by G. Howell
“You should try that look more often,” I forced down a complete grin. “It suits you.”
Two of the attendants closed on him with towels ready, Chaeitch let them go to work, patting and rubbing at his sodden pelt. “You should talk. Come on, you hairless water-ape, get out of there before you dissolve.”
I clambered out, dripping a lot less water. Even with my beard and long hair, I wasn’t carrying half my body weight in the stuff. “At least I don’t look like a carpet on wash day,” I retorted.
“Ah, you wound me,” he sniffed as the attendants worked. The oversized towels were already soaked through and through and as the grooms took them away to fetch another pair I had to stop from laughing out loud: now Chaeitch’s pelt was a exploding mess of punk spikes. “Don’t even open your mouth,” he growled at me. “Not one sound. That’s what these folk are here for.”
“To make you look like a half-exploded haystack?”
He growled.
Two of the others closed on me. I could see they were trying not to stare too obviously as they went about their task of drying me. I think I could have probably managed it myself, but going along with it seemed to be the thing to do at the time. Besides, that pair had it a lot easier than the couple trying to deal to Chaeitch’s hide. As they carefully worked at patting me dry I wondered how many towels they actually went through here.
The pair attending me finished quickly. I think they looked a little surprised when they realized they were done: they were looking at me as if they were trying to figure out what they’d missed. Soon enough though, one of them was satisfied enough that he inclined his head to me. “Sir, if you would please come this way?”
I glanced over at Chaeitch: he was still being vigorously rubbed and toweled down by a squad of attendants and there was a distinct smell of wet dog in the air. The attendants respectfully ushered me away from the bath, down the terrace toward the benches there. They weren’t just tables, they were big, roughly rectangular and certainly massive slabs of stone. Not neatly dressed and polished surfaces, but six-foot long slabs of raw granite. And the only finishing I could see were places where they’d been worn smooth by abrasion and I got the impression that they were old old, looking like capstones removed from some ancient dolmen. They were supported on massive pedestals of elaborately wrought iron. I could smell burning: the glow of coals were visible behind the whorls and loops of the pedestals’ metal ornamentation. When I touched the stone it was warm. Not hot: just warm. That was a neat thermal balancing trick.
“If you would, please, sir,” one of attendants said, gesturing at the slab. “Could you lay here, please, sir. On your front, please, sir.”
Unsure, I looked towards Chaeitch and back at the anxious-looking attendants. The tables resembled sacrificial alters, but I was pretty sure Rris didn’t go in for that sort of thing. Chaeitch had said they were grooms, so whatever was about to happen probably involved grooming, but I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant or how that applied to me - I didn’t exactly have the hide that necessitated it. What the hell. It probably wasn’t going to be dangerous; I just had the feeling it was going to be something horribly embarrassing. But I did as they requested and sat on the tabletop. The stone was as solid and unmoving as if it were still attached to a mountain. I swung my legs up and laid down and turned over. The stone felt odd against my skin. With the brazier heating from underneath it was like laying down on a sun-warmed rock. That was probably the intention.
That decorative window wall was a few meters away, directly in front of me. Laying there with my folded arms propping my head up I could see the lead solder between the individual panes, could see heavier metal supports bracing what had to be a not-inconsiderable weight of the wall. Through the distortion of the uneven glass twilight had turned the hills to black outlines against a fractionally lighter sky. A few early, wavery stars glittered. Overlaying that dark world I could see the reflected glows of the lamps in the room behind me; could see indistinct movement around me.
“Please, sir, if you could lay like so,” one of the Rris asked me. Hands touched me, gingerly trying to arrange me.
I did as they wanted: laying flat on the slab with my arms down by my side. The attendants weren’t the only ones who were nervous - I had a brief mental image of an autopsy slab and couldn’t help but flinch when one of the Rris behind me poured something on me. Warm liquid droplets spattered across my back, being spread from my shoulders down to my calves and I tensed under the peculiar sensation. Alien hands touched my skin and I caught my breath as they stroked, spreading something slick over my back. Oil of some kind. Was that usual? I grimaced and felt twitches of tension dance across my back as someone touched the scarred tissue back there.
“Pardon, sir,” the attendant hastily said. “This is painful?”
“Not… I just... being touched there, on those scars feels… strange.”
“Yes, sir. Apologies, sir.”
They worked around them. When they did touch the raised weals, the hands were gentle and I took a deep breath as they rubbed lightly, pressing just hard enough for my muscles to feel. That wasn’t too bad. A massage. I hadn’t had one of those for while and I certainly didn’t know Rris did it. Those alien hands worked along my muscles and I started to relax. There were low voices and a tinkle of metal and then a steaming hot weight was pressed on my right shoulder.
“Ah!” I jumped again, more in surprise than pain.
“Apologies, sir,” the Rris voice behind me said again and the weight was hastily lifted. “It’s not too hot, is it?”
“What?” I said and twisted my head to see the Rris holding a glistening black rounded object about the size of a baseball. “What is it?”
