Resort Debauch

by Roxanne Smolen

  "There has been dissension.” He nodded. “Even a chiliarch is not without detractors. But you wear my collar, you should be safe enough ... for now.” He threw a sidelong grin her way.

  Anneliese pressed her lips tightly together, following him. They came to a cliff overlooking yet another plateau. The rock face was fraught with ropes and pulleys. As she watched, a man muscled up a basket of rocks, dumping them into a cart.

  Sayer-Kihn raised his arm. “Look there."

  Anneliese fought the dimness. Fifty feet below, she saw rows of tables, figures milling about. One had a familiar gait.

  "Pilar!” she cried.

  "He has a strong back, that one.” Sayer smiled.

  "You have him working as a scullery slave!"

  "I have him learning a trade! All must contribute, even a princess such as yourself.” His eyes bore into hers.

  "I have said I will not serve you,” she said.

  "If that is the case, you do yourself the disservice. Come. We go down."

  Anneliese moved nearer the edge, balancing her hand upon the pulley housing, looking over. Lines of steps led away along either wall, listing unevenly and shrouded in shadow. She felt the blood drain from her face.

  "I can't,” she stammered. “It's too far."

  "Then, we shall take the ropes!"

  In a single motion, Sayer swept her into his arms, plopping her into the empty pulley basket. Anneliese shrieked, clutching at the sides. The man with the cart laughed.

  Grabbing the ropes, Sayer-Kihn launched them over the edge, straddling the wicker sides as the basket gained speed. The cliff became a blur. Anneliese felt her stomach rise, her heart race. Pain shot from her panicked grip.

  Abruptly, the basket slowed, vibrating slightly, and jarring to a stop. Sayer leapt to the ground. Wrapping his broad hands about her waist, he lifted her from the basket.

  Anneliese's knees trembled. She jabbed a finger into Sayer-Kihn's chest. “Don't ... you ... ever..."

  He stopped her by resting his hands upon her arms. She looked up into his shadowed face, his golden alien eyes. He grinned, and she couldn't help but smile in return.

  "You are safe with me,” he said.

  CHAPTER 26

  Deputy Master Abbas sat behind his polished desk. “Now, Mr. Thielman, what is this about?"

  Mortar declined the offered chair. “Tell me, Deputy Abbas, am I correct in understanding that while my daughter's case is closed, the murder of the Security Master remains open?"

  "Yes, and I've already expressed my regret...."

  "Save your pity. I have some information for you. I've learned that Harmadeur was killed in the debtor's pens."

  "That is classified. I can neither confirm nor deny."

  "I know he was found in a cage,” Mortar continued, “lying bloodied on the floor with a knife wound to the gut. The gaoler may be happy to keep your secret. But did you think to question the dung hauler who helped load the body onto the wagon?"

  The deputy's cheeks reddened, eyes shining like black points of light. “What has he to do...."

  "He tidied the site before calling for you, wanting to do the Master one last service. And he found this draped all over the body.” Mortar dropped the braid of hair onto the desk. “My daughter killed Harmadeur-Fezzan-Gendarme."

  "What?” The deputy stared, his voice falling. “She was in the pens, just as you said."

  "Now tell me that my fears are ungrounded."

  "Mr. Thielman, I offer you my sincerest apologies."

  "Just find my daughter."

  "I'll need a sample of the hair for DNA verification.” He lifted the braid. “What's this? Blood?"

  "Possibly.” Mortar frowned at the ink-like smudge.

  "Fantastic! An amazing turn of events! If this blood matches the Master's, it will prove both our cases."

  "And if she is found guilty, what will happen to her?"

  "Nothing, of course. She is a hotel patron. By their own law, she may murder whomever she pleases.” Abbas laughed aloud, activating his computer monitor. “I have your original report right here. We will interview your lift operator immediately."

  "I'm more interested in how you will conduct your search."

  "My men will scour the city. She shouldn't be hard to locate—a waif with short blond hair."

  "True.” Mortar tugged his lip, leaning against the desk. “In fact, she should have been picked up by now. My daughter is not foolish. She would have approached someone for help."

  "There are few friendly people in Enceinte."

  "Then perhaps she left the city."

