by Amber Argyle
Darsam pivoted to see what she was looking at. But the piss-pot man was already moving away. “Who was that?” Darsam asked.
Cinder forced herself to remember who this was—the lord’s son. She counted down from ten and then back up again before she trusted herself to speak. “I have to meet the mother.” Without another word, she turned on her heel and started down the street.
“Wait,” he called after her. “What’s your name?”
She didn’t slow.
“I command it,” Darsam said, his voice ringing.
Cinder paused, fury coursing through her in waves. She could feel the watching Idarans’ gazes boring into her—two by two by two. A lord’s son could make unending amounts of trouble for her. Better to give him what he wanted rather than raise his ire. “Cinder,” she said before gathering her robes into her hands and running down the street.
When she arrived at Zura’s friend’s house, Cinder was breathless, having paused only long enough to wash her face and as much of her robes as she could in a nearly dried-out public fountain. This neighborhood had been fine once, but now chunks of plaster had fallen from the walls, and some of the shutters were missing.
Cinder slipped passed Zura’s guards, who smoked idly by the chariot, and passed through the little gate into the courtyard that used to hold flowers. Now there were fifteen rows of vegetables and twelve sapling fruit trees. Cinder knocked on the faded turquoise door with its chipped mermaid knocker. A moment later, a slave girl with the dark skin and tightly curling hair of the Luathan opened the door. Cinder entered the house, and the girl quickly shut the door behind her. The thick planks were designed to keep the heat out for as long as possible.
It took a moment for Cinder’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. The anteroom was meticulously clean, but some of the marble tiles were cracked, and the furnishings were a little sparse and worn.
Without saying a word, the slave girl led Cinder to the tea room. It was small and rather dim, with the shutters firmly closed against the sun. In the center of the room were cushions of purple velvet that had once been fine but now bore the permanent impressions of numerous rumps. Zura sat with her friend, Tya. The woman used to own the Star, one of the finer pleasure houses in the university district. But that was before it went bankrupt nearly a year ago.
Cinder slipped quietly into the room. While she waited to be acknowledged, she started counting the pearls struggling to escape the rolls of fat around Tya’s neck: one, two, three, four, five, six.
A little older than Zura, Tya gazed at the swirling dust motes caught in the shafts of light leaking through the shutters. “I think what I miss more than anything is the dancing.” The woman sounded constantly breathless. Her jowls jiggled as she spoke, making it even more challenging to keep track of the pearls. “The Star was renowned for it above all else. Patrons would come from all over the city to see my girls dance.”
Zura sipped her tea. “I remember.”
Seven, eight, nine . . .
“I shall stop by tomorrow,” Tya wheezed. “I would like to see the dancing again.”
Zura set her tea cup on the tray. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”
The woman straightened up indignantly. “Why ever not?”
Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen . . .
“It wouldn’t be good for my house.”
“But I’ve come since the Star went out of business. Why would that—” Tya’s gaze turned shrewd. “Oh, Zura, he got to you too.”
Zura stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . .
“You’d be better off to sell now.” Tya coughed, phlegm rattling in her throat. “All of it. Take what you can and retire. Before he owns all of it.”
Cinder was so distracted she lost count of the pearls altogether. She wondered what the two women were talking about. Surely Zura wasn’t in any financial duress. It was rumored that she had more jewels than the queen herself. It was also said that the meals the patrons ate were finer than what was served in the palace.
Zura gathered her robes to stand. “The House of Night is the greatest pleasure house in all of Idara. It will—”
“Not if Bahar has his say. And he will.”
What does the false lord have to do with anything? Cinder wondered.
“If the brothels go down,” Zura went on as she pushed to her feet, “the slaves are only a step behind. Then we’ll both be out of business. It’s in Jatar’s best interest that we both flourish.”
Cinder knew that name—Jatar was a leader of the slaver’s guild, one of the richest men in Idara.
