Cruel Enchantment (Black Lace)

by Janine Ashbless

  They dressed swiftly, Jhearl pulling on a soft, blue dress with full sleeves, Ambele belting the white cloth – no doubt originally intended as a shawl – over her hips and slipping a long open tunic over it. This left her arms bare; against her skin the undyed wool seemed to glow. The clothes were plain but clean, which was sufficient.

  ‘You don’t need to bring your spear,’ Jhearl said as she opened the door.

  Ambele shrugged her head sideways and put the weapon back against the wall. She had already checked the long knife belted at her left hip.

  Dinner at the Inn at Harran turned out to be served – at least for those respected guests of means – outdoors, under a trellis draped with vines at the side of the inn. Thick rugs were scattered over the ground; Jhearl chose a small one to one side and seated herself gracefully. The evening stars peeped between the leaves overhead, but scented oil lamps on copper plates in the centre of each rug cast a warm light over the fabrics and kept the night-insects at bay. There were a few people already coming to dine. Jhearl nodded almost imperceptibly to the two merchants, but declined when they offered her a seat beside them. She already had business.

  Ambele prowled restlessly, looking behind each entwined pillar before she would consent to sit. But the food arrived quickly and drove all thoughts of restlessness from every mind; spit-roasted mutton, fresh figs, bowls of curd, flat bread spiced with cardamom seeds and almonds coated in sugar-paste. The wine was bright and fresh, not of a sophisticated quality but very suited to the setting. The small boy from the courtyard came out and began to play upon a double-stemmed flute. Guests thickened upon the rugs. Jhearl had to force herself to eat slowly. That part of her mind which was not upon the food turned over the prospect of Nyan’s messenger anxiously.

  She had not finished her meal before the innkeeper led a man out from the doorway and pointed across the other guests towards her. The stranger made his way over. Jhearl wiped her mouth delicately.

  ‘Lady Jhearl?’ said the man, squatting down upon the rug so that he did not loom over the seated woman. Ambele rose warily to her feet.

  ‘Yes?’ said Jhearl. He was a broad man with bright blue eyes in a weathered face, handsome in a rough way, hair long and tied back at the nape of his neck, dressed in trousers and hide jerkin rather than robes. A city-dweller without a doubt, miles out of his own territory. But not a soldier.

  ‘Lady –’ he smiled, his eyes keen; ‘– I am glad you have reached this inn; I was expecting you days ago.’

  ‘I had problems on the way,’ Jhearl said, not smiling yet.

  The man noticed her coolness and looked abashed. ‘My name is Rosh,’ he said quickly. ‘I was sent here by a friend of yours.’ And swiftly and smoothly her turned his palm over and displayed for the briefest of moments the silver token of Prince Nyan.

  ‘He told me he would be here,’ Jhearl said. ‘What has happened to him?’

  Rosh cleared his throat. ‘Can we talk privately?’ he asked. ‘Not here.’

  Jhearl’s head was buzzing from the wine and the food, but she remembered still that she was alone among strangers. ‘Over there,’ she said, indicating with her head a darker space beyond the trellised courtyard, behind the wall of vine leaves. It was still within sight of light and help should she need it.

  Rosh’s eyes were hard. ‘Fine,’ he nodded.

  They both stood, Jhearl a little unsteadily, to her surprise. Ambele caught her gaze, her eyes questioning. ‘Wait here,’ Jhearl said, waving at the carpet beneath her feet. She followed Rosh into the blue evening, aware, but unconcerned that everyone in the yard was watching her go.

  Beyond the lamplight the night was cool and calming, and not so dark as she expected. Jhearl could make out the bulk of the stables and the pale wall of the courtyard. A goat bleated from the shadows.

  ‘My lord did intend to meet you here,’ Rosh said, putting a hand on Jhearl’s arm to steady her. He drew her deeper into the gloom. ‘But he was delayed on King Kuranes’ business. Things are happening that demand his attention. High affairs of state.’ They were close to the boundary wall now, in the darkest part of the yard. She could smell the leather of Rosh’s jacket better than she could see his face. His voice was low; she had to move closer to hear his words.

  ‘He says that he will be delayed until the Festival of the Moon. He says that you must wait for him – here.’ With these last words Rosh pushed her against the wall, palmed the knife from his sleeve and drove it towards her heart.

