by Simon Hawke
Tajik led them through the beaded curtain and into the interior of the Desert Damsel—a single, large, open room with booths built around the perimeter and small round tables with wooden chairs filling the space beside the long bar against the right wall. Behind the bar and in the center of the room, at the rear, were two large stages with four smaller stages on square risers on the right and left sides of the room. No matter where one looked, there was a stage in view, and atop each of those stages, including the one behind the bar, nearly naked women danced.
There was a small band playing, set up on a small stage at the right rear corner of the room, just beyond the bar, and a woman gyrated on the stage in front of the band, as well. The band consisted primarily of drummers, bell ringers, and cymbal players. The melody, what there was of it, was carried by several flutists, but the music was mostly beat and the jangle of bells and cymbals.
The place was packed, mostly by mercenaries, though there were also some dwarves and humans who came in on the caravan from Balic. The lighting was dim, provided by a few lanterns hanging from the ceiling above the stages. The tables were full, and there were stools around each stage, as well.
Men crowded the edges of the stages, staring up at the undulating dancers and shouting encouragement as they held out coins. The dancers would gyrate over to the men and take the coins in some creative way, either bending over backward and grabbing them with their teeth or allowing the men to slip them inside their girdles. Each dancer carried a small coin purse tied to her belt, and presumably at the end of each dance, she would empty the purse so it could be filled afresh.
As Tajik, Sorak, and Ryana stood at the entrance, a fight between a couple of mercenaries broke out in front of them. Before more than a few blows could be exchanged, several large human bouncers separated the combatants and promptly escorted them outside.
“Fascinating,” said Ryana, looking around. “The atmosphere seems… primitive and energetic.”
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it,” said Tajik. “Come, let’s sit at the bar. From there, you can see the entire room.”
An attractive young human female wearing practically nothing came up and led them to the bar, then departed with a smile.
“Greetings, Tajik,” the burly barkeeper said, leaning over and raising his voice above the music. “It’s been a while. What’ll you have?”
“A tankard of your best ale, Stron,” said Tajik. He turned to Ryana.
“I’ll have the same,” she said.
“Some water, please,” said Sorak.
“What?” the barkeeper said, as if unsure he had heard correctly.
“Water,” Sorak repeated.
“Water?”
“Yes, please. Water.”
“I’ll have to charge you for it,” said the barkeeper.
“I will be glad to pay,” said Sorak. “How much?”
“Stron… just give my friend some water,” Tajik said.
“Well, seeing as how he’s a friend of yours…”
“Thank you, my friend,” said Tajik.
“Water,” repeated the barkeeper, shaking his head and grimacing. “Two ales and one water, coming up.”
Sorak glanced up at the stage behind the bar. The woman dancing there wore nothing save a skimpy girdle that consisted of a thong and a piece of cloth no bigger than an eye patch. Her long red hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing a large and perfectly shaped pair of breasts. She came down a short flight of wooden steps leading to the bar from the stage, moving slowly and swaying her hips.
She stepped down onto the surface of the bar and the patrons hurriedly moved their drinks to give her room. As they held out their coins, she knelt on the bartop before them, with her back to them. Most of the customers were apparently well familiar with her routine. They placed the coins between their teeth as she bent over backward, leaning back so that her face was just below theirs, then they bent their heads down so that she could take the coin from them in her own teeth. As the exchange was made, their lips barely brushed hers, then she straightened, turned around, and gently caressed each man on the cheek or ran her ringers through his hair. She would finish by looking at each man suggestively as she briefly slipped the coin inside her girdle, then dropped it into her purse before moving on.
One customer became a bit carried away and spat the coin out before she could take it from him, then crushed his mouth to hers. Instantly, two large and muscular bouncers appeared behind him and carried him away as the others cheered and shouted.
“This is what men like?” Ryana asked, raising her eyebrows.
“Some men, apparently,” said Sorak.
“Not you?” she asked.
