Bad Gods Page 9

  She beckoned forward one of the young men. He was very handsome, with the sculpted body of an athlete and a gentle smile.

  “First,” Livaia said, “is anyone here still virgin? Come, there’s no need to be ashamed.”

  I happened to glance at Shakanti, who was glaring, and looked away fast.

  Renavir’s hand went up, spearing the air. She, too, glanced at Shakanti – seeking approval, poor child. Then, after a moment, Velance’s hand went up, too. Neither of them surprised me.

  “Then we shall start with the basics.” She gestured to the young man to take off his robe. There were gasps and giggles – most of us had, of course, at least seen a cock before, but not in such circumstances. “Now,” she said, “I will show you how things work, and then, we shall move on to making them work better. Jalis here is in no need of encouragement, as you can see. I think being in the presence of so many pretty young ladies has had an effect on him. But sometimes encouragement is required.”

  She took him in hand, so to speak, and so our first lesson in the heart of the seductive arts began.

  Growing up as I had, crammed in among the other servants, and later out with the caravans, I’d had neither the time nor the inclination to be especially modest, though with Sesh and Kyrl watching over me like a pair of mother hawks, I’d remained virgin until Hap-Canae. I enjoyed the lessons. When it moved from demonstration by Livaia to the point when we had to take part, I was more than ready. Watching people seduce each other did nothing to damp my own fires, and when it was my turn to sink into the cushions with Jalis, Livaia had to coach me not to take things too quickly.

  Jalis. My second lover. Gentle, adept – not, perhaps, overburdened with brains, but exquisitely good at what he did. My own responses surprised me: I had thought things with Hap-Canae were marvellous, and was surprised to discover that they could be much more so.

  I began to realise that Hap-Canae’s bedroom techniques lacked a certain something. I tried not to think about it. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of telling him, or suggesting that he pay a little attention to my own pleasure as well as his. After all I was, still, so grateful.

  It wasn’t just that he had taken me away from a life of hard work – I didn’t mind work. He treated me like something of value. He loved to give me things: robes, jewellery. I’d never before worn anything that someone else hadn’t owned before me – the master’s gift of scarlet cloth was still, presumably, back in the servants’ quarters, or more probably adorning someone else by now. Just to have things of my own was a treat, and such things! Even the mistress had never had robes like this; lusciously dyed, richly embroidered, they were works of art. Necklaces the worth of which could have bought my old master and his entire business.

  So yes, I was grateful, and wanted to make him proud of me. But this part of my lessons was hardly a chore.

  I loved finding out how to make someone shudder and gasp, and cry out; to feel a cunny or a cock quiver at my touch, the sudden rush of wetness, the flushed skin and quick breath. Sweet tension, and its sweet release. I liked to give pleasure, and it gave me a sense, I suppose, of something I didn’t have anywhere else: power.

  We were taught what foods to eat to enhance the senses, and which ones would sweeten one’s breath and one’s... other secretions. Every aspect of the art, from entering a room or pouring a drink, to undressing oneself or someone else with sensual grace.

  I had to learn patience, and although grace was never my strongest point, I learned, at least in the bedroom, some subtlety. I became even more convinced that I had been lucky in being Chosen to be one of Babaska’s priestesses; I doubted those of the other deities had nearly as much fun.

  Others didn’t take to it so well.

  Brisein, Chosen by the Avatar Rohikanta, was the first to break. I could have told them she wasn’t right for it; anyone with half an eye could see she was embarrassed and miserable. She had no reason to be embarrassed, at least; given a choice and the chance to get to know her partner, she’d have been as good as anyone, but whatever her life had been beforehand, it hadn’t suited her to this.

  One morning she was simply gone. “She’s been found a place,” the Avatar Rohikanta told us, running a hand through his watery beard; the water vaporised halfway to the floor, surrounding him in a constant chilly mist. He was frowning, but then, he always looked serious. The Messehwhy reared, showing their pale bellies, and hissed.

