by Tia Reed
Less than two minutes later, the proprietor, her demeanour more stilted but no less alarmed, led the way through the maze of curtains to a room stuffed with settees and alabaster tables. Through the bittersweet haze of burning porrin leaves and the scarce privacy afforded by the silk drapes, Jordayne surveyed the patrons, a remarkable number given the early hour. Well-to-do men and women, the plump and the slim, the bald and the smooth-chinned, flamboyant all, reclined in various stages of a porrin stupor, spiked drinks on the table before them, while paramours of both sexes, modelling tasteful if flimsy garb, draped over their arms or laps.
“Open the windows, there’s a dear,” Jordayne said, moving into an unoccupied area. It would not do to have the men intoxicated before the smuggler arrived. “And find these men someone they like.” She sighed as the woman executed a short bow.
“My lord,” the captain said, addressing himself to Matisse. “I hardly think that is appropriate.”
“You are not paid to think, Captain,” Jordayne purred, sinking onto a gold-leaf settee with fabric the green of her eyes. She drew up her legs, ensuring a thin ankle was visible to all. “We must have the appearance of authenticity and I dare say the men would welcome a reward after a job well done.”
If there had been any lingering resentment among the men at having a woman command, in a bordello no less, that sentiment dispelled it. They fanned into the room, one or two immediately beckoning to the girls streaming from the back. Not so Captain deq Lungo. From the strain on his reddening face, he could barely control his anger.
“My lady, they are men. If you want them to do their job, you cannot expect–”
“They are professionals,” Matisse interrupted. He slid onto the settee opposite Jordayne and blew the smoke from his face. “They will not imbibe porrin and they will perform their duty when needed. And if we catch the culprit, Lady Jordayne’s reward will be well-earned. It has certainly been paid for twice over.”
The captain gave a short bow and sat next to Matisse, straight-backed and tight-jawed. His eyes might be reddening from the smoke but Matisse’s word was certain law. With the exception of deq Lungo, who had assumed his position a few months past, her adroit brother had led these men for many a year. Such was their regard for him some had even followed him home to their estate in San Xalid when he had tired of Kaijoor, and back to the capital when their dear uncle declared him heir. Devilishly handsome, in a rugged but clean-shaven kind of way, and full of integrity despite a laidback, mocking manner, there was no finer choice for the throne. With the possible exclusion of herself, of course.
The proprietor returned with a harem of girls, some carrying trays of colourful drinks, others shimmying before the men until someone’s fancy claimed the right to tug his desire onto his lap. For someone whose income in the next few hours would be more than she earned in a month, the silvering woman looked decidedly unhappy.
“Do join us,” Jordayne invited, leaning back. “Be a gentleman and give the lady your seat, Captain.” The fool bowed again before vacating their corner. It was luck the customers were too stupefied to notice. Matisse might consider deq Lungo a skilled fighter and able strategist, but she had laboured over this scheme too long to forfeit it to a man with morals. She leaned across to Matisse, who looked quite at home as he perused the flesh on offer. “Do something about that captain before I do.”
“What you have in mind would probably do him the world of good.”
A brief twitch of an eyebrow accompanied her closed lip smile. “You do give me ideas.”
The proprietor watched the exchange with a bemused expression.
“Please.” Matisse indicated the settee.
“Must see to girls,” the woman said with a bow.
“Madam Yinmae,” Matisse said. Jordayne raised an eyebrow at his familiarity. It seemed her brother still had his surprises. “I’m afraid we must insist on your company. I cannot take the chance our prey is forewarned.”
Jordayne ran a finger along her skirt and twirled it into the hem. “Now I understand how we were recognised.”
“On the contrary. Is there anyone in Kaijoor who would not recognise you, Jordayne? I can’t take you anywhere anymore.”
“Not so, dear brother. I insist you take me to all those fun places I don’t seem to find out about until after the fact. You will sit, Madam.” She sprawled out, leaving Yinmae no choice but to take a seat beside Matisse. The woman moved with a grace that belied her staccato words to sit prim and proper on the edge of the seat.