“I would never put money in my mouth,” he said.
“Yes, one has no way of knowing where it’s been,” Ryana replied dryly.
The barkeeper brought them their drinks and then the dancer moved in front of Sorak. She stood over him atop the bar, swaying her hips in time to the music, and slowly came down to her knees before him, facing him. Sorak looked up into her eyes. She smiled, parted her lips, and ran her tongue around them. He shook his head slightly and placed a coin down on the bar. She raised her eyebrows, then glanced briefly at Ryana. She mouthed a kiss at her, glanced briefly back at Sorak, picked up the coin, dropped it in her purse, and moved on.
“I think she likes you,” Tajik said with a grin.
“I think she likes his money,” Ryana replied.
“I wasn’t speaking to him” said Tajik with a slightly mocking smile.
Ryana cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I thought we came here to find out some information.”
“I thought you came because you were curious to see a pleasure house,” said Sorak, keeping a perfectly straight face.
“Well, now I’ve seen it,” she said.
“Oh, you haven’t seen the best part yet,” said Tajik. “You haven’t seen the star attraction.”
“I can hardly wait,” Ryana said with a grimace.
The music stopped, and the dancers left the stage, then a red-haired dwarf stepped up in front of the musicians as everybody clapped and shouted. Raising his voice above the din, the dwarf called out, “Are you ready for more?”
There was a resounding chorus of assent.
“Well, more you shall have!” the dwarf shouted. “Remember, the girls dance for your enjoyment, and for your tips, so please be generous! They all have sick old mothers to care for!”
There was laughter and shouting, then the dwarf raised his hands for silence, which he didn’t get. “Don’t forget,” he shouted over the noise, “you can ask your favorite girl for an exclusive, private dance, and she will be happy to oblige! They are all very obliging!”
There was more laughter and the dwarf signaled the musicians. They started a new song, which sounded much like the previous one, and a fresh shift of dancers took the stages.
Tajik saw someone that he knew and waved him over. A mercenary joined them at the bar and greeted Tajik with a hearty back slap that made the ferry captain’s teeth rattle.
“Tajik, you old scoundrel! Why aren’t you home counting your money?”
“Because I’m here, buying you a drink,” Tajik replied.
The mercenary threw an arm around his shoulder. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear! Barkeeper! Ale!”
The barkeeper set a drink in front of the mercenary, and Tajik paid.
“I hear you had some trouble earlier this evening,” said the mercenary.
“Yes, an encounter with some giants,” Tajik said. “It was close. They almost sank me this time.”
“So they say,” the mercenary said. “Everyone is talking about it, exaggerating as usual. I even heard some ridiculous nonsense about one of your passengers jumping overboard and killing a giant with his sword.”
“Neither ridiculous nor nonsense,” Tajik replied. He pointed to Sorak. “This is the very passenger. He saved all our lives.”
The me
rcenary turned to stare at Sorak. “Truly? You killed a giant, hand-to-hand?”
“I was fortunate,” said Sorak.
“Well, then let me shake your hand, stranger,” said the mercenary.
“Sorak, Drom,” said Tajik, performing the introductions, “and the lady is Ryana.”
As the somewhat inebriated mercenary focused his gaze on Ryana, his eyes grew wide. “Gith’s blood!” he said. “I’d like to see you up there on the stage!”
“Mind your manners, you great oaf!” said Tajik, sharply. “Are you so blind drunk you can’t see she is a priestess of the villichi sisterhood?”
The mercenary’s jaw dropped, then he blushed, bowed his head, and stammered an apology. “F-forgive me, my lady. I—I am a fool. Truly, it was not drink but your beauty that had blinded me.”
“Nice save,” said Sorak, lifting his goblet to his lips.
“Tajik is right, I am an oaf,” the mercenary said. “I have offended you both. How may I make amends?”
“Well, perhaps you can help with some information,” Tajik said.
“Yes,” said Sorak, “do you know of a mercenary by the name of Kieran?”
