“But I do have something.”
“You little dog! Waiting to the end. You do? What? Spit it out man!”
“Who.”
“Who then?”
“Lucinia Vertisa, the Countess of Mogawn.”
Duke Abing swayed with the carriage. A look of calculation crossed his face.
“Why her? Isn’t she a risk?”
“The Maceriyans admire her.”
“The Maceriyans, the Perusans in particular, they’re all bloody perverts,” said Abing dismissively. “There had better be a better reason.”
“The Twin. She has calculations. Scientific calculations. She presented to the Royal Institute in Karsa earlier this year, and was received favourably.”
“I heard.”
“Her expertise is outrunning her reputation for licentiousness. We can use both to our advantage.”
“What? Have her do her presentation again, undermine the god-talkers? Scandalise the dracon eaters of Perus a bit? Is that your play Kressind? Sow some doubt, unseat Raganse and reap a candidate more to our liking? Then we could side with the Maceriyans, and stick it to the bloody Khusiaks!”
Garten made a modest moue. “And more. That she is a woman will play well with the Queendom. The Queendom, along with the Duchy of Daiserich, hold the keys to the votes of the petty princes of the Olberlands. If she performs either duty well, then we have great advantage. If both, then the legate can be ours for the choosing.”
“Alright, alright, don’t overstate your promise. But still, very good, Garten, very good.” Abing pointed a square-ended finger at him. “When you do this sort of thing, it reminds me why I promoted you to secretary. When is the Hag joining us?”
“Please, your grace. Not that name. We must try not to offend her.”
Abing grunted. “I hear she looks like a man and ruts like a bitch.”
“What of it? She has the finest mind of this generation.”
“A woman?” said Abing doubtfully.
“She awaits us at Vieyve-su-nare, at the edge of the Neck,” said Garten. “I wrote to her sometime ago, and received her letter of acceptance this morning before I left.”
“In the nick of time! Fine, fine. Don’t let her upset anyone. But good work, good work all the same.” He jabbed his blunt finger at Garten several times. “Now all we have to decide is who we’re going to back for High Legate!” He barked out a mirthless laugh. “Back into the fray.”
“Duke Abing?” said Issy. Her voice was so high and fine it could cut glass. “If you have finished with your periodicals, might I have them?”
“You read, your highness?” said Abing sarcastically.
“Yes I do,” said Issy. “Avidly. I desire to consume the agricultural sections. You have eaten my biscuits, and I am still hungry.”
CHAPTER NINE
A Careful Purchase
MADELYNE FORS WAS the fourth in a line of seven girls, all made up for display. A footman dressed in the garish costume of the Jhaydue House of Pleasure took the girls from the back hall, into a plain corridor and down a set of worn stone steps. A small door awaited, opened solemnly by the footman, as if it were the way into a glorious palace, and not a dirty little cellar. The lintel brushed the top of Madelyne’s hood, smearing the velvet with rotten lime. Beyond was a vaulted cellar. Four anguillon oil lamps burned on hooks in the wall. Otherwise it was bare of any adornment, the walls unplastered. The rough cut stone bled moisture.
Medame Verralt, owner of the brothel and, it was said, most of the city block it occupied, awaited them. Her hair was tied in a neat but unattractive bun atop her head. Her dress covered her almost completely, from the base of her age-wattled chin to her ankles. The cuffs covering half her hands, leaving only her fingers and face exposed. Despite its coverage, the dress was immodestly clingy.
Madelyne had met Verralt once before, on her visit to the debtors’ prison where she had selected Madelyne for the sale. She had seemed severe then, now her pinched face was angrily set. She held a cane of the kind employed in schools.
“Quickly now, you little sluts,” she barked. “Into line, or I shall not spare the whip on you.”
All seven were beautiful, all young, all desperately poor, on the cusp of attaining full womanhood and thereafter losing their looks to the ravages of poverty. Madelyne wore her best gown, the only one she could save from the tax gatherers: threadbare, but still elegant. Most of the rest of them wore clothes borrowed from Medame Verralt’s girls. All of them had had their faces heavily painted. They had been bathed, perfumed. Under their dresses they wore nothing as they had been instructed, and the cellar chilled them.
