“So, what exactly is a silk yaxen?” he asked. “You haven’t told me.” He wanted to sound bright and inquisitive, but his words came out slowly, and he had more trouble forming them than he expected.
Jed and Brock laughed at him, their lips curved in broad grins. Amos said, “You’ll find out soon enough. There are many dachas in the silk yaxen district, and I have my favorite.”
“We have a standing account,” Jed said.
Amos regarded Bannon coolly. “I’ll even pay for you. This first time will be my treat for our guest from afar.” He reached into a pocket of his pantaloons, pulled out a small sack, and opened it, taking out five gold coins and handing them casually to Bannon. “Here, take these just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“In case you want special services,” Amos chuckled.
“Thank you,” Bannon muttered. “My mother always said to say thank you. I appreciate it. And I appreciate you showing me the city.” He realized he might be babbling, but his companions seemed not to notice.
His boots were sturdy and they held his ankles upright, but his steps were uncertain. The back of his head was packed with warm fuzz.
Once, as boys on Chiriya Island, Bannon and his friend Ian had watched a trading ship come into port with goods from Serrimundi. Bannon’s father went down to the docks while sailors unloaded crates of imported medicines, bolts of cloth, iron carpentry tools, new farming implements for the cabbage harvest. For their own part, the island farmers sold pickled cabbage in sealed clay urns as well as a rough ale brewed from kelp that grew not far from the Chiriya coastline.
Bannon’s father had met with the first mate of the ship, paid him coins, and walked away with three bottles of brandy from a distillery in Larrikan Shores. Bannon and Ian had followed him as he went back home and stashed two of the three bottles in the woodpile behind their house; then he had gone off by himself to get thoroughly drunk with the remaining bottle.
Curious, young Bannon and Ian had moved the stacked wood and retrieved one of the brown glass bottles. They hurried with their prize to a sheltered little cove and sat there, daring each other to drink the rare and expensive brandy. It burned on the way down, and Bannon coughed. He had to force himself not to vomit. Ian took a larger swig, so Bannon felt he had to outdo him. After the third swallow, he realized it didn’t taste all that bad, and by the time the two had finished half the bottle he felt both queasy and euphoric. His skin tingled, his head felt like a bubble, and the world was spinning.
As the brandy affected him, some calling of the liquor made him want to drink more, to maintain this sense of warm and displaced contentment, or even to increase the feeling. By the time he and Ian finished the bottle, they were sick and in a stupor. Completely unschooled in the ways of drunkenness, they had realized it was nearly dark, but when they tried to get back up from the shore, they blundered and slipped and fell back down.
By then, the tide was coming in, the water eating away at their sheltered beach. They were soaked, but too disoriented to climb up the crumbly cliffs. Somehow, after several tries, the two of them did manage to pull their way up. It was a miracle they hadn’t drowned or fallen to their deaths.
Bannon had doubled over and vomited up most of what he’d drunk. Ian found it uproariously funny. They went their separate ways, and when Bannon returned home, his father was outraged. The boy tried to pretend nothing was different, but he could barely speak, barely walk. His father snarled at him for being a lout, a drunk, and a disappointment. He had beaten Bannon, who collapsed into unconsciousness, more from the brandy than from the repeated blows. Bannon woke up a day later, bruised and in pain, his skull splitting with a roaring headache that drowned out all thoughts of his swollen eyes and cheeks.
The things his father had shouted at him were just a hateful blur of words, and he eventually realized the man wasn’t so angry because his son had gotten himself inebriated, but because Bannon had stolen the expensive brandy he intended to drink for himself.
Bannon’s mother tended him, dabbing his face with a wet cloth, singing quietly while she wept. She had leaned over his bedside, whispering urgently, “Don’t turn out like him. He’s a bad man. It’s not all the liquor’s fault, but the liquor certainly unleashes the demons.”