  Abbas got to his feet, rounding the gleaming desk. “That would be most unfortunate for her. The Llaird rule the plains. We have more hope of finding her here."

  "But if you extend your search...."

  "And dilute our efforts? No, Mr. Thielman, we will concentrate on Enceinte. But first, I must gather formal testimony from each of your informants, then petition to reopen your daughter's case. I will keep you abreast of my progress."

  For a moment, Mortar could only stare. “That's too slow. She's obviously in danger. You've said as much yourself."

  "I will hasten as best I can.” Abbas opened the door.

  Mortar scowled at the taste in his mouth. Pushing past Bano's bulk, he stormed out of the room.

  Abbas stepped beside him, weaving between desks and bustling guards. “I must admit your investigative prowess is remarkable. Have you considered changing professions?"

  Mortar snarled. “Understand me, Abbas. If my daughter dies because of your red tape...."

  "If your daughter should die, it will not be my red tape which kills her.” Abbas looked up at a shackled prisoner. Sweeping his robe theatrically, he shifted into the local language. “Ah, Nemecek-Idej. You've led us quite a chase. Now you will see that casual murder will no longer be tolerated."

  The man quailed. “It was self-defense. I have a witness! A boy-child in the alley."

  "So you say."

  "You find this boy! He will tell you."

  Abbas waved his hand. “Take him away."

  "You find this boy! An off-world child."

  Mortar felt an icy grip upon his stomach. He stepped forward. “Off-world?"

  The prisoner nodded emphatically. “He was dressed in a man's robe. I trailed him. The next day he went into the patron's saloon."

  "The Gatesmouth,” Mortar whispered.

  Deputy Abbas scoffed. “Walked right up to the door, did he?"

  "No. He used the garbage lift,” the man said.

  Mortar took hold of the deputy's arm. “I want his story verified."

  "Mr. Thielman, this man is a murderer and an obvious liar."

  "But the child he spoke of might be Anneliese,” Mortar said.

  "If there were such a boy, he would have killed him by now.” Abbas turned. “Please, go back to your ship. I will contact you there."

  Mortar flexed his fingers, watching Abbas walk away. The answer had been there all along: Anneliese couldn't speak the language—of course, she would go to the Gatesmouth, to the one person she knew spoke Standard. Surah.

  CHAPTER 27

  Speechless, head whirling, Anneliese followed Sayer-Kihn from the cliff. Hanging lanterns rimmed the plateau. Runes and cryptographs covered the walls, edging onto the floor. Long, stone tables surrounded a raised communal well.

  Sayer said, “Give me your name so that I may present you."

  Anneliese stumbled, glancing about. “Anneliese Thielman."

  Nodding, Sayer-Kihn smiled as a young woman approached. She was stunning to look at, tall as any man. Red-black hair fell in waves to her waist. Anneliese fingered her own shorn tresses.

  Sayer rested a hand on each of their shoulders. “Please meet Anneliese-Thielman, a stranger to our barrow. This is Myetrae-Ajiv, my daughter."

  His daughter! Anneliese swayed beneath crushing disappointment. Sayer-Kihn was married. She looked at her feet, hiding her expression. What had she
been thinking?

  Musically, Myetrae said, “May you be welcome in our barrow."

  Anneliese couldn't think how to answer, and turned thankfully toward a sudden ruckus.

  "Miss Thielman! Miss Thielman!” Pilar ran toward her. Panting and grinning, he flung himself into her arms.

  "I'm so glad to see you,” Anneliese told him. “I thought you might be hurt."

  She smoothed his hair from his face. He wore the same metal band about his throat—Sayer's collar.

  "I sleep well here,” Pilar said. “It is good to have a bed."

  "Pilar-Shay,” Myetrae interrupted. “Have you finished stacking the tanza root? Then, that's where I think you should be."

  Pilar leaned toward Anneliese conspiratorially. “When you want food, just tell me and I will bring some to you.” He scampered away between the rows of tables.

  "He speaks fluently,” Sayer-Kihn said. “Perhaps he can teach the others."

  "Not all would accept help from such as him,” Myetrae said.

  Anneliese bristled. “What do you mean—such as him? He's a child. One of your own people. I can understand hating me—I'm an outsider. Why should you Llaird despise city dwellers?"