Medame Verralt fussed over the row of girls, adjusting their hair gently, rearranging their postures less so, pinching their cheeks to make them redder, shoving up their chins, forcing their bottoms and breasts out so that their spines creaked. “Smile damn you!” she snapped, tapping at the sixth girl in the row with her cane.
The girl began to cry, her head sinking to her chest.
“Oh my dear, are you sad?” said Verralt with mock sympathy. She struck the girl’s arm, and the girl snatched her hand behind her back. “Pull yourself together, the Infernal Duke will be here in a moment. He cannot abide misery, and you look appalling when you weep! Look at you, like an anguillon sprat, all pouty and wet. Stand straight!”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t want to,” she gulped out. “I’ve changed my mind. I want to go.”
Medame Verralt raised her cane for a hard blow, and the girl’s tears dissolved into chesty sobs.
“Pathetic,” said Verralt. She lowered her cane. “Get her out of here. Take her upstairs. If she won’t earn her debt out with the duke, she can do it on her back. You’ll regret your choice soon enough,” said Verralt.
“Medame,” said the footmen, and led the girl from the room with a sight more kindness than Medame Verralt exhibited. Verralt chivvied the remaining girls along to close the gap, smacking at Madelyne’s thighs with her cane when she fell an inch out of place. Through her skirt the blow was an annoyance rather than painful, but Madelyne glared at her. Verralt looked back, unimpressed. “Quickly now, quickly. He is coming.”
“He’s a little premature,” said one of the other girls slyly. The others smirked.
Verralt rounded on her, finger out to scold. “Less of that, you speak of a goodfellow of the most refined tastes and manners. He cannot abide coquettishness.”
“Makes me wonder what I’m doing here then,” said the girl. Verralt cracked her on the wrist.
“Ouch,” said the girl sarcastically. “Now you’re getting me excited.”
“If there is more of your insolence, there is more of that to answer it,” Verralt said. She struck the girl with a heavy, snake-swift blow and this time she gasped. “Is there any more insolence?”
“No Medame,” said the girl. She narrowed her eyes and rubbed at the red weal on her arm.
“Cover that up, you are to be perfect for him! Perfect. No mark on you,” she smiled lasciviously. “He will want to put those on you himself. Now hold your positions, and wait.”
Madelyne fixed her eyes on a line of mortar in the wall. She was nervous, conflicted at what she was doing. The cellar was well hidden from prying eyes. Madelyne could disappear, and no one would know. Those women who had been in the duke’s service were highly visible in society, but for all anyone knew, the duke had associated with more girls than advertised. There was no sign the cellar was used for anything else, no scrapes on the floor to show that items had been removed, no scraps of wood or straw or sacking. The Medame must make plenty of money selling girls to the duke to keep this valuable space bare, and she must do it often.
Any movement or sound, be it the slightest sigh, was met by a sharp look from Verralt.
They waited, stiff and posed as soldiers at attention. The cellar trembled with nervous breathing. From hushed, snatched conversations upstairs Madelyne had discovered that three of the girls had been b
ought from the poorhouse and the debtors’ gaol. Verralt had given them all a choice whether to present themselves to the duke before buying out their debts. Although choosing between the Infernal Duke and the gaol was not much choice at all, if they were not picked long years of working in the Medame’s brothel awaited. The other three girls were there voluntarily, of that rare sort genuinely excited by the duke’s proclivities. Their faces were flushed under their make-up. Verralt had no need to pinch them.
A loud knock at the outer door made them all jump. Madelyne’s heart hammered. She had lived her entire life in the city of Perus, but she had never seen its god. Muted voices spoke at the end of the hall. One which surely belonged to the god rumbled and purred, so deep and assured she shivered. She forced herself to focus, to concentrate on why she was there.
Not for him, she thought, not because I have to. Because I choose to. Because Harafan knows what he is doing.
