to countermand Juval’s order, or get him to change his own. Maybe. If Taja still liked me. “Juval’s—orders—”
The old woman stood. “Teraeth, quickly!”
“Juval—gaeshed—” The commands rolled over me with smashing waves, drowned me in my own blood. The gaesh tore into my body, roared its way through my veins, ate me away from the inside, burned, seared.
I collapsed on the floor, convulsing.
8: THE ANGEL’S BARGAIN
(Talon’s story)
Morea fretted over the best place to present herself in the Garden Room. On this couch? No, too easily seen. That one? Yes, that one was better. Morea removed the ribbon-covered sallí cloak, draped it over a chair, and splashed water to freshen herself. She ran a hand over her braids and reapplied her perfume, rubbing scented oil over her body until her skin gleamed. She hurried to her chosen couch and lay down, acting ever so weary.
It wasn’t entirely an act.
A few minutes later, the harper’s son walked into the solarium with a mug in his hand. Morea knew he couldn’t be Surdyeh’s actual get. Surdyeh might be an extraordinary musician, but he was recognizably common, and his son—well, his son was no farmer’s brood.
The teenager stopped and stared when he spotted her. Morea almost smiled. She wondered how any brothel child could have stayed so innocent that they could still be aroused by simple flesh. All children of the seraglio she had ever known were jaded beyond measure, hardened to any normal sensual allure.
“Here’s your drink, Miss Morea.” Kihrin handed the cider to her.
Morea looked up at him. An angel, surely. He had dark skin somehow more golden than the olive hue of most Quuros. The black hair made his skin look paler than it really was, while his skin made his blue eyes shine like Kirpis sapphires. Those blue eyes … Morea clicked her tongue and smiled, sitting up on the couch and taking the offered drink. “Not Miss, surely. Just Morea. Madam Ola calls you Angel?”
The young man snickered. “Ola calls me a lot of things. Please, call me Kihrin.”
“I’d think you were from Kirpis, except for the hair.” She reached out to touch it. “Like raven feathers.” She leaned back against the cushions to look at him again. “But you’re not from Kirpis, are you?”
He laughed, blushing. “No. I was born here.”
Her face wrinkled in confusion. “But you don’t look Quuros at all.”
“Ah.” He squirmed. “My mother was Doltari.”
“What?”
“Doltar’s a country to the south, far south, way past the Manol Jungle. It’s cold there. They have blue eyes and light hair. Like me.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I know where Doltar is.” She reached out to touch his hair once more. He dyed his hair. She could see that now. “A lot of slaves are shipped north from Doltar. But you don’t look Doltari.”
He frowned. “Really?”
“All the Doltari slaves I’ve known have been stocky people, wide and large, built for labor. Big noses, thin lips. You’re slender. Your nose, your lips—just the opposite of a Doltari.” She tried to imagine him with brown hair, tried to imagine him dressed in blue. She found it easy, and even though the room was stifling warm, she shivered.
“Are you cold?” the young man asked.
Morea smiled. “No. Sit with me.”
Kihrin cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “I shouldn’t. It’s, uh … there’s a rule.”
“I have heard how Madam Ola speaks of you. Surely she lets you spend time with whoever you like?”
The blush graduated to a red flush. “It’s not Ola’s rule. It’s my rule. I don’t force myself on the women here. I don’t think it would be right.”
“It’s not force if I want you here.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Sit with me. Let me brush that beautiful hair. Please?”
“I—” He moved over to the bench. “I suppose a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.”
“It’s a crime to see such lovely hair so neglected. Why do you wrap your agolé around your neck like that? You’ll strangle yourself.” Morea unwound the long cloth, letting it fall to the couch. She reached for a brush another slave had left behind and pulled it through Kihrin’s hair, untangling the knots. Unfastened, his hair reached past his shoulders. The black dye hadn’t been kind. She found spots of gold where he’d missed a strand, or patches of violet where the dye had faded. When she finished brushing out his hair, she began massaging his scalp, gently kneading with skilled fingers. She leaned close as she massaged, pressing her breasts against his back. His breathing quickened. Morea smiled.
Kihrin sounded uncertain. “I always thought my hair looked strange.”
“Golden? People would kill for such hair. You must not work here.”
“You know I do. What was that at practice?”
“No. I mean you don’t—you’re not a velvet boy. I’ve known musicians who did the same duty as the dancers.”
Kihrin frowned and turned his head away. “We rent one of the rooms in the back. Ola gives us a good rate because we play for the dancers, but that’s it.”
“With your looks, you could make a lot of metal.”
“No offense, but I prefer to make my metal a different way.”
Morea felt the skin on his back shiver as she ran her fingers over his shoulder. “Are you Ogenra then?”
The mood broke. Kihrin turned to stare at her. “I told you I’m Doltari. Why
would you think I’m one of the royal bastards?”
She tried to make her response idle, tried to make it seem like she didn’t really care. “Blue eyes are one of the divine marks. The only other person I’ve ever seen with blue eyes, with eyes as blue as yours, was royalty, one of the god-touched. You remind me of him, so I assumed you must be related.”
His voice turned icy. “I told you I’m not Ogenra.”
“But—”
“Please drop it.”
“Are you so sure? Because—”
“I’m not.”
“If you were Ogenra though—”
His face contorted with anger. “My mother was a Doltari who left me to die on the garbage heaps of Gallthis. Happy? She was too stupid to know she could buy a fix from the Temple of Caless, or any blue house, for ten silver chalices to keep her from taking with child. And so she abandoned me at birth. I am not an Ogenra. Yes, blue eyes are one of the god-touched marks, but there are plenty of people with eyes all colors of the rainbow. Hell, Surdyeh’s eyes were green before he went blind. It doesn’t mean he’s related to whichever Royal House controls the Gatekeepers,* it just means he’s from Kirpis. I’ve never seen the inside of a mansion in the Upper Circle and I never will.”
Morea flinched and drew back. His anger—Caless! She whispered, “But … you look just like him…”
She started to cry.
After a few seconds, his hands wrapped around her, his voice whispering as he stroked her hair. “Oh hell … I’m so sorry … I … I didn’t … was he important to you? Someone you cared about?”
She drew back. “No! I hate him.”
His expression turned stony. “Wait. I remind you of someone you hate?”
Morea wiped away her tears. This wasn’t going the way she’d wanted at all. “It’s not like that. I just wanted—”
“What? What did you want so badly you’d make a play for someone who reminds you of a man you hate—someone you hate so much, that the thought of him sends you to tears? Because now I’m curious.”