by Mick Farren
Argo ran as fast as he could to where Slide sat bolt upright staring fixedly ahead. He dropped to his knees beside him and stared anxiously into his face. Slide’s hat had been lost during the decapitation, and Argo could see at once that the demon’s eyes were closed. Argo could not read pulses, but all instincts told him that Slide was either dead or very close to that abyss. The front of Slide’s work shirt was a soaked mass of what looked in the moonlight like blue-black blood. His sword lay on the turf beside him. His shoulders were slumped, and his hands hung loosely at his sides. Somewhere there was a missing glove that Slide had not bothered to replace after using his bare hand to discover Bonnie’s lack of a pulse. Argo turned and shouted to the Rangers. “Quick! Over here! I think Yancey Slide is dead, too!”
Bonnie was dead. Slide appeared to be dead, and Argo suddenly realized that, in addition to all the other implications, he was now alone with the Rangers, who still did not absolutely trust him. He could suddenly see that his only options were now to go right on into the enemy camp with the Rangers or to be left on his own. That was if they did not decide simply to dispose of him as too much of a suspect nuisance.
FIVE
JESAMINE
Jesamine sprawled on the bed with yet another schnapps in her hand as Cordelia dug further into the costume trunk. They had already amused themselves by painting each other’s faces, and now they were selecting their finery for a harlot’s masquerade. Cordelia pulled out an item that Jesamine had not seen or worn in a long time. Cordelia wrapped it experimentally around her waist but then had trouble with the three buckles that fastened it in the back. “This is excruciatingly tight.”
Jesamine’s speech was a little slurred. “It’s supposed to be excruciatingly tight. It’s designed to nip your waist in and leave you unable to breathe.”
“Will you help me with it?”
“Come here.”
Cordelia sat down on the bed and turned so her back was to Jesamine, who rolled over and then leaned forward to fasten the first of the three buckles. “The times I wore that for the loathsome Phaall, it brought out all of his least-pleasant impulses.”
“Is Phaall really that loathsome?”
“He isn’t the worst, and he isn’t a Mamaluke, but otherwise he’s a pig.”
Cordelia giggled. She had drunk almost as much schnapps as Jesamine. “That’s the best that can be said about him? He isn’t a Mamaluke?”
“That can sometimes say a lot in this place.” Jesamine started on the second buckle. “Breathe all the way out, girl, and suck your stomach in hard. I told you it was supposed to be tight.”
The garment in question could be viewed as either a narrow waist synch or a wide belt. It was made from soft purple leather, decorated with spirals of tiny gilt rivets, and stiffened with panels of a less flexible hide. As Jesamine had so far read her, Cordelia appeared to have decidedly imperious tastes when dressing for the boudoir. She had already selected a pair of pale gold silk stockings and was now counterpointing it with the purple leather. Jesamine knew she wasn’t only of Albany—something that, as yet, she had very wisely not admitted—but she was also highborn of Albany. Of this, Jesamine was in no doubt. Cordelia’s efforts at anonymity had been good, and would have passed any casual inspection, but, over the few hours they had spent together, and as the schnapps took hold, she had revealed her origins in any number of minor but significant trifles of accent, mannerism, and attitude, all the small signs that it was impossible to conceal over a protracted period. Even in her current and extremely precarious situation, she managed to maintain a certain inherent authority, and from the way she sat, right there and then, she betrayed that she was very accustomed to having someone help her to dress. This Cordelia was an Albany lady, no mistake about that, but also an adventurous spirit, or how else would she have been riding around in an airship that by all accounts was on a secret and dangerous mission? By any logical criteria, Jesamine should have taken an immediate dislike to the woman, but instead she felt a strong affinity for her, which really made no sense, but was there anyway. Attraction was not the right word, although a degree of that might figure in the mix. Maybe the term was empathy, but that was not a word that Jesamine used with any great frequency. Teuton officers were not partial to concubines who showed off too extensive a vocabulary, and an immoderately smart mouth could bring rapid retribution.
“Colonel Phaall can be overly handy with his belt and his riding crop. I know there are those who claim to enjoy their stripes, but I’m not one of them.”
Cordelia’s voice sounded constricted as Jesamine pulled the final strap tight. “He makes excuses to punish you?”
Jesamine leaned back to inspect her handiwork. “He doesn’t need excuses. He thrashes me because it thrills and pleases him. At least he’s quite open about that.”
Cordelia stood up and flexed her hips, testing her newly cinched waist. “Your colonel isn’t so unique. There are plenty on the other side of the river who share his taste.”
“Even in Albany the women are beaten by the men as part of the sex game?”
“Sometimes. And sometimes the reverse.”
Jesamine had heard of such things but never encountered a man with those kind of desires. “I think I might rather enjoy such a reversal.”
The corselet seemed to have deepened Cordelia’s voice and made it more husky. Or maybe the schnapps was having that effect. “My dear, there are men who’ll beg to be collared and chastised by a beautiful woman.”
