Resort Debauch

by Roxanne Smolen

  The barrow's golden light met her eyes like a balm, the scents and aroma's somehow comforting: sweat and food, the odor of the glowing urns, all formed a mélange which spoke of a home. She paused at the mouth of the tunnel, overlooking the courtyard. People passed in groups, families moving toward the plateau below—mothers with babes upon their shoulders, fathers with children in tow.

  Suppertime, Anneliese thought. She looked toward Myetrae's eatery. The aroma of food caused her stomach to rumble.

  Smiling, the chiliarch spoke with his men, clasping each on the shoulder. A woman interrupted their leave-taking. Tall and angular, she stood with hands upon her hips, her words clipped and rising in pitch. She motioned toward a knot of people standing a short distance away.

  Anneliese thought that two of the people were not of Sayer's barrow—too heavy of build, too light of color. She wondered if they were from the first barrow, coming to take her back.

  But Sayer-Kihn's eyes met hers calmly. “Please wait. I'll be but a moment.” He approached the group, a guard at his side.

  Anneliese glanced toward the man still standing beside her. She rocked back on her heels, and then wrapped her arms about her chest. She watched the people passing, watched their eyes dart away from hers as they herded their children.

  But one little girl moved at her own pace, oblivious to the beckoning of her parents. She recited a singsong rhyme, bouncing a ball every third step, then spinning about before catching it.

  Anneliese smiled. She remembered playing similar games, waiting outside the Great Hall while her father conducted his audiences; and she wondered if this girl felt as lonely as she'd felt then.

  The ball flew and bounced, abruptly hopping from the girl's fingers, skittering away across the stone floor. Anneliese moved to retrieve it.

  A hand clamped onto her arm. “Rafa-Ja, you will not defile us further.” The guard hissed in her ear.

  Anneliese cried out in pain and alarm. “I only meant to help."

  "Do not."

  She looked up into the man's face. His eyes were nearly black, the pupils dilated like an animal about to attack. Anneliese's mouth opened, but she could not think of how to respond.

  Sayer-Kihn's voice unlocked their gaze. “Thank you, Wathe-Taln, but you need not ward her. I am certain no one here wishes to harm our guest."

  Taln released his grip. “Of course,” he said, and bowing slightly, walked away.

  Anneliese rubbed her arm. She avoided looking at Sayer-Kihn, still seeing the guard's face. “He spoke Standard,” she said.

  "He is my trusted companion,” Sayer said as if in answer. “He protects my interests as well as myself. Did he frighten you?"

  "No. Not really.” She looked toward the dispersing visitors. “Another dispute?"

  "The tourists find sport in scattering the yllib, flying at night in unlighted craft. We find them, sometimes, fallen among the rocks, their corpses drawn and dried."

  "Mummified.” Anneliese pictured the effect the harsh weather would have upon a dead body.

  "Yes. Well, another has been located several days from here. Sivlow-Rakin views this as an affront.” He motioned toward the steps leading to the upper plateau. “Can you climb?"

  "Where are we going?"

  "The healer asks to redress your wound. I promised to bring you."

  Anneliese stared at the uneven stairs. “I'm fine. Really."

  "Surely those who race waterfalls are not afraid of heights."

  "It's the darkness. I can't see...."

  "Then I shall assist you."

  Sayer-Kihn held out his hand, and Anneliese took it in her own. His fingers were callused. His palm was dry and warm. The scent of his skin ensorcelled her.

  Together, they crossed the underground plateau. Anneliese felt eyes upon her. She straightened her shoulders, keeping her gaze ahead.

  Hewn from the sloping walls, the stairs listed haphazardly, denouncing the care and artistry of the runes overhead. Anneliese shuddered, noticing patch marks upon the steps.

  Sayer-Kihn moved to the outside, positioning her along the wall as they climbed. “You are quite safe."

  "Yes. I'm sure of it."

  "Have you noticed the walls? They depict many aspects of our history and legend.” He motioned with his chin, keeping a tight hold on her hand. “That one shows Nekkar, the God of Reason, who threw down the stars to seed our world. And there is the birth of Shesula, our greatest prophet."

