“What . . .” Rahel swallowed hard and tried to dig up her courage. “What am I allowed to do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Not joining,” she said hastily.
“Of course not. Even if you did want that, it’s illegal both for me and for this house. Joining services are offered on that side.” Sharro indicated the windows on the far side of the courtyard. “You won’t be allowed over there for another three and a half cycles. So, short of joining, what do you want?”
Rahel was silent. It had taken all of her courage to ask; she didn’t have any left to speak her desires aloud.
“I noticed when we touched that you seemed to particularly enjoy me scratching your scalp and running my fingers through your hair.” Sharro’s tone was so matter-of-fact that it was simple for Rahel to nod.
“No one’s ever done that before,” she said.
“I’ll tell you a secret. I love it when that’s done to me, too. It feels marvelous, doesn’t it?”
“Who does it to you?”
Sharro winked at her. “Another benefit to working in a pleasure house.” She picked up a small pillow that had been leaning against the arm of the couch and set it atop her thighs. “Tell me, my fierce warrior, if I asked you to rest your head here, would you?”
Had Mouse told Rahel that she would end up with her head in Sharro’s lap, she would have laughed at him. Yet here she was, stretched out on the couch, her gaze on the courtyard gardens while Sharro began caressing her scalp and hair.
Within two ticks, her eyes were half-shut and her body felt heavier than a ship on dry land.
“I want you to understand this,” Sharro said in a soft tone. “You are safe here. You will always be safe here. The things that you want . . . there’s nothing wrong with them. You don’t always have to be strong.”
“I do,” Rahel said sleepily. “It’s not safe out there. And Mouse needs me.”
“But you’re not out there right now. And I am not Mouse.”
No, she wasn’t. Mouse could never make her feel safe. Sharro seemed to have magical powers, because she was not a warrior, she had no fighting skills, yet Rahel felt more secure here than she had since . . .
Since before she left home, she realized. Since her father had stopped loving her, and she had first grasped that her parents would never approve of what she wanted.
For the first time, she understood what comfort giver really meant.
“How can you be a comfort giver and a prime at the same time?” she asked. They seemed diametrically opposed.
“The same way I commanded you to sit on the couch and then asked if you would put your head in my lap. They’re different faces of the same skill.”
“Knowing what the client wants.”
Sharro leaned down and planted a soft kiss on the side of Rahel’s head. “Clever girl. Yes, knowing what the client wants. But to be a very good prime, or a very good comfort giver, you have to want to give. As I want to touch you right now. It gives me pleasure to know that I’m making you feel safe and content.”
“Then I’ll never be a good prime. I hate joining.” Rahel seemed incapable of not telling Sharro what was on her mind.
“I’m not at all surprised. You’re not joining because you want to. You’re joining because it’s the only way you can survive. That doesn’t lend itself to any kind of real pleasure.”
“It’s not just that. When Mouse was training me, he felt real pleasure, and he’s been doing this since he was fourteen. But I just felt . . . satisfied. Because I was learning how to do it right. I was happy that I made him feel loved. I mean, there were some nice parts, but they didn’t make me want to go out and do it again.”
“Because there’s a difference between pleasant feelings and feeling pleasure.”
“Yes!” Rahel had not been able to express it herself, but that described it perfectly. She shifted onto her back, looking up at understanding green eyes. “This, what you’re doing, it feels so much better than any of that did.”
Sharro did not stop her caresses, merely changing her angle. As she brushed the hair back from Rahel’s forehead, she said, “You’re very young, and you’re just learning about yourself, in the worst conditions imaginable. So I could be wrong about this—and you may find that someday, when it’s not an obligation, you can feel true pleasure in joining—but I suspect you may be sansara.”
“What does that mean?”
“Literally? ‘Focused one.’ It means you’re not distracted by the drive to join that motivates so many of our actions.”
“Meaning I don’t want to join?” That sounded about right.
“Meaning it’s not what drives you. You don’t receive such pleasure from it that you’re motivated to seek it out. You find pleasure in other things, like this.” She scratched her fingernails lightly along Rahel’s scalp and down to the side of her neck. When she worked her way around to the front, Rahel lifted her chin like a holcat.
“A sansara still enjoys romance, still loves like anyone else. It’s not a handicap. It’s just a different way of being.” Sharro softened her touch, slowly rubbing her fingertips up and down Rahel’s bare arm.
“But how can I be a good prime if I don’t want to give that to my clients?”
“In most cases, clients who seek out a prime don’t want to be an active partner. They don’t want to do things to you. They want you to do things to them.”
She thought about the blonde scholar. Yes, it fit. Once she had flipped that woman onto her back, her own involvement in their joining had been limited to taking her client where she wanted to go. She herself had not been touched again.
Fahla’s farts, this could actually work. She could do this without feeling like she was tying her own hands and giving up all the strength and control she had worked for. She could be herself and still do the job.
“Sharro?”
“Hm?”
“Why did you choose me?”