Tya struggled to stand, and for a moment the pearls disappeared altogether. “He’s like a hyena on carrion, snapping the bones to suck out the marrow before the carcass turns to dust.”
Cinder shivered through the heat prickling her skin.
“It may be some time before I can visit again.” Zura turned on her heel and started at the sight of Cinder. “How long have you been spying there?”
She tried to appear innocent. “I only just walked in, Mother.”
Zura took hold of her arm and hauled her toward the door even as Tya waddled after them. “You’re late. Again. Apparently twenty lashings wasn’t enough to impress upon you the importance of punctuality.”
“I was . . . delayed.” Cinder’s fingers started tapping at the thought of Sadira and her taunts. Of Darsam and his commands.
As the slave girl hurried to open the door for them, Zura really looked at Cinder. The older woman’s eyes widened. “Your robes are covered in blood. What happened?”
Cinder tapped faster. “A girl named Sadira.”
Zura looked back to find Tya watching them, arms straining to fold across her ample chest. “Not another word,” Zura said under her breath as she strode outside, the door closing softly behind them.
As soon as they were on the other side of the low wall, Zura pulled Cinder around and studied her face. “There’s no damage.” She relaxed a little and hauled Cinder into the chariot, the guards a couple of steps behind them. Zura picked up the reins and slapped them across the horse’s back. No one besides herself could ever drive a chariot to her satisfaction. They lurched onto the street. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
When Cinder finished with the story, Zura had pursed her thin lips into an even thinner line. “Darsam is one of Lord Bahar’s younger sons. He’s wild and willful. And you say he showed interest in you? How much interest?”
Cinder shrugged, then wished she hadn’t as it pulled at the welts on her back. “He said he liked whores.”
Zura’s eyes spun with scheming. “Perhaps the House of Night shall send a personal invitation to the auction for this Darsam.”
“The false lord’s son?” Farood spat in disgust.
“He’s not even an Idaran. Fool tribesman knows nothing about running a city,” Farush added.
Cinder hated tribesmen almost as much as she hated Idarans. She’d been a child during the Clan War. She remembered cowering in the dark tunnels beneath the winter palace in Idara, hoping the clanmen would beat down the doors and set her family free. Instead, the tribesmen had given the city aid. Queen Nelay had become a goddess and driven the clanmen out in a storm of fire and ash.
In return for their aid, the tribesmen had been given lordships over all Idara’s cities. But instead of being grateful, the Idarans hated them for it—for their strict ways and sticky honor. And the fact that over the last decade, Bahar’s new tariffs had shut down much of the once-thriving pleasure and slave guilds.
Zura shot Cinder a cunning smile. “If Darsam finds our establishment favorable, the tribesmen lords may follow. And if enough men of power return as our patrons, Bahar will have to back down.”
The two thugs’ heads came up. They nodded in approval.
“And the girl?” Zura asked Cinder. “What was her name again?”
Cinder’s nose and the welts on her back see
med to throb all the more. “Sadira.”
Zura’s gaze narrowed. “Ah, I remember now. Daughter to the leader of the silver miners’ guild—one of Ash’s patrons.”
No wonder Sadira hated any woman who came from the House of Night—her father was one of Ash’s patrons. At nearly forty-seven, Cinder’s mother still looked to be in her thirties. And she still had enough loyal patrons to remain a companion.
To Cinder’s surprise, Zura didn’t turn up the rise toward the mansion, but instead wove down twenty-seven streets to the poorer sections of town. Cinder watched as the buildings became more dilapidated, the people more ragged. Seven naked children played in filthy puddles in the street. The gloriously painted and carved doors that Idarans so prided themselves on became warped and rough, with paint chips of multiple colors embedded deep in the grain.
The chariot headed down a mean-looking street. A pair of thugs guarding the entrance to an alley looked over their shoulders at Zura and nodded before turning their backs. When Zura turned the chariot up that alley, Cinder couldn’t stop staring. Men and women lined the broken flagstone street. All of them were naked, save for a thin loincloth.