Cordelia had now selected a gilt choker and was fastening it round her throat. This lady of Albany was proving to be less and less what Jesamine would have expected. On the Mosul side, they were told so little about the enemy across the river, and much of what they did hear were the patently impossible lies of the Zhaithan propaganda machine. According to the Zhaithan, the women of Albany were loud and promiscuous harridans who made midnight blood sacrifices to a corrupt and hideous earth goddess. Cordelia hardly seemed a blood-sacrificing harridan, although she did portray herself as unashamedly experienced. She finished fastening the choker and posed for Jesamine. “How do I look?”
“Maybe just a tad too exposed.”
“You think so?”
“Girl, all you are wearing is a corselet and stockings.”
Cordelia giggled. She was almost drunk. “I’ve never had any complaints about that, darling.”
“A few secrets should be kept in reserve.”
“Are you saying put on more so he has something to tear off?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“What would you suggest?”
“I think you need maybe one more item. You don’t want to be offering yourself as completely vulnerable, girl, even if you are.”
“But that Kemper isn’t going to be like your colonel, is he? I mean, he’s little more than a damned baby.”
“He’ll probably have some little baby pig fantasies just waiting to be fulfilled.”
Cordelia again rummaged in the trunk. “I’ll have him eating out of my hand.”
“Your hand?”
“Believe me. I’ll have him on his lieutenant’s knees.”
“Are you sure you won’t be the one on your knees?”
“As I’ve said, I’ll do what it takes, but he’s young and unsure of himself and probably totally lacking in imagination. He may find it a relief just to do what he’s told.”
“You’ve met Teutons before?”
“No, but I’ve met soldiers before. What they call the junior officer class.” Cordelia took a deep breath. “He really is coming here, right?”
Jesamine was in no doubt about that. “What do you think? Like you say, he’s a baby. He’s a callow lieutenant who’s barely started shaving. His colonel’s away in the field, and his colonel’s personal sluts have invited him to come up and see them. You think he won’t show? Damn, girl. He’d be afraid not to show.”
Cordelia pulled out a length of gold damask and draped it aro
und her shoulders like a wrap or stole. “Better?”
Jesamine nodded. “Better.”
She hugged the fabric to her body, flashed it open and then concealed herself again. “Modesty and availability all at a gesture.” She frowned. “Where did you get all this stuff?”
Cordelia wasn’t the only one who was dressed to command. Jesamine had picked out a simple, low-cut slip, slit up each side to above the hip, and matching, wedge-heeled sandals with ribbons that tied around her ankles. The extra height from the shoes meant she would be taller than Kemper. “Like everything else, it came from the officers’ black market. I guess it was captured and looted from all over. But I really don’t think about things like that anymore. I just wear the stuff because it pleases Phaall and his cronies. It’s the concubine’s path of least resistance.”
Cordelia picked up a mask of peacock feathers and held it up in front of her face. “We don’t have this kind of selection in the shops in Albany anymore. Before the…” Cordelia faltered.
Jesamine filled in the missing word. “Conquest? Is that what you were trying to say?”
“I was going to say ‘invasion.’ Before the invasion, lavish was quite in vogue, but in wartime, one is expected to be a little more frugal and practical. I hear the Norse use all their silk for parachutes.”
Jesamine frowned. “What are parachutes?”
“These umbrella things that airmen use when they have to jump out of a falling airship.”
“And they’re made of silk?”
“You can’t get silk stockings for love or money.” She grinned. “At least, you can’t get them for money. Sometimes love will do the trick.”
A chill fell between them. “You only talk like that, girl, because you still believe you can choose what you wear or who you fuck.”
Cordelia at least had the grace to realize she had been insensitive. “I’m sorry.”
Jesamine knew it was pointless to be upset at Cordelia. She was adapting as fast as she could. “It’s okay. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Come and sit down here and have a drink.”
Cordelia seated herself on the bed, close to Jesamine but not touching her. Jesamine poured more schnapps. “We’ll be drunk as nubians on shore leave by the time Kemper gets here.”
“And do we care?”
“I don’t think we do.”
Jesamine sipped her schnapps. “Did you have to use one of those parachutes?”
Cordelia laughed and shook her head. “You know I can’t answer that.”
“What I don’t know I can’t tell, right?”
Cordelia nodded. “Isn’t that the best way? Let them torture it out of me rather than you.”
Jesamine lowered her eyelids. “You realize you just revealed that you are from Albany.”
Cordelia sighed and sadly shook her head. “I’m no good at this, am I?”
“Don’t be too upset. I’ve known all along.”
“That makes it even worse.”
Jesamine sipped her schnapps and openly studied Cordelia’s face. The features were finely chiseled; her lips full but intricate, her nose small and delicately precise, her forehead high and deceptively fragile. Her eyes were large and dark, but only a fool would fail to see the intelligence and calculation and think them innocent. Jesamine had never seen such pale skin, and she stared at the faint blue veins that pulsed beneath its surface. Cordelia was looking at her in the same way, and without any conscious design or considered intent, the two of them moved towards each other until their faces and their lips were so close that to kiss each other became so inevitable that it had to be. Suddenly they were in each other’s arms, holding one another as though for dear life and desperate solace. Cordelia’s words came out like an unbidden sob. “Please hold me, Jesamine. I’m trying so hard not to be afraid.”
