by Allan Cole
Melina squealed: "Oh, how lovely. I do hope it's unusual. Please. Please. Let me see." I drew the bottle out of my pocket. Her face fell. "What's that?"
"Oh, this is nothing. Just some old brandy from my father's cellar. I thought we might sample it... and then I can show you my gift. It is a very rare thing... I promise."
Melina became excited again, acting like a girl. She sat up in the bed, legs so carelessly crossed I almost lost my nerve. I fetched two goblets from the tray and poured. Melina took a goblet from my hand. She sniffed at it, curling those exquisite nostrils. "Mmmm. Delicious," she said. She drank it down in one swallow. Melina lounged back on her pillows, flinging those perfect legs wide, as if by accident. "Now, show me my present," she said.
"Do you want more brandy?" I asked.
"No. That's enough. There's nothing more disgusting than a hetaera that enslaves herself to drink."
"How do you feel?" I asked, anxious.
"I feel fine. Why do you ask?" Her voice was sharp, irritated.
"Oh... Nothing." What in the name of the gods had gone wrong? Had the backstreet witch defrauded me? Then I remembered I was supposed to chant the rhyme the witch had given me. But in my anxiety, the words had fled my memory.
"Well? Where is that present you promised?" Melina pressed.
My memory returned: "My heart is thy heart," I intoned - mimicking, as we all do, the deep drone of an Evocator's voice. "My image fills thine eyes. In darkest night, I am the candle to light thy womb."
Melina frowned. "What prattling is that? Some silly love doggerel from the taverns?"
Before I could stumble a lie for an answer, Melina gasped. Those green eyes were staring at me. Her pupils were wide and possessed. She licked her lips. "Butala, praise thy name," Melina moaned. "Amalric, you are so handsome and young you make my heart break. I'll warrant you can pleasure a woman like a great stallion. Plunging and plunging all the night long."
"Uh... uh... uh," came my eloquent response.
"Oh, by the gods... take me now! Take me!" She flung off the robe and hurled herself into my arms. Ripping at my clothes with sharp-nailed fingers. "I'll do anything to please you," she groaned. "Take me. Any way you want it. My lover. My handsome, redheaded Amalric man."
Passion gripped me as if I had swallowed the potion as well. I ripped away my clothing and flung it carelessly to the floor. A small voice tried to shame me, but a cock has no honor, so I swatted the voice away like a river gnat. Melina sprawled back, lust flush coursing up her chest and reddening her slender throat, legs splayed wantonly, the shaven slit of pleasure begging my entrance.
"Oh, quickly... Quickly, please," she groaned, grinding her hips as if she had gone mad under the moon.
I fell on her like a victorious soldier, grasping the soft white mound of her bottom, then thrust into the hot, silky place I had dreamed of for so long. Imagining myself that stallion she'd spoken of, I reared back to thrust again.
A bellow of pure, hot rage rang from behind me. "Get off her, you son of a lizard bitch!"
Hands encircled my throat and with a heave, I was torn from the gates of paradise and flung across the room. Even in the throes of interrupted passion, my gymnast training took over in mid flight. I twisted as I hit the floor and sprang to my feet. I stood, chest heaving, in shameful nakedness, red pubic hair finally answering Melina's question, but hardly in the manner I had dreamed.
"Don't hurt him, Leego," Melina begged. The Procurer stood there, dirk drawn, pale lips a rictus through the spider mask. "I love him so," Melina continued. "Don't let him leave. I must be with him. Always with him."
Leego's answer was a shout. I heard many footsteps running for the room. He came towards me. I didn't fear him. I was more than enough man to make him eat that dirk. But I was in the wrong, an enemy trespassing in another man's bedchamber with a woman I had no right to. There is only one thing for any man to do when he finds himself in this situation. In one quick motion, I scooped my clothes and sheathed rapier from the floor, then ran for the window.
I plunged through head first, Leego's voice ringing. "You'll pay for this, Amalric Antero. You'll pay."