“A heated stone, sir,” the attendant said. “Is it too hot? You don’t like it?”
“Ah.” I thought about it for a few seconds, then slowly laid my head down again. “I was startled. Ah, please, continue.”
“Sir,” the Rris said and the hot weight returned, placed more gingerly this time. “That is all right?”
I could feel the heat from the stone above and below and the mild buzz running through my middle. “That is… all right.”
And it was. There were more steaming hot stones: four on my back, more on my legs and arms, laid right on muscle mass, and the heat from those sank deep. And when the first ones were starting to cool the attendant lifted them away and then hands started working.
I’d had massages before, but not like this. Their hands still felt weird and weren’t as strong as human; they didn’t have the grip of an ex- brachiator, but there was skill and experience that made itself shown as they went cautiously at first, especially around the scar tissue. The materials they had to work with were doubtless different from anything else they’d experienced, but they learned; they adapted. A few times they pinched or did something that made me wince, but they learned what worked and how the strata of the muscles and tendons lay and soon I was losing tensions I never knew I had. And they had other sorts of tools at their disposal: the padded gloves made of something like kid leather to guard against mistakes with claws; other gloves were covered with wooden beads and they oiled those and then kneaded them slowly but firmly up limbs. There were implements like paint rollers made from cylinders of knobbed and rounded stone, heated and oiled and then used on muscles, rolling them out as if they were bread dough. Other things like combs and bushes with broad teeth; smooth brass knuckles they used in a way that wasn’t nearly as vicious as the tools looked.
“This is all right, sir?” an attendant asked.
“That is... very all right,” I mumbled.
Force and skill; firmness and subtlety; moments of pinpointed discomfort and then relief that only then let me know just how tight some of my muscles had been tensed. I sprawled on the stone and let them do as they willed as I half-dozed under
a haze of opiates and endorphins.
Over at the other bench another trio of attendants were attending to Chaeitch. He was splayed out on his belly like a shaggy, moth-eaten rug, his eyes closed, a stupid expression plastered across his face and the pink tip of his tongue poking out. There were more oily hot stones being used on him and one of his attendants commenced a massage vigorous enough to constitute as assault. Another groom was busy with brushes and combs and scissors, methodically working away at brushing down the pelt on his arms and touching up the patterns he had shaved in his fur there. And apparently the Rris tending me thought I could do with the same treatment. I lifted my head in surprise when I felt the brush on my calf. Okay, I had hairs there, but compared with the walking carpet that was a Rris pelt they were nothing and certainly didn’t require that sort of care. After a few seconds internal deliberation I relaxed and decided to leave the grooms to it - they were trying so hard I felt that it’d be a shame to disappoint them.
So they rubbed and pressed and kneaded in odd, arcane and occasionally painful ways, but overall it was good. There was the warmth; there was the pot and there was the methodical working and pummeling at my muscles that flushed their own drugs into my bloodstream. The attendant with the brushes finished with my arms and worked his way up to my head, which finally gave him something to actually do. Brushes raked hard enough to lift my head from the table and make me grimace, but after a while the knots and burrs were pulled loose and the tines flowed easily.
I closed my eyes momentarily, just for a second, and the next I knew a voice was politely asking me to turn. Blearily I did so and the grooms started on my front. There was a moment when some distant part of my mind pushed forward a thought that I should be uncomfortable about that, but it barely registered through the relaxed feeling. I just lay limp on the table while clever alien hands rubbed oils and massaged my limbs and took my hands and stroked patterns on my palms and rubbed and smoothed out muscles in my face and combed and trimmed my beard and other places that really didn’t need it. My toe and fingernails they were unsure about, but they pared them down with sharp little knives and files; tools usually used for claws. They spoke to each other, whispering in low voices about peculiarities and differences and I elected not to listen to what they were saying and just laid out and let it happen.
Eventually... inevitably, there was a voice somewhere beyond the lassitude saying, “Sir? Hai, Sir?”
I cracked an eye. There was a Rris face leaning over me. The eyes were amber and wide, but in a fraction of a moment the pupils flicked from seed-slits to black pools. “Sir?”
“Huhn,” I blearily replied. “What? What is it?”
“Ahhh,” the Rris looked a little taken aback. “We’re done, sir.”
“Done?” I blinked at the Rris, yawned widely. “Finished?”
“Yes, sir.”
Oh. Well. I was actually disappointed that it was all over: I’d been quite enjoying it. I sat up and swung my feet over the side of the table and sat there for a few seconds. I felt... clean. Scrubbed, almost. And wrung out like I’d been stretched on a rack, with my muscles feeling well worked. Chaeitch had been right about it being a pleasant surprise, and I reflected that that in itself was a surprise. And speaking of whom, he was still sprawled out on the slab with attendants attacking his hide with what looked like curry brushes. He still had that stupid look on his face.
Slowly, without urgency and when I was quite ready the attendants ushered me to a niche by the window wall. There were a set of cushions where I could wait. The attendants assured me Chaeitch wouldn’t be long; they’d finished me first because, well, there simply wasn’t as much to do.
