by D. J. Butler
“Correct.”
Fix’s face was screwed into a mask of concentration.
“Well don’t worry.” Indrajit turned his best grin on the singer as they passed through a puddle of torchlight. “I’m taking you somewhere safe from all those people.”
“One of Orem’s rivals?” Ilsa asked. “Perhaps the Lord Marshal or the Lord Farrier would be willing to take me in, to spite Orem.”
“Better than that,” Indrajit said.
“A temple?” she asked. “The Hall of Guesses? A waiting ship?”
“A bordello.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ilsa without Peer laughed, and her voice shifted into its sweet register. “Well, it’s surely true that men don’t go to bordellos seeking women who look like me.”
“There are a thousand races of man,” Indrajit said. “You’d be surprised. But this is a bordello that caters to men who live in the Crown. It’s just ahead of us, on the Avenue of the Occluded Moon. Discretion, and therefore security, are everything to that business. We’re going to rent a room for the night.”
“We need to find out who bought the risk-contract,” Fix said.
“What?” Indrajit and Ilsa answered at the same moment.
“The risk-contract,” Fix said. “It’s a bet.”
“Brace yourself,” Indrajit whispered to Ilsa. “I think this is the fascicle talking.” Still, the fact that Fix, who seemed to know so much about risk-merchanting, referred to it as betting, made him feel good. It made him feel that he almost understood the subject.
“I still don’t know what a fascicle is,” Ilsa whispered back.
“A risk-contract is a kind of bet,” Fix said. “Usually, it’s the bet you place on the thing that you don’t want to happen. So if you’re a merchant sending a caravan off down the Endless Road to buy silks, you sell the caravan’s risk. The policy says that if the caravan is lost, the risk-merchant will pay you. That way, you get a kind of protection against downside risk. Either the caravan is successful and you make lots of profit, minus what the risk-contract cost you, or the caravan is lost and you make a profit on the risk-contract instead, so you’re not as bad off as you would have been.”
“Yes, yes.” Indrajit waved a hand to hide the fact that his nonchalance was pretended. “Everyone knows that.”
“But you could cheat.” Fix’s eyes glittered in the darkness. “You could buy a risk-contract on your caravan, but then, for instance, stuff the caravan’s chests with worthless filler and hire bandits to destroy the caravan yourself.”
Ilsa’s back stiffened. “Why would you do that?”
Fix shrugged. “Maybe cheating the risk-merchant is easier than leading a caravan down the Endless Road and back. Or maybe…you’ve decided it’s time to get out of the caravan business, and there’s one last big profit to be had.”
“You’re saying the Lord Chamberlain makes the risk-contract,” Indrajit said, thinking out loud, “and then has Ilsa killed himself. Because she’s done singing, anyway, so why not squeeze out a few last coins?”
“Or the Palace.” Fix turned to Ilsa. “Do you think either of them is capable of such a ruthless act?”
They turned onto the Avenue of the Occluded Moon, a street famous for the subtleness of its vice shops, all of which catered to the wealthy of the Crown. The building fronts might have been warehouses or dry goods shops, they were so nondescript, and they weren’t even identified by numbers.
“My peaceful people were destroyed for their grass huts.” Ilsa’s voice was deeper than ever. “I think anyone is capable of ruthlessness. There are a thousand races of man, and they are all wicked.”
“Or,” Indrajit said, struggling to think through this risk-merchanting idea, “one of them gets wind that some third party is trying to kill you, and enters the risk-contract to cover their possible losses. Could anyone else want you dead?”
She shook her head, a gesture mostly hidden by the cloak’s hood.
“In the morning,” Fix suggested, “we’ll go talk to Holy-Pot Diaphernes. We’ll find out who sold the risk, the original contract, the risk he’s repurchasing. He must know the details of the underlying contract—otherwise, how could he calculate his own odds? If it wasn’t the Lord Chamberlain, then…maybe we can turn to him for help.”
Something bothered Indrajit, but he couldn’t quite identify what it was. “Is there somewhere outside Kish we can take you?”
“No. My only life is in Kish.”