“Kieran of Draj?”
“I do not know where he hails from,” Sorak replied, “but he is a blond, good-looking man, blue eyed and clean shaven, about my height, very muscular, and dresses expensively, in rare hides.”
“That sounds like him,” said Drom, nodding. “He carries iron weapons, a sword and two stiletto daggers, the hilts wrapped with silver wire?”
“That’s the man,” said Sorak. “What do you know of him?”
“Good blade,” said Drom emphatically. “One of the very best. A seasoned campaigner. Served with the Drajian army—joined up as a boy, they say— and worked his way up through the ranks to regimental commander. Might have made general, too.”
Sorak frowned. “What happened?”
“I’m a little dry,” the mercenary said, rubbing his throat. Sorak took the hint and ordered him another ale. When it arrived, Drom was distracted for a moment by a dancer who stopped before him on the bar and reached out with her foot to brush her toes against his chest. Drom kissed her foot and tossed her a coin, which she caught adroitly. She bent down and pecked his cheek lightly, then moved on. “Where was I?”
“Why did Kieran fail to make general?” Sorak prompted.
“Ah, yes. Well, he killed a Drajian nobleman.”
“You mean he murdered him?” Ryana asked.
“No, it was a duel,” said Drom.
“Let me guess,” said Tajik. “They quarreled over a woman.”
“You might say that,” Drom replied, “but it isn’t what you think. The girl was the nobleman’s daughter.”
“Ah,” said Tajik. “And Kieran’s attentions were unwelcome?”
“They were more than welcome,” Drom replied. “They were in love and planned to marry. But the girl’s father disapproved. He refused to allow his daughter to wed a soldier, and a commoner at that. The way the story goes, she argued with her father, and he beat her. When Kieran learned of it, he publicly called the man a craven coward—and a few other names, besides—and struck him. Well, that was enough right there to put an end to his career, but the nobleman lost his temper and challenged him on the spot. Kieran killed him, for which he was arrested and sentenced to death. When the girl heard of it, she took her own life by swallowing poison.”
“How awful!” said Ryana.
“How did Kieran survive the sentence?”
“Friends interceded for him,” Drom replied. “And his regiment threatened mutiny. The death sentence was commuted to exile for life, and his estate was confiscated. When Kieran left Draj, without a copper to his name, almost a third of his regiment left with him. The rest had families and other ties, or else they might have gone as well.
They formed their own company of mercenaries and hired out to whatever kingdom needed fighting men to fill out their armies for campaigns. In time, attrition thinned their numbers until only a few were left. Eventually, the ones who survived all went their separate ways.”
“You seem to know a great deal about him,” Sorak said.
“I should,” said Drom. “I served with him in the army of Raam during the war with Urik. By then, he had only half a dozen men from the original regiment. They were fierce fighters, to a man, and intensely loyal. Where did you encounter him?”
“He met him on my boat,” said Tajik. “Kieran was there when Sorak slew the giant. He offered him employment.”
Drom looked surprised. “Kieran, here? In South Ledopolus?”
“He said he was on his way to Altaruk, to accept a post as captain of the guard for the House of Jhamri,” Sorak said.
“Ah,” said Drom. “Well, they can afford him, certainly. But it is a pity to see a top blade such as Kieran reduced to service with a merchant house guard. Truly, it is a waste of talent. Ah… it seems my goblet’s empty.”
“Another round for my friend,” said Sorak, to the barkeeper.
“Well, if Kieran offered you employment, you must have made a strong impression,” Drom said, as another drink was set before him. “You could do far worse. I would accept the job if I were you.
You will be paid well, and you will learn much in the bargain.”
“Thank you,” Sorak said. “I appreciate the advice.”
“When you see him, tell him Drom of Urik sends his regards. Most likely, he’ll not remember me. I am not a memorable man.”
“I will be sure to pass on your regards,” said Sorak.
