Death's Heretic

by James L. Sutter

  “Wait here,” the woman said, and disappeared through the thousand tendrils of the dragon-flowers. Salim stood as he was bid, studying the two guards. From the pale blue eye shadow and a smoothness to their features that was at odds with their well-sculpted muscles, he guessed that they were eunuchs. The way neither had so much as glanced at his guide as she swayed through the curtain lent weight to the theory, though perhaps that was simply a side effect of working in a whorehouse. After a moment the woman reappeared.

  “The lady will see you,” she said, beckoning him with a finger.

  Salim passed through the curtain and into a sultan’s harem. Though the rest of the building had been decorated with couches and wall hangings, this room was upholstered so heavily that there wasn’t a hard angle to be seen. It was impossible to tell how high the ceiling extended, for twelve feet up, a web of hundreds of silk streamers strung between the walls created a layered canopy of soft colors, through which unseen lights cast a warm glow. Pillows and mats covered the floor shin-deep, crisscrossed by narrow paths of fabric stretched taut a few inches above the floor, pleasantly conforming to the foot that trod it. All of it—every pillow, hanging, and pathway—seemed specifically positioned to draw the eye toward the enormous canopied bed and its sole occupant.

  Lady Leantina Issa Jbade was much as Salim had imagined her, but that in no way diminished the impact of her appearance. Lounging on the mattress like a cat, she wore a long gown of iridescent green which clung flatteringly to her slim waist and rounded hips, a long slit exposing a smooth expanse of leg all the way up to the outside of her thigh. Her arms were bare and bronze, and Salim would have put her as roughly thirty years old if her face didn’t display the delicate, porcelain features of the elf-blooded. Slightly pointed ears poking through the sheer black waterfall of her hair confirmed the fact, as did slanted eyes with oversized emerald irises.

  At the moment, those eyes were ignoring his arrival, focused instead on something taking place around the corner in an alcove facing the bed. Her expression was one of polite boredom, and after a moment of waiting, Salim took a risk and stepped forward, craning his neck to see what she was watching—and then quickly withdrew, face flushing.

  What he’d thought was an alcove was in fact a whole side-chamber. Unlike the rest of the room, this area was bare stone, raised up a foot from the cushioned floor and positioned to act as a stage, with the bed its sole audience.

  On the stage were no fewer than five women, locked in the most intricate and intimate coupling Salim had ever witnessed. All wore costumes that highlighted rather than concealed their nudity, and smooth flesh gleamed and glistened in the lamplight. Several were contorted as only trained dancers could manage, and one wore nothing but a bizarre harlequin cap, standing over her worshipful lovers on high stilts strapped to her ankles. Though Salim caught only a glimpse of the proceedings before withdrawing his head and staring fixedly at an empty point in space above the lady’s bed, he could still hear the moist sounds of sliding skin and the heavy breathing of the women’s exertions.

  At last Lady Jbade nodded and snapped her fingers. Instantly the sounds changed, the murmurs and panting shifting to the padding of bare feet and low voices.

  “Good,” Jbade called, her tone encouraging. “Excellent work, ladies. Carisse, your leg is still too low, and you’re not getting full extension. I trust I won’t have to tell you again.”

  There were soft murmurs, and then the women were filing past Salim and out the door, still wearing their fanciful costumes and carrying the stilts. As the last woman passed, Salim did a double-take. It was the fire-eater from the marketplace the day before, the one with the remarkable trick of lighting a candle through the piercing in her throat. He now saw that those flame tattoos didn’t just cover her arms—they swirled up over her bare bosom and down across the taut expanse of her stomach until they disappeared from view.

  The woman caught him staring and glared. She lifted her chin as she passed, like a boxer inviting an opponent to take his best shot, clearly asking who he was to judge her. Then she was past him and the curtain was falling closed.

  “Pay no attention to her.”

  Salim refocused on the woman on the bed, who had turned to regard him with those cool eyes.

  “Carisse is new, and has not yet adjusted completely. Many of them are like that when they first make the transition.”

  “And what transition is that?” Salim stood with hands folded neatly in front of him. Jbade’s eyes flicked downward, took in his not-entirely-coincidental posture, and gave him a knowing smile.

  “The transition from amateur to professional,” she said, and waved a manicured hand toward a deep green couch set against the wall a few feet from the bed. “Please, sit.”

  Salim did so, the height of the couch bringing him down so that his eyes were now level with hers without her having to sit up.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” he said.

  Jbade waved a hand dismissively. “Talent is everywhere in Lamasara. Throw a stone and you’ll bruise a dancer or a singer. Most will never make it beyond a street corner in the marketplace, let alone into the top cabarets. Yet there are a few with potential, and I try to take those under my wing, help them make a name for themselves.”

  Salim thought of Carisse eating fire in the market, and compared it with the act he’d just witnessed.

  “And adding your own unique flavor, I see.”

  Jbade’s smile was sultry.

  “I offer them a chance to improve their routines and perform in reputable venues. And in return, they agree to help me entertain my many friends to the fullest of their abilities.”