Slow steps came down the hall accompanied by the rap of a cane. The footman returned, opened the door, and stood back.
The god stepped into the room, bending almost double to pass the tiny door. He dusted his shoulders off as he stood.
Madelyne’s eyes disobeyed her and strayed to the duke. He filled the room, as tall as a Torosan, but without their lumpishness. His horns brushed the ceiling, his shoulders kissed the walls. Despite his outlandish appearance he was well formed. His exquisitely tailored clothes were tight on large muscles, elements of a physique so perfect as to be almost a caricature—wide shoulders, small hips, and fine, tapering legs. His face was imperious, proud, possessed of a broad, bullish nose wrinkled with a pattern of curved clefts. A pair of modest fangs protruded from his lower jaw, leaving delicate indentations in his top lip. He was shaven-headed but for a long queue of bronze hair running down his back. He was copper-skinned. His curled horns, black and smooth as onyx, were polished to a high shine.
Verralt’s demeanour changed utterly at the appearance of the duke. Her face smoothed, losing some of its hard angles and a measure of its age. For the first time, Madelyne saw that she must have been beautiful once. Verralt clucked and bobbed, smiling wide enough to show off every one of her shining secondhand teeth. Clutching her cane tightly, she went before the duke and curtseyed low, her silks and laces rustling decorously. Fearing Verralt’s wrath, Madelyne returned her attention to the wall.
“Your grace, the Duke Infernal, we have been expecting you.”
“Gisellia, my sweet,” said the duke. His voice was so deep Madelyne’s skin prickled. “Please, get up.”
Verralt looked up at him with adoring eyes. She shone in his presence. The duke cupped her face in his hand and wiped away a tear, smearing powder onto his giant thumb. “You were one of my favourites.”
Verralt smiled at him.
“You served me so well in the past, and continue to do so today.” He cast his eyes over the women. “Tell me what we have.”
“A fine selection, your grace.”
“Ah, but only six?”
Gone to girlishness, Medame Verralt nevertheless retained her acumen. “Six of the very best, your grace.”
The Duke Infernal curled a lip in amusement.
“You were ever quick witted, my dear. A little too quick witted.”
For all her admonishments against coquettishness, Medame Verralt laughed and flapped at her face. The duke brought such a transformation of spirit upon her. “All personally selected. I bought their debts.”
“All from the gaol, none from the poor houses?” asked the duke.
“Just one from the poor house. Most are hags by twenty in there these days, your grace.”
Madelyne stifled a twitch in her neck. She had come from the gaol, but was far too familiar with the poorhouse also.
“Times are not what they were, I remember many a sweet poorhouse girl. Never mind, six will do. This is a rare collection. I sense you have exactly what I require, right here in this room. Well done, well done!”
“I certainly hope so, your grace.”
The duke walked down the line, shoulders hunched against the curve of the vaulting. “Such pretty butterflies, enjoy your moment in the sun, beauty is fleeting,” he said to the girls. “Tell me of this one,” said the duke, pointing a heavy finger at the girl next to Madelyne, a brunette in a yellow dress. Madelyne struggled to keep her eyes forward as she had been ordered, and could not resist a glance at his hand. His nails were finely manicured. She felt obscurely disappointed.
He turned to Madelyne suddenly, and she flinched. “Expecting talons?” he said genially. There was a challenge to his smile. Expensive scent wafted from him, but it could not quite mask his own odour: a mix of hot stone and a healthy, animal sweat.
Caught off guard, Madelyne stammered. “N... no your grace.”
The Duke Infernal returned his attention to the girl in the yellow dress.
“A farmer’s daughter,” explained Verralt. “She was arrested for licentiousness, and could not pay her fine for working without papers, nor afford a permit.”
The girl trembled. Madelyne could guess her story; off to seek a bright future in a dark city, finding no mercy and no money, forced to part her legs to eat. How could she pay the fine?
“A whore?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” said Medame Verralt so gravely one would have thought she regarded brothels as the world’s most singular evil. “Not a very good one, or she would not have been caught. Does her sullying disappoint or excite you?” said Verralt. Her lips and eyes glistened in the lamp light.