Drom nodded, suddenly looking depressed. “Thank you for the drinks, friend,” he said. “And for the conversation. Sometimes, it is good to remember the old glory days.” He belched. “And sometimes, not so good.” He turned to Ryana and bowed, unsteadily. “My lady…”
Sorak watched him stagger off.
“He used to be a good man,” said Tajik as he watched Drom weave away into the crowd. “But drink has got the better of him. He fought in over a dozen wars, and now he guards the construction of a bridge in a small village stuck out in the middle of nowhere. Think on that, my friend. The trade of mercenary can be rewarding for a young man with some skill, but do not remain in it too long.”
The music stopped and the dwarf took the stage again, raising his arms for silence. “I know what you’ve all been waiting for!” he shouted. “The time has come! The Desert Damsel proudly presents… the lovely, the incomparable… Cricket!”
The crowd roared, and the drummers rattled off a fast tattoo, then stopped abruptly and started a slow and steady, gently rolling beat, accentuated by the bells and cymbals. The crowd fell silent as the beaded curtain at the back of the main stage parted, revealing the backlit silhouette of a tall, slender, beautifully proportioned woman in a sheer, transparent gown.
She moved sinuously in the backlight, swaying slowly to the beat, tantalizing the audience with the silhouette of her body showing through the gown, then she stepped into the light, and Sorak caught his breath. She was breathtakingly beautiful, a young half-elf girl with long, dark, silver-streaked hair almost to her waist; a heart-shaped face with slanted, dark eyes; delicately arched eyebrows; high, pronounced cheekbones; full lips and a slightly pointed chin. Her body was slender yet curvaceous, with a slim and narrow waist and long, exquisite legs. The other dancers had all been greeted with raucous shouts and cheers when they came on, but Cricket’s entrance brought utter silence as the men watched, mesmerized.
“That’s the star attraction,” Tajik said softly.
Unlike the other girls, who writhed provocatively and assumed seductive poses in time to the music, Cricket danced. Her muscular control was impressive as she undulated her upper body in time to the music, her belly rippling like the surface of a gently flowing stream and her arms stretched over her head moving languidly, like the wings of a graceful bird. Slowly, the musicians picked up the tempo and she began to whirl, bumping and twisting her hips in time to the be
at, moving on tiptoe as she twirled and spun. She sank down slowly into a perfect split, her upper body swaying, bending over first to touch one leg and then the other. Then she twisted on the floor and crouched upon her knees, slowly bending backward until she touched the floor with the back of her head, her arms raised over her chest and intertwining like snakes coupling as her hips rose and fell rhythmically. It was beautiful, sensuous, and blatantly erotic.
“Worth the wait, eh?” Tajik said with a grin. Sorak glanced over at him and saw Ryana watching him curiously.
“I… uh… have never seen anyone dance like that,” said Sorak.
“Nor have I,” Ryana said in a neutral tone. “She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” said Sorak, turning back toward the stage, “she is.”
Cricket slowly raised herself up and got to her feet, and the gown fell away from her as if removed by unseen hands. Somehow, she managed to shrug free of it without ever appearing to remove it, allowing it to slowly slip down her body until it was bunched at her feet. Gracefully, she stepped out of it, now dressed only in the smallest of girdles and a halter consisting of thongs and two tiny pieces of lizardskin. She wore a thin silver chain around her waist and another around her left ankle, with a tiny silver bell hanging from it. Around her thigh, she wore a lizardskin garter with a small pouch sewn into it, only large enough for one coin at a time.
As the men crowded the stage, holding out their coins, she pirouetted toward each of them, stopping and undulating her stomach muscles as she put one leg forward, bent slightly at the knee, her bare foot arched gracefully with only the toes touching the floor, and the men would slip their coins into the garter pouch. A few of them tried to run their hands up her leg, or kiss it, but she twisted away adroitly, snatching up the coins with her hand as she spun away, then turning back toward them and smiling with a slight shake of her head.