by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 34
Pain flared along Ilahe’s ear, and a moment later she heard a crack as the stone struck the house that formed one side of the alley. More flew through the air behind her, clattering like hail against the wooden boards. Two more found their mark, low in her back, and Ilahe stumbled. Her shoulder skidded along the boards, unfinished edges tearing at flesh and cloth. With a grunt, Ilahe regained her footing and glanced back for a heartbeat.
Men and women—women!—rushed toward her, less than handful of paces behind, and they shouted an alarm. Ilahe, sides aching, broke into a run. The air seemed too thin to breathe; her heart pounded, and she willed herself to go faster.
“Cenarbasin,” voices shouted. Others, “Spy!” or “Heathen!”
Lights swelled in the windows around her, like great, angry eyes that watched her passage. Ilahe cursed. If she used the cam-ad now, she would escape. Easily. But she would also use up her most powerful tool, and she would need it when it came time to fight the tair. Killing a god would not be easy. The other option was to stand and fight. Ilahe did not need to glance back to know her odds. These people were fanatics; she would die, torn apart, crushed beneath a press of clawing hands, no matter how many she killed.
Lungs burning, Ilahe darted down another alley, even narrower than the last. The buildings here rose two or three stories, high enough to block even the weak starlight. She ran, heedless of the dark. Ilahe’s heart almost gave out when she slipped, something soft and wet collapsing beneath the ball of her foot, but somehow she stayed upright, although a flare of pain lanced up her leg.
Lights appeared at the far end of the alley. More Khacens, shouting for the Cenarbasin. Ilahe cursed herself for a fool; why had she ever thought to go unnoticed in a city where everyone had skin the color of milk? Even at night their pale flesh stood out. It did not matter now; she needed an escape. The air stirred, rank with the smell of rotting garbage and human waste—so sharp, so pungent, like everything else in this unfiltered world outside the Iris. People were coming behind her; their movement was what caused the air to shift.
For a moment, helplessness caught Ilahe by the throat. A blink of the eyes, and she remembered, just for an instant, being bound to cold stone, naked, while the priests went about their ritual. The blade between her legs. Pain. Impossible colors above her, descending in a rain to pierce her flesh. Terror, as deep and dark as the City of Bones, a knot in her throat.
Ilahe forced herself to swallow that knot, to think. She was not helpless. She would never be helpless again.
Torchlight drew nearer, along with shouts that echoed off the narrow walls. Then she saw it. Light racing along glass.
A window, perhaps six feet up, to her left. And more like it, stretching the length of the building.
Ilahe took two steps, launched herself into the air, and then pushed off the opposite wall. Her injured ankle screamed in protest, but Ilahe’s fingers closed over the sill. She pulled herself up, muscles burning, as the shouts grew closer. With one hand, she scrabbled at the glass, her nails clicking along it without finding purchase. She had no leverage, no way to open it and hold herself up at the same time.
And then, impossibly, the window opened.
A woman with dark hair and honey-colored eyes looked down at her in surprise. Those amber eyes flitted along the alley, taking in the mob racing from both directions. Ilahe saw the resolution in her face; this was a hard woman, one wise enough not to get involved. Despair gripped Ilahe; she forgot the cam-ad, forgot her job. Arms burning, the splintered sill biting her palms, and sweat, hot and heavy, on her eyelids, Ilahe felt herself giving up.
“Help me,” she said to the woman.
The woman grabbed her hand. For a moment, Ilahe feared she would pry Ilahe’s fingers loose; then the woman had her wrist and was pulling, shouting over her shoulder. Another hand, even whiter than the first, gripped Ilahe’s other wrist, and suddenly Ilahe was being pulled up and through the window. Fingertips brushed the leather of her boots, a tug that sent terror through her, and then she was inside, sliding to the floor.
Ilahe got to her feet and started to the door, but before she had taken two steps, her ankle gave out. She hit hard, on one knee, and pain jolted up her spine.
“Hide her,” a masculine voice said, and then someone darted out of the room. Ilahe had the vaguest impression of blond hair and pale flesh, and then the dark-haired woman was pulling her to her feet.
“You can stand?” the woman said.
