Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  Both our cottages together weren't this grand, my sister says, clearly impressed. Her approval calms me. I was worried about what she would think. Kirin was always the one with the head for more practical matters; always the one who knew which silver pattern was in style or how to artfully and tastefully decorate a room.

  She was a good student in that, if nothing else, and our mother was the consummate teacher. Mother always tried so hard to prepare us for marriage, and for our triumphant return to the courtly society that had exiled her father and the rest of his family, including his very ambitious daughter, so many years before. Of course, things worked out so very differently than Mother had hoped in the end, hadn't they?

  "It ... I don't know what to say. Only in dreams could I have imagined such a home,” I say. Lia beams.

  "Come upstairs. There is more to see,” she says, climbing the wide staircase. The wood creaks softly beneath her feet.

  A trio of large bedrooms fills the second floor, each with a splendid view. The front room overlooks the tree-lined street; others the small garden and the whitewashed wall at the rear of the property. One of the back rooms, perhaps used as some lady's sitting parlor, has wide bay windows, through which I can see the shadowed bulk of the Armitage in the distance.

  "Can this be my room?” I ask.

  Lia smiles, but just for a moment some vague hurt flits across her face, as if I have said something wrong.

  "But of course, if that is your wish,” she says, and the expression vanishes. “I will take the front room, if you do not mind. The noise from the street does not bother me. We can use the third for your weapons and armor. And for those books in my collection that should be kept under lock and key. So, the house is acceptable, then?"

  "It's more than acceptable; it's wonderful. But there's no need for such extravagance, Lia, truly. My posting will have me sleeping in the barracks every other week, more if they have need of me, so I'll only be with you half the time. The wage I receive will more than pay for a room in some inn closer to the wall."

  Have you taken leave of your senses? my sister exclaims. Sleep in some flea-infested boarding house when we can live here? This is the Garden District! Do you know how coveted an address here is?

  I resist the urge to answer, limiting myself to a sigh. “Besides,” I continue, “your family must be thrilled to finally have you back. Surely they want you to return there?"

  "No,” she says, shaking her head. “I mean, yes, they are happy, and my father would have me back if he could, but I cannot. After everything that has happened, I just ... cannot imagine going back there. Back to having servants waiting on my every desire. Back to sleeping in my old room, with the frilly lace curtains and the shelves lined with dolls. Dolls, can you imagine? I ... just cannot go back to that."

  I remember Lia on the walls of Castle Dupree, defending the refugees against the Mor. Remember her calling out to the sky, drawing the lightning down upon our enemies while her unbound hair streamed and snapped like a war banner. She was a goddess then, an avatar of nature. I try to imagine such a woman sleeping in a little girl's bed, surrounded by delicate, china-faced toys. I cannot.

  I rest my hand upon hers and nod. “I understand,” I say. “And I thank you for inviting me to stay. I will repay this kindness, I swear it."

  I'm sure you will, my sister comments. She does have quite an impressive appetite, doesn't she? Tell me. How does it feel to be a kept woman? Is it everything you hoped it would be?

  I freeze as the barb in my sister's words digs deep. Her vehemence is unexpected; just moments ago she seemed so happy with the house and the possibility of living here.

  "Do not be foolish,” she admonishes. “There is nothing to repay. I want you here with me."

  Lia presses her hand down on mine, lingering for a moment, then starts downstairs, where the solicitor waits with his papers and contracts. I pause on the landing.

  "I am nobody's doxy,” I hiss as soon as she is gone. My sister's silence is as eloquent as any shrug. I wait a moment longer, then when she does not answer I follow.

  Downstairs, Lia and the solicitor sit at the long table in the dining room, across from one another, discussing the details of the transaction. I hear a sum mentioned, and try not to stare. I knew Lia's family was wealthy, but apparently I had no idea just what that word meant. It is more than my father, a landowner, could have saved in an entire lifetime.

  After a time I grow bored of their talk. I rise and walk towards the open front door. You could do worse than to learn about how such transactions are arranged, my sister scolds. One can never have too much knowledge of finance, or of the law.