The Duke Infernal waved his hand dismissively. “I care nothing for your petty human morality. It changes quicker than the wind. What is abominable to one generation is practised with enthusiasm by the next.”
“I do not wish to second guess your desire, your grace. I merely thought you would enjoy the drama of her fall, from ingénue of the forests, to night walker.”
“I do, I do!” said the duke. “You know me so well, my dear. It is all in the context. I may not care personally for human mores, but how they affect you, how you feel, how you suffer and thrill when you transgress, well.” He chuckled. “That is sweet wine, exquisite to sample, and the pleasure it brings you when your misgivings are overcome... How old are you girl?”
“Fifteen,” said the girl in a small voice.
“Did you run from home, from your boring life?”
The girl nodded miserably.
“Naiveté! A frequent road to disaster.” The duke lifted a tress from the farmer’s daughter’s head and sniffed at it. “Exquisite. Alas, this one is bound for more tawdry assignations. She is not for me. This is a story I have enjoyed too many times. Novelty, novelty, bring me novelty!” The Medame gestured to the footman, and the girl in yellow was led away, her head low with misery. There she was passed to a second man waiting outside, and went forever out of Madelyne’s knowledge.
“The next then, if you please, your grace. A very interesting story of betrayal and privation. The brown-skinned beauty, at the end.”
The Duke Infernal gestured with his cane top. “This one? A very pretty jewel, yes.” He walked over to stand in front of her.
“A fine lady. Once,” said Medame Verralt, “a noble of Ferrok where the sun is hot. She was abandoned by her husband here. With no money of her own and no way to send for more, she fell on hard times and was taken to the gaol. Too much high living, my dear, that you cannot afford!”
“I am a goodlady. In my land,” said the woman with cold dignity, “I am of important family.”
“Eyes forward! You are not to speak!” Verralt raised her cane. The Duke Infernal caught her wrist softly in his massive hand, swallowing her arm to the elbow.
“That is not necessary, my dear Gisellia, let her speak,” said the duke. “Your family cannot have held you in any regard my dear, if they leave you here to fall into debt.” The woman shook with anger. “I am sure you shall earn the Medame here much money, but you are not for me.”
Th
e woman was removed. Four were left. So it went on, the duke chuckling good naturedly at Verralt’s barbed comments. He took his time, his joy in the selection evident. Two more were examined, humiliated by Verralt’s crowing, and dismissed until only two—Madelyne and one other—remained. For a long while, the duke asked nothing of them, but looked them over like a farmer appraising cattle dracon. He rested his chin in his hand. “Both debtors you say?”
“Yes,” said the Medame. “Pretty girls, and unspoilt.”
“I really can’t decide. I might be tempted to take both. If only I could!”
“Why not?” said the Medame eagerly, scenting double profits. “It would be something new for you, something exciting!”
The duke shook his mighty head. “Nothing is new to me, Medame. No, one it must be. Two together become unruly, hard to train. Disaster is the most frequent outcome.” He sighed and gestured at the girls. “I need to see more. Could you?”
“Strip them,” said Verralt harshly.
The footman came forward, and tore the dress from Madelyne’s back. The last vestige of her old life fell away, ruined. Madelyne did not fight, she kept her eyes forward, put her arms back at her side once the footman had finished. Her breasts tightened in the cold, bringing an appreciative noise from the duke.
The footman went to the other girl and tore the dress from her also. The girl’s head sank with shame. She covered her mound with one hand, her breasts with the other.
“Arms down!” snapped Verralt. This time the duke did not stop Verralt, and she lashed at the girl’s buttocks with her cane. The girl dropped her arms, arched her back to get away. She knew she should not move, but could not help herself and took a step from the stinging crop. The footman grabbed her biceps and held her in place as Verralt lashed her. The Medame did not stop until the girl was screaming, covered in livid red slashes. The footman let her go and she crumpled to the floor in the scraps of her dress, her arms protecting her head.
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