by Sarah Ash
The rain had soaked his hair to dark strands. Who would recognise him now? The few who had ventured out onto the rain-churned streets hurried past, their heads down. Nevertheless, for Lai’s sake, maybe it was better to be cautious.
Rain drove across the parade ground of the Tarkhas Memizhon in stormbursts. Inside the Tarkhas House, Ymarys climbed the broad stairs, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the polished wood, and reached his rooms unchallenged.
But when he opened the door he saw that the room had been ransacked. All his possessions and papers lay strewn across the floor, all his precious suits of silk and taffeta had been flung on the floor and trampled underfoot.
‘Not the paeony sarcenet—’
He sank to his knees, stifling a silent cry of anguish in the crumpled fabric of a much-beloved jacket.
They had slit the seams in their search for clues. Perhaps they had thought to find a concealed paper with a name, a destination on it? Not one garment remained undamaged. They had even ripped the silken rosettes from his shoes.
‘Ah well,’ he said defiantly. ‘They were all outmoded, last season’s styles. I would have thrown them out anyway.’
Orthandor was sitting hunched over the dregs of a brew of khassafri: Ymarys could still smell the last lingering fumes of nutmeg scenting the Tarrakh’s room.
‘What’s this, Tarrakh? Drinking on duty?’
‘Yma—’ Orthandor started up clumsily, upsetting his stool.
‘Ssh,’ Ymarys said, smiling. ‘You haven’t seen me. I’m a phantom. A figment of your imagination.’
Orthandor smothered him in a bear hug.
‘Ugh. You’re soaked. Have some khassafri to warm you.’
‘I’d appreciate a dry jacket too.’
Orthandor set a mug of khassafri down in front of Ymarys. Ymarys cradled the mug between his cold fingers to warm them.
‘What’s going on, Orthandor?’
‘I might ask you the same. You’re a wanted man. What have you done?’
‘Look. Just answer me one question. Where’s the Arkhan?’
‘Haven’t you heard? He’s sick. Brain fever. Doesn’t even remember his own name.’ Orthandor lumbered over to a linen chest and drew out a jacket. ‘Will this do?’
‘So where is he?’ Ymarys peeled off the wet jacket and pulled on Orthandor’s, which was several sizes too big.
‘He mustn’t be disturbed, apparently. “The slightest disturbance could break the slender thread attaching him to life.” Or so says Jhafir.’
‘Poetic words. But what do they conceal? He’s dead already? Murdered? Or just thrown to rot in some oubliette in the donjon?’
Orthandor shook his head slowly.
‘When did you last see him, Orthandor?’
‘In the arena riot. Two of the Tarkhas Memizhon dragged him into the tunnels. A day or so later they were both dead. The pestilence.’
‘How convenient,’ Ymarys said acidly. ‘And no one’s seen Melmeth since then?’
‘Myn-Dhiel’s crawling with Jhafir’s men. There’s more crimson than azure nowadays.’ Orthandor let out a sigh. ‘We’re demoted.’
‘You said they dragged him into the arena tunnels. Which lead to Myn-Dhiel – or the mausoleum.’
‘The charnel house? You think he’s been murdered?’
Ymarys gulped back the khassafir and got to his feet.
‘There’s only one way to find out.’
Ymarys was in a dangerous mood now, spoiling for a fight. They had ruined his wardrobe, raked through all his personal possessions. If anyone challenged him, he would skewer them – Memizhon or Zhudiciar, he didn’t care which.
He had only once taken the way of the dead to the mausoleum and that was when, as a young tarkhastar, he had followed Sardion’s bier. Then the tunnels had been lit with torchlight; now he had to follow the snail-phosphorescence of the thylz trail in smothering dark.
Maybe the rumours were true and Melmeth was grievously sick. But suppose Clodolë had taken advantage of the rumours – and had Melmeth killed? Ymarys had been a courtier too long at Myn-Dhiel not to be aware of the animosity between Arkhan and Arkhys.
As he drew near to the mausoleum, he sensed a stir of movement ahead. Flattening himself against the grimy walls, he edged forwards and saw a glint of torchlight.
Two of the Tarkhas Zhudiciar stood on guard in front of the arch that led into the mausoleum.