“Okay.” Indrajit smiled. “So if we find out that Orem Thrush sold the risk on you, then the three of us will take to the road together, singing and reciting poetry.”
“I neither sing nor recite poetry,” Fix said.
“I bet you’re a great dancer, though,” Indrajit told him.
“I’m really not.”
“Here we are.” Indrajit stopped. The bordello was called the Fountain, but there was no sign out front. Indrajit knew that this was the Fountain because the silk ribbon hanging in its doorway was green, and knotted around long, pointed tower shells. “Wait here a moment.”
The bouncer lurking in the doorway was twice Fix’s size in all dimensions, which made him—Indrajit tried to do the math in his head—much bigger than Fix. His knuckles were wrapped in dully glinting brass and a broad, red leather belt was thick with knives of all shapes and sizes.
“I need to rent a room,” Indrajit said to the guard.
The bouncer looked Indrajit up and down. “You’ve got the wrong place. We sell beans.”
“Okay.” Indrajit grinned, realizing now that he and Fix were both dressed like lowlifes. Under her black cloak, Ilsa wore a theatrical costume, which was impressive, but didn’t necessarily communicate wealth. “I will happily pay a bean for a full night of her time, provided that that comes with a room.”
The bouncer chuckled. “You’re so funny, I almost want to say yes. But no.”
Indrajit was about to try again when the bouncer’s jaw went slack. Indrajit turned and found Ilsa and Fix at his elbow.
“We’re going in,” Ilsa sang to the guard.
He nodded, and they passed through the ribbons into the bordello.
“Oh yeah,” Indrajit said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.”
Chapter Seven
The Fountain’s parlor had lurid red walls and dim light, spiked with a hint of the smoke of yip and several of its derivatives. The narcotic and the alcohol served at the dark wood bar in the corner were doled out in small amounts, so the patrons were lucid.
They didn’t aim for drunkenness at the Fountain; that was for cheaper establishments, where you didn’t really want to see your companion too clearly, and you certainly didn’t want to see yourself. At the Fountain, the clientele wanted their senses heightened, just a bit. They wanted to be offered exotic entertainments they couldn’t have in their own palaces in the Crown, and they wanted to experience every moment.
The light in the sitting room was dim, but before a client was taken upstairs by an employee, they could examine each other in well-lit viewing alcoves. Upon request, a client could sit in such an alcove and inspect a parade of possible entertainers.
A flautist played in the corner, seated on a round cushion, Xiba’albi-style. Indrajit stepped around another heavily muscled bouncer to speak to the pander. She stood behind a red wooden lectern, a tall, thin woman with subtly blue skin and eyes that were entirely a vivid purple, with no whites. Her hairless skull was dotted with large bumps, as if a crown of horns was on the verge of sprouting through the skin.
She squinted at him. “Do I know you?”
Indrajit had only been to the Fountain once before. “I…I came here one time looking for work.”
The pander looked baffled for a moment, but then laughed. “Oh yes, the poet. We still don’t have a need for…your art.”
Indrajit was pleased by her tact. “I’m not here for that, I’m here as a customer.” The sight of her blue skin reminded him of the Luzzazza who
had grabbed him with invisible arms. “Are you Luzzazza?”
“No.” Her voice managed to be soft, but firm as iron. “And I’m not available.” She looked back at the singer, hidden in her black cloak, and Fix, who looked about with open curiosity on his face. “How much companionship do you need?”
“I need a room until dawn. I’ll pay for however much companionship I need to get the room, and your people can take the night off.” Suddenly Indrajit wished he had counted the money in Holy-Pot’s purse—it might not be enough.
He could probably talk Fix into chipping in.
“Who wants to take nights off?” The pander raised her eyebrows and blinked in mock innocence. “You don’t take the night off from a party.”
“Right. Then I guess they can keep partying and just earn double.”
“I have just the room for you. Discreet. Near a back entrance, in case you should want to take a late-night stroll.” The pander looked closely at Indrajit, then made a notation with a wedge-pen in a thick ledger. “That will be three Imperials.”
