by Jean Johnson
“Right, then. Have you had something to eat?” he asked, breathing deep to clear his head.
Myal unfocused her gaze as she turned her thoughts inward for a moment, gauging how hungry she was.
“I could go for a bit of sausage,” she finally said. A moment later, she heard him cough, looked up from the level of his thighs, spotted how red his face was, and blushed hard herself. The innuendo implied by her line of sight was honestly inadvertent. Licking her lips, she added, “That, too. But I meant the summer sausage.”
“Right.” Fetching out the remnants of their food supply, Kerric shared it with her, a bit of bread, a hefty chunk of cheese, and a couple inches of the spicy meat. Sitting beside her on the couch, he chewed and swallowed the first few mouthfuls before bringing up the subject of the Seraglio. “Now, uh, normally the Seraglio is most easily run by people who’ve been courting a while. Obviously, I haven’t had anyone in my life like that.”
“Never?” Myal asked, curious. She nibbled on her hunk of cheese, enjoying the tangy-smooth taste, with a hint of being smoked somewhere in the curing process. “Not ever? Not a single girl?”
“Well, of course I did,” Kerric told her, side-tracked. “I did my share of lighthearted courting back when I was young and still being tutored in magic, same as any other young man. But there were no feelings strong enough to bind me permanently to any particular woman, and I’ve never been attracted to other men. So when I started journeying, I didn’t leave behind any regrets, relationship-wise. Other than family ones.
“I do miss my parents from time to time,” he continued, “but Father’s a teacher, and Mother’s a lace-maker, and they never knew quite what to do with a powerful mage for a son, other than give him—me—lessons. Father teaches for a high noble family up north, so they could afford to get me lessons in my youth, but other than that . . . They have my brother, Barric—no relation to that wall of meat in Torven’s group—and my sister, Althea, to take after them, and some grandchildren to cosset by now. We chat by mirror every few weeks, but it’s a bit far for them to travel, and I never could justify leaving the Tower for more than a day at most . . . and you’ve seen the mess made of that this year.”
She nodded. “Which one of your siblings teaches, and which one makes lace?”
“Barric teaches, though he has a fair hand with the threads. Althea helps Mother, when she’s not chasing down little ones. Yet another reason why I don’t want them visiting,” Kerric added dryly. “Which brings us back to the needs of the Tower. Now, the first chamber we’ll enter is actually a couple of rooms rolled into one. And the first obstacle involves the inner of those two rooms. It’s called Seven Minutes In Heaven.”
Myal gave him a blank look. “Is it a doorway to another universe? Like the Giant’s House?”
“You mingle—we mingle,” he corrected himself, “at a party with several people—highly complex illusions of succubi and incubi, actually—with drinks, snacks, music, and lust potions perfuming the air. And we get numbers assigned to each of us when we enter. At some point, those numbers will be randomly drawn and two people will go into a closet for seven minutes. The first trick is, the more you lust after someone, but haven’t done anything about it, the more likely you’ll be paired up with their number when the slips are drawn from the hat.”
“I see. The second trick?” Myal asked. “You implied more than one.”
He grimaced. “The trick is not to give in to our lusts in the closet. If we can last for seven minutes without consummating anything, then the door opens to the next gauntlet chamber. Which is the trap Anything But The . . .”
“Anything But The . . . What?” Myal prompted him.
He grinned. “Anything but the bed. We can make love in the next room so long as we don’t touch the bed.” His grin faded into a grimace. “If we touch it, we get chained to it, and won’t get released until the Master of the Tower releases us.”
She gave him a disconcerted look. “I hope this bedchamber is larger than the one at my tenement. If it is the same size, we will be in deep trouble.”
“Oh, there’ll be options. The bed will just be the most appealing surface, that’s all,” he dismissed. “Plus there will be distractions. If we’re sufficiently aroused and into each other, we’ll be able to ignore them. The trap after that, that one will be a little bit difficult. You will see an illusion of twelve Kerrics lined up in a room,” he stated. “And I will see an illusion of twelve Myals. Each of us has to pick out the real Kerric or Myal from all the fakes, and kiss the real one to break the spell so we can move on to the last half-dozen non-Seraglio traps.”