Why would they place a guard over the bones of Melmeth’s ancestors? No one ever went to the mausoleum except the hierophants.
Two. Ymarys’s fingers closed around the hilt of his razhir. Only two. And he had the element of surprise on his side.
Maybe he could just brazen his way in.
‘Good day to you, gentlemen.’
They started, blinking in the murky torchlight at the sudden pale-haired apparition which had appeared, grinning, before them.
‘I’ve come to pay Arkhan a visit.’
To Ymarys’s delight, the two tarkhastars seemed utterly confounded. One even began to fumble for the keys at his waist.
‘Identify yourself,’ the other said uncertainly.
‘Surely you know who I am.’
They glanced at each other.
‘You need a permit. From the Haute Zhudiciar.’
‘Oh, damn the permit.’ Ymarys’s razhir flashed from its sheath to hover neatly beneath the tarkhastar’s chin. ‘Just let me in.’
The tarkhastar’s eyes slid questioningly to his companion’s. The other one gave a terse nod. Ymarys saw his hand twitch; in a second, he had filleted the man’s blade right out of his hand.
‘Ai!‘ The man dropped to his knees, nursing his wrist. Ymarys made a grab at the keys.
‘What in the name of Ar-Zhoth is going on down there?’
Rho Jhan. Ymarys cursed under his breath.
Tarkhastars came running towards him from the darkness; he swiftly assessed the odds. He was outnumbered.
‘Intruder in the mausoleum, zhan!’
Ymarys gracefully executed a mocking bow. ‘Get him!’
‘Come on, then. Come and get me!’ He kissed his fingertips to them – and disappeared laughing into the darkness.
He knew the arena tunnels better than anyone. He would lose them – and be back at the Pleasure House of Ysmodai whilst they were still stumbling around in the dark.
Must get out of Perysse. Must get out before they catch me. They know I’m here, even now they’ll be searching for me, asking questions …
Ymarys sat cross-legged on the floor of Jhofiel’s attic, fingertips pressed together in an attitude of meditation.
Jhofiel floated past him. The dancer had been restlessly drifting to and fro across the attic room since Ymarys’s return. I feel so trapped … I need fresh air, moonlight … Maybe I should leave tonight, thought Ymarys. The longer I stay, the greater the risk.
The moon is high in the sky … just let me out for a few minutes in the gardens. Who’s going to see?
The secluded gardens of the Pleasure House of Ysmodai were overgrown, neglected since Jhafir’s edicts. Jhofiel flitted through the darkling garden, his bare feet scarcely leaving a print on the dew-wet grass.
Weeds were already choking the paths and borders. But the tangle of climbing roses was starred with late milk-blush blossoms and their creamy scent still perfumed the moist evening air. Ymarys.
When Ymarys looked around he saw that the moon had silvered Jhofiel’s cloudy hair, creating a misty aureole around his pale features. He realised that Jhofiel was holding out his hand to him. He shook his head, unable to find his voice, dazzled by the moon-wrought transformation.
Why do you keep away from me? Are you afraid?
‘Afraid! Why should I be afraid?’
I’m infected, tainted. You fear to catch the contagion if you touch me.
‘Is that what you think?’
Isn’t that why they seek to destroy us? They fear they will become as us? This condition is a divine punishment
for the sinful, lascivious lives we led. The All-Seeing could not permit the wickedness to continue … so he sent this curse to afflict us. He took away our powers of speech, he rendered us hideous—
‘That’s what the hierophants preach. Do you believe them?’
Not now that I have met you. You understand.
Ymarys still did not look at Jhofiel; he could sense the dancer’s nightmoth eyes staring directly at him, into his mind.
‘Only imperfectly.’
The air is so sweet. And the new moon is rising. It’s a sign. Jhofiel glided over to stand behind Ymarys.
I’m grateful that you saved me, I want to thank you …
Pale lips, soft as jasmine petals, pressed the skin at the back of his neck. Ymarys gasped, taken aback by the potency of this alien kiss.
Yskhysse … don’t you want to learn the secrets of the forbidden art? Aren’t you in the least curious?