Indrajit took out his purse and opened it, but before he could count the money, the unnervingly long fingers of Ilsa’s hand caught him by the wrist. With her other hand, she pressed coins into his palm.
Fair enough. Indrajit paid and the pander handed over a key. “The Twins room,” she said, and the three of them climbed the indicated spiral staircase in the corner.
“So,” Ilsa without Peer croaked. “What sort of man frequents a place like this, that is so decadent, and so far above his station?”
Indrajit only chuckled. At the second story, he stopped and faced the singer. “You gave me nine Imperials. I’m pretty sure you heard the price that woman quoted.”
“We all did,” Fix said. “Why do you care if she’s Luzzazza?”
“Because I…hold on, let me come back to that. Ilsa, the price was three and you handed me nine. Did you want me to get this Twins room for three days?”
Ilsa was silent while two men wrapped in long blue towels tiptoed past. Then she lowered her hood. The gleaming skin, the flat head, the lipless mouth, the thick hairs, and the icelike eyes were still shocking. When she spoke, it was in a singsong, with her golden voice. “I am alone in this city. I am alone in this world, and someone is trying to kill me. I don’t know for sure what your contract with Holy-Pot Diaphernes is, or even if he is your master.”
“I wouldn’t say master,” Indrajit muttered.
“So if Holy-Pot, or anyone else, offers to pay you to kill me or to give me up…I just want you to know that I can pay.”
“Ah,” Indrajit said.
“Ah.” Fix raised his eyebrows. “Ah…”
“Forget it.” Indrajit handed the six Imperials back. “We’re on your side. Right, Fascicular?”
Fix nodded.
“And if Holy-Pot tells you to kill me?”
“Pretty sure he won’t,” Indrajit said. “If you die, he has to pay up. The whole point of hiring us was to protect you.”
“Good thing he did,” Fix added. “Gannon’s Handlers failed spectacularly.”
“Yeah, and they think I’m the assassin.” Indrajit hung his head, chagrined. “Anyway, I’ve crossed Holy-Pot before, I’ll do it again. But tell me one thing, before I get distracted.”
Ilsa without Peer nodded, waiting for the question.
“You have some kind of magic power,” he said. “You make people feel…calm. Peaceful. You made me think of my childhood, and I lost the will to do anything but sit and remember.” He touched the sprig of flower pinned to his tunic and deliberately didn’t say that something about Ilsa made him want to obey her. “And this plant blocks your magic.”
“My magic is in my scent,” Ilsa growled.
Indrajit sniffed. “I smell…lemon, I think. A hint of vanilla bean.”
“Not that,” she said. “That’s just a Pelthite perfume that Orem gave me. But females of my race have power over men’s minds.”
Indrajit searched the Epic in his memory, trying to find a description of this phenomenon and failing. “All men? Men of any of the thousand races?”
“Maybe not,” she said. “But I can tell you from experience that it works on most men. That flower that you’re wearing produces a very faint scent that neutralizes my power. We called it the Courting Flower.”
“Men wore it to go courting?” Indrajit grinned. “To keep them rational?”
“A woman sent it to a man she planned to court,” Ilsa said. “As notice of her intent, and so that he could keep himself rational.”
“Fascinating,” Fix said. “Very…thoughtful.”
“Write it in a fascicle,” Indrajit told him. “Not very romantic, though.”
“Poets and madmen and those already in love with the woman accepted the notice but didn’t wear the flower.”
“Go on, then,” Indrajit said to the singer. “Which one of us are you courting? It’s me, isn’t it? You gave me a flower first.”
“Poets and madmen certainly sounds like you.” Fix looked around with some skepticism at the blue marble floors and the gilded molding at the tops of the walls. “This would be the place for that sort of thing, I suppose.”
Ilsa laughed, then batted her nictitating membranes. “We’d better find this room, don’t you think?”
The rooms weren’t numbered, but identified with the signs of the seven planets and the twelve celestial houses. Apparently not all of the wealthy of Kish could read. Indrajit’s key was engraved with the sign of the Twins, and he easily found the Twins room.
