Almost despite himself, he leaned into her whisking hands—gasped. Then a file of torch-bearing cavalrymen—Imperial Kidruhil—rumbled by, and he glimpsed her face: vacant eyes and ulcerated lips …
He pressed her back, fumbling for his purse. He fished out a copper, meant to hand it to her, but fumbled it onto the ground instead. She fell to her knees, started combing the blackness, grunting … Achamian fled.
A short time after, he found himself prowling the darkness, watching a group of prostitutes about their fire. They sang and clapped while a wanton, flat-chested Ketyai woman pranced around the flames, wearing only a blanket that reached her hips. This was a common custom, Achamian knew. They would each take turns, dancing lewdly and calling out into the surrounding blackness, declaring their wares and their station.
He reviewed the women from the shelter of darkness first, so as to avoid the embarrassment of choosing in their presence. The girl who danced didn’t appeal to him—too much of a horse’s mien. But the young Norsirai girl, who rolled her pretty face to the song like a child … She sat on the ground with her knees haphazardly before her, the firelight chancing upon her inner thighs.
When he finally walked into their midst, they began shouting like slavers at auction, offering promises and praise that became mockery the instant he took the Galeoth girl by the hand. Despite the drink, he felt so nervous he could barely breathe. She looked so beautiful. So soft and unspoiled.
Picking a candle from a small row of votives, she pulled him into the blackness, led him to the last in a row of crude shelters. She shed her blanket and crawled beneath the stained leather. Achamian stood above her, panting, wanting to breathe deep the pale glory of her naked form. The far wall of her shelter, however, consisted of little more than rags knotted into ropes. Through it, he could see hundreds of people pressing in this direction and that through a shadowy thoroughfare.
“You want fuck me, yes?” she said as though nothing could be amiss.
“Oh, yes,” he mumbled. Where had his breath gone?
Sweet Sejenus.
“Fuck me many time? Eh, Baswutt?”
He laughed nervously. Peered through the rag curtain once again. Two men were cursing at each other, scuffling near enough to make Achamian flinch.
“Many times,” he replied, knowing this to be the polite way to discuss price. “How many do you think?”
“Think four … Four silver times.”
Silver? Obviously she’d confused his embarrassment for inexperience. Even still, what was money on a night like this? He celebrated, didn’t he?
He shrugged, saying, “An old man like me?”
In this particular language, the man was forced to deride his own prowess in order to strike a fair bargain. If he was poor, he complained of being old, infirm, and so on. Arrogant men, Esmenet had told him once, usually fared poorly in these negotiations—which, of course, was the point. Harlots hated nothing more than men who arrived already believing the flattering lies they would tell them. Esmi called them the simustarapari, or “those-who-spit-twice.”
The Galeoth girl studied him with nebulous eyes: she’d started petting herself in the gloom. “You so strong,” she said, suddenly thick-tongued. “Like Baswutt … Strong! Two silver times think?”
Achamian laughed, tried hard not to watch her fingers. The ground had started a slow spin. For an instant she looked pale and skinny in the dark, like an abused slave. The mat beneath her looked rough enough to cut her skin … He’d drunk too much.
Not too much! Just enough …
The ground steadied. He swallowed, nodded his agreement, then pulled the two coins from his purse. “What does ‘Baswutt’ mean?” he asked, slipping the silver into her small, waiting palm.
“Hmmm?” she replied, smiling triumphantly. She stashed the two white-shining talents with startling swiftness—What would she buy? he wondered—then looked back at him with large questioning eyes.
“What does that mean?” he repeated, more slowly. “Baswutt …”
She frowned, then giggled. “For ‘big bear’ …”
She was full-breasted, mature, but something about her manner reminded him of a little girl. The guileless smile. The rolling eyes and bouncing chin. The knees opening and closing like butterfly wings. Achamian half-expected a scolding mother to come barging between them. Was that part of the pantomime as well? Like the shameless banter?
His heart hammered.