  "Don't speak to me right now,” I whisper back. “Besides, you just want to stare at the solicitor."

  Nothing wrong with that. He's not unpleasant to look at, in a foppish sort of way. And he's no doubt wealthy, what with his clientele. Perhaps if you went back and at least tried to look interested...

  "Stop. You know such things are not for me."

  The business, or the solicitor?

  I do not reply, but this time she does not press the issue. I let out my held breath and walk out onto the stone stoop, looking over the quiet street. Leaves flutter down from the oaks, carpeting the paving stones. They are red in the bright sunshine, as vivid as fresh-spilt blood.

  I stare, fighting a feeling of unease. Nothing can hurt me here, I remind myself. The enemy is outside, barred from entry by the strength of the Armitage and the courage of the defenders who stand upon it. I am safe here.

  Lia and the solicitor, I realize I do not remember the man's name, eventually emerge. He locks the house and promises the keys will be delivered just as soon as the final papers can be drawn up and signed.

  They part with many an earnest handshake. We stroll off, and Lia invites me to take afternoon coffee. We walk towards the main thoroughfare.

  At mid-day it is busy with wagons and carts, loud with the sound of hooves and the clatter of iron-shod wheels. Voices cry out in a dozen different tongues. Lia strolls down the crowded street, as happy as I have ever seen her. Her face is radiant, and there is a bounce in her step that snags at my heart. Soon we find an empty table at a corner cafe and settle in.

  "My grandfather inherited his fortune, but then made another on his own by supplying the army with material and supplies,” she tells me when I ask about her grasp of the complexities of finance. “Father was often away, teaching at the colleges or advising the emperor, and Mother always had so many court functions to attend, so I was raised at Grand Sir's knee. I could figure a column of numbers before I could read. Sometimes I wonder if he would be pleased with my choice to follow in Father's footsteps."

  "Your grandfather is dead?” I ask, putting my hand on hers.

  "Three years before I entered the College of Air, when I was twelve,” she says, eyes downcast. “He always claimed he was proud of my father and his accomplishments in the elemental arts, but sometimes I think he would have been happier if he had followed him into the family business."

  We sip the strong bitter coffee from delicate china cups. A river of people passes slowly by our table, a vivid display of multicolored linen, silk and satin, fashions from every far-flung corner of the Empire.

  "Where is she from?” I ask, pointing to a stunning woman across the street. This is Lia's favorite game, and we have played it often since my release from the house of healing. I'm happy to oblige her; unlike the tedium of finance and the law, this is something I might find use for one day, and perhaps this will distract her from the melancholy which has settled over her.

  The woman I indicate is tall, taller than many of the men, with wide shoulders and an otter-lithe waist. Her sepia skin, displayed in near-scandalous quantity, shines in the sun with mahogany highlights. A cloak of iridescent feathers trails behind her.

  Three men, shoulders and arms rippling with muscle, follow close behind. They wear broad, curved swords at their hips and scowl at passers-by.

/>   "She hails from Turan, far to the south,” Lia replies. “The cloak marks her as a member of the Usiif clan. Good traders; even better warriors. Do you see those scars on her face?” I nod. The woman's cheeks are scrimshawed with intricate patterns of tiny, raised bumps, spiraling under and around her almond-shaped eyes.

  "They denote royalty, and are considered to be quite fetching, even erotic, in Turanian culture.” She leans forward and whispers, “If you were to see her unclothed, you would see more of them in most uncomfortable places, or so they say. The men as well.” She laughs at my pained expression.

  "If I had to guess, I would say she's an unmarried second or third daughter of one of their barons, what they call an U'shu,” she continues in a normal tone of voice. “Those men are her honor guard, charged with defending her virtue from all threats."

  I can see why. I've seen prostitutes wearing more clothes. It's shameful.

  "My sister finds her dress embarrassingly revealing,” I say. I do not mention the true nature of her disapproval; I know it is the woman's warrior heritage that is the true source of her disdain, not some arbitrary display of flesh.