Sharro smiled as she brushed her fingers through Rahel’s hair. “You remind me very much of myself when I was your age. Someone helped me then. I’m not sure I’d be alive now if he hadn’t. I always thought I would pay that favor back someday.”
“Does that mean I get a discount?”
Sharro laughed without restraint. “Oh, my clever girl. You’re going to do just fine.”
17
FAITH AND TRUST
In the beginning, Rahel did not have many clients. Priming was a specialist skill, and underage priming meant catering to a specific and uncommon desire, one which normally kept itself hidden. But one client led to another, and before two moons had passed, she was able to pick and choose.
She kept more male clients than female, probably because she was not as comfortable priming women. She suspected that was due to her own training—and comfort-giving sessions—with Sharro. That was a sacrosanct part of her life, one she guarded jealously, and priming women sometimes felt as if she were opening a space that should not be shared.
One female client she did keep was her first, the blonde scholar, perhaps because Rahel understood her needs so well. Or perhaps it was because of their odd, almost mother-daughter dynamic when Rahel was not priming her. The woman genuinely cared for Rahel’s welfare, and always inquired after her latest accomplishments in warrior training. They built a relationship that, though it never moved past the boundaries of their sessions, nevertheless carried through from one session to the next.
She worked less than Mouse, yet made more income. Sometimes she felt guilty, but he never begrudged her good fortune. In fact, he took full credit for it and frequently puffed up with pride at how well he had done by her. Knowing what she did now, she could hardly believe that she had serviced even six clients without breaking under the strain of acting so counter to her nature.
Sharro was amused at the thought. “You did break,” she said as she rubbed a calf muscle. Rahel was propped against one arm of the couch with her legs stretche
d across Sharro’s lap, her loose trousers pushed up for the massage. “You broke with the scholar. You were never going to be a good victim. That’s what those clients wanted, a frightened child victim. Or at the very least, a reluctant one.”
“I hate that Mouse is still what those clients want.”
“I know.” She ran her fingertips across the top of Rahel’s foot. “I do, too.”
“Will he ever break out of that?”
Her movements stalled, then resumed their previous fluidity. Rahel watched carefully, having learned by now that Sharro was not immune to the very tricks she was teaching.
People speak three languages, she had said in one of their first training sessions. One with their words, one with their bodies, and one with their actions.
Sharro was very careful with her words, even more so with her actions. But during a comfort-giving session, when she was relaxed, her body language sometimes gave her away.
“When we’re walking a path paved with the bricks of our experience, we can miss the dirt track leading off to the side,” she said at last.
Rahel remembered asking Mouse why he didn’t challenge the merchant caste just to have a caste ID, and how angry he had been. “You’re saying this is what he knows. Staying on the brick path is easier.”
Sharro nodded, silver hair sliding loose about her shoulders as she gently massaged Rahel’s first toe. Today she was wearing a shirt with geometric designs in a deep blue, and the colored stripe in her hair had changed to match it.
“I’m taking him away from this when I become a warrior.”
“Have you told him that?”
“No.”
“Do you think he’ll go?”
“Why in Fahla’s name wouldn’t he?”
“For the same reason you haven’t told him.”
Rahel stared, then let her head fall back on the couch arm. “Shek. Would he really be that stubborn?”
The massage shifted to her second toe. “There’s a difference between being stubborn and wanting to feel that you have control in your life. Your mother probably thinks you’re stubborn.”
That was true. When she had embarked on her new job and begun building a client list, Mouse had taken her to buy a black market com code and a new com unit with a tiny vidscreen. Her first call was to her mother.
Their subsequent meeting in the shannel shop was a marked improvement over the previous one, but her mother could not understand why Rahel was so determined to stay in Whitesun. At least this time, she had been able to assure her that she was doing well. When they parted ways that evening, their warmron had nearly made Rahel cry—because it was not the same as Sharro’s.
She watched Sharro work her way through the foot massage. Once her smallest toe had been loosened and relaxed, Rahel lifted her legs and stood up. “Your turn.”
“Already?”
She let her actions answer for her, crossing the room to the sideboard and washing her hands in the small sink, then rubbing in lotion from the jar next to it. It held a very subtle floral scent, one of Sharro’s favorites.
Her lesson on how scent could be used in priming had been a memorable one. She never touched Sharro without this lotion.
Upon returning to the couch, she set the small pillow in her lap and patted it.
With the fluidity that characterized all of her movements, Sharro swung her legs onto the couch and lowered her head to the pillow. “This is quick for you.”
“Right now, I’ll get more comfort from touching than being touched.” Rahel brushed back a few locks of silver hair, then began running her fingertips over the soft skin of Sharro’s face.
Sharro watched her for the first few ticks, but soon gave up and closed her eyes. “Sometimes I think I shouldn’t be charging you for this. I get so much comfort myself.”
“Knowing I can do that for you gives me comfort,” Rahel said. “You taught me that.”
She loved these moments. In their early sessions, she had spent all of her allotted time soaking up the physical touch Sharro offered, like one of the desert flowers she had read about that waited an entire cycle for rain. Her own desires had never flagged, but merely waited until she found the courage to ask if she could reciprocate.