Fear jogged memory as I sailed through that window. It was at least sixty feet to the hard, crippling ground. Just in time I snagged out with a hand and caught a sewer pipe. Momentum carried me in an arc and I slammed against the tenement wall.
In some insane instinct of modesty, I kept my grip on my clothes. For a heart-thumping instant, I struggled to hang by the pipe with only one hand. I steadied myself, slung my clothes and rapier over a naked shoulder, got a good grip on the pipe, and slid for the ground. I remembered to kick away at the last minute, and I landed a few slimed inches away from the soil pit the sewer pipe emptied into.
Inside the tenement I heard thundering bootheels coming down the stairs. A big lizard lunged out of the darkness. I kicked it and it hissed, perhaps mistaking my naked form for that of an odd pig on two feet. I sprinted away into the night. Before long the sound of the voices and pursuing footsteps faded away.
* * *
I padded into the tavern in bare feet, belting my rapier about my filth-spattered finery. My mind was swirling with guilt and confusion. I badly needed to get my bearings before I slunk home like the cur I had proven myself to be. I barely noticed the few dangerous-looking men whose eyes glittered when they spied me. I also saw a few soldiers in crisp uniforms, lolling in their seats. The tavernkeep, a small, rat-like man, eyed me suspiciously.
"Wine, my good man," I croaked. "No water. Better still, forget the wine. Make it brandy."
"Get a coin up first, young sir," the tavernkeep snarled. "I'll not be cheated by one of your kind again."
Impatiently I reached into my pocket, then realized my purse was gone. The tavernkeep nodded, knowing. His hand reached for a club beneath the counter. I tore a button off my jerkin. It was of fine, worked bone from a distant port and valuable enough to buy a good share of the tavern. "Take it out of this," I said.
I sensed a presence bulking near. I turned to see one of the soldiers, a sergeant, I noted from his rank badge. He was an older man, with a honest face for a soldier. He seemed worried.
"Would you like to come and drink with us, gentle sir?" he asked. "A bit of company is a good thing in a place like this." He nodded at the toughs scattered about the room.
"I thank you kindly," I answered. "but I really prefer to be alone. I have... difficulties to consider."
He looked at my ruined clothes, guessing at the nature of my difficulties. "I hope no one was injured, sir," he said.
"Only my pride, sergeant," I assured him. I motioned to the tavernkeep. "Buy these worthy men a drink as well," I said. "Take it out of what I gave you." I felt the rough boards beneath my bare feet. "And while you are at it," I continued, "I'd be pleased to buy some shoes."
The tavernkeep didn't like this. He was hoping to keep as much of the button's value as possible.
"Get him some boots," the sergeant snapped. "And if I learn you've troubled this young gentleman, I'll have your license." The tavernkeep cursed, but went to fetch the boots.
"Are you certain, gentle sir," the sergeant said, "that you will not pleasure us with your company?"
"Again, I thank you," I answered. "But, no. Brandy and my thoughts are the medicine I require."
The sergeant rejoined his companions. I clasped the brandy goblet the tavern keeper had fetched and drank it down. I motioned for more, and tied on the leather scraps Rat Face brought me.
Then, as forlorn as any twenty-year-old can be, I returned to my drink, staring into the depths of the chipped goblet, contemplating my sins. They were legion, beginning with the love potion itself. I had cheated Melina into behaving in a manner which she had clearly not intended. Her naked form, wriggling for the mounting, rose in my mind. The vision was not erotic, but shameful. Then that moment came that hopefully visits at least once in every human life. My perspective spun.
I had been taken. Skin
ned, and gutted, the object of a fraud like those perpetrated by the mean-eyed shills in the market place.
I do not use the word "victim," because like the targets of the bazaar swindlers, it was my own greed that delivered me up. I, Amalric Emilie Antero, had aided and abetted Melina and Leego with complete enthusiasm. No one had cast a spell on me like the potion I had fed Melina. I had lusted for her and had been willing to pay any price - the respect of my friends, or the love of my family. I had made a roaring fool of myself in the process.
