"What are you doing here, slave?" one guard said, spitting out the words. She recognized this one—a fool named Erish.
Tash raised an eyebrow. "Slave? You called me nicer names last summer, when you guarded the hunting expedition the nobles took me on. Something about . . . sweet teats?"
She could not see through the man's helmet, but she swore that he was blushing. "Damn pleasure slaves got dirty tongues."
She thrust her tongue out at him. "That's how you like my tongue. I know." She reached into her pocket, struggling to hide her shaking fingers and the thrashing of her heart. She pulled out the rolled up scroll and held it forward. "I carry Ishtafel's seal. He's given me a pass to enter this dungeon. I bring . . . a special surprise, a gift for the man who guards Ishtafel's sister."
The guard grunted and grabbed the scroll. "Let me see that."
Tash's heart hammered as the guard examined the wax seal.
Please, stars of Requiem, let him believe me. Let him open the door.
A few weeks ago, Elory—a slave from the bitumen pits—had entered the pleasure pits, had come under Tash's tutelage. For long hours, Tash had taught the girl the ways of lovemaking—how to drive a man wild with a nibble to the earlobe, a kiss on the neck, a stroke at just the right places. And while Elory slept, exhausted from her lessons, Tash had spent long hours studying the scroll Elory had brought into the pleasure pit—the scroll bearing Ishtafel's seal. Slowly, whittling away in the shadows, Tash had copied that seal, engraving its shape—an eye within a sunburst, surrounded by runes—into one of her rings. She had melted a hundred candles, made hundreds of wax seals of her own, always tweaking, adjusting the marks on her ring . . . finally coming up with her own imperial seal.
Elory was gone now, but that seal remained, engraved into the ring in her pocket . . . its mark upon the scroll the guard now held.
The guard stared at the seal, eyes narrowing. At his side, his fellow guard tightened his hands around his lance. A vision flashed through Tash's mind—the seraphim flying in their chariots, descending upon the city, thrusting those lances into thousands of slaves.
Please, stars of Requiem. Please, Issari, the Dragon's Eye. If you can hear me from underground, far in a foreign land . . . grant me aid. Let me fool them. Let me fight with trickery if I cannot fight with dragonfire.
Finally the guard broke the seal, tugged the scroll open, and read—the words one of Tash's girls had written, the only one among them who could write.
Please, stars of Requiem, let Erish be somewhat literate . . . or illiterate and ashamed to admit it.
Finally Erish the guard grunted and rolled up the scroll. He snorted and glanced at his comrade. "Checks out. That gift to Gron?" He thrust his chin toward Tash. "Her sweet teats."
The other guard's eyes widened. "Why don't we get a gift?"
Erish groaned. "Because we're only gate guards, that's why. Lowest on the totem, as always. Cell guards always get all the perks."
"Sorry, boys." Tash reached up to pat their helmets, one guard at a time. "Maybe you'll get lucky next hunting trip you guard."
They grumbled, but they pulled the iron door open, revealing a corridor lined with prison cells. Tash sauntered through, carrying her hookah. The door shut behind her, sealing her in the palace dungeons.
Most prisoners in the empire were executed—sometimes inside the bronze bull, sometimes by a simple beheading, sometimes crucified on the hills or nailed to the ziggurat's crest. Here, underground, languished the greatest enemies of the Thirteenth Dynasty, those not allowed the mercy of death. Rebels. Traitors. Immortal seraphim doomed to languish in the darkness, lingering for eternity in their cells, driven mad—some had been mad for centuries. The doors were heavy stone; they looked less like the doors of a prison, more like the doors of tombs. Screams rolled through the hall, muffled, a sound like ghosts. Here rotted the living dead.
"Where are you, Meliora?" Tash whispered.
A third guard stood here, keys jangling from his belt. The brute spun toward her. Most seraphim were noble, beautiful beings, their bodies chiseled, their faces fair. This man was an exception; years of servitude underground had left him pale, and his hair was such a fine blond it was nearly white. His back was stooped, his gut large. Seraphim were children of the sun; in darkness they withered.
"What—" the guard began, then bit his tongue. His eyes traveled down and up again, taking in Tash's body like a thirsty lion laps up water.