“Why you think we have crime here?” Yinmae asked.
“You mean aside from the porrin haze and drug-laced drinks?” Jordayne reached for her glass and took a sip. The alcohol and tart juice cocktail went down a treat. She waved an arm, setting all the bracelets jangling. “An incidental discovery. A chance finding, really. But one of these men just happened to be here last month.” Assuming a more serious demeanour, she leaned forward. “He recognised the dealer.”
The truth involved more than that, of course. Nothing just happened where Jordayne was concerned. Not even, despite what the vast majority of Myklaan might believe, her passionate flings. Prudence dictated she did not let that titbit slip, so Jordayne continued to sip her cocktail, much to the frowning disapproval of Matisse. His instigation as heir really had dampened his spirit. One drink was hardly enough to intoxicate someone of her fortitude.
A girl with teased hair parted in the middle idled by and whispered in Yinmae’s ear. Matisse pulled the proprietor’s shoulder back before she could reply.
“Let us hear what you have to say.”
Jordayne sighed as Yinmae spoke to her charge in an eastern tongue. Before the unfortunate girl could turn, Matisse had taken her wrist. That was all the coaxing she needed to begin lavishing unthinking attention on him.
“Addicts hold little appeal for any man,” Matisse said, no sympathy at all. He ushered the courtesan to his other side. “Now send another of your escorts for our mutual friend, and mind he arrives.”
Jordayne set her drink down. “I do hope you intend to look after this wench,” she said, as Yinmae signalled to a willowy redhead. Both girls were too thin by far. Even in the muted light, she could see this one’s skin had turned sallow and her hair was dull.
“Look after all my girls. But girls no allowed porrin. They know no allowed. She do wrong.”
“With such bounty around them, do they stand a chance? Not all have your resilience, Madam Yinmae,” Jordayne replied. Porrin was a problem of which even she could not make light.
“Which is exactly why its trade is banned.” Matisse said.
The poor, blank girl beside him looked like a lamb in a jabberwei’s jaws as her hands kneaded his shoulders. Matisse allowed her just enough liberty with his personage to fit into his surrounds.
Movement caught Jordayne’s eye, and she turned to watch a wiry Verdaani man weave through the sheets of silk in search of Madam Yinmae. If the number of clients surprised him, he gave no indication.
Madam Yinmae rose. “Must go. Must greet guest.” She hesitated, on pretence of seeking their permission, no doubt. Since that hesitation alerted the newcomer, it had to have been a calculated gesture. Quick as a devious djinn, the Verdaani leapt over the nearest settee. The couple entwined along its length never looked up. Grabbing a sheet of pink silk, the smuggler swung across the table, over the opposite settee and ducked out of sight.
Matisse was already halfway to the door as Jordayne settled back to enjoy the show, sparing a cursory glance for the girl who had ended up on the floor and Madam Yinmae, who was standing proud. Everywhere guards were emerging from ardent embraces, some more promptly than others, all tugged back by their escorts. A pragmatic rather than passionate display, Jordayne thought. For all they knew, their home was about to fall into the hands of the Crown.
She caught a glimpse of the smuggler, crouching between two settees, his head poking up to assess the situation. It did rather elicit a pang of disapp
ointment. Swords drawn, the guards were surrounding him, about to end his bid for freedom before it had fully fledged. But then, oh clever man, the smuggler leapt onto the back of the settee, and from there onto a curtain, climbing his way up, as agile as a monkey. He rested at the top, slowly swaying, as the guards advanced. With immaculate timing, he jerked the curtain into motion and flew to the next, just outside the circle of guards. The momentum carried him on, swinging him toward the door with graceful art. The feat deserved a round of applause, and Jordayne, patron of the arts in this fabled city, obliged. The little man paused long enough to acknowledge her with an extravagant flourish of the arm and beaming smile before resuming his circuitous route across the room. His impeccable choice of curtains kept him just out of reach of the flailing guard until, hand outstretched, he realised the yellow drape for which he had aimed was sailing downward. His hand closed around air and he tumbled to the floor, landing on the curtain at deq Lungo’s feet. Her estimation of the captain grew. The balance he had maintained while standing on the back of the settee, and the precise timing of his slash, demonstrated an innate appreciation for performance art. She awarded him a clap as Sergeant Rokan, a broad fellow with narrow eyes, a brown beard, and one scary smile dragged the prisoner to his feet and escorted him to Matisse, who was leaning on his sword.