  It did not strike home, not that time. Jhearl, pushed backwards, stumbled over rubble and fell to the side. At the same moment Rosh gave a grunt and lurched forwards, then jerked back. The knife-blade skidded across Jhearl’s ribs under her left arm and then clattered to the floor. Rosh shuddered all over and fell to the ground; another figure crouched over him.

  Jhearl shrieked. The cut stung like fire and blood ran down her side. But Rosh did not move again. There came the sound of people running, and against the light wobbling and growing in the distance Jhearl saw Ambele straighten up and pull her foot-long blade from Rosh’s back.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Ambele demanded.

  Jhearl did not reply. The innkeeper and several guests came hurrying up, clutching lamps, shedding light upon the confused scene and upon their own shocked, avid faces. Rosh’s body sprawled in the dust; there was surprisingly little blood visible but his bowels had opened in death and the smell was offensive. Jhearl stood up, clutching her ribs, and turned away.

  ‘What happened?’ demanded the innkeeper. His gaze settled on Ambele. ‘You killed him!’

  ‘I’m her bodyguard,’ Ambele growled. The knife still glistened stickily in her hand.

  Jhearl swallowed her heart and said squeakily, ‘Open his coat.’ No one moved. ‘Look inside his coat,’ she repeated.

  Warily, the innkeeper signalled a servant to comply. The leather jacket opened to reveal, sewed under the armhole, a braid of human hair with two blue glass buttons knotted into the end.

  ‘Do you know what that means?’ Jhearl asked.

  The innkeeper nodded. ‘He was an assassin,’ he said wonderingly.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Ambele asked again.

  ‘Scratched,’ said Jhearl, shaking her head. Her voice was at last under control again. ‘Take me back to our room, Ambele.’

  The mercenary slipped one arm around her shoulders in support and began to lead her away. ‘Why did he try to kill you?’ the innkeeper asked their backs.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Jhearl muttered.

  Back in their chamber Ambele sat her employer on the bed, pulled down her dress to expose the wound, wiped away the worst of the blood with the blue fabric, examined the cut and then applied a strip of damp lizard-skin that she had taken out from her pouch and unwound. Jhearl was too stunned to protest; she even held the scratchy poultice in place. The wound was quite shallow and had mostly ceased to bleed by now; she had been very lucky.

  ‘Do you want to lie down?’ Ambele asked from where she kneeled on the floor at Jhearl’s side. She shook her head. Ambele looked sombrely at her as she hitched her torn dress back up over her shoulder. She felt wretched.

  ‘Who sent the assassin after you?’ Ambele asked. ‘Was it this man?’ She produced the slim silver token, as long as one of her fingers, which she must, Jhearl realised, have taken off Rosh’s corpse.

  She shook her head. ‘That is the seal of Prince Nyan of Celephais. He has always treated me with great courtesy.’

  ‘That was the man you came here to see? Your friend?’

  ‘A … client. He sent me a letter to meet him here. He is away from the city a great deal.’ Jhearl sniffed; when she shut her eyes she could feel the moisture welling up beneath the lids.

  ‘Ah,’ said Ambele, dropping the token in her lap. ‘So you are a spy?’

  Jhearl laughed weakly. ‘I am a prostitute, Ambele. A very expensive one, yes. I have the finest house on the Street of Pillars and I only favour the very richest, the finest
men in the city. Nobility. Heroes. They vie for my attention, send me the most lavish gifts they can buy, beg me to accompany them to banquets. I am the ultimate status symbol in Celephais.’ She giggled helplessly. She could feel Ambele staring at her. ‘But I am a whore, that’s all. I stay out of politics.’

  Ambele got to her feet and stared down at her. Jhearl braced herself.

  ‘So who would hire an assassin from Dylath-Leen to kill you?’ Ambele persisted.

  Jhearl groaned and rubbed her hand over her face. ‘Nyan’s wife,’ she admitted. ‘She is not pleased with her husband’s patronage of me. She must have taken one of his tokens and written me the letter. Better to do it out of the city.’ There was she knew always the possibility that it was Nyan who had done this, for reasons best known to himself – jealousy perhaps – but she did not want to think about that now. It would have to be faced later.