Ilahe nodded. Blood pounded in her ears; she could not seem to think straight. She pushed past the woman, toward the door, but her ankle betrayed her again. Only the slender woman’s shoulder kept Ilahe from falling.
“You’re not going to make a good escape like that,” the woman said. “Come with me.”
With quick, sure steps the dark-haired woman led her out into a hall lined with doors. Women, most unclothed, tumbled out of rooms, eyes wide. Some screamed. The dark-haired woman quieted them with a few words that Ilahe did not hear; everything was happening too fast. Some of the women nodded and took up poses at the door, thrusting their bare chests out with militant aggression. Others, shaking their heads, disappeared from sight, doors slamming shut. Ilahe stumbled along.
A whorehouse. The solars must be laughing at Ilahe right now.
At the end of the hallway, the dark-haired woman fiddled with something on the wall, and a pair of wooden boards swung out, revealing a hidden space. Ilahe eyed it nervously; she did not think she’d be able to fit between the boards, let alone breathe once she was inside.
“Quick,” the dark-haired woman snapped. “Unless you fancy being the next street harvest. Or spending time in the pits.”
Ilahe shivered, but she turned sideways and slid into the narrow space. The dark-haired woman swung the boards shut without another word. Almost immediately, laughter and chatter broke out—the sounds of nervous gossip. Ilahe gritted her teeth; in Cenarbasi, that sound had been the blanket that wrapped her every night, and it had been the bird-song that woke her in the morning.
Shouts and the clomp of boots on wood did nothing to diminish the laughing and the voices; if anything, they grew stronger, more excited. Ilahe realized her own foolishness now. She should have returned to the alley, continued on her way. She had let a whore hide her, and now it was simply a question of which of the other whores would give her away. That was what they did, after all. Whores sold themselves; why would they hesitate to sell her?
Coos and low murmurs of affection infiltrated the laughter, mixed with gruff voices. Ilahe’s cheeks burned. These were not even women, she reminded herself. Women learned the skills. Women were creatures of knowledge and learning.
Women did not kill.
As the gruff voices softened, as whispers of promised pleasure, of prices, slid between the cracks of Ilahe’s hiding place, heat rolled over her body, and desire gripped her again. Ilahe struggled to push the feeling away; she was no longer a woman. She would never let a man touch her like that again.
Her stomach sinking, Ilahe remembered the sight of the bloodstained woman, still holding the knife that she had used to torture the man to death. A woman torturing a man. It made Ilahe sick. Was this what her mother would feel if she saw Ilahe? Was this what her sisters would feel? Men were the ones who ruined other people’s lives. Men were the ones who had ruined her life. Men and gods. But to come to this harsh world, with its bright lights, and to find a woman murdering in the name of a god—it shook Ilahe. What else had she been wrong about?
With a start, Ilahe realized that the hall had gone silent. Goosebumps ran along her skin. It was too quiet. The quiet of expectation. One of the whores had sold her out. The men were there, waiting. Ready to kill her.
Ilahe’s hand darted inside her shirt and found the cam-ad. The delicate flower of silver and glass, cool and comforting against her palm. Once she used it, she would be unstoppable. And she would let none live. Not the men. Not the women. They were not re
ally women, anyway. Whatever a woman was, Ilahe had stopped being one long ago, but she was still better than these creatures.
The panel swung open. Ilahe tensed, ready to use the cam-ad, but she saw only the dark-haired woman.
“Well,” the dark-haired woman said. “You can come out, unless you’ve gotten cozy. You’re twice the size of any girl we had to hide in there before, so maybe you can’t get out.”
Ilahe flushed again, glad her dark skin hid her discomfort, and squeezed her way out. When she stood free of the hiding place, her throat caught. Women stood in every door of the hall, and they all stared at her. Not women, she reminded herself. Whores. Worse than what she was. Ilahe was a weapon; at least a weapon didn’t sell its honor.
“Well?” the dark-haired woman said. “Are you looking for a job?”
Ilahe spat on the floor.
“Cu’s going to make you clean that up,” the dark-haired woman said. Her honey-colored eyes were curious. Not angry, or offended.
“Thank you,” Ilahe said. The words caught in her throat at having been saved by these women.