“An artful manoeuvre, Captain,” Jordayne said.
The disagreeable man failed to flush at her compliment. “My lady, it is a soldier’s job to wield a sword well.”
The smuggler looked from her to Matisse and back to her, and dropped to the floor, kowtowing before them.
“Oh do stand up. I’m hardly royalty, although you do know how to make a lady feel special,” Jordayne said. The man wisely obliged. “That is better.”
“Lord Matisse, Lady Jordayne, I bring you the smuggler Raj, the most elusive of the double-crossing dealers that curse our realm,” her sergeant said with deadpan cheek.
“Really? How disappointing. I mean, I hardly make a habit of entering these sorts of establishments, although I must say it might turn out to be terribly entertaining if we could just persuade the proprietor to throw a few muscly, dark-skinned men into the fray. Yet here you are, netted by a complete amateur, and a woman at that. You can’t be good at all.”
The Verdaani looked like he was about to choke on his tongue.
Jordayne folded her arms. “Oh do speak up. Life is so dull when everyone’s deferring to you. And you never know, your life could depend on how well you amuse me.”
The man bowed but turned to Matisse. “I am trader of twenty-five year. I supply this inn with fabric.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Matisse said. He nodded at two guards, who held the prisoner while another unceremoniously ripped his shabby, mustard kurta from neck to waist. The fabric parted, exposing a number of packets tied to his lean torso. The guard used a knife to prise them free. Deq Lungo opened one, tilting it so they could see the noxious red powder within. At his gesture, the guard yanked the prisoner’s shalvar down. More packets were taped to his spindly legs. Raj, not at all discomforted to have his modesty dependent on a mere loincloth, beamed at her.
“Not quite the male specimen I was after,” Jordayne remarked. She was pleased a smile formed on Madam Yinmae’s lips. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Raj?”
“Perhaps your lordship aware I am registered merchant, granted right of trade with magus guild,” he said to Matisse.
Matisse shook his head, a clear indication he was game for some fun. “It was the Lady who addressed you, not I. Despite her sharp tongue and rather wicked sense of humour, she is lenient where I am not. I suggest you aim to ingratiate yourself with her.”
The prisoner turned to her, lips pursed and colour spreading across his dark neck. He stared her directly in the eye, a Verdaani response to a female in authority if ever there was one.
“Then you check with mages. They confirm it.”
The man had no idea about the balance of power in Myklaan if he thought she was about to be put in her place by a man. “What they tell me, dear fellow, is that you have been cheating them for many months. Of course, when you deliver this month’s goods gratis, my brother and I will be prepared to overlook your indiscretion. What we cannot possibly forgive is the distribution of this toxin to our people. Your Verdaani drug is decimating our reputation as a centre of culture and refinement.”
“Your people choose. You say Myklaani people free but you give no choice.”
“Not in this,” she snapped, “since it is porrin which deprives the user of choice and life.”
His glare glanced off her smooth veneer.
Matisse said, “We are getting tough with dealers. The last we caught was hanged.”
“Myklaan only give that for murder.”
Sighing, Jordayne indicated the prostitute on the floor. “Look at that girl. She’s dying, Raj. Slowly, but before our eyes. And you don’t think this is murder?”
“Her choice, her choice.”
“Is that your best defence?”
Raj frowned. “You want porrin free? You take, you let me go.”
“We want to know what you’ve been doing with the porrin you carry.”
When Raj was silent, she flicked her eyes in the direction of Captain deq Lungo. The soldier brought his sword to Raj’s neck.