‘Curious?’ Ymarys murmured. Softsilver hair all about him, a mist of floating hair, exuding that tantalisingly evanescent scent he had first noticed in Jhofiel’s attic room. Moonlit jasmine with an under-note of something indefinably animal. Alien. ‘Wait. Not now.’
Jhofiel let out a sigh, faint and light as the brush of a moth’s wings; Ymarys felt his soft breath on his face, his neck.
You. Even you reject me …
‘Did I say that?’
You don’t have to make excuses.
‘Jhofiel, I—’
I’m unnatural. You can’t bear to touch me.
‘For Mithiel’s sake!’ How did Jhofiel know how to play on his emotions so well? The last thing he had felt was repelled – not by Jhofiel’s kiss, nor by the touch of his slender androgynous body. ‘I came back to Perysse for information. That’s all. I’ll be leaving – just as soon as I can spirit myself on board a coastbound ship.’
Ymarys … come here.
‘No,’ said Ymarys softly.
Jhofiel’s arms encircled Ymarys.
Stay one more night. Just one more.
Ymarys could feel his resolve melting faster than honeyed candle-wax.
‘One more night, then.’
The coastline was perpetually shrouded in seafogs; drear, damp mists that dripped from every roof of the house, veiling the light of the sun.
Laili now walked with the rolling gait of the heavily pregnant. She had found a companion in one of the appellants, an older woman, Cariel, who knew all about birthing. Cariel estimated that if the child arrived to time, it would be born by Sh’amain, the Day of the Dead.
And still no word came from Ymarys – or Melmeth.
That foggy morning Lai was at work in the Hearkenor’s garden when he heard a sound that stopped him in the midst of digging up a particularly stubborn rosemary bush.
Low notes wreathed upwards, smoky as autumn leaffires, sad and forlorn.
She was playing her flute. No one could play with such subtlety as Laili …
He let his spade fall and followed the sound of the drifting notes, out of the walls and onto the shore.
A little flurry of notes, a darting fall, then a slow, lingering descent into silence.
She was standing on the sands, staring out to sea, the flute still in her hands.
T love the sound of the sea. It reminds me of Ael Lahi. It’s the only place where I feel truly at peace.’
‘We can still go home. If that’s what you want.’
‘How can I go home now?’
She looked at him then and he saw that her eyes were clouded with unshed tears.
They walked in silence for a while along the empty strand. A grey seamist hung low over the waters.
‘You’re not hiding anything from me, are you, Lai?’ she said suddenly.
‘Me? What should I be hiding?’
‘News. News about Perysse. About – Melmeth.’
‘I’ve told you all I know. I’ve heard nothing.’
‘Not even from Ymarys?’
‘No,’ he said, brow creasing in a frown.
They sat down together in the shelter of a sand dune tufted with whispering marram grass.
‘Why hasn’t he come, Lai?’ Her hands rested over her swollen belly, as though protecting her unborn child. ‘“Just a short while and we shall be together.” And now all these long weeks have passed and no news has come, not even a simple message. I’m so worried.’
Lai sifted sand through his fingers, such soft grains, so different from the coarse sand of the arena …
‘Every night I hear him calling me. Just one, insistent message. “Help me, Laili. Help me!” He needs me. I know he needs me. I should go to him.’
‘You can’t go anywhere in your condition,’ he said, trying to make her smile.
‘I knew what I was doing was wrong. But it was also so very right. Can you understand that, Lai?’ Tears clouded her clear eyes. ‘I knew. In here.’ She laid her hand on her breast. ‘And not a day passes when I don’t miss him, when I don’t listen for the sound of his voice, his footfall …’
He put his arms around her, rocking her gently, wishing he could find words to comfort her.
‘Laili, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘If that was the test the Goddess set me, then I failed Her.’
‘Don’t cry, I can’t bear it when you cry.’ He took out a kerchief and gently wiped the tears from her eyes.
Stormclouds were massing overhead, lit underneath by the light of the sun, veins of fire streaking the grey.
‘Rain’s coming. We’d better go back.’ He helped her to her feet and they set off slowly towards the white walls of the house.
Was that someone moving across the unlit quay? Ymarys rubbed his aching eyes and looked again. Was the house under surveillance?
