Resort Debauch

by Roxanne Smolen

  The young boy's laughter drifted on the breeze. He vaulted down the hill, waving his arms. Only a few of the creatures paid him heed—the rest stood, heads bowed as if grazing.

  Anneliese picked her way down the rock face. The stones were smooth, almost polished. An old riverbed, she thought, imagining the land before the water steamed away.

  As she neared the creatures, she realized how large they were—many able to meet her eye-to-eye. Thick wool cascaded from their backs, hanging in matted hanks. Pilar crouched beneath the belly of a beast, suckling. He looked up at her, smiling broadly, milk spilling over his chin.

  A knot of revulsion crept up Anneliese's throat. She turned away, moving slowly so as not to startle the animals. Few offspring showed among the herd, but even so, many of the creatures appeared swollen with milk, their teats low between their legs.

  Heady with hunger, Anneliese approached one of the yllib, gingerly patting its side. “There, now. Pretty girl. I'm just going to touch you."

  She knelt beside the malodorous creature. Rock dust and pebbles mottled the wool. The udder had two nipples, white with black tips. Steeling herself, Anneliese poked the dangling breast, then took hold and squeezed. Nothing happened. She cupped her other hand beneath the teat, squeezing harder. The yllib bleated, stepping away.

  Behind her, Pilar laughed. “You must take the mamma into your mouth."

  Anneliese shuddered. “No. There must be another way. How do the herders do it, the ones who sell the milk to the city?"

  Pilar pursed his lips, sitting upon his haunches. “Syoney knows. I watch her sometimes. She says when I am older she will teach me."

  Anneliese tensed. She looked at her young friend, not sure how to respond. Did he realize his sister was dead? Did he know what death meant?

  Pilar shrugged, cocking an eye at the yllib. Sidling up to the creature, he took the nipple into his hands, stroking the bloated flesh. The yllib rewarded him with a squirt of milk.

  Pilar squealed, continuing the motion. Anneliese caught the milk in cupped hands. The liquid was hot and thick. She drank carefully, aware of the stench of the yllib, the filth upon her fingers. Hunger overtook her aversion. Smacking her lips, she reached for more.

  Finally sated, Anneliese leaned back. A breeze lifted her makeshift scarf. Pilar spotted a teioid sunning itself upon a rock and hopped away, leaping on all fours, trying to catch the lizard.

  Anneliese gazed down the length of the ravine—it ran beyond her vision in either direction. Perhaps fifty beasts milled about the slopes, digging at the rocks with splayed hooves and dining upon the hidden moss. A few nibbled the trees, stripping the shaggy bark.

  Standing wearily, Anneliese moved to the nearest tree. The trunk was thick and woody. She thought of the wicker carriage she'd ridden to the marketplace, of Lirtsban's wagon. Reaching, she touched a crown of leaves sprouting from the treetop—and a tiny bird broke free, startling her with its whirring wings.

  Anneliese smiled, watching it. “This valley holds more life than I've seen since I began this tour. Perhaps we should...."

  As if on cue, the milk-giving creatures dropped to their knees. Pilar gave a strangled cry. Anneliese spun about. All the yllib, wherever they stood, folded laboriously to the ground, like dominoes upon a game board.

  Pilar took hold of her robe. “Flee! Flee! We must escape!” He hopped on one foot, pointing.

  With narrowed eyes, Anneliese looked down the ravine. The end appeared hazy, as if being erased.

  A windstorm.

  "Gather the rocks!” she cried. “We'll build a shelter."

  Pilar trembled visibly. “No. The Llaird! They hide in the wind!” And he took off running as if his devils had finally found him.

  Anneliese's neck prickled. She looked again toward the clouded ravine. She imagined what she saw was not the wind at all, but a hundred tribesmen galloping on mounted steeds. If the Llaird were a punishment as Pilar believed, how would they judge her?

  Ahead, Pilar climbed the rocky slope. Anneliese raced after him. Fear beat her chest almost painfully. A distant wail met her ears: a terrible sound, as with the howl of a wolf. The cloudless sky grew distant and streaked, the sun deepening in color.