She smiled and curtsied. "Good day, sir! I am Tash of the pleasure pit. My lord, King Ishtafel the Glorious, Great in Graces, has sent me here as a gift to you. He knows that you guard Meliora, his sister . . ." She made sure to note which cell the guard's eyes flicked toward. ". . . and he has commanded me to come here bearing gifts."
The guard frowned, his shelf of a brow pushing low over small, far-set eyes. "What gifts?"
Tash placed down her hookah between them. Heated by the embers, the spice bubbled, filling the corridor with its intoxicating, spicy-sweet scent. "This gift." Maintaining eye contact, she doffed her top and trousers, letting them fall to the floor, exposing her nakedness. "And this."
The guard's eyes widened. Saliva dribbled down his chin. He reached out to her breast.
Tash slapped his hand away with a gasp, all coy indignation. "Not yet, sir!" She smiled coquettishly. "Enjoy some spice with me first."
"But—"
"Listen to your pleasurer!" She stepped closer, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered into his ear. "Let me do my work. Just follow my every command, sir, and I promise you a night you will never forget. You will soon scream with pleasure louder than these prisoners scream in pain."
His sunburst pupils dilated, and his breathing grew heavy. "I . . . spice?"
Tash nodded, letting her lips touch his ear. "Hintan. The Treasure of the Desert. The Green Spirit. Have you never tried the spice, my lord?" She held up the hookah's nozzle. "Try it, my lord! Breathe deeply. Let its magic fill you."
He hesitated, then took the nozzle and gently puffed. At once he coughed, scattering purple smoke. "It's . . . sweet. And burning."
Tash took the nozzle from him. "Let me show you."
Smiling at him, never removing her eyes from his, she placed her lips around the nozzle. She breathed in but did not inhale. This spice inside the hookah was no ordinary hintan, not the kind even the most decadent of pleasurers smoked. Here was the distilled essence of the spice, purified again and again, powerful enough to knock out dragons. Tash breathed out, not letting any of the smoke fill her lungs. Even so, her head spun, and her fear faded under waves of joy—perhaps a good thing now.
The guard took the nozzle, and this time he breathed deeply.
"Inhale," Tash said. "Fill your lungs. It'll make the pleasure even greater."
He inhaled and his pupils dilated further. A thin smile spread across his lips, and his eyes rolled back. "It's . . . sweet. It's . . ."
Tash placed a hand on his chest. The guard collapsed and hit the ground with a clatter of keys.
She cringed. Shh!
Tash glanced behind her at the iron door that led into the dungeon, but it remained shut. The guards outside had not heard their friend collapse, it seemed, but Tash's heart beat so madly she thought they must hear it pounding. Trying to steady her trembling fingers, she pulled her clothes back on, then grabbed the guard's belt and tugged it off.
"I bet you wish I were doing this under different circumstances," she whispered.
She unslung the keys off his belt. The guard lay on his back, drooling, chest rising and falling in his stupor.
"Gimosh!" cried a voice outside the iron door.
Tash froze and grabbed the fallen guard's spear.
"Gimosh!" the voice repeated. "You remember where to stick it, don't you?" The guards outside laughed.
Tash grumbled. She prayed the brutes outside didn't enter for a glimpse of the show—a show now cancelled. She rushed toward one of the stone cell doors—the door the fallen gua
rd had glanced at when Tash had said "Meliora."
Clutching the spear in one hand, she placed a key into the lock . . . and turned it.
The lock clacked, spilling rust.
Tash inhaled deeply, pressed her shoulder against the stone door, and pushed. The door creaked open, maddeningly loud. Tash cursed and let out a moan, feigning mad pleasure, hiding the sound of the creaking door; the hoots from outside the dungeon further masked the sound.
Finally the door had opened, revealing nothing but shadows.
"Meliora?" Tash whispered. She tiptoed into the cell. "Lady Meliora? I'm here to rescue you. I—"
A scream blasted her.
A wretched, pale creature leaped forth, lashing curling fingernails that must have grown two feet long.
Tash yelped and jumped back.
