The City Stained Red

by Sam Sykes

  “I AM NOT A TRAMP!” she shouted.

  “Well, you and I know that, darling,” someone said. She looked over her shoulder to see Denaos peering out through the curtains behind the stage she stood on. “But we’re rather attempting to convince others of the idea, which isn’t helped if you go around screaming contradictory self-assertions. If you wouldn’t mind holding onto that white-hot shame until we get everything done?”

  His head slipped back behind the curtains. She felt her cheeks go red.

  Redder, anyway.

  The aforementioned shame had actually been quite mild—considering her usual standard—when Denaos had explained the plan. It had gotten a tad warm once he showed her the costume he had cobbled together. It had slowly grown throughout the long walk to the Harbor Road, until she had arrived at this point.

  Standing on a flimsy wooden stage.

  Surrounded by various unwashed people with various diseases.

  Wrapped in a flimsy sheet of silk about her breasts, a similarly scandalous skirt hanging from her hips.

  White-hot shame wasn’t quite severe enough a description for it.

  Though, really, it wasn’t as if anyone else was taking stock of her undress. In fact, very few people of the Harbor Road seemed to looking at her at all. Not that she could blame them; she was far from the most interesting thing here.

  To call it a road was slightly misleading. True, the entirety of the bazaar had been formed on the western edge of the harbor, where the odorous scent of the Sumps wafted over broken walls to mingle with the stink of flesh and cooking meat. But only a narrow spit of the stone path was available to walk upon. The rest of it was full of merchants.

  Too unsavory for the Souk, too legitimate for a back alley, the air of dubious morality surrounding the Harbor Road’s sellers choked the sky as surely as the stink of their wares. Some were common odors: laborers selling reeking oxen or rutting swine, bootleggers hawking homemade whiskey straight from the still.

  But mingled within these everyday reeks were more exotic stinks: a shifty-looking fellow at a stall brimming with vials of bubbling red and green potions, a dirty man wearing a dirty Talanite’s robe selling hecatines doped to the gills on incense, and at least one couthi whose wares she couldn’t see but who stood under a sign reading EXCESS BODILY FLUIDS? WE PAY!

  One would think—at least, she did—that among so many opportunities to be profoundly disturbed, the sight of slavery wouldn’t be the worst of it. But her twisting stomach suggested otherwise.

  They stood huddled in cages or corrals, some of them chained to posts, more than a few on stages and blocks like the very one she stood upon. Some of them cast looks of keen resentment from prospective buyers to the dirty men and women trying to slap a price on them. But many more simply stared at their feet with empty eyes. They were humans and shicts and tulwar, advertised as laborers and house servants and bodyguards, sold for copper and silver and gold. Just a few heated words of negotiation, a quick changing of hands, a jangle of chains as one of them was led off the block and away by his new owner was all that took place.

  Asper had never seen people become property before. Somehow, she hadn’t imagined it would be so efficient, so… very casual.

  Her stomach turned again. Something got caught in her throat. The nausea had begun when Denaos had first told her of this plan and it hadn’t stopped. All of what was going on around her was perfectly legal, perfectly acceptable, perfectly casual; yet somehow, all parts of her felt dirtier for standing here.

  Some parts more than others.

  Why do you take orders from them? The curse’s voice spoke within her head. Why do you stand idly by and let them do this? Do they have power you do not?

  She clenched her teeth and shut her eyes tight.

  Just stop thinking about it, she told herself. Stop thinking about it and it will go away.

  Something beneath her left arm itched.

  Pardon, what was that? Speak up, dear girl. I’m not a mind reader, you know.

  “You’re in my head,” she snapped back. “How can you not hear my thoughts?”

  Technically, I’m in your arm, not your head. And even if I were, it would be terribly impolite to read your thoughts without your consent, wouldn’t it? There is, after all, a certain way these things are done.

  “These things? What things?” She seized her left wrist as though it were a neck and forced her hand to look at her, pausing only a moment to reflect on how insane that looked. “Who are you? What are you?”

  Have I not introduced myself? the voice asked. I’m certain I meant to. You may call me Amoch-Tethr.