  Anneliese struggled up the steep slope. Her arm dangled, and her wounded shoulder felt hot and stiff. The smooth stones slipped beneath her sandals. Wind lapped at her heels. Pulling herself over the lip of the ravine, she looked back.

  The storm moved at an incredible pace, churning pebbles into the air. At the valley's farthest reaches, the yllib were mere shadows.

  Panic churned the milk in her belly. She called Pilar's name. The boy was no longer in sight. She should not have allowed him to run off like that. He was addled, confused, a small frightened child....

  ...believing the Llaird ran with the wind.

  Just then, she heard a scream.

  Anneliese stiffened, a chill traveling her spine. “Pilar?” she called.

  He was nowhere. Nowhere. She replayed the sound in her mind. It was the wind, she told herself, or one of the yllib. Slowly gathering speed, Anneliese ran.

  The wind gusted and yanked—the fringes of the storm. Straining her voice, she called out. Boulders rose about her, misshapen monoliths half-eaten by time, and she clung to them for support, bounding and rebounding. Dust swirled in eddies, stinging her cheeks, her eyes. She wrapped the end of her scarf across her face.

  And sensed movement beside her.

  "Pilar?” she cried, turning. She saw only the rocks. The back of her neck grew cold. “Pilar, we don't have time for games."

  The wind howled in answer. She stumbled forward.

  There's no one there. Don't spook yourself. All this talk of the Llaird.

  Motion caught the corner of her eye. She gasped, walking backward, pulse beat filling her ears.

  No one there. Keep walking.

  "Pilar, where are you?"

  The storm struck with sudden ferocity. Anneliese staggered beneath the onslaught. The world darkened as if thrown into twilight. Wind raged as if at unbearable pain.

  Anneliese leaned into the gale. Flying debris scoured the land, threatening to flail her flesh from her bones. Her scarf ripped away, disappearing instantly.

  A shadow stirred beside her.

  She spun about. Wind buffeted her slight form. Slanted dust obscured her sight. The shadow moved again.

  They hide in the wind.

  Anneliese held out her arms, protecting her face from airborne debris. Her robe whipped as if taking flight. Another shadow appeared. She sensed eyes upon her, silent figures watching from behind a curtain of wind. Pilar's demons.

  Pilar!

  The storm carried her bodily, slammed her into a wall of stone. Points of light invaded her vision. Then darkness moved toward her—a mummy's face wrapped in rags. She opened her mouth, screaming. A hand clamped over the sound, something sweet against her lips.

  She struck out in slow motion, clawing the glowing eyes. Breath crushed from her body. The world closed around her, a cocoon of darkness holding her attackers at bay. The wind drifted....

  CHAPTER 22

  Mortar brushed dust from his jacket, glancing back at the darkened stairwell. Even twenty-five feet underground, he could hear the remnants of the windstorm. Damned nuisance. A whole day wasted.

  Side-stepping his hulking bodyguard, he leaned on the rail of a narrow landing overlooking the Gatesmouth Saloon. It had been ten years or more since he'd been there last, but it looked the same. New tables, he thought. Business was poor, probably due to the weather. No one took notice of his presence. He would ask at the bar for the proprietor. Cade's mother.

  But before he stepped down, a woman caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes. Her hair was gray rather than raven black, but he recognized the tilt of her head, the swagger in her step. She kept to the perimeter of the room, wiping tables, adjusting chairs, as if she worked there. An employee, for God's sake. The indomitable Surah Rudnitsky.

 
He approached slowly, unsure of her reaction: old friend, old lover, old wound. Foolishly, he ran a hand over his hair, pushing it back.

  "Hello, Surah,” he said.

  She straightened suddenly, knocking into a chair, causing it to fall. “Mortar. What are you doing here?"

  "I've caught you at a bad time."

  "I can't imagine a good one."

  She glared, and for a moment, he thought she might strike him. Then her eyes softened.

  "I've prepared speeches for this day,” she said, “all the points I would make if I saw you again. Somehow, I can't think of a single one."

  "That's not your style. You've always managed to have the last word."

  "Well, maybe I will yet. Sit down. I'll buy you a glass of milk.” She cocked a brow. “Or do you prefer something stronger?"