The creature hissed, its teeth gone. Only thin strands of hair grew from its scalp, and its skin clung to bones, nearly no fat or muscle on its body. Wretched wings grew from the beast's back, a few scattered feathers still clinging to them. Its one eye was gone, and the other blazed with hatred, the pupil shaped like a sun.
Tash thrust her spear, goading it back. She cried out, "Gimosh! Yes, Gimosh!"
Please don't let the guards outside hear.
The creature inside squealed, and Tash's spear lashed against its arm. With a wail, it retreated back into the cell. Tash grabbed the door and began to pull it shut.
She paused.
Her eyes dampened.
She thrust her spear through the doorway with all her strength, digging her heels into the floor, impaling the poor creature's heart. The seraph—or at least, the creature that had once been a seraph—let out a gasp . . . a sound almost thankful. It collapsed to the floor.
Tash spun away from the cell, spear in one hand, keys in the other. She gazed across the hall.
"Gimosh!" rose the voice of a guard outside the dungeon. "Gimosh, care to share her?"
Tash cursed. "Let him have his fun first!" she shouted at the door. "You can be next."
She moved across the craggy corridor, gazing at the cells. Twenty or more lined the walls, and each could contain another wretched, rotting creature. Which one did Meliora languish behind? Tash dared not call out the princess's name.
Orange light caught her eye.
Tash spun toward a cell. The light rose around the doorframe.
The light of dragonfire.
The light of Requiem, Tash thought.
More than anyone in the palace—more even than the mightiest lords and ladies—the pleasurers were the mistresses of information. Every man who visited her den spoke his secrets, and Tash knew that upon Meliora's head no longer shone a halo of golden light. Meliora the Merciful was now crowned with dragonfire.
Tash stepped toward the cell, placed her key into the lock, and pushed open the door.
Meliora stared back at her.
Many times in her life, walking through the palace to visit this or that lord, Tash had seen Meliora from a distance—a tall, beautiful seraph, her wings pure white, her halo golden, her skin fair and her eyes shining, her body shimmering with jewels. Ahead of her now stood a woman Tash barely recognized. Meliora's hair, wings, and jewels were gone, and dried blood and dirt stained her body. She wore only burnt rags. Yet her eyes were still strong, fiery with life—seraph eyes. Upon her head crackled a new halo, woven of red and orange flame.
"Tash," she whispered.
Tash's eyes widened. "You know my name, my lady?"
Meliora nodded. "I've seen you wander the palace. I know about the . . . pleasure pit. I've often—"
The lock on the iron door—the one leading into the corridor of cells—rattled.
"Gimosh! Gimosh, you done in there?" rose the voice of the guards.
Tash hissed. "We're about to have company." She shoved her spear into Meliora's hands. "Know how to use this?"
"Stick it into people?" Meliora gave her a wan smile.
"That's the gist of it." Tash knelt and lifted her hookah; the liquid spice still bubbled within over its embers.
The iron door creaked open, and the two guards stepped into the dungeon.
Tash ran toward them and lobbed her hookah across the corridor. The glass vessel shattered against one guard, spilling boiling liquid. The seraph screamed, his wings caught flame, and he fell.
Meliora raced forward and tossed her spear. The projectile flew across the hall and its blade slammed into a guard's thigh. The man cried out and fell. Eyes narrowed, lips tight, Meliora ran closer, knelt, and lifted the fallen spear.
The guard raised his own lance.
Meliora knocked it aside and thrust her spear with a cry. The blade crashed into the guard's neck and emerged from the other side.
The burnt guard on the floor began to rise. Meliora spun toward him and drove her spear down, impaling the seraph. He gave a last gasp, then fell limp.
"Bloody stars," Tash whispered, staring at Meliora. Where was the innocent, soft-cheeked princess she had known? Before her she saw a killer, the blood of her enemies staining her arms.
"Come," Meliora said. "We must hurry."
"Wait." Tears filled Tash's eyes to remember the poor creature she had seen in the cell. "One more minute."
Tash raced along the corridor, opening cell by cell, revealing the poor wretches within. Some cowered in the corner, blinded by the torchlight. Others squealed, hissed, screamed. A few wept and begged. Only one began to crawl out of the cell, a pathetic being, thinned down to bones.