He knelt where her toys should have been, between her legs. She squirmed and writhed, as though the threat of his mere presence would make her climax. “Fuck me, Baswutt,” she gasped. “Emmmbaswutt … Fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me … Mmmm, pleassseee …”
He swayed, caught himself, chuckled. He began hitching up his robe, glanced nervously at the shadowy stream of passersby through the curtain. They walked so close he could spit on their shins.
He tried to ignore the smell. His smell.
“Oooh, such big bear,” she cooed, stroking his cock.
Suddenly, his apprehension melted away, and some deranged part of him actually exulted in the thought of others watching. Let them watch! Let them learn!
Always the teacher …
Cackling, he seized her narrow hips, pulled her across his thighs.
How he’d yearned for this moment! To have licence with a stranger … It seemed there could be nothing so sweet as a fresh peach!
He was trembling! Trembling!
She moaned silver, cried gold. Faces turned in the passing crowd.
Through the knotted rags, Achamian saw Esmenet.
“Esmi!” Achamian hollered, barrelling through arms and shoulders. The Galeoth girl was crying out something behind him—some gibberish.
He glimpsed Esmenet again, hurrying along a row of torches that fronted the canopies of a Yatwerian lazaret. A tall man, sporting the matted braids of a Thunyeri warrior, held her arm, but she seemed to be leading.
“Esmi!” he cried, jumping to be seen above the screens of people. She didn’t turn. “Esmi! Stop!”
Why would she run? Had she seen him with the drab?
For that matter, what would she be doing here?
“Dammit, Esmenet! It’s me! Me!”
Did she glance back? It was too dark to tell …
For a heartbeat, he debated using sorcery: he could blind the entire quarter if he wished. But as always, he could sense the small points of death scattered throughout the surrounding crowds: Men of the Tusk, bearing their hereditary Chorae …
He redoubled his efforts, began lunging through the mobs. Someone struck him, hard enough to leave his ears ringing, but he didn’t care. “Esmi!”
He glimpsed her pulling the Thunyeri into an even darker byway. He stumbled free of what seemed the last thicket of people, then sprinted to the mouth of the alley. He hesitated before plunging into the blackness, struck by a sudden premonition of disaster. Esmenet here? In the Holy War? There was no way.
A trap. A thought like a knife.
The ground had resumed spinning.
If the Consult could fashion a Skeaös, couldn’t they fashion an Esmenet as well? If they knew about Inrau, then they almost certainly knew about her … What better way to gull a heartsick Schoolman than to …
A skin-spy? Do I chase a skin-spy?
In his soul’s eye, he saw Geshrunni’s corpse pulled from the River Sayut. Murdered. Desecrated.
Sweet Sejenus, they took his face. Could the same have happened …
“Esmi!” he cried, charging into the darkness. “Esmi! Essmmii!”
Miraculously, she paused with her escort in the light of a single torch, either alarmed by his cries or …
Achamian staggered to a stop before her, utterly dumbstruck. He reeled.
It wasn’t her—the brown eyes were smaller, the cheeks too high. Almost, but no … Almost Esmenet.
“Another madman,” the woman snorted to her companion.
“I-I thought …” Achamian murmured. “I thought you wer
e someone else.”
“Poor girl,” she sneered, turning her back.
“No, wait! Please …”
“Please, what?”
Achamian blinked at his tears. She looked so … so close. “I need you,” he whispered. “I need your … your comfort.”
Without warning, the Thunyeri seized him by the throat, hammered him in the gut. “Kundrout!” the man bellowed. “Parasafau ferautin kun dattas!” Winded, Achamian coughed and clawed at the man’s massive forearm. Panic. Then gravel and rock—ground—slammed against his chest and cheek. Concussion. Bright blackness. Someone screaming. The taste of blood. A dim image of the wild-haired warrior spitting on him.
He convulsed, rolled to his side. Sobbed, then pressed himself to his knees. Through tears he saw their retreating backs disappear in thickets of people.
“Esmi!” he bawled. “Esmenet, please!”
Such an old-fashioned name.