“Not the first time a woman’s had a few men looking to tan her hide,” the dark-haired woman said. “Although this was more than a few, and I think they had more than a paddling in mind for you.”
“Enough,” another woman said. She stepped toward the Ilahe, her pale green eyes fixed on the dark-haired woman, copper hair streaked with gray. “What is this business all about? You’ve upset the shrine, Naja. All those men storming in here, do you have any idea how that upsets the customers? And harboring a fugitive; are you mad? This is a shrine of life.”
The dark-haired woman shook her head. “Cu,” she said, “I think you’re going to be very happy about this. Perhaps we can speak in private?”
Murmurs ran up and down the hall, and more than once Ilahe heard the word “under-priestess,” but after a long pause Cu nodded. More murmurs, even more excited than before.
Cu turned to the other women, face drawn in a hard line. “And what did you tell them? Will we have trouble again?”
“Not a problem, Cu,” said a bare-breasted woman who was noticeably pregnant. Leaning against the doorframe, swollen belly waving in the air, the woman smirked. “We all just told them she rushed right out the front. Hash already had some of the other boys down there, all excited, so it wasn’t anything. Next time they come back, they’ll be searching for something else.” She let out a low laugh.
Cu gave a short nod and marched down the hall. The woman named Naja motioned for Ilahe to follow. As soon as Naja and Ilahe rounded the corner, Ilahe heard that too-familiar sound of female conversation, of a world of communication long-closed to her, burst into life again. The whispered laughter nipped at her heels and she hurried alongside Naja, eager to be away from that place. Each step sent a jolt of pain through her ankle, but Ilahe gritted her teeth and moved forward.
As they ascended a staircase, the air grew cooler. Open shutters let in the breeze that ran along the rooftops, bringing with it traces of dust, the smell still hot from that too-bright sun, to mix with the thick, jellied stench of flesh and sex that clung to her skin. Ilahe drew in deep breaths of the fresh air; she had not noticed, until then, the smell that clung to the lower levels of the building. Even as the smell turned her stomach, desire danced along her arms, each fine hair rising in salute.
Cu led them down the hallway toward a door banded with iron. She unlocked it with a key and led them inside. Overly elegant furnishings met them. Cushions embroidered with gold and silver thread sat atop cherry-wood chairs polished until they shined more than a sweaty, pale-skinned Khacen. Two mirrors stood across from each other, large pieces of colored glass—Ilahe could not believe them to be real gems—studding the gold-wire frames. Dominating the center of the room was a ring of folding tables. Piles of books and parchment covered the fragile tables; they looked as though they would topple at the slightest breath.
With a negligent motion, Cu indicated they should take seats, and then lowered herself into a chair. Naja sat as well, but Ilahe remained standing. These . . . women, if she must call them that, might have saved her life, but she had little intention of joining them for tea, or whatever foolishness they had planned. All Ilahe needed to do was wait until she was sure the mob was gone; let these two whores think what they would until then.
“Well?” Cu asked, her pale green eyes fixed on Naja.
“The perfect bouncer,” Naja said. “And I mean that. Perfect.”
Cu’s gaze slid to Ilahe, and Ilahe struggled to keep the contempt from showing on her face. “The first time a man sees her, he’ll go straight to the eses. It’ll be the pits for all of us, if we’re lucky enough for that.”
“Look at her,” Naja said. “Cover her hair, give her a shirt that’s baggy enough in front, but cut the sleeves to show those arms, a touch of those shoulders. Tair fend, she’ll look more like a normal man than Hash does, or half the boys you have down there.”
Her mouth parting into a smile, Cu said, “And when the boys find out she’s a woman? I’ll not have her getting pregnant. And tair bless the boy who thinks he’s going to fool around without making a coin off of it.”
Ilahe stared at both of them; perhaps whoring had driven them mad. She had heard of women on the Beard, whores, who caught strange illnesses from Qet sailors and went mad after a time. She wiped her hands on her trousers; the stench of passion rode along her skin again, desire and nausea.
“I think she can keep them off her,” Naja said. “Think of it, Cu. No more worrying about the men raping a girl or two when they get too drunk. No more fear of what to do when an esis won’t leave, or when they start hitting us. You don’t want another Rafi on your hands, do you?”