Bannon thought of this now while staggering uncertainly behind the three Ildakaran youths. His stomach was whirling. He hadn’t really wanted the wine in the first place, but now he didn’t dare vomit in front of Amos, Jed, and Brock. He clamped his teeth together and distracted himself with other thoughts until the queasiness died down.…
The streets of Ildakar were lit with glowing white spheres on top of iron posts, illumination that pulsed up from arcane symbols. The nobles’ district was well lit, as if hundreds of night wisps had settled along the boulevards, but down here in the lower levels, the streets twisted and turned into a labyrinth packed with low candlelit buildings. Dark-leaved oleander hedges blocked the view from the street.
“So tell us more about this Cliffwall archive,” Amos asked. “Is it a library of some sort? A village with a collection of books?”
“It can’t be greater than the libraries of Ildakar,” Jed said.
“Oh, it is!” Bannon said. “Supposedly the greatest collection in the world, sealed away at the beginning of the wizard wars three thousand years ago.”
“I don’t believe it,” Amos said.
“Sweet Sea Mother, it’s true! It’s hidden in the winding canyons on the other side of Kol Adair west of here. It was covered by a camouflage shroud for thousands of years … just like your shroud.”
“Then how did you find it?” Brock’s voice had a clear challenge.
“The camouflage is down now, and we had a guide.” He thought of Thistle, how the spunky girl had given everything to take them there. “We needed to study the lore to find a way to destroy the Lifedrinker.”
The three young men looked pointedly at one another, and Bannon wondered if he had said too much.
With exaggerated good cheer, Amos clapped him on the back. “Bannon, my friend, you have such interesting stories.” He sauntered up a tiled path between the dark hedges to a doorway, where a man sat on a stool, guarding the entrance. “This is our favorite dacha. The silk yaxen here have the finest breeding.” Ahead, the interior of the building was lit with orange glows that provided enough illumination, yet also enough shadows.
The man at the door sat on a comfortable wooden seat. He had a well-trimmed beard and patchy hair. His clothes were of a fine cut, but they were cream-colored and tan, not the vibrant dyes of the gifted nobles. A small brass pot at the side of his stool was filled with coins. The man gave them a brittle smile, though his eyes were suspicious. “Welcome, Master Amos. Always glad for your business.” The tone of his voice said otherwise.
The young man dropped coins into the beaten-brass pot. “That’s for our new friend, Bannon Farmer. He may not know what to do with himself.”
“I can be taught,” Bannon said, still not sure of himself. “I learned to become an expert swordsman after Nathan showed me.”
“There’s no call for weapons here in the pleasure district.” The doorman looked dubiously at Sturdy hanging at Bannon’s hip. “You’ll be using a different sword tonight, young man.”
“Sturdy stays with me, to defend us if need be,” he said, but the words were beginning to sink in. Pleasure district? From what he could tell of the muted orange lighting, the soft laughter, and low conversation inside, he had thought it might be a gambling den. But once they stepped inside and he saw the lovely women lounging about on divans, he realized what he should have guessed from the beginning. “Silk yaxen are prostitutes?” Several women attended to noble male customers, while others stood beatific against the wall, just waiting. “This dacha is just a … whorehouse?”
“Keeper’s crotch, not just prostitutes!” Amos said. “Silk yaxen are courtesans, specially bred for this precise use.”
Still fe
eling the warm thrum of the wine inside his head, Bannon couldn’t put together an argument or an excuse. He let his three friends lead him inside. Incense burned in small braziers, adding a scent of cloves and honey in a strangely pungent smoke that wafted about the room.
Amos turned back to the doorman. “Melody is available for me?”
“She is for you, as always. For our new guest, I suggest Kayla. She is beautiful and ready.”
“Not that it makes much difference,” Jed muttered. He walked up to where five exceptionally beautiful young women stood against a wall near an incense brazier, where they were bathed in the orange glow. They had vacuous expressions, simply looking to some imaginary object in the middle of the room.
Brock said, “Which one of you is Kayla?”
A woman with long wavy locks of dark cinnamon hair looked at him. The smile didn’t reach the rest of her face. “I am Kayla.”