Jesamine stroked her red hair. “You’re doing very well for a beginner, child.”
Cordelia looked up at her, pushed back her hair, and laughed the kind of laugh that is used to hold back tears. “I am, actually, aren’t I?”
They kissed again, still holding onto each other as though, if they pressed close enough, their two bodies together could form a perimeter to exclude the outside world, and they went right on holding and kissing until the unexpected and intruding voice jerked them out of the embrace. “Isn’t that illegal?”
Cordelia sat up and, hitting the metaphoric ground running, smiled wickedly. “It isn’t if you quickly join us, Lieutenant Kemper. We can claim we were doing it just for you. Like those twins who perform in the officers’ mess.”
Jesamine had to admit that Cordelia was fast. She might have let slip the admission of being from Albany, but she had remembered the twins. Kemper’s eyes were already about to bug out of his head, and the invitation made further mincemeat of any discipline or reason he might have retained in the face of the two outrageously clad and painted women disporting before him with criminal abandon. Jesamine and Cordelia rose from the bed as one, like sirens moving in for the kill on an already lured victim. “Can we offer you some schnapps, Lieutenant Kemper?”
Kemper suddenly seemed to have problems with his breathing and the formation of sentences. “Yes, please. Thank you. That would be nice. I mean … yes.”
In her high-heeled sandals, Jesamine was indeed taller than Kemper. She leaned on his shoulder and breathed in his ear. “Relax, Lieutenant Kemper.”
While Jesamine fed the boy schnapps, Cordelia worked on the buttons of his tunic and then eased it off him. Together, they pulled him out of his boots and stripped him of his britches and his long johns. Their efforts revealed a boyish body that was not, in the abstract, totally unpleasing and at least went halfway to making the task they had set themselves less distasteful and arduous. Jesamine had no precise idea what exactly might be gained from the two-woman seduction of the young lieutenant. She had made the suggestion that he came to Phaall’s quarters on the spur of the moment, initially to distract him from questioning them further, and also as a chance of an eventual but undefined advantage. She had played him the same way she regularly played Reinhardt, only for higher stakes. Kemper could be a possible friend, or a mark for blackmail, a contact in the lowest of high places, and maybe a fool who might be looking the other way when they attempted escape to Albany. The two girls had not talked about escape, but Jesamine knew it had to be uppermost in Cordelia’s mind, and, to her Albany lady’s arrogance, it might even seem possible. Whatever happened, if Cordelia made a break for the river, and across to freedom, Jesamine would be with her.
They fed Kemper as much schnapps as he would take and then laid him back on the bed. Jesamine was surprised to find that, just as Cordelia had predicted, in the intimacy and sweaty, perfumed privacy of the threesome, he took quite quickly to the idea of doing what he was told. As they moved their bodies against his, stroked and caressed him, and kissed him in places Jesamine was certain he had never been kissed before, the suggestion only had to be made, between their exaggerated whore-moans of faux delight, and he would willingly comply.
“Yes, oh, yes, Lieutenant Kemper. Right there, ah, right there, and oh, please, so slowly.”
“That’s right, baby, just like that. You don’t have to say a word. We know what you want.”
“We know what you want before you even want it.”
“Just like I’m showing you, Lieutenant Kemper. Put your mouth right there.”
“Harder, boy, harder. Show the slave that you’re her master.”
“Turn over, Lieutenant Kemper. You’re going to like this.”
Kemper moaned helplessly.
“That’s right, boy! Like it! Like it good!”
He moaned again, longer and louder.
“Now tell me you like it, Lieutenant. Tell me you like it, boy.”
“I … like … it.”
Then a moment came in which Jesamine found herself face to face with Cordelia, damp hair hanging over both their faces, lips wide, hands and tongues almost touching acros
s Kemper’s panting, writhing body. They were both manipulating him with their mouths, and the two of them felt their breathing fall into a single rhythm, and their hot breath mingle. Their eyes seemed to lock and widen, each pair drawing in the other. Jesamine felt herself floating in a way that was unprecedented and had nothing to do with drugs, alcohol, or even sex. She was rising above the mundane reality of the bed and young man and going to some other place. It was not unlike the place to which T’saya had sent her, except no potions were needed and no effort was required on her part. Strangest of all, Cordelia was rising with her, and there seemed to be a lessening of the sense of individuality and separation between them. Was this Mnabe Ctseowa? Was this the takla? Were two of the Four now conjoining? And if so, to what place were they going, and when, if ever, would they return?
ARGO
“Quick! Hurry! Over here! I think Yancey Slide is dead, too!”
Steuben was the first to arrive beside Argo, followed almost immediately by Penhaligon. “What happened?”
Argo stared at Slide’s inert body, sitting upright but otherwise inanimate. “The Mosul, the one that killed Bonnie, he got off a shot before Slide decapitated him.”
Penhaligon examined Slide, and Steuben walked a few paces on and looked at the headless Mosul. Penhaligon gently moved aside the flap of Slide’s duster to expose his bloody chest. “He took a bullet, sure enough.”