“Esssmmiiii!”
Come back …
Then he felt the touch. Heard the voice.
“Still fetching sticks, I see … Tired old dog.”
Glimpses of menace by torchlight.
Her slender arms bracing him, they stumbled through a gallery of darkling faces. She smelled of camphor and the oil of sesame—like a Fanim merchant. Could that be her smell?
“Sweet Seja, Akka, you’re a mess.”
“Esmi?”
“Yes … It’s me, Akka. Me.”
“Your face …”
“Some Galeoth ingrate.” Bitter laugh. “That’s the way it is with Men of the Tusk and their whores. If you can’t fuck them, beat them.”
“Oh, Esmi …”
“Once the swelling starts I’ll look a caste-noble virgin compared to you. Did you hear me scream when he-he kicked you in the face? What were you doing?”
“I’m-I’m not sure … L-looking for you …”
“Shush, Akka … Shhhhh … Not here. After.”
“J-just say it … M-my name. Just say it!”
“Drusas Achamian … Akka.”
And he wept, so hard that at first he didn’t realize she wept with him.
Perhaps driven by the same impulse, they retreated into the blackness behind a dark pavilion, fell to their knees and embraced.
“It’s really you …” Achamian murmured, seeing twin moons reflected in her wet eyes.
She laughed and sobbed. “Really me …”
His lips burned with the salt of mingled tears. He pulled her left breast free of her hasas, began circling her nipple with his thumb. “Why did you leave Sumna?”
“I was afraid,” she whispered, kissing his forehead and cheeks. “Why am I always afraid?”
“Because you breathe.”
A passionate kiss. Hands fumbling in the blackness, tugging, clutching. The ground spun. He leaned back, and she hooked burning thighs about his waist. Then he was inside, and she gasped. They sat motionless for several heartbeats, throbbing together, exchanging shallow breaths.
“Never again,” Achamian said.
“Promise?” She wiped at her face. Sniffled.
He began slowly rocking her. “Promise … Nothing. No man, no School, no threat. Nothing will take you from me again.”
“Nothing …” she moaned.
For a time, they seemed one being, dancing about the same delirious burn, swaying from the same breathless centre. For a time, they felt no fear.
Afterward, they exchanged caresses and whispered sweet words in the darkness, apologies offered for things already forgiven. Eventually Achamian asked her where she kept her belongings.
“I’ve already been robbed,” she said, trying to smile. “But I have a few things left. Not far from here.”
“Will you stay with me?” he asked with tearful earnestness. “Can you?”
He watched her swallow, blink.
“I can.”
He laughed, pushed himself to his feet. “Then let’s get your things.”
Even in the gloom he could see the terror in her eyes. She hugged her shoulders, as though reminding herself not to fly away, then slipped her hand into his waiting palm.
They walked slowly, like lovers strolling through a bazaar. Periodically, Achamian would stare into her eyes and laugh in disbelief.
“I thought you were gone,” he said once.
“But I’ve always been here.”
Rather than ask what she meant, Achamian simply smiled. For the moment, her mysteries didn’t matter. He wasn’t so fool drunk as to think nothing was amiss. Something had driven her from Sumna. Something had led her to the Holy War. Something had compelled her … yes, to avoid him. But for the moment, none of this mattered. He cared only that she was here.
Just let this night last. Please … Give me this one night.
They chatted effortlessly about effortless things, joking about this or that passerby, telling stories about the curious things they’d seen in the Holy War. The unspoken regions between them were well-marked, and for the moment, they steered each other clear of painful boundaries.
They paused to watch a mummer dip a leather rope into a basket filled with scorpions. When he pulled it clear, it seethed with chitinous limbs, pincers, and stabbing tails. This, the man proclaimed, was the famed Scorpion Braid, which the Kings of Nilnamesh still used to punish mortal crimes. When the audience encircled him, anxious for a closer look, he raised the Braid high for everyone to see, then suddenly began swinging it over their heads. Women screamed, men ducked or raised their hands, but not a single scorpion flew from the rope. The rope, the mummer cried over the commotion, was soaked in a poison that seized the scorpions’ jaws. Without the antidote, he said, they would remain locked to the leather until they died.