Wind rattled the tavern's shutters, and I felt as if I were in my home, in front of the altar of my long-dead brother. I even felt his ghost enter the dingy shack. Halab had been the family's golden child, and his fate at the hands of the Evocators still cast a long shadow over the Anteros. Although my real memory of him was that of a three-year-old, dazzled by a dashing hero adult brother, I thought I could see his face most plain by the tavern door. Halab was smiling. He hoisted a thumb. Encouraging me to move on. The vision vanished, but I felt a bit of worthiness return. It was only a small bit, but it was a seed I could nurture.
I determined to redeem myself. I would change my ways, starting with making my long-overdue maiden expedition as a merchant. Finding Your Tradewind, tradition called it. My father had been urging me to take up my duties with increasing impatience. But I had always been a test of that fine, old gentleman.
The door banged open, and three men entered. They were big men, hard men, with a look about them that made the other rogues nervous. One glanced at me, then whispered to his companions. They got drinks and retired to a corner. I returned to my thoughts.
I was the youngest child by far of my father's first and only marriage, with brothers and sisters in their late thirties and forties. So I tended to willfulness; spoiled from skin to seed, questioning just to question, my critics said. My bodyslave Eanes said I was plain redheaded stubborn, with a temper to match my pate.
I was a bright, but lazy student. It didn't help that the tutor who survived my mischiefs the longest was a didact, living on a false reputation. He was not only boring, but frequently completely and insistently wrong. To fight boredom, I challenged him every chance I got. In our studies of anatomy, for instance, he claimed a man's body infinitely superior to a woman's.
I hooted at his premise. My sister, Rali, was the physical equal of most of the men of Orissa. "But that is different, young master," he said.
"Why is it different?" I jeered. "Rali is a woman. A beautiful woman, many say. She is also a great warrior, who could take your head off with a swipe of her sword." I slashed the air with an imaginary blade in illustration.
"One exception does not refute a fact, young master," my tutor insisted. He was getting angry, rising to my goad.
"My sister is not one exception," I prodded. "She's only one of her regiment of women. Heroines for all Orissa. Explain that."
The tutor sputtered, then pounded on the anatomy tome. "Facts are still facts," he shouted. "It is well known women's bodies are inferior. Their teeth are proof enough to start with."
"What's wrong with their teeth?"
"Women have fewer teeth than men." He opened the book to show me the page where it said so. "You see... Men have thirty two teeth. Women never more than twenty eight."
I saw a young housemaid going past. "We'll see about that," I said, rushing to catch her. I coaxed her into the room with soft words and promises of a few coins for her trouble, and then got her to open her mouth. I counted, and the number came to thirty two. The same as a man's.
My tutor stormed out, refusing to admit he'd been wrong. I spent the remainder of the day with my friends at the gymnasium, a place I fled to frequently as the years passed and I became more skilled in irritating my teacher and his successors.
As I sat staring into my brandy, it occurred to me my father had given me an education despite myself. He could have punished me when the teacher complained. Instead he had always encouraged me to question conventional wisdom, to find the truth of a thing by personal observation. It was a gift, the gift of allowing me my own thoughts and opinions. Tears of shame stung my eyes. I sniffled them back and sipped at my brandy.
It was time, I thought, to put away my childish ways and make my father proud. He needed me to take up the burdens of a merchant's existence. Every time he was forced to travel, he returned woefully weary from his efforts. It took him longer to recover with each passing year. My two older brothers were no help. They were stiff, formal men, better at managing the farms or the account books. They also possessed few traits necessary for a merchant. They disliked strange people, things and distrusted any whiff of risk-taking.
They were my opposites, for I always took delight in the mysterious flavor of Orissa's docks, with all the strange tongues and costumes swirling about the unloading ships. Geography was also one of the few areas of study that held my interest. Old charts and tales of daring Findings thrilled me until I reached an age when to admit such a thing would be considered childish by my peers. I even accepted my tutor's view of the world we lived in, although it was conventional, and I have already illustrated my healthy distrust of the conventional.