  Traffic thickened, most going the other way. Shadows obscured the rock. Anneliese stumbled, and Sayer lifted his lantern. He did not make a show of it, merely held out his hand as if pointing at the walls.

  Saving my pride. Anneliese smiled. She looked up at the walls. “I've noticed many animals among your pictographs."

  "It is said our spirits are descended of the beasts. That explains the demise of such creatures on our world. But it does not account for our own dwindled numbers."

  "You sound like you disagree with the teachings of your prophets."

  "Such teachings can be colored by the storytellers, despite our best intentions. We are, after all, merely men."

  "Are all chiliarchs male?"

  "Yes, and our prophets are female. It is not intentional, only the way it is. Tell me, how did you recognize the statue in my parlor?"

  "Jefe-Naik? I've seen the image before. Is she important to you?"

  "She is either salvation or nemesis, lover or fiend. The prophecy claims she will return.” He released her hand. “There, you have safely reached the top."

  Anneliese took the final steps on her own. Her muscles ached, her legs cramping as she straightened them. She looked back over the edge. “I can't imagine going down again."

  "You must.” The chiliarch grinned. “There are no baskets on this level."

  With long strides, he led across the barrow's upper tier. Anneliese thought the area looked older, the carved walls less distinct. People stood in groups—neighbors conversing. Their eyes followed Anneliese, but their expressions were not unkind.

  Anneliese thought of Wathe-Taln's face, felt the bruise his grip left upon her arm. She cleared her throat. “What does Rafa-Ja mean?"

  Kihn shot a glance her way. “It is an old word, a malediction referring to a woman who uses her wiles for personal gain."

  "A prostitute?"

  "More like a temptress. Where did you hear such?"

  Anneliese frowned, looking inward. “Nowhere. I must have misunderstood."

  Ahead, a man sat upon a mat before a chiseled doorway. Anneliese stared at his thinning hair, his weathered face, and realized he was the first elderly person she'd seen in the barrow.

  Sayer said, “Anneliese-Thielman, this is Jayram-Makail, our healer. You were not awake when last you met."

  Anneliese smiled. “Thank you for helping me."

  The man nodded, looking her up and down. His mouth was creased and down turned, but his eyes glittered with mischief. He spoke in his guttural tongue.

  Sayer-Kihn chuckled. “The healer wonders if you have any agonies."

  "I'll let him know if I should feel any."

  "You will have to disrobe if he is to examine your shoulder,” Sayer said. “If you wish, we shall wait here until you are ready."

  She nodded. “That will be fine."

  Ducking through the doorway, Anneliese entered the brightly lit room. She smiled at the apparent disarray. Narrow shelves covered the walls, stacked with books and crockery pots. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, and in the corner, a large urn glowed.

  She moved nearer the urn. Again she felt no heat; the coals blazed without fire or smoke. In the center of the container, several knives were sunk to their hilts, and she marveled that they might be medical tools.

  "You may wrap yourself in the sheet upon the table,” Sayer called.

  She spun toward the empty doorway, and then laughed. “I thought you weren't going to peek."

  "Then, don't dally."

  Smiling to herself, she
stepped toward the table. A flowing material draped it from top to bottom. She fingered the silky weave—the sheet felt warm.

  Struggling, she pulled her tunic over her head. Her shoulder flared with pain, the dull ache fanned by her movements. She tugged at a corner of the sheet, wrapping it about her body. Her eyes widened as she saw the table. She gasped aloud.

  Instantly, the chiliarch filled the doorway. “What is it? Are you ill?"

  For a moment, she only stared at him. “The table. My God! It's made of malpais."

  He stepped inside, his head cocked in confusion. “A common stone. The healer uses it because it holds the warmth of the room, comforts his patients as they lie upon it."

  "It's exquisite. I've never seen...."

  But she had seen a similar table—at the banquet room in the Resort. A barrage of images assaulted her—Cade's smile, the women dancing, Harmadeur's face, his eyes heavy upon her. Anneliese staggered, catching herself upon the edge of the tabletop.

  Sayer-Kihn slipped his arm about her. “I am sorry. I should not have forced you to climb the steps."