“Myklaan don’t execute prisoners,” he said. “I be out of your prison in eight-day.”
Matisse sat on the nearest divan and leant back. “Our prisons are overflowing. For foreigners, we might make an exception to the life sentence rule.” He asked her, “Can an execution be artistry?”
“There is but one way to find out. I once consorted with an artist who was always looking for new mediums to express himself in. He might find permission to paint in blood rather titillating. Shall I ask Captain deq Lungo to fetch him?”
Raj strained his eyes towards the sword. “I was set up trade partners. I give them porrin so they start acquire clients.”
Matisse shook his head. “Why? The Crown pays more than you’ll ever make from illicit trade with commoners.”
“Yes but we keep business with mages and do more with townsfolk. Porrin not scarce in Verdaan.”
“We want to know the names of your suppliers and dealers,” Jordayne said.
He was too startled by the request. “I work alone.”
“Nevertheless, we will need those names,” Matisse said.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh dear. Then I’m afraid you’ll be left to rot in jail.” Jordayne rose. “Captain.”
Captain deq Lungo gestured. Two guards hefted Raj’s feet off the floor and bore the struggling man out.
“You can’t do this,” Raj said over his shoulder. “I have permit. I have permit from Shah himself.”
“What do you think?” Matisse asked.
“He is a hill dweller,” she replied. “Lord Kamir treats them as lackeys. He is, by all accounts, worse in this regard than his brother, Hudassan. Raj will know something, but not much.”
Madam Yinmae bowed. “Now I see to clients?” The majority of her clientele still engaged in modest explorations of the flesh. If there was a pair full conscious of what had taken place, they did not show it.
Jordayne took her arm and led her aside. “See if you can help that gentleman relax,” she said, nodding in deq Lungo’s direction. The dear captain was standing straight as a sword, trying to stare anywhere but at the female delights around him.
“My pleasure. Will see to it personally.” Yinmae beckoned a girl with a tray of drinks, removed a tiny packet from the wide sleeve of her kameez, and deposited the white contents into a glass.
“Tell him that drink is courtesy of his lord. He will hardly be able to refuse it. I shall be ever so grateful I might even overlook the illicit trade.”
Yinmae placed an uninhibited hand on Jordayne’s bangles. “Come again, Lady. I get you black-skinned gladiator,” she said with a wide smile.
<
br /> Jordayne laughed. “I like you, Madam Yinmae.” She patted the hand and went to collect Matisse from the reception room.
“Where is Captain deq Lungo,” Matisse said, looking down his nose at her, like he well knew what mischief she had inspired.
“The Captain will shortly be enjoying himself.” She gave him a shrewd look. “I am surprised you are not.” His amused disapproval was rewarding. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t porrin,” she said with a cursory thought to how twisted her reputation must have become if Matisse believed she was capable of drugging the captain with that particular illicit drug. “Something more along the lines of an aphrodisiac, I believe.”
Chapter Ten
“You are unusually quiet,” Arun noted as they walked through the stone arches of an out-of-the-way corridor on the ground floor of the palace.
Vinsant hummed agreement and resumed his daydreaming, more than a little peeved all the adventure was happening to his sister. She was a girl. And a grown up. He needed a way to save the day. A hazardous, heroic way, not this boring smuggling of books into her room. Something brazen enough to earn him pride of place in a tapestry fit to join those lining the walls.
“I expected you to have a thousand questions.”
“Will I get any answers?”
“Perhaps if you are careful in your selection.”
“Fine, then. Why are you calling me by name and not title?”
“While you are an apprentice, the Majoria and I outrank you. You will need to obey us and you certainly will not be giving us orders.”
Vinsant skidded across the floor to a five-armed candelabrum. A backslash toppled a lavender-scented candle. A turn and a kick sent a second to clunk on the floor. He was about to bring both hands down on the third when Arun cleared his throat. Vinsant righted himself, and tugged his kurta straight. “You mean when I’m undertaking my lessons,” he clarified.