  “My concern was really for that last bit,” she replied. “I don’t want to know your name. I don’t want you at all.”

  I’m hurt. The voice—Amoch-Tethr’s voice—certainly didn’t sound it. After all we’ve been through together?

  “We’ve been through nothing,” Asper spat. “Nothing. You’re not my friend. You’re a curse. You kill people.”

  Given your current company, one would think a penchant for murder was a prerequisite of becoming your friend. The voice chuckled and it burned inside her wrist. And we have seen much together. Since the day I awoke, trapped inside your flesh, I have seen everything.

  That word resonated through her. She stared intently at her palm, as though she could see through it, to the voice within and whatever mouth it spoke from.

  “Everything?”

  Every body that I consumed for you, and every sleepless night that followed. When you whispered your prayers and begged the darkness for an answer, the only one that heard you…

  Again, she felt it: that slow twisting of sinew beneath her flesh that made her absolutely certain that this thing was smiling at her.

  Was me.

  At that moment, Asper felt hollow. It was as though everything inside had been devoured, leaving nothing but a vast and dark emptiness throughout which those words would echo endlessly.

  “Why now?” Her voice was an agonized whisper, razors in her throat. “Why are you talking now?”

  Ah, yes. Pardon, you heard only the starved whispers of a maddened beast before. I cannot subsist on the meager flesh you fed me.

  “Flesh?” she asked. “Those were people! I didn’t feed you; you destroyed them.”

  Technically, I consumed them. And it’d be more accurate to say that we did. I am merely a passenger in this vessel. I can do nothing without your permission.

  “I didn’t tell you to do that!”

  Well, not with words, no. Suffice it to say, I acted on your behalf, such as when I ate of that Disciple earlier.

  “You mean the demon?”

  Rather a coarse term for so learned a scholar. He recognized me, you know. I imagine we might have enjoyed a pleasant chat, had he been more reasonable. Regardless, his sacrifice sated my pangs. I can carry on a more civil discourse.

  “Then tell me what you are,” she snapped. “Tell me what you’re doing. Tell me…” She bit her lower lip. “Tell me how to get rid of you.”

  No response, from its thoughts or hers. The vast emptiness inside her was filled again with the sounds of rushing blood and a beating heart. The mutter and rabble of the Harbor Road filled her ears again. The arm she stared at was just a limb, without eyes to see or ears to hear.

  “Careful there, dear.” Denaos emerged from the curtains. “We’re not going to be able to get you sold if you appear touched.”

  She wasn’t sure how much he had seen. She didn’t enquire, dropping her hand, folding her arms over her chest, and retreating away from the glancing passersby.

  “Unless, of course, we offered a discount,” he hummed, twiddling an elegantly long mustache that wasn’t there this morning.

  “Why are you wearing that?” Asper asked, scrutinizing the handlebar wisps.

  “Clearly, you know nothing of disguise,” he retorted. “I am attempting to convey the character of a sleazy flesh trader.” He gestured to a loud purple shirt
and painfully tight-looking breeches. “Such a role requires a fair bit of villainy. And as every fool knows”—he smoothed out the false whiskers upon his lip—“mustaches are inherently villainous.”

  She squinted at him. “There is something sincerely wrong with you.”

  “There’s something sincerely wrong with this whole plan!”

  Lenk came out from behind the curtains. Kataria followed, clad like Asper. The shict glanced her over and offered a sympathetic grunt.

  “Sending two people into a dangerous situation,” Lenk continued, “unarmed and naked in all but name? This was the best we could come up with?”

  “You’ve got a better idea?” Kataria leaned against the railings of the stage. She tugged at the skimpy wisp of silk bound around her chest. “Did you want to wear this thing?”

  “What I want is to do something that would involve less silk and more steel,” Lenk replied.

  “So,” Denaos hummed, “in the face of a vast, unknown estate brimming with countlessly well-armed cultists, house guards, and goodness knows what else, your first plan of action is to run into them headlong, spitting war cries and swinging a sword?”

  Lenk looked down at his feet. “Well, when you say it that way, of course it sounds stupid.”