  Jonat scowled. I remember how black her hair was, in that cool-coloured room; she had the high-boned face of the desert tribes and her eyes were as dark as her hair. “Fat lot of good she’s going to be,” she muttered, once she was sure Rohikanta was out of earshot, though of course, with the Avatars, it was difficult to be certain. “She couldn’t cope with the lessons, what sort of priestess is she going to make?”

  Renavir trembled and bit her thumb. “Hush.”

  Shakanti appeared silently behind us, as she tended to do. One of her many disconcerting habits. She swept her hand briefly over Renavir’s hair, which was fine and light as a baby’s. “Concentrate on your own future, if you are to have one,” she said.

  I could feel Jonat wanting to ask what that meant and held my breath. I’d seen already what Shakanti could do to an acolyte who displeased her; I didn’t even know what the boy had done, but he had been giggling and trying to pull his own fingers off when they led him away. I needn’t have worried – at least, not about that. The Avatars didn’t interfere in each other’s affairs, and that meant they didn’t interfere with each other’s Chosen. Shakanti merely swept Renavir off to her own rooms.

  Aka-Tete came for Jonat, Hap-Canae for me. They never left us girls alone together. I didn’t care: Jonat made me uncomfortable, and I was anxious to show Hap-Canae what I’d learned. They never let us wander about the temple by ourselves, either; for all the rooms I’d seen, I hadn’t explored a fraction of it.

  Unless he decided to keep me for the night, he always took me back to my room.

  The first time, he said, “Sweet child, forgive me, but I must lock you in.”

  “Why? I’m not going to run away! I’d never leave you!”

  He put his arm around my shoulders. “There are those who might wish to harm you. Jealous of your position, of the power you might – you will one day wield.” He stroked my cheek. “I would be most distressed if anything were to happen to you.”

  After that, of course, I took being locked in as a sign of his care for me.

  Sixteen-year-old love. Worse for the brain than cloud, and twice as addictive.

  Chapter Nine

  When we got back to the Lantern the Vessels were still there, and so was little Frithlit – standing on the steps, in fact, looking as though he were about to make a speech. Flower was standing behind him, arms folded, his brow-ridges arched.

  “I know law,” Frithlit said, his voice soft but quite clear enough to be heard across the street. “And law says,” he drew a breath, and with his hands clasped in front of him like a small boy reciting a lesson, continued, “‘the loitering, blocking, or acting in such a manner as to deliberately prevent or interfere with the lawful pursuance of trade’ is illegal. This trade here, she is legal. You loiter, is not legal, because is deliberate interfering with trade. Is big fine, is big scandal, is maybe prison.”

  The Vessels looked at each other.

  “You know what?” I said, “I think he’s right.” They take trade damn seriously here, it’s Scalentine’s lifeblood. That and diplomacy. “Prison, eh?” I said. “Now, that wouldn’t look so good. Wouldn’t be so pleasant, neither, especially since word about the girl in Ropemakers has got round. I know you say the Vessels had nothing to do with it, but you know, I’m not sure everyone believes that. There’s probably people who would be very excited to see you, down in the gaol in King of Stone. Of course, you haven’t heard me say that, so it’s going to be a nice surprise for you.”

  “We fear no harm; we are armed in Purity,” the young man with asses’
ears addressed the air.

  “Working so far, then,” I said.

  The Vessels moved together and began to converse in low voices. I couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was clear enough. Whether it was the thought of all the nice new friends they’d make in prison, or the scandal, something was bothering them.

  With an abruptness that had me putting hand to hilt, they swung about and strode off, their robes swishing behind them, Asses’ Ears holding his mask on with one hand.

  I suffered a mean impulse.

  “No, Laney, don’t!” I shouted.

  He grabbed up his robes and ran, not bothering to look back and see that Laney had already left the window. As though he could have outrun a spell, anyway.

  “Well, that went better than it could have,” I said. “Thank you, Frithlit.”

  “That won’t be the last of it,” Flower said. “You wait. And now I have to find something else for supper.”

  I patted his arm as we went past. “Never mind, it looks like we’ve no clients to feed anyway.”

