by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 38
Ilahe drove her gloved fist into the fat man’s paunch. It sank in easily; the muscles in her arms and shoulders were not for show. The man gasped and hunched over. In one easy movement, Ilahe bent, draped him over one shoulder, and carried him to the door. She tossed him to the ground just as he was beginning to catch his wind.
“Whores,” he screamed at her. Ilahe’s kick caught him where her fist had landed. The breath left him in a great whoosh.
“That word offends these women,” Ilahe said. “Say it again and I’ll rip out your tongue.”
She shut the door carefully behind her. Sweat dripped down her face, causing the black mask to cling to her. Plucking at the damp cloth with two fingers, Ilahe resisted the urge to rip the blackness-tainted thing off. When she felt eyes on her, Ilahe lowered her hand. Sure enough, Gyune leaned against the wall, hand pressed against one bright red cheek. That red would fade to black and blue soon enough. Ilahe grimaced.
“You alright?” she said.
Gyune gave a short nod, spun on one heel, and marched up the stairs. Ilahe scratched at the wet cloth and pressed back an oath. She had only been at the whorehouse for a day, but not a man or woman in the building would give her more than a cold stare. Either Naja had talked, or someone had overheard Ilahe’s conversation. To call them whores was a true insult, and Hash’s words had misled her. Priestesses, they were called. Of a shrine of life. Not that it mattered; whores were whores, and Ilahe had no need of their kindness. With a glare, she set to studying the men lounging on the divans and wide sofas that filled the front room.
“No hurting the girls,” Ilahe said.
One watery-eyed man nodded urgently when she looked at him, but most simply ignored her. If they realized that she, too, was a woman, they gave no sign. The black shirt that Naja had brought was baggy enough that, combined with Ilahe’s over-muscled shoulders and arms, it effectively hid any sign of a bosom. She had bound her breasts extra well this morning, just in case, but it seemed an unnecessary precaution. None of the men gave her an extra glance—not even the watery-eyed one.
Footsteps from the back room made Ilahe glance over. Ly, one hand on her belly, let out a guffaw as Naja whispered into her ear. Ilahe marched toward them; a night’s rest had done wonders for her ankle, although it still twinged occasionally. Ly laughed again, harder this time, and—at a push from Naja—started up the stairs to the next floor.
“I’ll buy you some tonight,” Ly said.
Naja leaned up against the rail, honey eyes hard as she stared at Ilahe. “Don’t even think about leaving this place alone,” Naja said to Ly, but she kept her gaze on Ilahe. Ly just laughed and continued up the stairs
Ilahe came to a stop in front of Naja.
“How’s the first day?” Naja asked. The voice was calm. Neutral.
“What’d you say to them?” Ilahe said. The question left her mouth before she could stop it. “They won’t even so much as look at me.”
For a moment, Ilahe thought she saw compassion in Naja’s eyes, but then they hardened again. “I didn’t say anything,” Naja said. “But they can tell you don’t like them. And you should know that if Hash sinks into one of his black spells again, that’ll be on your head.”
The heat under the mask was incredible; sweat stung Ilahe’s eyes. “I didn’t say anything to him,” Ilahe said.
“You didn’t need to,” Naja said.
Ilahe squared her shoulders; she did not need these whores, did not need their friendship. No matter how it hurt that their laughter and chatter sprang back up like wildflowers when she left the room.
“My belongings?” Ilahe said.
Naja gave a smile and said, “I sent Hash to get them; he should be back soon. Don’t worry, I told him where you hid your treasures.” Ilahe gaped at her. Without another word, Naja stepped over to one the couches, took a waiting man by the hand—Ilahe could not help but notice the tremor in the man’s jaw, the quickening to his breath—and led him up the stairs. Ilahe ground her fist against the wall, her sudden anger about Hash forgotten; blindness take her, just watching them hold hands made Ilahe ache for a man’s touch.
No, not just any man’s touch. Hash’s touch. Those too-soft hands against her angry skin. Her breathing became shallow just thinking about it. It had been so long. Since they took her baby. Even if Cinar had wanted her again, she could never have gone back to him. Not with the divine seed in her. But Hash’s fingers on her skin, his ocean eyes, the curve of his lips . . . they made her think dangerous thoughts.
She forced herself back to the room, back to anger. His smile had mocked her; what man would want a woman with shoulders wider than most swordsmen’s? Ilahe made another round of the room, fanning the flames of her anger by focusing on the men who waited. Lechers and debauchers, they were worse than the women in the whorehouse—if only barely. Some with skin like moonlight, others the color of golden wheat, dark hair and light, but all unmistakably Khacen. All here to take advantage of these poor, blind women. The thought set a fire in Ilahe’s belly. She clenched her fists as she walked, pressing them to her side to keep from lashing out as she came close to the men.
With a click, the door opened. Ilahe turned. She needed to make sure all the new visitors saw her; Cu had made that clear. Intimidation first, then violence. Ilahe liked both. The twin swords, strapped to her back, helped with both.