  "She should never visit the deep south then,” Lia replies with a wicked smile. “There the sun burns so hot that often the women wear nothing at all, save a brief strip of linen about their hips."

  The striking woman is swallowed by the throng, and disappears from view. More than one of the passers-by, not all of them men, turn to watch her swaying backside as she passes. I feel my lips curling in response to her good humor.

  "Remind me to tell you the tale of Laphat the Necromancer one evening, when you're in the mood for a good ghost story,” I say. “He was a southerner as well. It was one of the stories we used to tell each other when we were children, on Harvestpast night."

  "I used to love Harvestpast stories as a girl,” she replies, leaning forward and squeezing my hand. “Staying up with my friends and scaring each other half to death with ghost stories. Tell me."

  I look up at the clear blue sky, and shake my head. “It's not a story for sunshine and a corner table at a cafe, dear heart."

  "Oh, please. Just a little. Perhaps I have heard it."

  "All right,” I laugh. “Just a bit. Laphat, it was said, was a powerful Speaker to the Dead, the inventor of an evil talisman called a vod'hule. In the story, he used the talisman to summon an army of the dead, all because of a beautiful woman's scorn. She was married to a southern king, you see, and though she was beautiful, and was lusted after by Laphat, she was also black-hearted and spiteful. He tried to overthrow the kingdom with his army, all so that he could prove himself to a woman who hated him."

  Lia ponders for a moment, her brows drawn down, then smiles and shakes her head. “No. I have not heard that one. You must tell me of him one night. When we are both in the mood to stay up and tell stories to one another."

  "I promise."

  I sip my drink, and watch the crowd flow past, allowing the bitter liquid to roll across my tongue. I had to add a dollop of honey to the cup to make the taste bearable, but Lia seems perfectly content to drink hers as it was brewed.

  I look at Lia, and find her frowning into her cup. She grows uncharacteristically quiet.

  "Nervous?” I ask her.

  "No.” She sighs. “Yes. It has been so long since I last saw my father. I fear what the college must have told him about my leave-taking."

  "You only left because you wanted to be back here, at his side,” I remind her. “Surely he cannot find fault with that?"

  "Oh, you might be surprised. I called upon my family on two different occasions since we returned, but each time he was not at home. His duties coordinating the city's mystic defenses keep him very busy. But Mother was gracious enough to plan our welcome home party nonetheless."

  "Well, thank you for inviting me,” I say. “I'm looking forward to meeting the legendary Argus Cho."

  Lia smiles at this, but I sense her heart is not in the gesture. I shrug and let the mystery pass; she will tell me her troubles when she is ready. She always does, eventually.

  She perks up a moment later, sitting up straight with wide eyes. “That reminds me. I made an appointment with a seamstress for later this afternoon. I am quite sure that one of the gowns Mother sent over will fit you with a bit of work. I was thinking of the dark red one with the low back. It never looked good on me and it will look worse now that I am as brown as bark, but against your pale skin...” She lets the sentence trail off, looking me up and down with a shrewd eye. I feel myself blushing at the unexpected scrutiny.

  "Just so long as I don't have to wear those torture implements you call shoes,” I mutter, draining the last of my coffee. Lia laughs.

  "No promises. Come, we must not keep her waiting. I have some most wonderful fabric I was thinking of making into a kirtle..."

  I look at myself in the borrowed glass, turning this way and that. The room behind me is cluttered with trunks and wardrobes, most overflowing with clothes. Gowns and dresses of shining, jewel-like brilliance. Chests filled with shoes and gloves. All so delicate and feminine, cunningly embroidered and set with seed pearls or beads or even tiny gemstones. In the other room, I hear Lia chatting with the seamstress, describing the drape of the garment she wants her to make.

  The gown I wear, freshly tailored to fit my spare frame, is intricate and constricting, with long flowing skirts and a tight bodice; quite in style, or so Lia assures me. It is dark as old wine, catching the candlelight and throwing it back in ruby sparks. A spill of garnets adorns the bodice.