  Mortar smiled. “Yllib milk will be fine."

  She walked away, tucking a wisp of hair into her heavy braid. Mortar righted the toppled chair then sat at the table, his back to the wall, feeling edgy and vaguely embarrassed. Bano took up station a discreet distance away, and Mortar thought of how accustomed he'd become to having the bodyguard at his side.

  "Should I have brought one for your friend?” Surah asked as she slid a tray onto the table.

  Mortar said, “He doesn't drink."

  "Automaton, eh? I thought so, although he looks natural enough."

  Mortar watched her pour two glasses of the frothy concoction. She placed a loaf of nut bread on the table between them, and then put the tray upon the floor.

  He said, “I can't believe I've run into you like this."

  "Fate, I guess. Our lives intercrossed. Do you come to the Resort often?"

  "No. I did for a few years after Mari was killed. Trying to lose myself, you know."

  "Mari's dead?” Surah looked up.

  "Almost thirteen years."

  "I'm sorry."

  He shook his head. “Don't lie to me."

  She looked away, lifting her glass to her lips. “Why are you here now?"

  "You haven't heard? They say my daughter was in that explosion."

  Surah's hand flew to his forearm. “I knew there were deaths, of course, but...."

  He scowled. “I'm told it was the work of Llaird terrorists."

  "That doesn't surprise me. The Llaird are capable of anything. The atrocities I've seen—murder and enslavement.” Surah met his eyes. “But I truly am sorry, Mortar. I would not have had this happen to her."

  She drew away, leaving warm trails on his arm. He watched her from beneath his lowered brow. It was good to see her again, good to be with someone he once called friend, even when the friendship ended so badly.

  Surah took a knife from the cutting board and sliced the bread. “Try some. I baked it myself."

  "It smells good.” He took a bite, nodding in appreciation. “So, how long have you worked for the Resort?"

  "I don't. I pay my dues, just like anyone else."

  "Then, the saloon's no longer under direct control? I'd like to meet the owner."

  "You're looking at her."

  Mortar wheezed as if punched in the stomach. He grasped the edges of the table. “You ... are Cade's mother?"

  "Icadeum Rudnitsky. He hates that name."

  Mortar narrowed his eyes. “Where is he, Surah?"

  "I wouldn't know. He always was a difficult child. No father, you see."

  "He married Anneliese."

  "My son and your daughter ... in love?” Surah threw back her head, laughing. “How perfectly ironic."

  Coldness seeped into Mortar—through his feet, his hands upon the table, twisting in his gut. Quietly, he asked, “What did you tell him about me?"

  "Everything. How we were in business together, how I funded your first run, how you broke off our engagement to marry ... her."

  "We were never engaged, Surah."

  "I must say, I was shocked when Cade told me you'd taken him under your wing. I always thought he despised you. But he said business was business, and he wanted to learn from the best."

  "And he never told you he was courting my daughter?” he asked.

  "Oh, he was in here last week claiming to be in love again. I thought she was some moiru dancer."

  Mortar slammed his hand down, rattling the glasses. “I swear, if you know where he's gone...."

  "Mortar. Why would I lie?"

  Why indeed? he raged inwardly. You've only vowed to ruin my life, to someday wreak vengeance!

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Forget it. I guess I'm overwrought."

  Surah got to her feet. “I'd best be back to work. Sorry for your troubles."

  "Surah, I have to speak with him. If you hear anything...."

  "Who, me? Tucked away on this go-nowhere planet? No, I know nothing about your daughter, even less about my wayward son.” She leaned close. “But, oddly enough, it was nice talking to you. Perhaps I'll see you again."

  She gave a familiar gravely laugh, walking away through the labyrinth of tables.

  Mortar clenched his empty glass. Another waste of time. She knew nothing. Nothing. He was no closer to an answer.

  Yet, if Surah were as uninformed as she professed, how had she known Anneliese was the name of his daughter?

  Stop it! he thought. Was he so distraught he saw conspiracy in everything? He looked up at the ceiling, his face hot, eyes stinging. Helpless. He'd always hated that in others.