You’ve been watching at that window for hours.
Feathery touch of fingers at the back of Ymarys’s neck, teasing undone the knot of stiffened muscles.
I could make you feel so much better, ease this tension a little … you’re all twisted-up inside, Ymarys …
Ymarys removed the massaging hand from his neck.
‘Jhofiel, you know I find you attractive. You can read my mind better than I can myself. I just can’t—’
Why ever not? Huge eyes widening in surprise, white eyebrow fronds visibly vibrating in amusement. Regard this as a professional arrangement. Payment for services rendered by a grateful client. I was a professional, myself remember?
Ymarys began to smile, in spite of himself. Jhofiel seemed able to assume this chameleon guise, projecting a rainbow array of emotional auras, one moment violently jealous, the next, playfully seductive.
‘You owe me nothing, Jhofiel.’
But haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like …?
Slowly, hypnotically, Jhofiel began to move as if to an inner rhythm, letting the loose robe he was wearing slide off one shoulder, then the other, slide down to his waist, his hips … his feet.
He stood naked before Ymarys, his moonlit body almost translucent, clothed only in the silvered strands of drifting hair. An unblemished body almost too perfect in its silken smoothness, slender yet unmistakably male, penis a pale moon-orchid, a bud ready to burst into full bloom.
Touch me. Hold me. I won’t break.
Ymarys gazed at him, his breath caught in his throat, wanting to touch – yet—
You fear you may become like me. You fear that if you kiss me, if you possess me, you will become infected …
Jhofiel bent down over him, veiling him in a cloud of soft hair, pushing him backwards, his feathery fingers deft and swift as they undid his shirt, his breeches, peeling away his outer skin of clothes, until he lay naked on the bare boards.
‘Jhofiel—’ Ymarys gasped.
Now you will find out. Jhofiel’s boskh-scented breath warmed his face as he opened his lips with his own … and the slender tongue came snaking out, curling itself about Ymarys’s tongue.
Ymarys cried out—
And then as he tasted
Jhofiel’s translucent saliva, colder than the empty waters of the moon, he felt the struggle drain out of him and a white void open within his mind.
He could not even remember who he was.
Torch-flares gashed the darkness.
Dazzled, Ymarys flung up one hand to cover his eyes, groping with the other for his razhir.
A booted foot stamped on his searching hand; he doubled up in silent agony, clutching his crushed fingers.
The attic room was full of moving shadows; rough hands seized him, flung him against the wall.
‘Bring him downstairs.’
‘Jhofiel!’ Ymarys shouted. ‘What have you done with Jhofiel!’
They grabbed him by the arms and hustled him, naked, down the stairs and out into the neglected garden.
The hierophants forced him to his knees on the grass and closed in a tight circle around him. Pitch torches wept gouts of flame onto the damp ground.
The one nearest shrugged off his hood; Ymarys looked up and found himself staring into the shrewd, cold eyes of Ophar.
‘The Arkhys has missed you at court, zhan Ymarys. Why have you neglected your court duties these long weeks?’
‘The Arkhan granted me leave of absence,’ Ymarys said. His crushed bladehand throbbed; the pain took on a pulse of its own. ‘I’ve been at Sarilla’s estates.’
‘And before that?’
‘I told you. I visited Sarilla’s estates which are now mine.’
‘Don’t play games with me, Ymarys. You went to Phaeros with the Aelahim woman. We need to know where she is now.’
‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Ymarys said, trying to affect his habitual nonchalant tone.
‘Oh, come now, zhan Razhirrakh. Is your memory so poor? Or perhaps you don’t realise how serious your predicament is? Do you know the penalty for harbouring one such as this?’
Ophar raised his hand. At his signal, Rho Jhan appeared, dragging a slender figure whose pale hair streamed behind him like moonspun gossamer.
‘Jhofiel,’ Ymarys whispered, agonised. ‘Oh, Jhofiel.’
Dazzlebright … sunbright …
‘Don’t be crazy!’ Ymarys hissed. ‘It’s torchlight, nothing more. Look away!’
Jhofiel’s frail body began to shudder beneath Rho Jhan’s restraining grip.