  So that was her game. No wonder the women out front and in the curtained rooms had seemed so studied in their movements. Though he had never been much for art, Salim understood that patronage—more commonly known as “sleeping your way to the top”—was common in the performance circles of many cities. In Lamasara, Lady Jbade appeared to have codified it, trading top billing for the performers’ willingness to prostitute themselves to their fans, with Jbade acting as their madame.

  Jbade saw the calculating look in his eyes and leaned forward slightly to study him.

  “I do not believe we’ve been introduced,” she said. “It’s not uncommon for men I’ve never met to come looking for me, but it is rare for Lhael to admit one of them without so much as asking his name. You must have made quite an impression.”

  Salim bowed his head. “My name is Salim Ghadafar, and I come on business of the Church of Pharasma, at the request of High Priest Khoyar Roshan.”

  “Ah, Khoyar.” She gave another of her little smiles. “I’m surprised he would send a messenger rather than take the opportunity to come himself.”

  “Undoubtedly he would prefer to,” Salim said, “but this is not a social call. The church is curious about the death of Faldus Anvanory, whom I believe you know.”

  Though Jbade’s calculated sprawl didn’t change, her delicate features locked into hard lines.

  “Indeed,” she said. “I knew him well, and was greatly saddened to hear of his death, so close to the fulfillment of his goal.”

  She sat up then, the neckline of her dress shifting lower to barely maintain its hold on her small but perfectly formed breasts.

  “Please,” she said, “call me Leantina. I suspect you have many questions.”

  He did. Where Qali had immediately gone on the attack, keeping Salim off guard with his own questions and observations, Leantina Jbade took the opposite tack, making a show of relaxedly answering all the questions he put to her with complete openness and honesty.

  Jbade was indeed a bastard child of the elf nation Kyonin, though Salim didn’t ask about the story Olar had told him. Relegated to the port city of Erages and denied full citizenship in her country of origin due to the human blood in her veins, she quickly developed a grudge against her elven kin. Though she matured into an unparalleled beauty, even among those who shared her bene
volent breeding, she seethed with resentment, knowing that hers was a perfection that would fade with comparative speed while the true elves remained almost ageless. Furious, she took sail on a ship headed down the Sellen and left her patronizing kin behind, paying for her passage in the universal coin. It was this first transaction, with a gruff but kind river captain, that set her on her course.

  From the dance halls of Cassomir to the highest courts of Absalom, beautiful Jbade practiced her art, amassing a sizable fortune as both a high-profile dancer and a courtesan and sometimes wife to a number of powerful and aged nobles. When the last of these died, she liquidated her assets and set sail for Lamasara and the fabled sun orchid elixir, with which she could at last achieve what even her pureblooded cousins could not—eternal youth.

  “And here I am!” she said, spreading her arms wide in a carefree gesture no doubt rehearsed thoroughly for its effect on her bosom.

  “Yet without the elixir,” Salim noted.

  She cocked her head to the side, birdlike, as if surprised at his utter lack of tact.

  “A small matter,” she said lightly.

  “Yet one capable of consuming a woman’s life,” Salim pressed. “Or a man’s.”

  She dropped her arms, and the glint in her eyes was no longer salacious.

  “Look around you, Salim. Do you see signs of poverty?”

  He humored her, and was forced to shake his head. The bedchamber was as extravagant as any he’d encountered.

  “Now what about me?” she asked, leaning forward to expose the rounded tops of her breasts. “Have I withered?”

  Again, the answer was clearly negative.

  “In that case,” she said, and her manner was suddenly businesslike. “Understand something, Salim. My bid for the elixir has already been paid, yet everything you see remains in my possession. And even if it didn’t, I would retain the youth and beauty that won them in the first place—which, thanks to my bastard heritage, I’ll retain long after you’re too old to care about either, save in the academic sense.”

  She stood up, and her long, slim legs moved smoothly beneath the shimmering dress. She turned in a slow circle, displaying the garment’s scooped back, and her toes were light and pointed as a fairy alighting on a flower. When she faced him once more, she extended a delicate hand. He took it, and she pulled him upright with surprising strength. Standing, he was surprised to find that she was almost as tall as he was.

  “If the church has sent you to look into Faldus’s death,” Leantina continued, trailing an arm across his chest as she moved in a measured circle around him, “it must believe you a great judge of character, someone capable of discerning motives and detecting half-truths. As it turns out, I hope they’re right, so that there can be no doubt.” She completed her circuit and looked him in the eye.

  “I did not kill Faldus Anvanory,” she said plainly, “nor did I in any way orchestrate his death. I lost the auction, and that was no small setback, but it was not worth killing a man and jeopardizing everything I’ve built. In five years, or fifty, I will bid again. That difference is great to someone like Qali or Anvanory, but little to me. There will be other opportunities.”

  She studied Salim as he stood at attention, observing her, then laughed and cupped his chin.

  “You no doubt have a terrible impression of me from Faldus’s slip of a daughter,” she said, “but I assure you, Faldus and I were not enemies. Far from it. We were ...close.” The hand dropped to caress his arm, squeezing the bicep lightly, as if Salim were a sack of lemons hanging in a fruit vendor’s stall.