Brock yanked her away from the wall and nudged her toward Bannon. She allowed herself to be propelled in his direction. Brock selected the next woman in line, who had similar-colored hair and pale skin. “I like the looks of you tonight.” He took her arm like a fisherman hauling in a catch.
Jed chose a brunette. He didn’t even bother to speak to her, just took her wrist and pulled her toward one of the vacant divans.
Kayla stood in front of Bannon, making no conversation, not meeting his gaze. She looked like no more than a doll, but a perfectly formed female doll. She blinked her eyes slowly. She didn’t smile. He was reminded of a sheep grazing placidly in a pasture, neither comprehending threat, nor showing any interest.
Bannon’s cheeks burned, and he was glad for the uncertain lighting so no one else could see his embarrassment. He extended a hand politely to Kayla. “My name is Bannon. I’m pleased to meet you.”
She took his grip. “Thank you. I am pleased to meet you.”
He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“Whatever you want to do,” she said in a normal voice, so the others could hear.
He heard a chuckle from one of the divans, where a husky middle-aged nobleman was pawing a far younger woman, pulling her gossamer garment off and exposing her breasts for all to see. Bannon swallowed hard, and whispered, “Sweet Sea Mother!”
Kayla was indeed beautiful, and her filmy gown showed her generous figure. A tight sash emphasized her narrow waist and the curves of her hips. A slit up the side showed her creamy calf and thigh.
“I … I think we should sit down,” Bannon said, and stumbled backward to a bench. She dutifully followed.
“Where’s Melody?” Amos bellowed as he looked around the candlelit room. He raised his voice enough to disturb other men who sat with their chosen silk yaxen.
The fire-orange curtains shifted across an alcove off to the side, and a petite blond-haired woman stepped out. She had large, round eyes that appeared dark in the low light of the dacha. She stepped deliberately to Amos, who did not take a step to meet her, expecting her to come to him.
“I am here, and I am for you, Master Amos,” she said.
“Of course you are.” Smiling lasciviously, he took Melody by the arm and dragged her over to join Bannon and Kayla. “These silk yaxen are beautiful and perfect, some of the finest creations of Ildakar.”
“Yes, they’re all beautiful,” Bannon agreed.
Kayla sat next to him, so close that her leg pressed against his. She slipped her arm around his waist and leaned against his chest, but it seemed to be more for balance than for romance.
“The fleshmancers created monstrous weapons during the ancient wars, but the silk yaxen are their finest achievements, if you ask me.” Amos shouted, “Someone bring us more bloodwine! I have a guest here. We must impress him.”
“I’m fine,” Bannon said, “Really, I—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a less attractive serving girl in drab clothes hurried up with a decanter and poured goblets of red wine, one for Amos and one for Bannon. She offered no wine to the two women.
“Silk yaxen are the perfect courtesans, with flawless skin … so warm and silky.” Amos nodded to him. “Go on, reach out and touch it, you’ll see.” He grabbed Bannon’s hand and placed it on Kayla’s shoulder. Her skin felt warm and perfectly smooth. She didn’t flinch. “But don’t expect much conversation. They’re just dumb animals, bred for these pleasure dachas where they serve us. As normal yaxen were created as beasts of burden, these women bear a different sort of burden, and they don’t mind. Do you, Melody?” He looked at her. She dutifully nodded. “Or you, Kayla?” The cinnamon-haired girl also nodded.
Bannon felt unsettled. “You mean they’re like … cattle in female bodies?”
“The fleshmancers bred them for a specific purpose. They serve that purpose,” Amos said. “But don’t expect them to go beyond that. In fact, Melody’s name here implies that she understands music, or that she can sing.” He let out a cool laugh. “I asked her to sing a romantic tune for me once, just because I wanted to think of myself as her lover.” He snorted. “But it sounded like a cat caught in a fleshmancer’s cage. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Master Amos,” Melody agreed.
“Show him,” he said, with a taunting tone. “Sing for Bannon here.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Melody began to sing. Her voice was warbling and uncertain, and she missed several notes of a song in a language that Bannon didn’t recognize. Before she could finish the first bar, though, Amos slapped her hard across the face, stunning her into silence. Melody cowered. “I don’t care what I say, don’t ever sing again,” he said, and slapped her once more, knocking her off the bench.