  ‘I see,’ Ambele murmured. ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t accuse her in court. I can’t just refuse to see Nyan again, not if I value my livelihood; he is one of the most powerful men in the Kingdom. I might tell him that she has done this – but he might take that as a terrible insult … or, worse, punish her, and then my life would not be worth a copper. I have to go back to the city. I can’t run away. I need to think about this. I don’t know what to do. I have never had someone try to k-kill me before.’

  Jhearl was starting to shake now and her voice cracked into incoherence. Nothing in her experience – not the casual abuses inherent in her profession, not the ruthless indifference of those who had tried to use her in the past, not the gibbering loathsomeness of the feasting ghouls at the Bindar Well – none of these had prepared her for the prospect of someone who desperately, purposively wanted her dead. She had never cultivated enemies, preferring a peaceful and stressless existence; this malice was so personal that it shocked her. She clutched her own ribs with trembling hands, her teeth juddering.

  Ambele watched for a moment, face tight, then suddenly sat down on the bed beside her employer, put her arms around her and pulled her tight to her breast. Jhearl buried her face in Ambele’s shoulder, feeling the strong arms grip her. The mercenary’s skin felt hot against her own; she smelled of roses and desert sand. Nothing was said. Ambele simply held the smaller woman until the shaking eased, her cheek pressed to Jhearl’s golden hair, their breasts squashed together. Jhearl felt dizzy with relief, weak with gratitude that she did not have to bear this alone, but even as her limbs calmed her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She turned her face so that her lips were at Ambele’s throat; she could feel the Kledish woman’s pulse slow and strong. Gently Jhearl sat back and raised her head, Ambele’s grip loosened – and then Jhearl kissed her again, on the lips, on her full, hot lips, as softly as the brush of a bird’s wing but long and lingering and full of aching hope.

  Ambele started, very gently, but did not pull away. It was Jhearl who at last broke off and looked questioningly into the other’s eyes. She saw doubt there and uncertainty. She knew in a sickening moment that the mercenary would not respond. And at that same moment Ambele reached up one hand to Jhearl’s cheek and pulled her into another kiss.

  There was hunger in this second embrace; hunger on both sides as well as hesitation and a certain gentle clumsiness. Neither woman was in totally familiar territory. Their tongues met in a wet, cautious dance and their hands moved slowly across landscapes that seemed at once well known and wildly alien. Skin was far softer than either pair of hands was used to caressing and yielded in unexpected places. Jhearl bit her partner’s lower lip gently, begging and receiving a mirrored response. Ambele tugged the blue dress down once more so that she could slip a finger into the silver nipple ring and tug, causing Jhearl to groan into her mouth and arch her back.

  They peeled each other clean of clothes without hurry, oddly shy where they had not been before, touching each new exposed stretch of skin as if it were a nervous creature that needed to be reassured by stroking. Their breasts internestled, cupping each other as they pressed close to kiss, then Jhearl kneeled up on the bed and rubbed her breasts over Ambele’s, nipple prodding nipple, pink against brown, like little fingertips exploring each other’s softness. Ambele cupped her partner’s breasts and bent her head to them, taking each silver ring between her teeth in turn and tugging, twisting her tongue over and under and through the loops. She left Jhearl’s pink buds fat and swollen and glistening with her saliva when she came up for air.

  ‘Oh, gods!’ Jhearl whispered, blue eyes wide and filled with tears of pleasure. She offered her breasts again shamelessly, cupping and lifting them.

  ‘You like this?’ Ambele murmured low in her throat, taking each proffered ring in her fingers and pulling them straight.

  ‘Yes, gods, yes, Ambele!’ Jhearl gasped, then dropped her hands so that the full weight of each breast hung from their piercing, stretching the pink flesh alarmingly. Ambele was startled; she released the pressure quickly, lowering each orb; then, when she saw the look of regret on Jhearl’s face, thumbed each in compensation. She twisted one ring gently, exploring the new possibilities it offered and nearly driving Jhearl over the edge; the pale woman slumped into her arms, writhing, the sweat springing out all over her back.

  ‘You want me to hurt you?’ Ambele murmured.

  Jhearl shook her head then bit her throat in reply before backing away, thighs splayed, arse spread, head lowered so that she could lick Ambele’s breasts and belly and finally her pubic mound. Her uplifted arse was displayed in a perfect quivering heart-shape. Her breath came in hot, damp gusts through Ambele’s fleece, but did not remain long – there was only enough time to make Ambele gasp and wriggle, before the tall woman grabbed the soft sweep of yellow hair laid up her lap and dragged Jhearl back up to nuzzle her dark breasts anew. Jhearl whimpered in pleasure; her grateful tongue was savage and her mouth a devouring wetness that made Ambele shake with joy.