When those clear blue eyes met her, though, Ilahe felt her knees weaken, and her hands relaxed. Hash gave her a tight smile, lips pressed together, and hoisted the sack he held over his shoulder. As he passed her, he motioned for her to follow him into the back room. Ilahe walked along behind him, tracing the lines of his neck, visible through the perfect tangle of blond hair.
Hash stopped in the kitchen at the far end of the building. Still smiling, he set the canvas bag on a scarred wooden table. “Here you are,” he said.
The words were like a slap, enough to bring Ilahe back to reality. Grateful for the mask, in spite of the heat and sweat, Ilahe glared at him. “Why’d you do this?” she asked. “What do you want?” She opened the bag and pawed through it. A few pieces of clothing, a pair of boots, and—finally—the cam-adeh, tossed in as though they were nothing more than trinkets. Blackness, if the glass were broken—Ilahe pulled them from the bag, examining the glass with trembling hands. They were whole; the faintest sheen of light on glass, although no light touched them, told her they still held their power.
“Nice things,” Hash said.
He leaned against the table, and Ilahe eyed him as she slipped the purple disc around her neck, letting it hang next to the flower, and tied the star to her wrist. The loose black sleeve covered it perfectly; the excessive clothing was good for something besides hiding her skin color, it seemed. Hash watched, those deep blue eyes following her every movement. Ilahe’s skin prickled; she felt that he was evaluating her somehow.
“What are those?”
“Ask me again and I’ll cut out your tongue,” Ilahe said.
“Not much of an answer,” Hash said. His voice was hard, at odds with the rest of his appearance. “And not much of a thanks, either.”
“Why’d you do it?” Ilahe said. “What do you want?”
“Naja asked me to,” Hash said. “That’s enough for me.”
“Pretty words,” Ilahe said. “What did she give you?”
“Father take me,” Hash said, “if you’re not the stupidest woman I’ve ever met. Naja found me on the street and saved my life. I had been . . . lost, in the woods,” his voice faltered, and his pale cheeks colored, “for days. I was starved, dehydrated. Exhausted. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t find my way. She brought me here, kept me alive.”
The way Naja had helped Ilahe; it seemed the whore had a soft heart. Or else Hash was lying.
“That’s why the girls were surprised that she spoke up for you the way she did,” Hash added.
“How long have you been here?”
“Her
e?” Hash asked. “A few days. But you really want to ask how long I’ve been a whore, don’t you.”
“That word is an insult,” Ilahe said, but she felt it staining her tongue.
“Words are only insults if you mind them,” Hash said, “I’d been a pleasure-boy before I got lost, and so when I could stand on my feet again, I asked Cu to find me a spot.”
“Can’t imagine you need to stand on your feet much for your job,” Ilahe said. The words burned her lips as they left her mouth; she regretted them as soon as she’d spoken them. He was trying to help; Naja was trying to help. And Ilahe, like a blind fool, was letting her past get in the way of her thinking.
Hash let out a harsh laugh. “No,” he said. “I guess not. You sure know me well, don’t you? Know all about who I am, what I’m like. All because you know I’m a whore. Well, fair enough.” He pulled a folded piece of parchment from his trouser pocket and tossed it on the table. “From your friend the innkeeper. Seems to think you’re some kind of highborn lady. I couldn’t tell by your manners.”
He pushed past her. Ilahe heard him stop at the door, and when he spoke, his voice was pitched low. “You know, Ilahe,” he said, “Just because you don’t like who you are, doesn’t mean you have to treat everyone else poorly as well.” His footsteps sounded a moment later; Ilahe kept her eyes fixed on the bag and the parchment.
When she could no longer hear his steps, Ilahe crumpled the parchment and tossed it in a bucket full of potato peels. She wanted nothing more to do with Daye; it would only bring the poor woman more trouble. Ilahe grabbed the sack of her belonging and started back toward the front room. She no longer felt the sweat trickling down her face. Hash’s words had been like a sword cut. Ilahe was numb now, but she knew the pain would come—sooner or later. She could not stay at the whorehouse any longer.
Cu stood in the front room, saying something to her, but Ilahe pushed past her, into the street beyond, where the afternoon sun still hung a hand’s breadth above the horizon. Red-orange light made waves in the dusty air and cast the mural-covered walls in flame and shadow. Afternoon traffic filled the street, and while a few people glanced at Ilahe, none stopped to investigate. Her heart beat slowly, each beat discrete, separate as the shafts of persimmon sunlight that slanted across the city.
Hoisting the bag over her shoulder, Ilahe stepped into the press of bodies. She had been foolish to think she could rest a few days in that place; even if she was a weapon, she was better than those creatures. Better, especially, than Hash.
How could he have known? How could he see the hatred that she carried within her, directed toward herself? A guess, perhaps. Or simply a comment, an attempt to hurt her.
No, she should never have stayed there in the first place. She had not been thinking clearly. Now, though—now it was time she did what she had come to do. Ilahe let the steady pace of the crowd carry her north and east. She was going to meet her employer.