Cinder knew the story, though her grandmother Storm had told it only once. Of standing naked under the relentless sun with her suckling baby in her arms. Of the men parading past her, touching her, inspecting her teeth. Of a language she barely understood, spoken fast and loud. And then she had come to live in the mansion and become a companion.
Zura dropped from the chariot and paced forward, her guards a step behind her. “Cinder,” she called in exasperation. “Must I beat you to get you to keep up?”
Dozens of finely dress Idarans, all of them reeking of money, turned to consider Cinder as if she too might be for sale. Counting her steps, she rushed to catch up to the mistress as they strode past a line of slave men. Some were muscular and strong, others old and withered. There were children, too. Weeping children. Most of them looked like Cinder—pale, blue-eyed, blond. They were clansmen and women—her people—though there were some Luathans with charcoal skin and tightly curled hair.
Cinder counted her steps so she wouldn’t have to meet their gazes. She’d never been so glad to be freeborn.
“Where are we going, Mother?” she asked pleadingly.
Not bothering to answer, Zura stepped before a door featuring a carving of a grotesque face with distorted features. As the older woman straightened her veil, Cinder noticed her hands shaking, almost as if she were nervous. What could possibly make Zura nervous?
Cinder took three smaller steps so the number of steps would be an even sixty. Farood knocked, and a man who was missing half his teeth pushed open the door, releasing the smell of human waste and sweat mingled with a sickeningly sweet perfume. Cinder tied up her blood-stained veil and breathed shallowly.
Holding a scented handkerchief under her nose, Zura, along with the guard, disappeared inside the darkness beyond. Cinder didn’t want to go in there—didn’t want to see what awaited her. But then a muffled scream rose up behind her. She started and hurried the six steps after Zura. Inside was some kind of anteroom cloaked in shadows. A toothless guard stared at Cinder and Zura. More guards were posted at the entrance to each corridor.
To keep the slaves from escaping, Cinder realized. She tried to remember how many steps she’d taken since coming inside to add it to her total, but her mind was blank and panicked. She forced herself to concentrate. And the number came suddenly—sixty-six.
One of the guards called out, “Durux.”
A moment later a man emerged from the dark corridor. His gaze flicked to Cinder, though he didn’t meet her gaze. He was perhaps a few years older, whip thin, with large ears framing a lumpy, bald head covered in swirls of tattoos that almost made her dizzy. He smiled an oily smile. “Zura, if you will follow me."
They started down the long corridor to a door—sixteen steps, bringing Cinder’s total to eighty-two. Durux gestured for them to enter. Zura looked back at Cinder. “Wait here.” She straightened her robes, then she and the guards stepped inside, leaving Cinder with the bald man who stared at her body as if he was trying to see inside it. Cinder closed her eyes, her lips working as she counted: seven, fourteen, twenty-eight, fifty-six . . .
“Jatar,” Zura said from behind her handkerchief, “I see you received my message to view your new stock.”
Before Cinder could hear anymore, Durux shut the door.
One hundred twelve, two hundred twenty-four, four hundred forty-eight . . .
“You’re Zura’s freeborn girl, Cinder.” The way he said her name—like he was tasting it—made her shudder.
She looked a little closer and noticed his close-set eyes. “You’re the one who’s been following me!”
In front of her, the door opened to a barrel-chested and finely dressed man probably in his mid-forties. A sparkling ring adorned each of his fingers. Squinting at Cinder as if he couldn’t see very well, he reached out and undid her veil before she could react. He studied her in the way a man might look at a horse he was thinking of buying. “So this is the girl who’s caused you so much trouble,” he said to Zura.
The mistress crossed her arms over her small chest. “She has nothing to do with this, Jatar.”
“Oh, I think she has everything to do with it.” Jatar stepped aside and motioned for Cinder to come in. Wanting desperately to run away, she glanced back down the corridor. There stood Durux, his face in shadow. Eighty-two steps past three guards and an alley full of slaves, buyers, and slave drivers.