For much of the demonstration, Achamian watched and delighted in Esmenet’s expression, all the while wondering that she could seem so new. He found himself discovering things he’d never before noticed. The dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The extraordinary white of her eyes. The smattering of auburn through her luxurious black hair. The athletic slope of her back and shoulders. Everything about her, it seemed, possessed a bewitching novelty.
I must always see her like this. As the stranger I love …
Each time their glances met, they laughed as though celebrating a fortuitous reunion. But they always looked away, as though knowing their momentary bliss wouldn’t bear examination. Then something, a flicker of anxiousness perhaps, passed between them, and they ceased looking at each other altogether. A sudden hollow opened in the heart of Achamian’s elation. He clutched her hand for reassurance, but she left her fingers slack.
After several moments, Esmenet tugged him to a stop in the light of several bright burning pots. She stared into his face, expressionless save for the hard set of her jaw.
“Something’s different,” she said. “Before, you could always pretend. Even when Inrau died. But now … something’s different. What’s happened?”
He shied from answering her. It was too soon.
“I’m a Mandate Schoolman,” he said lamely. “What can I say? We all suffer …”
She fixed him with a canny scowl. “Knowledge,” she said. “You all suffer knowledge … If you suffer more, it means you’ve learned more … Is that it? Have you learned more?”
Achamian stared straight ahead, said nothing. It was too soon!
She looked past him, sorted through the shadowy crowds. “Would you like to hear what’s happened to me?”
“Leave it be, Esmi.”
She flinched, turned away, blinking. She pulled her hand free and resumed walking.
“Esmi …” he said, following her.
“You know,” she said, “it hasn’t been bad, save the odd beating. Plenty of custom. Plenty of—”
“That’s enough, Esmi.”
She laughed, acted as if she were engaged in a different, more frank conversation. “I’ve even lain with lords … Caste-nobles, Akka! Imagine. Even their cocks are bigge
r—Did you know that? I wouldn’t know about the Ainoni—they seem to prefer boys. And the Conriyans, they flock about the Galeoth sluts—all that milk-white skin, you know. But the Columns, the Nansur, they like their peaches homegrown, though they rarely stray from the military brothels. And the Thunyeri! They can scarce bridle their seed when my knees flop open! Brutes though, especially when they’re drunk. Stingy bastards, too. Oh, and the Galeoth—there’s a treat. They complain I’m too skinny, but they love my skin. If it weren’t for the guilt and anger afterward, they’d be my favourites. They’re not accustomed to whores … Not enough old cities in their country, I think. Not enough barter …”
She studied Achamian, her look both bitter and shrewd. He walked, his eyes welded forward.
“Custom has been good,” she said, looking away.
The old rage had returned, the one that had driven him from her arms months before. He clenched his fists, saw himself shaking her, striking her. Fucking whore! he wanted to scream.
Why tell him this? Why tell him what he couldn’t bear to hear?
Especially when she had her own things to answer for …
Why did you leave Sumna? How long have you been hiding from me? How long?
But before he could say anything, she veered from the armed throngs and walked toward a fire surrounded by painted faces—more harlots.
“Esmi!” a dark-haired woman called out in a brusque, even mannish, voice. “Who’s your—” She paused, getting a better look, then laughed. “Who’s your hapless friend?” She was stout-limbed and thick-waisted, but without being fat—the kind of woman, Esmi had told him once, prized by certain Norsirai men. Achamian immediately recognized her as someone who confused ill manners with daring.
Esmenet halted, hesitated long enough to make Achamian frown. “This is Akka.”
The drab’s heavy eyebrows popped up. “The infamous Drusas Achamian?” the woman said. “The Schoolman?”
Achamian looked to Esmenet. Who was this woman?
“This is Yasellas,” Esmenet said, speaking the woman’s name as though it explained everything. “Yassi.”