  Their lips met again.

  Gently Jhearl lowered one hand between Ambele’s thighs, her fingers brushing the soft skin and stirring the thick curls of hair. Both women froze in position, knee to knee, their eyes locked, their lips inches apart. Only Jhearl’s hand moved, invisible, her fingers tickling the soft lips of Ambele’s sex, stroking, parting them, sliding softly inside the velvety folds to find the slippery dampness within. Ambele seemed to stop breathing, her lips softly parted above as below, her hands cupping Jhearl’s breasts, the silver rings snared over her thumbs.

  Jhearl’s fingers described a serpentine dance in the wetness that encompassed them, releasing a scent musky and sharp like may-blossom, probing and then recklessly penetrating, sliding into her hot muscular hole one digit at a time; then two, then three; all together, twisting and wriggling, spreading her wider, Jhearl’s thumb still sliding and shuddering over the nub of the unseen clit, working the wetness from well to hill.

  Ambele spread her thighs further, her lips working silently, her pelvis making little thrusting motions against Jhearl’s rhythmic invasion. One hand deserted a silver ring to reach out and stroke the gold fluff between Jhearl’s legs; the blonde woman faltered momentarily, her eyes glazing over. But the mercenary was not intent upon penetration, only on caressing and teasing the fleecy mound. Jhearl found her rhythm again, and this time Ambele matched it in slow counterpoint, pinching her tormentor’s pink labia together over her stiffened clit.

  They both began to gasp, uttering little breathy moans, their lips bumping and brushing helplessly together, tongues reaching out to entwine, everything slippery, ungraceful, undignified – the fragility of their fingertip-embrace an agony in the face of their mutual need, a torment that was becoming ecstasy.

  ‘Ah – yes – harder – gods, yes!’ Jhearl hissed.

  Ambele’s fingernail-grip on the nipple-ring tightened to the point of cruelty. Jhearl stopped talking and broke into a bubbling wail, her twisting hand becoming a fist, a club, a spear, as she lost all control and fell from
the dizzying peak of her orgasm, smashing into fragments upon the jagged rocks of pleasure below. Ambele hung on for a few more precious seconds, desperate neither to hurt her lover nor to cease hurting her until it was no longer necessary. Then without warning her eyes rolled up under their lids, her head snapped back and she climaxed, sobbing under her breath in her own language. Jhearl, still massaging her bucking pubis with a cramped hand slippery to the wrist, leaned forwards to plant blind, drunken kisses upon her throat and jaw as she came.

  Shuddering with spent tension, Ambele sagged forwards into Jhearl’s arms. The two women slipped together full-length upon the bed, thighs intertwined, arms around each other, their heartbeats jumping together beneath hot, slick skin. They held each other until the last ripples of ecstasy had died to calm. Tears had wet Ambele’s scarred cheeks. Jhearl slipped one cradling arm free and licked the salty juices from her own shaking fingers, and then the two women kissed again, softly.

  Ambele laid a heavy caressing hand from her employer’s ribcage to her crotch, measuring the heat, the hunger, the wet and gasping need of her.

  ‘You’re careless,’ she murmured gently. ‘Look; that cut on your side has opened again.’

  Jhearl just laughed. She could hardly feel the sting. But Ambele slithered down the bed, straddled her thighs and bent her head to the shallow wound, licking the blood delicately from her pale skin.

  Jhearl, pinned beneath her weight, gave a long sigh and closed her eyes in purest pleasure. She had employed many bodyguards in her lifetime, but none before had taken their duty of care to quite such intimate lengths.

  Sacrifices

  MY SUBJECTS, WHEN they dare approach my temple, do so only at sunset. They toil up the track beside the stream either alone or one treading narrowly behind the other, for there is no room on the path for two to walk abreast and the only alternative would be to walk in the water, which they fear to touch because it is sacred. They bring me corn and wine and chickens, whose necks they wring upon the temple floor. Sometimes they slaughter a goat for me and burn it on the flat rock at the entrance. Once or twice, I remember, they offered children. That was in very bad years, when the olive crop failed and the only harvest from the sea was raiders.