He entered first, scanning quickly and noting the divans, the cushions, the hanging benches, the flagons of wine, and the open door to the balcony. Oil lamps resting in niches in the walls gave a warm, yellow light. From outside, the smell of sweet pepper trees wafted in on a cool breeze.
“Come in,” he said, and then locked the door again behind them when they had done so.
“Indrajit Twang.” The voice came from the balcony, and it was followed by the appearance of a man, stepping into view from the unseen edge of the balcony. His face was shadowed, but the outline was vaguely familiar.
Ilsa without Peer pressed back against the wall, sucking in breath.
“We’re armed,” Indrajit warned the man.
“I can see that. Especially your friend.”
“He likes to be called Fascicular.”
“I do not.”
“Step forward,” Indrajit adjusted his grip on the hilt of the leaf-bladed sword. “Let us see you.”
The man stepped forward, and Indrajit cursed.
“You remember me.” The intruder was the Yifft Indrajit had met earlier in the day. He had to be the same one; the flesh around his forehead-set third eye was swollen and puffy.
Also, Indrajit noticed that he had a sprig of the Courting Flower pinned to his turban. So the man knew what he was dealing with.
“I see I didn’t hit you hard enough. You had enough vision left to know we would come here.”
The Yifft smiled. “We don’t see the future. We see…other things.”
“So if I’m going to punch you again, say, in two minutes, you don’t know that now?” Indrajit shifted his weapon to his left hand.
The Yifft raised his hands, showing that they were empty. “You attacked me before, without warning, when I was unarmed. You’ll be hitting a defenseless man again this time.”
Indrajit shrugged. “You were following me. I’ll punch you again next time I catch you, and the next, every day of the week.”
“I’m just here to talk,” the Yifft said.
“I’m listening.” Indrajit didn’t lower the sword.
“To her.”
Fix moved to put himself between the singer and the Yifft as well.
“Who are you?” Ilsa growled.
“I’m Grit Wopal,” the Yifft said. “I serve the Lord Chamberlain.”
“I don’t recognize you,” Ilsa said.
Wopal smiled. “I’m one of the Lord
Chamberlain’s Ears.”
“Funny,” Indrajit said. “I would have sworn you were going for Eyes. In fact, all things considered, I’d still say the Lord Chamberlain’s Eyes makes more sense than his Ears. More aesthetically satisfying.”
“More thematic,” Fix added.
“Unless maybe the rest of his people have a third ear.” Indrajit scratched his chin. “What would that look like? Kind of, the only place to put it is the forehead, in a commonly ordered face. An ear that opened in the middle of your forehead and let you hear special things, yeah, that would make sense for the Lord Chamberlain’s Ears.”
Fix grunted. “How do we know that slit in his face isn’t an ear? Maybe it opens up and there’s an eardrum inside.”
“I’ve seen it,” Indrajit said. “It isn’t pretty, but I’m quite sure it’s an eye.”
“The Lord Chamberlain gave us the name,” Wopal objected. “Most of us are not Yifft.”
“What does Orem want?” Ilsa asked her question singing, and the musicality of her voice shut them both up.
“He asked me to bring you home.” Wopal smiled. It was at least a good simulacrum of a warm smile. Indrajit watched the third eye carefully, prepared to leap forward and pummel it again if it began to open. People had tried to kill him tonight, and he had no idea whether Wopal might be in league with them. “All is forgiven.”
Ilsa snorted. Coming from her, this was a truly fearsome sound, like a horse clearing its throat. “Meaning, I am forgiven for wanting to be free?”
The Yifft spy shook his head. “I don’t know the details of your life, my lady. But I was told that you are in no danger, and you will be given anything you want.”
It was Indrajit’s turn to snort. “No danger seems like manifest nonsense. I just had a heaping helping of danger, earlier this evening.”
And something nagged at him about it.
Wopal frowned. “No danger from the Lord Chamberlain.”
The words certainly sounded like forgiveness and safety, but every time the Yifft spoke, Ilsa without Peer edged back. She was still convinced Orem Thrush had tried to have her killed. Or at least she feared that it was possible.