  Solemnly, Sayer-Kihn faced her anger. He appeared saddened, as if this were an argument he'd lost many times before. “It is not who he is but what he represents—incest, debauchery, crimes not easy to forgive. His kind has chosen to align with the Resort, and the Resort mocks our morals, our beliefs. You spoke of us as slavers, but it is the Resort Debauch who is the true slave monger, keeping an entire population in bondage for the amusement of their tourist trade."

  "Then the city dwellers are to be pitied,” Anneliese told him.

  "So I have said. And so have others agreed. That is how this barrow has grown. But belief in principle is one thing, Anneliese-Thielman. For most, Pilar-Shay is the first mal-bred child they've seen."

  A silence befell them. Anneliese glared at the chiliarch. How could she reconcile this man's words with his deeds?

  "Now you've done it,” Myetrae said gently, “got him to speak on his favorite ire. He needs no goading in this respect."

  Sayer-Kihn blinked as if a spell had been broken. He reached for his daughter's hand. “Wise one, I must attend an unfinished task. Will you see that our guest is fed?"

  "And when we are through, should I return her to that hovel you call a home?” Myetrae asked.

  "It only needs sweeping."

  "Ente needs a good swat."

  Chuckling, Sayer-Kihn cupped Myetrae's chin, kissing her cheek. Without a further glance at Anneliese, he strode off toward the stairway.

  "My father is too tolerant.” Myetrae-Ajiv shook her head, watching him. “A servant is a servant, after all."

  "How did he come to own Ente?"

  "She was given to him by another barrow. Retribution for transgressions against us. Soon, I think, she will take a mate, and he will have lost the opportunity to teach her how to sweep."

  Turning, Myetrae followed a wide aisle toward the center of the room. Tables stretched on either side, their tops even with the walkway as if they were part of the floor. Between them, chiseled trenches held seating cushions.

  Myetrae chose a place and Anneliese slid in opposite her, sitting cross-legged. The tabletop was smooth, tinted golden by the lamplight, but the sides were rough and scored.

  "Pilar-Shay,” the chiliarch's daughter called.

  Pilar appeared almost instantly.

  The young woman shook her head. “You must learn to keep one eye on the tables. You should not need to be called."

  "I was stacking...."

  "I know, but you can do two things at once. You are very smart."

  Pilar beamed at his mistress.

  "Please bring us mead and bread,” Myetrae-Ajiv ordered.

  The boy nodded, hurrying away.

  Anneliese smiled. “He seems to like it here."

  "It is yet a game to him. He will tire of it soon enough. But, I like him—he is full of good humor and trust. Tell me, how is it you came to care for this boy?"

  "A promise made to his sister. She gave her life for him."

  Myetrae raised a brow. “I hadn't thought the city folk capable of noble deeds."

  Anneliese turned at a gasping sound. Pilar struggled toward them between the rows of tables. He carried a large tray with a pitcher on top—the pitcher slid from side to side as he walked. Anneliese moved to help the child, but Myetrae held a restraining hand upon her arm. At last, Pilar placed the tray upon the table. Mead puddled about the pitcher, soaking the loaf of bread.

  "You did that well this time,” Myetrae told him.

  Pilar grinned then looked toward Anneliese for confirmation.

  "Thank you, Pilar,” Anneliese said. “I am very hungry."

  "I will watch if you need me.” The boy nodded solemnly and left.

  Myetrae-Ajiv picked up the bread, shaking it free of the liquid, and broke it in half. Wisps of steam escaped the breach. The inside was laden with nuts.

  Anneliese took several large bites before swallowing. “This is delicious."

  "My mother's recipe,” Myetrae told her.

  Anneliese washed the bread down with a gulp of mead, eyes downcast. “And does your mother work here with you?"

  "My mother died when I was ten, killed during a raid upon Enceinte."

  A widower! Anneliese concealed her reaction. “My mother also died when I was young."

  Myetrae smiled. “Then, you know how exasperating fathers can be."

  Anneliese laughed. She liked this woman, appreciated her frankness. “I am amazed at how well you speak Standard."