Myal quirked her brows. “I think I’ve heard this story. Something about a king with twelve identical daughters, and the youngest one helps the hero, but he has only three passes to pick her out from the rest or he’ll be beheaded?”
The grin he gave her was lopsided, not quite a grimace. “That’s the right story, and that’s the right trap. But I do have a shortcut.” Digging into his pouch, he pulled out the last two pieces of food, saved all the way from the storerooms of the Adventuring Hall. Handing one of the papery-wrapped objects to Myal, he held up the other. “We have to eat this after we enter the third trap—the room will scry us the moment we step inside and create the illusions; the moment right after they’re created is the moment you eat this. It’s the only thing that will differentiate reality from illusion so that we can break the spell with a kiss.”
Taking the highly recognizable object, Myal wrinkled her nose. “This thing? I thought the original story called for a bit of honey to be eaten, so there would be a bee on the princess’ lip.”
“There won’t be any bugs in that room available,” Kerric said, shaking his head. “So honey wouldn’t work. The best part about this solution is, there’s no reason whatsoever for an illusion-princess—or prince—to consume one of these when looking for his or her lover.”
“You are right about that,” she mused wryly. Tucking it into her cleavage, she nodded. “I’ll do it. But you owe me.”
Placing his hand over his heart, Kerric grinned. “My word of honor, you can collect after I resume my place as Master of the Tower and things get settled back down . . . which will probably be two or three days later. Or as many as four or five,” he added dryly. “But you can collect, eventually. Anyway, once we identify each other, then we’ll be free to take on the last leg of the journey.”
He finished the food in his hand and rose, dusting off his palms. Myal, thinking on what lay ahead of them and what they had just done, frowned softly. “Kerric?”
“Yes?” He turned, giving her his attention.
“When we were in the Giant’s House, you said ‘the woman I love’ . . .”
That was as far as he let her get. Shrugging, he spread his hands. “Mostly a figure of speech. But . . . partially a truth. A growing one. You’re very lovable, Myal,” Kerric admitted, gazing at her. “You make me laugh and smile, you’re smart, capable, articulate, sexy as hell—all of that in that order of importance—and I’ve been kicking myself for not getting to know you better before this gauntlet run. I would like to get to know you better after everything is done, here, but I won’t pressure you into it.”
A smile blossomed on her lips, at first shy, then growing in warmth. Rising to her feet, she beamed it down at him for a moment, then impulsively leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I feel the same way. I’d like to get to know you better after this, too.”
Picking up her unoccupied fingers, he kissed them gallantly, then nodded at the bread still clasped in her other hand. “Finish your meal, and we’ll be on our way. We haven’t seen Torven or his lot in a couple hours, but that doesn’t mean others aren’t working their way inward. This first room in the Seraglio section could take us anywhere from half an hour to three or more.”
“Three hours?” Myal groaned. “It took us almost two hours to get through the Chess Match trap.”
“Only because we had to a
ctually fight each of the piece-to-piece battles, turn by turn,” Kerric reminded her. “Now eat your bread. You’ll need your strength.”
He gave her another kiss on her fingers in sympathy. Myal dutifully started chewing on the bread. When her mouthful was gone, she washed it down with a drink from her half-empty waterskin, refilled that in the ladies’ room and returned it to her backpack, and shouldered the pack as she joined him at the door.
The entrance to the Seraglio section had one obstacle Kerric had forgotten about: an ornately carved, glowing archway with a misty-pink barrier glowing between the marble columns. Myal eyed it, then the man at her side. “Is this supposed to be here?”
“Yes. It’ll ask you two questions. Just answer honestly. I’ll see you on the other side,” Kerric reassured her. Stepping through, or rather, into the mist, he paused for a moment, stated something which she could not hear, paused again, stated something else, and continued through the archway to the far side. It was hard to see him, but he turned and beckoned her forward.