Bannon rose. “Stop; you can’t do that!”
Amos blinked in surprise. “Of course I can. They’re silk yaxen. That’s what they’re for. Do you think sex is the only kind of pleasure they can give? You’ll discover it soon enough.” He drank his wine all in one swallow, then hauled Melody, stumbling and cringing, across the wide room, knocking the hangings aside. He disturbed other couples grappling in the dimness as he took her toward an unoccupied private room in the back.
Bannon clenched his fists, swallowing hard. The disorientation from the wine burned away. His father had called his mother a whore, accusing her of things that she had never done, finding excuses to beat her senseless. When Bannon was young, he had never understood what a whore was; only after he’d fled aboard a sailing ship and spent time with experienced seamen had he even learned about prostitutes.
For Bannon, his real experience with love had been with the three young acolytes, Audrey, Laurel, and Sage, in Cliffwall. Such beautiful and kind women had taught him many things, had given him pleasure and taken pleasure for themselves, sharing him as he shared them. He still felt dizzy now with those memories, until they cracked and shattered with what those three acolytes had become, turned into monsters by Life’s Mistress.…
From the back room where Amos had dragged Melody, Bannon could hear more slapping sounds as well as whimpering. Jed and Brock had taken their own women into private alcoves, while the husky nobleman seemed unembarrassed to tear the clothes from his silk yaxen right on the divan in the main room. Other customers paused to watch the show.
Kayla sat next to him. “Is that what you would like?” Her warm breath was against his cheek, her rich cinnamon hair lustrous in the orange glow. She seemed submissive and willing, unconcerned with what he might do to her.
His stomach clenched to think of how others had already harmed her. “No … I don’t think so.” He stood, leaving his wine untouched. He no longer felt the slightest bit tipsy. “I … I think I’ll just find my way back and get a good night’s sleep.”
Kayla didn’t try to convince him, didn’t react in any way. She just adjusted herself and sat primly on the bench, waiting for someone else to notice her.
Bannon’s eyes stung with tears as he hurried out of the dacha. He thought there would be mocking jeers as he
fled, but the others took no notice of him. The doorman looked at him as he left, giving a small nod with a surprising hint of respect. Bannon wasn’t sure how to take that.
The man reached into the pot beside the stool and withdrew several coins. “Here, young man. Your money back.”
“But it wasn’t my money. Amos paid for me.”
“Then take his coins. You didn’t use what he paid for.” Seeing the insistent look, Bannon accepted the coins, knowing he could return them later.
He wandered into the winding streets, finding his way after numerous false starts to a main thoroughfare with side streets branching off to middle-class homes, merchant shops, tradesmen. He was breathing hard.
“Sweet Sea Mother,” he muttered again, unsure about this legendary city. He knew that Nathan needed to come here, that it was a vital part of getting his gift back, but Bannon hoped they would leave soon. He could see the upper levels of the city, and knew that if he just kept climbing the steep streets, he would find the ruling tower and the grand villa and his own rooms. He didn’t want to tell anyone what he had done.
As he turned a corner, he encountered a dark, brown-robed figure in the shadows of a side street. A hand darted into a sack and pulled out something bright and silvery, a flash that caught a stray light from one of the glowing streetlamps. The stranger thrust the jagged object into a crack.
Bannon touched the hilt of his sword. “You there, what are you about?”
The hooded figure darted away, melting like oil into the deeper shadows.
Bannon stepped up to where the figure had been and saw shards of a broken mirror, small reflective bits shoved into the cracks between bricks. He remembered what High Captain Avery had said about the rebels, about someone called Mirrormask, and he felt queasy again.
He hurried back out into the well-lit streets, anxious to get home, though he wasn’t sure anywhere would be safe in Ildakar.
CHAPTER 14
Nicci came instantly awake the next morning when she sensed someone in her room. She opened her eyes to see Wizard Commander Maxim looming over her bed, his lips quirked in a thin smile.
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