  “Oh yes, that makes me feel a lot better,” he said, and grumbled his way back to the kitchen.

  He still managed to come up with a substantial supper, which we ate around the big scrubbed kitchen table. “So, how did you meet?” I said to Frithlit. He was very pretty, in a pastel sort of way. To be brutally honest, what with his pearly-blue skin and her copper hair and freckles, he and Previous clashed appallingly, but she was so obviously taken with him that no-one was going to be unkind enough to point it out.

  Frithlit flushed lavender and looked down at his plate. “Is embarrassing. She is rescue me. I am maiden in distraint.”

  “Distress, I think you mean,” Laney said, gesturing one of her laced sleeves into the pickle. “Drat.”

  “Yes, thank you. Distress. I am in card game, and is going well, then all of a sudden peoples decide they don’t like me to take what I have won, and is go for throw me in river.” He shrugged. “Previous is come and kick their heads, and, well, I decide, is sort of woman for me, eh?” He took her hand.

  Previous went scarlet (she blushes far too easy for someone who’s a doorguard on a whorehouse, bless her heart).

  “And what do you do?” Jivrais said.

  “I buy things. I sell them. Sometimes I make a little money.” He shrugged. “Sometimes not so much. And at cards I am not very lucky. But sometimes I am lucky in other ways, yes?”

  He smiled at Previous, who gave him a fleeting half-smile and turned to me. “Here, the Vessels. I’ve been wondering. Do they actually have any women? I mean, they don’t allow them in the Temples, but they must get new little Vessels from somewhere.”

  “So far as I know, the Vessels are an order, not a race,” I said, “though all the ones I’ve met are human, I think. People just join up, somehow. I don’t know what happens to the ones who have families before they join, whether they just get abandoned, or what. Maybe they’re like those people we met in Lahter, remember? The ones who allow women into a sort of annexe, off the back of the temple, where they can hear the ceremony, but not be seen. You know, just in case any of the men sees them at the wrong moment and gets distracted.”

  Previous snorted. “Any god you can be distracted from that easily don’t seem like much of a god to me.”

  “Oh, speaking of distraction – you been to Bannerman’s lately?” I said.

  “You joking? I daren’t look in the window in case he charges me.”

  “He’s got a Gillalune in.”

  Ireq’s ears pricked up. “Gillalune?”

  “He hasn’t!” Previous said. “Really? Dammit, Babylon, I’m going to have to go look now.”

  “You need a new helmet anyway. Yours is so dented I’m surprised you can get it on without a crowbar.”

  “Not from Bannerman’s I don’t.”

  The talk stayed with weapons instead of gods, a much healthier subject.

  It was dark by the time I got out again. Too early to look for Mokraine at the Break of Dawn; I’d try a couple of his other haunts first.

  There’s plenty of gambling in Scalentine; everything from a handful of brass on a street-bet to entire fortunes exchanged on a gentleman’s handshake. For some reason most of it seems to concentrate near Nightwind portal, like a lot of the city’s more disturbing aspects.

  It’s not that I’ve got anything against people enjoying themselves, not in my line of work. But... I remember Kyrl, and the knifeman in the alleyway. And it’s not just the violence. I’ve seen too many people utterly focused on the turn of a card, their whole body clenched with need. People I knew had children at home eking out the stale loaf for another day and hoping this time Mummy or Daddy wasn’t lying when they said they’d be coming home with their pockets spilling over with gold.

  But that very need was the thing that drew Mokraine.

  I passed The Singing Bird first, not exactly hoping to see Darask Fain, but I admit the thought occurred to me.

  The Bird has that discreet, velvety look of serious money, rather like Fain himself. The woodwork is glossy-dark, and the windows are curtained with heavy silk. The bouncers aren’t called bouncers, they’re called ‘courtesy guards.’ They look like valets.

  It’s not the sort of place they’d willingly allow Mokraine in, though he has his means, and most people are, wisely, a little nervous about getting in his way. But the Bird is also the sort of place where most of the punters have plenty of coin to lose. It doesn’t matter so much to them, and that makes them less appealing to Mokraine.