  Closing his eyes, he listened to the sounds growing around him: a murmur of voices as patrons straggled in, a clatter of jugs behind the bar, the ching-ching of dancers rising over the music. Then the music stopped. Mortar looked around.

  A rotund man holding a bulbous musical instrument peered about Bano.

  Mortar felt a jolt of recognition. He jumped up, holding out his hand. “Oxchord! My God, man. How have you been?"

  "Fine, Mr. Thielman.” The fat musician beamed.

  "What are you doing working here in the slums? Have you fallen from grace?"

  "When you owe credits to the Security Master, it's best to keep out from underfoot.” He nodded solemnly. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your daughter. Everyone is talking about it."

  "Even down here?"

  "Especially here. Surah keeps a vid-screen in back just for newscasts."

  Mortar winced. Why did she lie?

  Oxchord said, “Anneliese was a beautiful girl."

  "You met her?"

  "I played for her. She came in with Surah's son."

  Coldness. “When?"

  "That day,” Oxchord said. “Before the explosion. I remember she left her hat behind."

  Mortar stiffened as if his spine had turned to ice. Only his eyes would move. Slowly, he looked over to where Surah tended the bar.

  Once before you sought to destroy me with your bastard son, he thought, but no more. Whatever you've done, I will find you out, and this time I will finish you.

  CHAPTER 23

  Anneliese opened her eyes upon an underground chamber. Voices swirled outside her hearing. Large, glowing urns angled light into her face. Beyond them, a shadow shifted.

  She leapt to her feet. Instantly, hands closed from behind, imprisoning her, and she struggled feebly, squinting into the light. Figures surrounded her, watchers in the dark. The dank air bristled with hostility.

  A cry died in her throat. Bits of her capture came back to her: clouds of dust, hidden faces. The Llaird, traveling with the wind. Fear tightened her stomach and lightened her head.

  Anneliese jumped at a voice. A woman shared her spotlight. She was tall and cadaverous, unkempt and savage. She addressed a dais beyond the lighted circle, disgust punctuating her unpronounceable language. Stepping away, she exposed a figure kneeling upon the floor.

  Pilar! The youngster trembled, head bowed, looking small and vulnerable. Anneliese strained against the hands that bound her. The savage woman continued her litany, motioning toward the boy.
>
  He was on trial, Anneliese realized suddenly. How could they judge him? She had done many things of which she was ashamed, but Pilar was a child, an orphan.

  A voice came from the dais. Anneliese recognized the word naplaugh, felt the weight of the man's tone, as if he had decreed that Pilar was bereft of worth.

  Her stomach dropped. Time became dreamlike, a scene moving in slow motion. She saw the woman turn toward Pilar, saw light glint as she raised her knife.

  "Pilar!” Anneliese cried. With all her might, she stamped upon the instep of the man holding her, at the same time twisting from his grasp. She threw herself between the boy and the approaching executioner. “He is not a non-person. He is a boy."

  A hush fell over the cavern. Then someone asked, “Would you die in his place?"

  Mocking her. Anneliese seethed with anger. They wouldn't dare cause her harm. She was Anneliese Thielman—her father could buy this world. She raised her chin until it nearly reached knifepoint.

  Someone moved behind her. “I've seen you before, I think. In the hangar, and again in the marketplace. Where is the man to whose arm you once clung so desperately?"

  Anneliese spun about. She recognized the man—the chiseled features, hair plated over his shoulder. He was the man she'd seen hiding in the spaceport. He watched her with a mixture of patience and amusement, golden eyes glinting, and then swung his arm in a grand gesture.

  "I will take these two into my servitude,” he said boldly. “Your recompense for infractions incurred."

  Voices raised in protest, swelling within the cavern.

  The chiseled man viewed the crowd then lifted his face toward the hidden podium, his words low and even. “We are not enemies here. There is but one defacer. Let us not confuse these two with that which they represent."

  A deep voice chuckled. “Take care, Sayer-Kihn. Even a chiliarch must abide by his barrow. I doubt your people will find merit in such a trade."

  "The wishes of my people lay beyond your comprehension. See that these are given water."

  Anneliese watched the man stride from the circle. Her heart pounded.