  My breasts spill from the top of the plunging neckline, two alabaster globes pressed upwards by the corset's cruel grip. They have not yet returned to the size they were prior to my pregnancy. For once, I am glad of the fact.

  "How do courtly women do this every day?” I whisper to my sister. “First it was the seamstress, then a bath followed by the hairdresser. They must do nothing all day except preen and strut and fret about what gown they will wear next."

  And gossip, don't forget, she laughs in my head. But you're right; for some that is true. Life at court is mostly about giving the right impression. For women especially that means looking properly ornamental. Just be glad you're not overly large; remember Mother's story about the dowager who insisted she could fit into her twenty-year-old maiden's dress when it came back into style?

  I smile. “She died, her belly crushed when she commanded four of her maids to all grab the laces of her corset and pull, as hard as they could. As I recall, she always told that story whenever you or I asked for more dessert."

  I resist the urge to adjust my hair. The hairdresser did a wonderful job piling my pale blond locks atop my head, and I do not want to jeopardize the tenuous arrangement. The gown accents the smooth curve of my muscled shoulders and exposes my slender throat.

  Lia sweeps in, her skirts gathered in her hands. Her dress is of cream satin trimmed with midnight blue, with tapered sleeves and a high, belted waist. Her hair is in ringlets tonight, the chestnut spill cascading down her freckled back. A jeweled comb, shaped like a butterfly, sparkles amongst the gleaming tresses.

  I recall giving her the gift, earlier in the evening. I wore it for Jazen, more than once, on the blissful nights we shared before the coming of the Mor, but never since. Now, seeing it in her hair fills me with a sense of rightness, and anticipation.

  "Well, never mind then,” she calls over her shoulder to the seamstress. “Perhaps another time. For now, perhaps you can just—” She sees me and stops. A smile lights her face.

  "Stay right here; I have something for you,” she says, then turns around and walks out. I hear her thanking the seamstress, then the gentle clink of coins. I pivot, trying to look at myself in the mirror and get used to the unaccustomed ripple and flow of the skirts. Good. The boots I slipped on when Lia was not looking do not show beneath their drape. How she expects me to walk in the ridiculous shoes she left for me is completely unfathomable.

  Lia
returns, bearing a small wooden box. Something inside buzzes angrily. A necklace sits atop it, a silver pendant strung on a black ribbon. She sets the box on the table and moves behind me, the necklace in her hands.

  "This will be perfect,” she says with relish, lowering it over my head. The metal is chill against my collar bones, but swiftly warms. I feel her fingers working at the nape of my neck as she secures the clasp, and shiver. “There."

  The pendant is a silver coin, two inches across, engraved with the profile of an elegant woman. Her hair, unbound, streams away from her face. A crescent moon hangs behind her. Letters run around its perimeter, written in a flowing script that I cannot read. The black ribbon is snug against my throat, accenting its length and emphasizing its slenderness.

  "It's lovely,” I say, turning it so that it catches the candlelight. “What is it?"

  "It is from Turan. Seeing the woman outside the cafe reminded me of it. It depicts one of their goddesses, Shamaat. She is a hunter and a warrior. I thought you might accept it as a gift.” She rests her hands on my shoulders, leaning forward and looking at me in the glass.

  "Yes. With thanks. It's very lovely."

  "As are you,” she whispers. She smiles and steps back, then picks up the box. “Lower your gown,” she says.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Go on,” she laughs. “This cost a very pretty penny, but if one is to make the proper impression in polite society, there really is no avoiding it."

  She reaches into the box and draws out a large insect. Its body, six inches long and plump as a tuber, writhes sluggishly, as if drugged. It beats the air with its long, striped wings, filling the room with the buzzing I heard before. Its legs wave feebly in the air. As I watch, it flashes with pale greenblue light.

  Lia presses the insect to the table and picks up a knife; then, with a casual stroke, severs its abdomen. She tosses the still moving remains into a basket on the floor. Lia rolls the severed organ, as large as an apple, between her palms, pressing gently, until it glows with a strange, steady light.