Cinder stepped into the room and gasped at the lavishness of the decor. Eight gold cushions surrounded one table and a deep-red mosaic floor, the tiles of which she was itching to count. But the beauty was spoiled by twelve naked girls lined up along one wall, their dark skin oiled and buffed to a shine. They were all Luathan, their tightly curled hair braided or rolled together like rope.
From behind, Jatar rolled a lock of Cinder’s hair between his fingers. She spun around and batted his hand away. He stepped back as a grin overtook his face. “Well, she’s certainly beautiful enough for it. But she has not the desire to please. Of course, some men like that.”
Thinking of Durux, Cinder moved back three steps, her gaze going between Jatar and Zura. “What’s going on, Mother?”
Ignoring her, the mistress told Jatar, “You let me take care of that.”
“You sure this is the gambit you’re willing to take?” he asked.
Zura’s chin came up. “You said it yourself. People are like fields—you have to sow before you can reap.”
Jatar rolled his eyes. “As long as I get my money.”
Cinder didn’t know what was going on, but she had a sinking feeling it had something to do with her. “I’m not for sale.”
He studied her. “Everyone is for sale. You just have to know the price.” He pushed past her, his shoulder bumping her out of the way.
Tapping her fingers to her thumb, Cinder glared after him. She would never be a companion.
Zura’s gaze raked the slaves, starting with a young girl with budding breasts, all the way to a woman with gorgeous curves. And Cinder understood. These slaves would not be auctioned off before the masses like the rest. No, these were reserved for men who had the money to pay for pleasures. Cinder shuddered with revulsion.
“These are the best?” Zura asked Jatar.
Still squinting, he stepped up beside her and pointed. “These three can sing. The middle five are fair dancers. All can serve and act when they have to—I made sure of that. The one on the end hasn’t the talent for either, but with her body, who cares.” He was referring to the woman with the generous curves.
Zura rounded on Cinder. “Tell me, which would you choose?”
Disgusted, Cinder cleared her throat and looked up from counting tiles—she’d already reached twenty-eight. “Mother?”
The woman sighed. “You wish to be my seamstress, which means you will be in charge of making these women
beautiful. You have more to lose than I do. Tell me, which one would you choose?”
Cinder knew she was being punished for sneaking out. For wanting something more. She wanted to turn around and leave the room. But she knew the stakes. If she didn’t take this chance, she’d wind up in the mines. When she returned, no one would hire her, and she’d end up in a common brothel. She took a hesitant step forward. Pretending the girls were dress forms, she covered them with cloth in dozens of colors, concealing their faults and enhancing their strengths. She imagined the way the girls would look under the lights as they danced. And she realized what would probably come after that dance.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
Zura’s hand came up hard and fast, leaving Cinder’s cheek stinging. “You think it a burden to be one of my girls? The House of Night is the finest in Idara. Any girl who is chosen will live in luxury. My girls are well treated, and I do not allow abuse from their clients—which is more than I can say for the lives that await every other girl here. The false lord thinks he’s freeing whores, but he’s really just forcing them to live in the back rooms or shadows of the taverns or alleyways.”
Cinder’s cheek still stung as she started counting tiles again.
Zura paced up and down the line of slaves. “It doesn’t matter,” she said finally. “With the right makeup and clothes, I can make any of them beautiful. With the right attitude, I can make any of them desirable. It’s talent that makes a woman stand out.”
She stopped before the last girl, who looked no more than twelve. She was pretty, with startlingly large eyes framed by thick lashes, and a nose dusted with freckles. Cinder thought she almost looked like a frightened kitten.
“You said this one can sing?” Zura asked. At Jatar’s nod, she announced, “I’ll take her.” The older woman’s eyes glittered with malice as she turned to Cinder. “And you will teach her.”
Cinder’s head snapped up. “What?”