Trusting him, Myal took a deep breath and stepped into the mist.
“Are you physically, mentally, and emotionally mature?”
The voice startled her a bit. It didn’t sound at all like Kerric for all it was male—the voice was deeper, almost a full bass instead of a light baritone—but it did have the same confidence and sense of competence about it.
“Yes, of course,” she said, eyeing the archway. It was about as deep as her arm was long, enough to encapsulate her in the mist, which smelled faintly of both vinegar and flowers, an odd combination.
“Do you enter into the sexual activities of this sector of your own free will, aware of and accepting any and all possible consequences?”
“Yes, I do. There is no way I can get pregnant,” she added bluntly, if under her breath.
“You may pass.” The section of mist in front of her parted, allowing her to rejoin her partner. Kerric grinned and clasped her hand, pulling her down the hall.
The pink haze seemed to extend to the very walls, until she realized they were nothing more than smooth-polished slabs of rose granite instead of pale or dark gray like elsewhere. Faint, subtle friezes had been carved into the polished surface, ones depicting increasingly amorous scenes of opposing genders, same genders, couples, trios, and even whole orgies of delights. Indolence, gluttony, luxury, and lust guided each image she saw as they moved further into the Seraglio.
“Everything on this level is dedicated to the Seraglio scenarios, save for physically unconnected passages leading from one floor to the next, and a few maintenance tunnels, which we won’t touch,” Kerric told her. “There aren’t even any windows or balconies to the outside on this level. But since there’s still a chance for an immature person to get this far into the Tower, the law-sayers ages and ages ago insisted the Guardian of that era put up a Truth Gate to keep those who cannot handle themselves in mature, physical relationships out of this floor.
“If you’d lied, or simply hadn’t been capable of handling yourself, you’d have probably been dumped into the Chuting Gallery or something,” he added. “We want to go down this left here, and take the second set of doors in an alcove on the right.”
Myal eyed the increasingly lurid images flanking them as they followed his memorized directions. She slowed, peering longer at one particular scene. She had a tattoo that just might be able to make herself that limber, but as for Kerric . . . A tug on their interlaced fingers got her moving again.
“Saw something you want to try?” Kerric asked, curious. She blushed, and he smirked. “I must say, working Maintenance has certain perks. You can actually spend time looking at all these lusty carvings. I know I certainly furthered my own erotic education in my second year of working here. Ah, here we are.”
Pulling on the handle, he opened one of the two doors into a lushly appointed gathering hall, one with various cushion-strewn platforms around the edges. A plethora of lit candles provided illumination, scattered at platform level, in wall sconces, and hanging in chandeliers; the flames danced with sultry warmth and perfumed the air with whiffs of exotic, stimulating perfumes. The predominant colors were a velvety red for the carpeting and golden trim on everything, but there were also silken violets, plush blues, and luxurious greens.
Gilded columns twisted up into the vaulted ceiling, and lifelike statues dotted the hall, candelabras held aloft in the muscular arms of mostly-naked, marbled men and curvaceous, alabaster women. Three locations held trays of fruit, bread, meats, and sweets all arranged in finger-food sizes, while pitchers of chilled drinks, their rounded sides beaded with sweat, waited next to stacks of goblets. Five more doorways led into other parts of the Tower, or seemed to, but it was the shrine-line structure at the far end of the hall that held the place of honor. Deeply carved with very erotic figurines in blatantly sexual poses, it held a single door instead of the pairs of double doors spaced down either side of the cushion-strewn chamber.
A chamber which was not unoccupied. Men and women in scraps of cloth just big enough to qualify as swimwear, never mind Aian-style outfits, looked up at their entry. Goblets were raised in greeting, someone waved a hand bearing a bunch of grapes, their intended recipient snapping his teeth on thin air instead of thick, juicy fruit, and a cry went up from dozens of throats, a babble from which a few phrases could be heard.