Cu twisted up her mouth. “Don’t say that name,” she said. “You’ve no right.” Her eyes ran over Ilahe again, and this time Ilahe shifted, unable to conceal her discomfort. “It won’t work,” Cu said. “Not with that skin.”
“A mask and gloves,” Naja said. Ilahe could hear the desperation in her voice this time—faint, but still there.
“You would have me guard these . . . women?” Ilahe asked. She could not think of anything more ridiculous; if she had not chosen to cast off everything of her old life, if she were still a Cenarbasin woman, trained in the traditional skills, she would have spat on these women if they had shown their faces in public. A true woman, a woman with skills, had no need to whore herself out. A true woman would rather die than sell her body.
“With a mask, yes,” Cu said, not acknowledging Ilahe’s words. “And gloves. And the sleeves—they must not see her skin. It will be more intimidating, I think. Yes, we will try it. If the eses come, we get rid of her.”
Naja paled, but nodded. Cu ran one hand through her hair and turned toward Ilahe.
“What do you say?” Cu asked. “Room and board, plus a silver mirri every day.”
“More than you would make working in the fields,” Naja cut in.
“More than you would make in the tair’s pits,” Cu said. Those pale green eyes never wavered. Ilahe heard the threat in her words, and she nodded, once. Anything to keep the old whore from calling the guards, or turning Ilahe out to the mob. Ilahe just needed time.
“Find her a room,” Cu said to Naja. “And appropriate clothes. She’ll start tomorrow.”
With a wave, Cu dismissed them and turned her attention to the teetering stacks of books atop the folding tables. Naja led Ilahe from the room and shut the massive door behind them. With a soft sigh, Naja leaned her back against the door and closed her eyes.
“Tair protect us,” Naja said. “I’m burning up in this place.”
Ilahe just watched her. There was something different about Naja, something in her honey eyes that Ilahe found familiar. Pain. Something lost, perhaps not to be found again. It left Ilahe unsettled; the woman was a whore—how could anything matter to her? But something did matter to her, and Naja was more than a whore. She was the woman w
ho had saved Ilahe’s life.
Watching sweat bead along Naja’s face, dampening her dark hair until it twisted and curled against soft, white skin, Ilahe rested one hand against her belly. The divine seed planted in her, all those months ago, when they had taken her child. Was it any different than a rape?
And if it was a rape, was Ilahe really any better than these women? She could have killed herself. Blindness take her, she could still kill herself. And yet she didn’t, because somehow, life was still worth living, even if it was for revenge, and so every day she let that seed rest within her. A reminder. Once, she had been whore to a god.
“I need to gather my belongings,” Ilahe said. Too harshly. The smell of grinding flesh rubbed against her, chafed sparks of longing through her. It was thick in her throat, tasted of tears.
Naja nodded and opened her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was . . . stressful. Let me show you your room.”
“When I return,” Ilahe said. She did not want to spend another moment around this woman with amber tears. It filled Ilahe’s head with distracting thoughts.
“There are back doors,” Naja said. “I’ll show you, in case any of the men are still waiting. Hurry back.”
The smell still choked Ilahe, but she swallowed, trying to ignore the memory of those lights descending on her, pricking her skin with unspeakable pleasure.
“Thank you,” Ilahe said.
When she was free of the whorehouse, Ilahe broke into a run, sucking in the smell of toasted dirt and offal, wishing the air could scour her clean of remembrance. She could never go back to that place, never face those women again—not now, knowing she was no better than them. Even if she had cast off anything else that would mark her as a woman. Even if she were nothing more than a weapon. Ilahe bit the inside of her cheek and tasted blood. At least it was sweeter than tears.
Somehow she found her way back to the inn. Ilahe touched the hilts of her swords. For the first time in too many months, she had almost forgotten about them. Almost. They were still there—steel and blood and salt, weapons to kill man or god. Weapons, just like her.
Movement in the shadows made Ilahe stop and pull back. She stepped inside the nearest alley and watched.
Men patrolled the streets around the inn, their eyes watching both street and rooftops.
The eses had found her.