The earth was shaped like a great black egg, he said. The sun, nurturing light and fire, was set in motion by the gods for our benefit. Only the known lands and the sea separating them were gifted with this light. All else was a vast darkness ruled by jealous sorcerers who plotted to bring us under their sway and finally extinguish the sun, plunging us into the cold gloom, leaving us at the mercy of alien gods.
My teacher said once all had been light, that our ancestors possessed great knowledge of all enchantments. But they grew slothful and decadent, he said, losing respect for tradition of family, city, and their Evocators. When the wizards of darkness threatened, they were unprepared. Our gods took pity and kept this small beacon of hope safe from total barbarity. Over time, we regained some of the knowledge. And our ships took sail again, pushing back the darkness with every successful Finding. But there was a limit to our future, he taught. And that limit had nearly been reached.
There was one story - a fable, really - that particularly interested me. It was the legend of the Far Kingdoms. A place, the tale went, where descendants of our Old Ones lived on, a place where the sun shone amid a black wilderness ruled by sorcerer enemies. The princes and Evocators of the Far Kingdoms were said to be kind and wise beyond all imagination.
The Far Kingdoms was a place where wine and song were always sweet. Every purse was fat with gold, and every heart at ease. If only we could join with them, the tale continued, all our enemies would be swept away and the world would once again bask in eternal light.
It was a pretty tale that had stirred me greatly once upon a time. But I had put it away with my child's toys once I was old enough to strap on a rapier and convince myself I was a grown man.
I gave a harsh laugh as I considered the last, and once again swore an oath to change my ways. I drained my brandy to seal the bargain. I turned to order one more for a nightcap and noted with a small stir of alarm the atmosphere had changed. The soldiers were gone, as were the original patrons. Only the hard men who'd entered after me remained. They were eyeing me openly, sniggering amongst themselves and jabbing one another with their elbows. I saw the tavernkeep had disappeared as well. I felt a prickling. Something was about to happen. Especially if I remained and dared the fates.
I rose from my seat, nonchalant and made my way to the door, pretending no interest in the three men. If they followed, I thought, at least there would be room to fight outside.
It is not an old man's boast that I was a fine swordsman then. Although I was not the best in Orissa, I was good enough to give the best pause. I had fought two duels, drawing first blood each time. I was also fleet of foot from all those years of escaping my teachers to the athletic fields. If necessary, I would show my heels and speed away like a wind demon.
As I exited, I heard chairs scrape as the men got up to follow.
Before I could quicken my pace, two dark figures bulked out the night. Scrabbling for my rapier, I saw the spider totem on one of the men's faces. Leego! Behind me, the three brigands from the tavern closed the trap. But my blade was coming clear, and I would show them all a thing or two about respect.
Then I was a fool once more as my rapier's ornate guard caught on a button. My weapon clattered to the ground, and I stood there grinning like a monkey, my fighting arm outstretched, empty fist curling, uncurling. An arm had me in a throttlehold and I kicked back and heard a yelp of pain. But there was no time to gloat, because strong hands grabbed and held me as Leego rushed forward and slammed a fist into my belly. My gymnast's stomach absorbed the blow, and I could tell from Leego's sudden grunt that he'd hurt himself.
I took no satisfaction from his pain, because a moment later Leego was pressing his knife against my throat.
"Don't be a fool, Leego," I said, my temper easily winning the struggle with common sense over my tongue. "If you murder me this night, you'll be a prime candidate for next year's Kissing Of The Stones." I was speaking of the spring planting rite, when the Evocators make sacrifice by crushing a victim between two immense stones. Criminals are favored for this annual gifting of the gods.
Leego laughed, his breath foul in my face. "There is no protection for you in this place, young sir," he rasped. "No witnesses to whatever I choose to do with your worthless life."
He pressed harder with his blade. I felt a sting, then wetness as blood flowed. "On the other hand," he continued, "your reputation is protection enough for me. Everyone knows you frequent the dark side of town. They know your wild habits. Your extravagant spending and dishonorable debts. If I slit your throat, people will believe footpads responsible. Or a wronged moneylender. No, my friend, your class is no shield to you here. And you will be no man's better with your guts greeting the morning sun."