"We need to help them," Meliora whispered, staring at the miserable creatures. She shuddered. "I . . . I almost became one of them."
Tash lowered her head. "We'll never make it out alive dragging them with us. We opened a door to their freedom. That's all we can do now, unless we choose to kill them. Their fate is in the hands of the gods now. Perhaps they still remember what they once were, and they will make their own way to freedom through the dark labyrinth that awaits us and them." She knelt, took a dagger from a dead guard, placed it into her belt, then took Meliora's hand. "Come, my lady. Now we will flee. Quickly now."
They ran out of the dungeon, entering the long, coiling burrows that snaked beneath the ziggurat. As they passed by a shadowy corner, Tash reached down, pulled loose a brick near the floor, and retrieved a cloak from within. The underground was full of such hidden alcoves and passages, the secrets known only to the pleasurers, those who made it their trade to please men . . . and to know everything that transpired in the palace. Tash handed the garment to Meliora.
"Here, my lady. A cloak and hood."
Meliora donned the garment and pulled the hood low over her head. The wool seemed to douse her crackling halo; smoke draped across Meliora's brow as the fires extinguished. To the world, she now appeared as nothing but another slave. She snapped the spear in two across her knee, discarded the bottom half, and hid the business end under her cloak.
The two kept walking together—a tall woman hidden in a cloak, and a slender young pleasurer all in silk and jewels. They made their way through the darkness, seeking the light.
MELIORA
They climbed the stairs, leaving the underground, and stepped back into the light of the world.
They stood in a small, cobbled courtyard in the shadow of the ziggurat. A path led to a narrow road into the city. In the distance, Meliora could see the obelisks, temples, and palm trees of Shayeen. She paused for just a few heartbeats, breathing deeply, savoring the touch of air on her skin, the sunlight upon her face. She had not thought she would ever feel fresh air and sunlight again.
She turned toward Tash. The young slave stood nearly a foot shorter, her jewels gleaming in the sunlight. She looked like the kind of slave Meliora would have once wrinkled her nose at—a piece of meat for the pleasures of men. Yet now Tash seemed to her a woman wiser and braver than all the soldiers in Saraph's army.
"Thank you, Tash," she whispered. "Will you return to the pleasure pits now? If you want, I'll take you with
me."
"Where do you go?" Tash asked.
"To the land of Tofet. To the house of my father." She squared her shoulders. "To rebellion. Perhaps to death. To a fight I perhaps cannot win but one I will fight nonetheless."
Tash raised an eyebrow. "A life of pampered languor, surrounded by jewels, spice, endless love and friends . . . or a life of blood that will end too soon. Perhaps we both have the same choice. And we choose the same path." Tash nodded. "I go with you, to whatever end. For Requiem."
Meliora's eyes dampened, and for an instant, she envied Tash, envied that the girl was pure Vir Requis, a whole daughter of Requiem. She herself was still half a daughter of Saraph, half a shameful thing.
She nodded. "For Requiem."
They had taken just a step forward when he swooped from the sky, wings wide, and landed in the courtyard before them.
Ishtafel.
Stars of Requiem.
Meliora's heart burst into a gallop, and she hissed and reached into her cloak for her spear.
"My dearest Meliora!" He held his lance in one hand, his shield in the other. "And if it isn't the little pack rat with her collection of jewels. Such lovely ladies shouldn't stray far from the beauty of the palace."
Meliora froze for an instant, staring at him. The man who had slaughtered countless souls. Who had lied to her, cut off her wings, locked her to rot in the dungeon. Rage. Rage filled her, and her halo of dragonfire crackled to life around her head, and she tossed back her hood before the flames could burn it.
"Stand aside, Ishtafel." Meliora lifted her halved spear. "Stand aside or I will—"
He laughed. "Or you will what? Cut me, my dear sister? Perhaps I underestimated you; you have, after all, found your way out here rather quickly. But you don't truly think that you can defeat me in battle, do you? A pampered little princess against an ancient warrior who has conquered the world?"
"I am no longer a princess." Meliora stared into his eyes. "I am a warrior of Requiem."
Crown of Dragonfire Page 3