They offered me a lightweight linen robe, which did surprise me a little: It was a warm evening, especially in there, and they wouldn’t see any need for it. Which meant someone would have told them that I’d have requirements that may seem a little odd to them. I accepted it. And they also offered me an elegant little white cup of hot wine. Spiked or not? That was the thought that immediately popped into my head as I looked up at the servant holding the tray with the offering on it. The Rris just looked a little concerned at my hesitation as I eyed the proffered drink. Paranoid? Yeah, it was - I’d been caught out too often, but I couldn’t see a reason for them to drug me. Actually, I hadn’t been able to see a reason for the last time either, not until after the fact. But, what the hell: they’d been good to me that night and I was feeling completely relaxed, so I accepted it.
The wine was heated, spiced and again not really all that good compared with what I’d known back home; home-home or even home back in Shattered Water. Still, it wasn’t as vinegary as some Rris wines I’d had in the past and once it was past the taste buds it had the same effect. It warmed on the way down, leaving me feeling quite mellow while I waited and watched the distant cold points of stars coming out as the blue sky beyond the glass forest wall darkened to black.
“You look rested,” a Rris voice rumbled. Jenes’ahn was sitting on the cushion beside me. I’d never heard her settle herself.
“Hmmm,” I nodded and sipped. “That was... different.”
“You haven’t been to a professional groom before?”
I shrugged. “No. Not here. I didn’t know you did that.”
“So I gathered. Who did your... fur - whatever you call that stuff - previously?”
“I did. I don’t need as much help.”
“Obviously not. Still, it’s not always about just that,” she said. “Some people do enjoy it.”
“Really?” I turned to look at her. She was also gazing out at the stars. The uneven glass distorted them so some were smeared, giving the impression that one was viewing the universe through sheets of water. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Truly? You didn’t appreciate that? You are strange.”
“I was being... not serious. I did enjoy that.”
She snorted again. “Huhn. It’s difficult to tell with you.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I was told you show your teeth in humor. You did that the other day. You didn’t do that then.”
Again I looked at her. What the hell was she thinking? “That is a... generalization. Look, how much do you actually know about me? How much have you been told?”
“We were briefed for several hours.”
“Several hours,” I echoed and then I did grin. Broadly. “Shit, you’re an expert.”
She actually bristled and flashed her own teeth at me.
“Rot, now what’s he done?” an exasperated voice called over to us. Chaeitch was standing by his table, stretching in a way that made it seem as if he didn’t have any bones.
“What?” I blinked and sipped my drink. “Oh, nothing. She’s just getting all Mediatory on me.”
“What?!” she spat. “That’s not even a word.”
A final flex of his shoulders and flick of his tail and he strolled over towards us, looking like the proverbial cat with the proverbial canary. “Mikah, leave her alone,” he told me as he settled himself on another cushion and yawned expansively. In the ochre candlelight his pelt gleamed like burnished metal and the patterns cut into the fur of his upper arms had new definition .
“You’re looking well-polished,” I noted. “What is that? Oil?”
“A flower extract, I believe,” he said brushing at his arm. A servant silently knelt beside him offering a tray with more of the little white ceramic bowls containing assorted liquid refreshments and he picked one, sniffed delicately and lapped a couple of times before asking: “And you’re feeling better?”
“A,” I nodded. “A. Quite. You could have told me about this earlier. This was what you were talking to her ladyship about?”
He flashed me a sharp imitation of my smile. “A. She thought you might appreciate it.”
“It
was so noticeable?” I asked, sipping again. The stuff wasn’t subtle. I could feel it pleasantly fuzzing the world, and incidentally, its own tartness.
“Huhn, she said she thought you could do with a good rubdown. She said she’d noticed how stiff you got... what? Are you choking? Mikah? What?”
------v-----
Jenes’ahn stopped us outside the door to my quarters and insisted on going in first. Part of her duties as a bodyguard, she’d said. So Chaeitch and I waited as she went in, head turning as she sniffed the air and checked out the drawing room, then the bedroom and bathroom before returning and letting us know we could enter. I sighed, shook my head and then went in.
“We’ll be here for you at first light,” Chaeitch told me as we stepped into the entry hall. “Get some rest tonight, a?”
“Going to be a long day?”
His ears flicked back a little, but he said, “Oh, it won’t be so bad.”
No. Of course not. I figured he was just saying that so as to not get me too wound up. I just nodded. “Right.”
And he knew what that meant. His tail lashed once. “Just... get some sleep. At least you’ll have the Guild watching over you tonight.”
I looked at Jenes’ahn lurking in the background. “Oh, that just makes me feel a whole lot better.”
Chaeitch chittered once before catching himself. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said. Then with a final apologetic look toward the Mediator, he left.
The night was warm, the apartments stuffy. No AC here. I opened the balcony windows to let some air circulate. The night sky out there was straight out of an overenthusiastic oil painting, with a romantic’s moon riding low and shining through skeins of high, thin clouds. Hillsides rippled as the wind sifted through grasses.