“They’re here!” “The last members of the party are finally here!” “Send for Senya!” “Huzzah!” “Finally, the party can start!” “Party, like Netherhell—finally the fun can start!” “Someone get Senya!”
A youth with a lean, toned body and skin dark enough to have been an Amazai pelted for one of the far doors on the left. He disappeared through it even as Kerric nudged Myal to the right. “Put your things over by the near right-hand set of doors. Any time you take off anything, even if it’s to put on something else in its place, make sure it ends up with your belongings, or it’ll get left behind,” he murmured in her ear. “Remember, all of this is an illusion. You walk out of here without your real clothes, and you’ll wind up embarrassed.”
“No, worse,” Myal corrected him. “I walk out of here without my underclothes, and my armor will chafe.”
He chuckled, nodded at a few of the women smirking and fluttering their fingers at him, and helped Myal stack their things next to the indicated doors. A moment later, more people poured into the room, easily doubling the fifty or so people already counted inside. Some of them were carrying a litter, upon which reclined a dark-haired woman in a deep green dress edged with embroidered silver. All of the newcomers were chanting, a chant swiftly picked up by the rest.
“Senya! Senya! Senya!”
Hand drums were carried in, along with reed pipes, flutes, and even a stringed instrument or two. The musicians quickly scattered to either side of the presumed closet-shrine, and began thumping and wailing and strumming a soft, sensual, infectious rhythm. Myal found herself swaying with the music, and even Kerric—familiar with this scenario—moved with the beat as well.
The chanting reached a crescendo as the woman was carried to the center of the chamber, and the litter lowered. Two strong, tall, muscular men assisted her to her feet, which she attained with a graceful swirl of her shapely legs. When she stood, she was no taller than Kerric, but commanded the attention of all with as much of his self-confidence, if not more. Not that Myal could blame her; the dark-haired woman had lush curves like the forest-covered mountains ringing the many inlets back home, and a smile to match.
“Welcome,” she purred, her lips a rich, dark red normally seen on ripe, sweet cherries. “Let the numbers be picked, let the fruits be sweet, the wines fragrant, the players lucky . . . and let the games begin!”
A flutter of her gloved hands dispersed a quartet of maidens in layered, pink, diaphanous gowns which flowed from one shoulder to the opposite thigh, barely covering pertinent bits, their hair twined with chaplets of flowers. They moved around the room in pairs, one of each pair
dispensing little lottery tickets from cloth-lined baskets, half of which were retained by the selectors, half of which were tossed into the gilded urn carried by the other woman.
More servants followed. Men in layered blue loincloths came around with platters of food and wine-filled goblets. Women scattering blossoms out of woven baskets, grinning and teasing people by trying to trickle them onto heads, cascade them over shoulders and breasts, arms and bellies and thighs.
By Aian standards, they were all very underdressed with arms and legs covered only by bracelets, anklets, sandal straps and armbands. Many sported bared bellies. By Mendhite standards, Myal had seen similar garments during beachside festivals; there were only so many ways to cut and drape less than a yard of cloth, after all. Myal glanced at Kerric, wondering what he thought of all of this. It took her a few moments to spot him, for he had wandered off while she wasn’t looking.
Kerric, familiar with similar displays from past scrycastings, had moved over to one of the flower-petal girls. A few murmured compliments, a courtly bow, and he fished a fistful of petals out of her basket while she giggled and simpered. Carrying it back over to the wide-eyed Myal, he deliberately scattered them over her skin, even rising up onto his toes to dust her hair. She shivered under their touch, and gave him a questioning look.
“This is all about sensuality, the pleasure to be found in sensations,” Kerric murmured, smirking at her. Leaning in, he pursed his lips and blew at one of the petals clinging to a bit of her skin above the neckline of her undervest. It fluttered and lodged for a brief moment in her cleavage, before flipping free under a little too much blowing and dropping toward the floor. Glancing up, he shrugged. “You can do whatever you like to tease me, but I’d recommend not touching me very much. Remember, the more we sate our desire for each other, the less likely we’ll both be picked in the end.”