The first time she had felt the weight of Sharro’s head in her lap and sensed the trust that position required, she understood in one blinding moment just how powerful this was. Joining could not compare. That was friction and heat and a choreographed rise from arousal to release. It could be done with anyone; bought, sold, performed without even an exchange of names.
But this had no end, no goal. It was an expression of trust and comfort that could not be bought. Rahel paid for it, yes, but unless Sharro wanted to give it, no amount of cash could compel her. Nothing in the world could manufacture the emotions Rahel felt under her fingertips. They were a gift to her.
“I was thinking about the first time I saw my mother after meeting you,” she said.
“Mm-hm?”
“And how she doesn’t know me anymore. Because I can’t tell her the truth about my life.”
Without opening her eyes, Sharro said, “Your mother stopped knowing you when she stopped listening to your truth. Someday, she may start listening again.”
Rahel thought about this while dipping her fingers over Sharro’s jaw and down the tender column of her throat. “You listen to my truth.”
“Yes.”
“Will you ever tell me yours?”
She loved the way Sharro’s smile brought out that single dimple. “Not now.”
“When?”
“When you’re old enough to hear it.”
“Do you have any idea how frustrating that answer is?”
The smile grew. “Exactly as frustrating as it was when my trainer told it to me.”
“How long did you have to wait?”
“A lifetime.”
Rahel brought her fingers into Sharro’s hair, gently combing it away from her temples. “I know there’s an actual answer in there somewhere.”
“I’m not the same person now that I was then. You’re not the same person you were when I met you, and that was just seven moons ago. Who knows who you’ll be a cycle from now?”
“A cycle from now, I’ll be one moon away from challenging into the warrior caste.”
“And a cycle after that, you’ll be in a different life.”
It always took a few moments to tease apart the threads of Sharro’s words. “You didn’t mean a lifetime in the chronological sense.”
“No. We live many lives in our time here on Alsea. Hopefully, when we Return, we have a great deal to show for the way we spent our days.” Her dimple reappeared. “I like to think that when it’s my turn to speak to Fahla and tell her what I did with the time she gave me, she will not be bored by the tale.”
Rahel smiled down at her, enjoying the mental image of that conversation. She wondered what color Sharro would choose for the streak in her hair then. “I think she’ll be riveted.”
“You have a great deal of faith in me.”
“Faith and trust.”
Sharro opened her eyes, watching her with the quiet concentration she always brought to their sessions. “Fierce warriors don’t give their trust easily. Yours is a treasure.”
Rahel leaned down and kissed her central forehead ridge. “So is yours.” As she straightened, she added, “Someday, I’m going to kiss you for real.”
“Someday,” Sharro agreed. “In another lifetime.”
18
AGAIN
Since freeing herself from the docks, Rahel spent almost every evening sparring with Hasil. She knew she was learning invaluable lessons with Sharro, things Hasil could never teach her. He was her physical trainer; Sharro was her mental one. But physical training required practice, repetition, and instant correction—all things she had enjoyed in abundance while working for him. She’d missed his constant presence in her days, and the way he said so little that whenever he did speak, she
knew to pay attention.
Of course, she always had to pay attention when Sharro spoke, too, but for different reasons. With Sharro, she had to work to understand. Sometimes she had to interpret or translate. Hasil spoke very clearly and never required interpretation.
The stave hit her ankle, sweeping her off her feet. She landed on her back with a huff of air and a frustrated curse.
“Again,” Hasil said. “You make the same mistake every time.”
“I know! I don’t know why I can’t get it!” She was tired and too cranky to get up. This was the fifth time he had taken her down in as many ticks.
He set the end of his stave on the mat and wrapped his hands around it near the top, leaning on it in a deceptively relaxed pose. A thief might mistake him for an injured man needing a walking stick and see him as easy prey. But Rahel had personal experience with just how fast he could go from that relaxed pose to a blur of whirling wood.
Anyone who thought wooden training staves weren’t as dangerous as the metal ones had never seen what Hasil could do with his. The fact that she bore only bruises was a testament to his skill at pulling strikes at the last piptick. But those bruises still hurt, and she was tired of accumulating them.
“You let yourself be distracted with anger,” he said. “You expect perfection and punish yourself when it does not happen.”
“I think you’re doing a fairly good job of punishing me,” she muttered. She would be lucky if she could walk without a limp tomorrow. It was a good thing she had no client scheduled.
“Demonstrating the consequence for a mistake is not punishment.” He did not change position or expression, but something about him seemed softer as he added, “Perhaps you should stop berating yourself for how you think you should be doing and begin acknowledging how well you have already done.”
She closed her eyes. “I miss being here. Working for you. I feel like I’m falling behind.”
He thumped his stave on the mat, startling her into opening her eyes again. “Self-pity has no place in the dance of combat.”
Outcaste: Book Six in the Chronicles of Alsea Page 12