  “It all sounds stupid.”

  Dreadaeleon’s voice was low, brimming with a dark authority. The effect, likely, would have been more powerful had he not emerged wearing dark-shaded spectacles and a bright red fez. His face was set in a cold smirk as he drew his hands behind his back.

  “We could end this all so easily,” he said. “We know where the Khovura are. Show me. I will handle the rest.”

  Some chuckled at that, some didn’t appear to notice. Only Asper affixed the boy with a stare.

  He had always boasted, of course. But usually they were the overly verbose gloats of an inexperienced boy. Since he had returned from his… excursion, something had fallen over him. He walked taller, he spoke less, and his boasts sounded more like threats: short, terse, and spoken with a dreadful certainty.

  That was another worry for another time. At that moment, her eyes, along with everyone else’s, were drawn down the Harbor Road to Gariath striding toward them, wrapped up tightly in a thick black cloak.

  “They’re coming,” he grunted before hopping onto the stage to join them.

  “Right, right.” Denaos began flitting his hands about, directing them. He pointed to Asper and Kataria. “Merchandise, on display.” He gestured to Dreadaeleon. “Accountant, at the ready.” He nodded to Gariath. “Muscle, look ominous.”

  “What should I do?” Lenk asked.

  “In the back.” Denaos gestured with his thumb. “You didn’t like this plan and we’re out of costumes. Be there in case something goes wrong.”

  “Are you sure?” The question went to Denaos, even though his gaze went to Kataria.

  She snorted in reply. “Piss off.”

  He opened his mouth to reply before Denaos waved him off behind the curtain. Asper winced, glancing to Kataria.

  “A little harsh, wasn’t that?”

  “Yes,” the shict grunted. “Yes, it was.”

  With so much skin left bare by the scanty silk, it was easy enough to see that Kataria was tense. Asper supposed that was only reasonable. It had been only a few days, after all, since the shict had almost been dragged off by the very people with whom the plan now called for her to go with willingly.

  She couldn’t blame her for being anxious.

  She probably wouldn’t blame her for whatever else she might do today.

  “Places! Places, people!” Denaos announced. “Here they come. Let me do the talking and for Silf’s sake, act professional.” He stroked his false mustache. “We’re slavers. Not lowlifes.”

  Their targets came down the road a moment later. Among the crowds on the street, the sign of Ghoukha’s house, the naked girl on a bed of coins, was stark against his servants’ clothes. A quartet of house guards flanked a woman with elegant hair, blue robes, and a face painted in elaborate designs of indigo and white. She strolled slowly down the cobblestones, surveying the various wares—flesh and fleshless—on display. A pouch hung heavy at her sash.

  “She hasn’t bought anything yet,” Denaos noted. “Not good.”

  “Why not good?” Asper asked.

  “It means she’s picky. She’s looking for quality.”

  “Oh.” A moment passed before it struck her. “Oh, you can go fu—”

  “Shh! Here she comes!”

  Ghoukha’s envoy, a look of vague uninterest playing beneath her painted face, passed slowly beside them. Her gaze drifted up and over Asper and Kataria. Unsure of what to do, Asper offered a weak smile, to which the envoy flashed a puzzled look. Denaos quickly swept in front of her, a sleazy grin broad beneath his mustache.

  “Searching for Cier’Djaal’s finest?” he asked in a greasy lilt. “Then look no further. Before you are—”

  The envoy didn’t bother offering anything ruder than a roll of her eyes as she moved to walk away. Denaos flashed an accusing stare at Asper, who shrugged helplessly.

  In another moment, though, Gariath pushed between them. He came down off the stage in front of the envoy, who skidded to a halt and looked up into the darkness of his cowl with wide eyes. Her house guards reached for their weapons, though seemed in no hurry to draw them. Or to get between her and the massive cloaked fellow.

  Gariath lowered his scowl upon her. “Buy something.”

  The envoy cleared her throat and took a few steps back to the stage.

  “You were saying?” she asked Denaos.