  "Father once worked for a shipper who served the Resort. I think he's the only chiliarch who has ever been off world. He came back with stories of danger and friendship. Been speaking Standard to me since the day I was born.” She poured more mead from the stone vessel.

  Anneliese ran her fingers over her ornate metal goblet. Who were these Llaird, she wondered, to make dinnerware of such beauty?

  "I saw you when you came two days past,” Myetrae said. “You appear better rested."

  "I am. I hope I have not stolen your bed."

  "You sleep with Ente. I live with my husband."

  Anneliese blurted, “You're married?"

  "Almost a year.” Myetrae sipped from her goblet. “Most are married at thirteen. I was fourteen—not too bad. But I have a friend who is nearly sixteen and no prospects."

  "I thought you were older...."

  "Soon I will be with child,” Myetrae told her. “It is the custom of my people to not lie with their mates for the first year of marriage. My year is nearly done. It is a bit frightening...."

  "Yes. It is,” Anneliese said.

  "Are you married, Anneliese-Thielman?"

  "Yes, but only for a short time."

  "And, do you look forward to the day when you and your mate can lie as one?"

  Anneliese gazed into the shadows. “I would rather murder him,” she said.

  * * * *

  Silence greeted her has she entered Sayer-Kihn's home. Anneliese stepped around the malpais statue as if she would wake it. In the great room, she found the book overturned where Ente had dropped it, and she picked it up carefully, running her fingers over the strange, indented letters. The pages were flexible but thick. Etchings lay beneath the text as if tattooed.

  A shelf lined the wall before her, a meager library, and she returned the book to its place. Trinkets interspersed the volumes—the figure of a man fashioned out of metal wire, a bale of some fragrant twig. Then she saw an egg-shaped piece of malpais. She brought it down.

  The stone glowed in her hand like compressed fire, its surface polished to a high sheen. Anneliese thought of the stone teioid she'd worn proudly about her neck, thought of Surah telling her she would give her left eye for a nugget of real malpais. How much would she pay for this fiery egg—or the statue in the antechamber?

  She returned t
he keepsake to the shelf and, in doing so, brushed against the glowing urn. She jumped back, expecting it to be hot, but it was not—the coals gave off light but very little heat. Leaning over the container, she noticed a faint sulfurous odor. A chemical reaction, she thought. Then her eyes lifted to the wall hanging above the urn.

  Golden threads underscored the tapestry, glinting like jewels within the darker weave. It depicted a man standing beneath a blazing sun, one hand empty, palm outstretched, and the other clenched about a bevy of lightning bolts. The workmanship was flawless, the quality of the weave rivaling any she'd seen—certainly not what she expected to find from a band of cave dwellers.

  Circling about the pillowed crib, she noticed one of the tapestries hid the entrance to another room. She pulled the drape aside, allowing a shaft of light to fall upon a rumpled blanket, a wicker chest.

  A bedroom, she realized, perhaps Sayer-Kihn's own. Turning back to the crib, she wrestled out a large cushion, using it to hold the tapestry open. Then, glancing once over her shoulder, she stepped inside.

  The room was small and rather cramped. Bare rock formed the walls. In the corner, a footed clothes tree held several robes. She straightened one, and then smiled—they carried his scent. Who was this king who dressed as a beggar? Children appeared to be in awe of him. Was he a hero, some religious figure?

  It was of no consequence to her, of course, for as soon as she found an opportunity, she would escape. Somehow, she had to get word off this planet. Sayer-Kihn meant nothing to her.

  Anneliese crossed the room. A sandal lay upon the chest—no mate—and the leather thong Sayer used to tie back his hair. Beside the bed, a shelf held a line of delicate bottles. She cradled one, gently lifting the stopper. Yes, that was the oil he used. And those two stones—might they be to smooth away his beard? She thought of his angular, high-planed face.

  Behind her, someone cleared his throat.

  Anneliese spun about. “I wasn't...” she said, and then stilled her tongue.

  Sayer-Kihn stood in the doorway. The light of the great room flared behind him. Shadow veiled his expression.

  Anneliese bit her lip, quelling the impulse to stamp her foot to hide her embarrassment. She twisted the bottle in her hands. “Forgive me. I meant no harm."