  I went on to The Golden Cup instead.

  From the outside, it looks pretty good; not as gilded as The Singing Bird, but with richly draped windows and smart doormen.

  When you get close, you realise that the silvery sheen on the curtains that makes them look like the best velvet is actually dust, and that the doormen’s uniforms are worn over armour, and have patches of neat stitching here and there where at some point someone’s put a blade through the cloth.

  They checked me over and made me hand in my sword.

  Well, I wasn’t planning on needing a blade, and I can handle myself without one. It’s just an extra edge, so to speak.

  Inside, the Cup was brightly lit: hissing alchemical lamps with a harsh white glare. It smelled of drink and pipe smoke and sweat and it was very, very quiet. No laughter, little chat. Just the click of dice, the rattle of cups, the whisper of cards.

  This place was all about the turn of a card, the fall of the dice. No-one was here for fun, they were here for chance. At least, the punters were. For the owner, chance hardly came into it.

  Not that this was a scam joint. So far as I knew, The Golden Cup ran straight games, but you can count on one hand the number of customers who can play them and make a profit. Which is why it needed new doormen every now and then; some people get upset when they see their last coin rolling away.

  In the ugly light that cast such hard shadows, the customers were pale, almost transparent, nothing moving but their eyes. They looked like hungry ghosts.

  A man got up from one of the tables, swaying, and walked towards me. He had that hit-on-the-head look of someone who has just lost everything they had, and more.

  Then I saw Mokraine. He rose from the corner where he had been sitting unnoticed, and put a friendly arm around the man’s shoulder. His familiar, grey and lumpen, hopped after him, and leaned its head against the man’s leg like a dog.

  The man turned his head, slowly, as though in a dream, towards Mokraine. Mokraine bent down, until his hair brushed the man’s cheek. I couldn’t help but watch, though it made me shudder, as the expression on the man’s face went from numb shock to vague surprise to an utter, white blank.

  Mokraine straightened up, and closed his eyes with a look of satisfaction which I personally think belongs in the bedroom. His familiar made a snuffling grunt. The man he’d touched stood for a moment, then wandered away in the direction of the door, as though he were sleepwalking.

>   I moved closer, and waited for Mokraine to come out of his trance. Eventually he shuddered and opened his eyes. “Babylon, my darling,” he said. I stepped back, and his hand fell away before it reached me. Some emotion I couldn’t quite read crossed his face, quickly replaced by a smile.

  “But you look so very anxious, Babylon. Would you not like to be calm, serene...?”

  “No thank you.” Dammit, it still upset me that Mokraine would try and feed off me, we used to be friends. Still are, in so far as that’s possible with Mokraine these days. But that’s addiction for you. Everything else becomes secondary. You have to feed the beast, and in the end the beast eats you.

  “Ah well,” he said, moving towards the door. “I think this place has done its duty for this evening.”

  I retrieved my sword from the doorman and followed him. “So,” I said, falling in beside him but making sure I kept out of reach of both him and the familiar, “have you anything for me?”

  “Anything? Why, plenty, my darling, if you want it.” He smiled, dreamy and distant. “That fellow there, nothing to look at. Dull as a pudding, wouldn’t you say? But oh, Babylon, what depths of hunger! And what castles of fantasy built over those gulfs on the most fragile of foundations! And he knows, beneath it all. He knows it is all glass and air, that the gulf awaits his every step. He longs for it, he loves the fall he never has the courage to take.”

  “Mokraine...”

  “What do you think he will do, now, when he remembers? When he feels it all again? Perhaps I should follow him, and wait...”

  “Mokraine! Ye gods, man, you get worse. That’s vile.”

  He looked at me, and I could almost swear he looked hurt. “I don’t make them feel that way, Babylon. I give them a respite from it.”

  “I’ve heard about your respite from those who’ve been granted it.” Like being an abandoned house, was what I’d heard, all whispering emptiness. Then whatever you were feeling rushes back in, twice as bad for its brief absence.