  “Ah, forgive my dear brute’s mannerisms,” the rogue replied. “He simply could not bear to let you leave before I paid due compliments to the servant of the Fasha Ghoukha. Obviously, you are of particularly keen discernment to be entrusted with the purchase of servants for his feast.”

  “Is that street knowledge already?” the envoy asked, quirking a brow.

  “Only for select pairs of feet,” Denaos replied. “I have heard rumors. Yet here you are, with a full pouch.”

  “Then you doubtlessly know that Ghoukha’s feast will collectively shame every other noble in the city from fasha to felon,” the envoy replied. “Every noble, every dignitary, every Karnerian, Sainite, and priest of worth will be there.”

  “And you’ve found your staff a bit short?”

  “A bit unimpressive. The fasha strives to impress.” The envoy’s eyes lingered over Asper. “He has a… taste for the exotic. Perhaps a northerner would do the trick.”

  “Ah, if it’s exotic you seek, look no further.” Denaos swept up behind Kataria and laid his hands on her visibly bristling shoulders. “I defy you to find any trader here with flesh half as enticing as a forest-dweller’s.”

  The envoy’s painted lips curled into a frown as she surveyed Kataria. “A bit gamey, isn’t she? All that muscle, nary a curve. What statement are we making with this one?”

  “One of power, of strength!” Denaos plucked Kataria’s arm. A low growl rumbled in her throat as he raised it for inspection. “Witness this, the product of years of dwelling in the wildlands on a diet of flesh and blood! She is the very essence of a predator! Note the muscle!” He reached up and brashly pulled back her lip to expose overlarge canines. “Note the teeth!”

  She drew in a long snort, then spat a thick glob of phlegm at the envoy’s feet.

  “Note,” he muttered sharply, “the… the accuracy.”

  “A moment.” The envoy’s finger thrust accusingly at her ears. “Those! What are those? Is that a shict?”

  “Why, yes, she—”

  “Oh, no, no, wastrel!” The envoy shook her head and hands as one. “The fasha has had… an incident with a shict in the Souk. Too much trouble. No shicts.”

  “But, she—”

  “No. Shicts.”

  Kataria half-shrugged, half-shoved Denaos off and slipped back toward the curtain. The rogue shot her an accusing
glare. She shot an unpleasant grin in response before disappearing.

  “Just as well,” the envoy said, sneering. “One could hardly expect the fasha’s guests to see the charm in that, no matter how exotic.” Her attentions turned back to Asper. “Tell me of this one.”

  “Of course, of course,” Denaos said, returning to her. “Abundant where the shict was lacking, rounded where she was sheer, this one is certain to fulfill all desires.”

  Asper furrowed her brow at the description, but said nothing.

  “But is she smart?” the envoy asked.

  “Literate and substantial,” Denaos replied. “Reads, writes, performs arithmetic, knows a dozen poems and a few prayers.”

  “To northern Gods, most likely,” the envoy said, blanching. “Still, part of the package when you buy something so pale, I suspect. How much?”

  “For you? Twelve.”

  “Twelve?” The envoy looked at him as though he had just dropped his trousers and thrust profusely at her whilst singing operatics. That is, she looked offended on an entirely different level. “Do you possess some manner of seeing condition that makes me appear as though I am made of gold?”

  “No, but I do note your fat pouch,” he said, gesturing to her sash. “You have clearly been waiting for the best. I am offering her to you at a very reasonable twelve.”

  “Northern or not, she’s worth no more than seven.”

  “Seven? Were we in Temple Row, they would burn you for blasphemy! Eleven!”

  The numbers flew back and forth. There were curses exchanged and polite rebuttals. And Asper heard them all, but only barely. It was, after all, rather difficult to hear one’s attributes and roundness so thoroughly described, labeled, and priced.

  At that moment, she couldn’t help looking over her shoulder to where Kataria had disappeared. Should she have followed, she wondered?

  It was a ruse, of course. She knew it wasn’t really demeaning. Was it? But surely, she could have thought of something better. Surely, she could have put together something more sensible. Lenk was right, she was about to go in hostile territory, unarmed and half-clad and apparently, now, alone.