  “I think she feared I’d marry her father and take her place in the household, but of course there was never any danger of that. Faldus was wealthy, but such things mean little when the queen herself competes for my attentions.” Her fingers were soft, butterfly-touches. “I am a self-made woman, Salim, and I will acquire the elixir on my own terms.”

  She stepped backward, away from him, and straightened her shoulders. “If you’re a priest,” she said, looking to his robes, “you no doubt have magical means of verifying what I’ve said. If so, please use them. I invite you.”

  But Salim had seen enough. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said. “The truth of your words lies as bare as your beauty.”

  Her eyes widened slightly, and she moved forward until she was almost touching him, the heat of her body radiating through the space between them to warm his stomach.

  “So he has manners after all,” she murmured. The hand returned to his bicep, and she looked up at him with new consideration. “It’s a rare man who can resist a direct invitation.” Her voice was smoky.

  He smiled. “If that is the case,” he said, daring to put a hand on the warm skin of her arm, “then I have distinguished myself twice today.”

  Then he stepped backward out of her grasp, bowed once from the waist, and exited the room.

  Chapter Five

  Death's Reward

  Salim ate a late lunch in the market, buying several slabs of fried goat meat from a man whose stand was no more than a hanging rack of skinned goats and a semicircular iron basin hung precariously over a fire, into which he dropped fresh cuts of flesh and swirled them in palm oil with a bent skewer. These he deftly speared and deposited in folded palm leaves containing mashed garlic and salt. Salim ate them carefully with his fingers while walking through the stalls, thinking less about the array of wares in front of him than what he’d learned so far.

  After he’d wasted as much time as he dared, he turned back toward the theater district. This time, however, he didn’t climb the hill to Lady Jbade’s seductive manse, but rather continued onward to the city’s edge and the great cathedral of the Lady of Graves.

  In truth, he had little desire to return—simply being inside a church irritated him, its overbearing presence like a constant and irritating whine in the background—but there was always the possibility that Khoyar had fresh information. Salim climbed the steps unchallenged and entered through the big iron doors.

  Inside, the grand chamber which had been bustling the previous day was almost completely empty, save for an older priest in a corner who was speaking quietly to a grieving couple, the woman’s face and hair streaked with mourning ash.

  “Master Ghadafar!”

  Salim turned to find the young acolyte he’d been assigned the day before springing up from a short, three-legged stool placed against the wall in the shadow of the big doors.

  “Hello, Hasam.”

  The boy beamed at being remembered. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Salim looked at the stool. “Waiting here? Why?”

  “In case you returned and needed anything, as the high priest instructed.”

  Salim nodded. Then a second thought occurred to him.

  “How long?” he asked.

  Hasam looked quizzical. “Since you left,” he replied. His cow-eyed sincerity reminded Salim again that the Pharasmins didn’t do anything in half measures. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d bet that the boy had slept on that stool. Senseless.

  “Where’s Khoyar?” he asked, but his guide was already in motion.

  “This way,” Hasam said, leading Salim through the same doors they’d passed through the first time, but this time turning left down a wide corridor that was lit by more of the narrow windows, eventually coming to a straight flight of stone steps leading down. “High Priest Khoyar is conducting the ninth-hour service in the Chapel of Lights.”

  At the bottom of the steps they turned a corner and passed through a set of wooden doors hung thick with a curtain of midnight-blue cloth. Then they were in a small chapel.

  Unlike the grand entry hall, this room had none of the great windows. Instead, the walls and ceiling were smooth blocks of bare, gray stone, whose looming weight combined with tightly packed stone pews to create an immediate sense of claustrophobia. Overall, the effect was that of having been interred inside a mausoleum. Which, Salim supposed, was the whole point. />
  The only light in the room came from dozens of candles—short wax tapers hung from the walls and ceiling in iron sconces, their random patterns making gently flickering star fields above them. Perhaps thirty men in black cassocks and robes similar to Salim’s own crowded the narrow pews. They too held candles. Salim and Hasam took up positions near the back wall, so as not to disturb the worshipers.

  Khoyar stood at a raised podium near the far wall. The altar’s twisting stone narrowed to incredible thinness in the middle, only to flare out again at chest height—an artist’s rendition of Pharasma’s Spire, the great pillar of the planes which supported the Boneyard, and to which all souls went to be judged. Khoyar had his own candle sitting on the podium-altar’s flat surface, and in one hand he held a hollow half-sphere of glass or crystal, like a wine goblet without its stem.

  “So do we wander in this world,” Khoyar intoned, “bereft of all but the warp and weft of the goddess’s threads to guide us. Yet whether we seek to follow our course or break from it, it matters not, for in time all things are drawn back to the pattern set forth by the Lady’s hand.”

  Inverting the glass, he placed it over the candle. As he spoke, the flame slowly dimmed, guttering as it consumed all the air in the globe.

  “In the end, all become as one. Princes and beggars, thieves and saints—all of us will face our last moments alone, stripped of ambition, of doubt. But in that final breath, as in the first one taken by a newborn, we are all the same. We are our mortality—nothing more, nothing less. All go naked before the Lady, and all shall be judged.”

  The candle flame was now down to a single glowing coal at the end of its wick.