  "It isn't that. It's just...."

  She leaned her cheek upon his chest. The heat of his flesh engulfed her. She heard the quickness of his breath, the pulse of his blood, and something within her stirred in answer.

  "Just what?” he whispered near her ear. His fingers cupped her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his own.

  And from a distance, she heard herself say, “Sayer, please help me. I need to go home."

  His eyes flickered, as if her words had stung. Thoughts crossed his face like shadows. Without moving, he pulled himself away.

  "When the healer has pronounced you well,” he said, “I will take you to the city myself."

  CHAPTER 30

  Mortar Thielman stood upon the landing of the Gatesmouth Saloon. The lounge was busy, he thought. Mainly gamblers—if one thing could be counted upon, it was a gambler's patronage. Surah did a smart business, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to dismantle it.

  Crossing the room, he approached a young man standing behind the bar.

  The man continued polishing the countertop and did not look up. “What can I get for you?"

  Mortar settled upon a stool. “Is Surah around?"

  "She's not available. Can I help you with something?"

  "Maybe. I'm looking for her daughter-in-law. I understand she was here recently. A petite girl. Bad haircut."

  The man glanced to either side. “I'm not sure I...."

  "Perhaps this will jog your memory.” Mortar stacked five coins upon the counter.

  The polishing cloth slowed. Mortar watched the young man's face, could almost see the thoughts warring in his mind. He placed another coin upon the bar.

  Behind him, a warning voice called out, “Erit!” A heavy-set local man leaned against Mortar's arm. “What's the problem here?"

  Mortar smiled. “I'm looking for Surah."

  The intruder's eyes met his, the yellow gaze unwavering, and Mortar had the impression of being assessed. Bossman, Mortar thought, not used to being challenged.

  Finally, the man looked away. “Come with me,” he said.

  Mortar pocketed his coins, hurrying after the larger man. They entered an adjoining passage. Noise dampened immediately—a property peculiar to the rock, Mortar knew, and again wished he'd found some way to market it.

  The passage twisted, forming a maze. The bossman took them deeper. A prickle of alarm danced along Mortar's neck. He glanced behind to make certain that Bano was still following.

  At last, they halted before an alcove. The door opened and Surah peered out. Her face feigned pleasant surprise at seeing him, but her eyes were unchanged and Mortar realized he'd been expected.

  "Come in,” Surah said. “We've got some catching up to do. Thank you, Pol, that will be all."

  The man hesitated, and Mortar thought he might be more than just a boss. He entered the apartment, and Surah closed the door in Pol's face.

  "Is this a business call?” she asked. “Or should I change into something more comfortable?"

  "Don't trouble yourself. I won't be staying long."

  "Sorry to hear it.” She sat at a small table.

  Mortar glanced about the cramped room. Boxes and crates obscured most of the furniture. “Your base of operations?” he asked.

  She spread her hands. “This is my empire. All I have left after...."

  Mortar scowled. “You got your money back. I even offered to throw some business your way."

  "I didn't want your cast-off dregs! I wanted to be with you!"

  He glared at her a moment then shook his head. “We never could work together."

  "True. There was always heat between us—of one sort or another. Sit down. I promise not to bite."

  But Mortar remained standing. “I came to offer you a final chance to tell your side of the story."

  Surah laughed. “And which story is that?"

  He leaned toward her across the table. “I know you've been in contact with your son. You warned him. He has something to do with Anneliese's disappearance, doesn't he? And with Harmadeur."

  "That's absurd. Why would he kill the Security Master?"

  "An interesting reaction, Surah. Harmadeur's death isn't public knowledge yet. Tell me, exactly how much did Cade owe?"

  She hesitated. “Too much. The kind of debt that went on long after the financial burden was disbursed."

  "Of course.” Mortar turned away angrily, one hand jammed in his hair.

  Surah got to her feet. “But don't you see? Cade wouldn't have solved anything by having Harmadeur killed—his operatives would have continued the blackmail."

  "If that were true, then he'd likewise have nothing to gain by extortion. So what is the real reason he married my daughter?” Mortar moved around the table, eyes locked upon hers. “You poisoned him against me, didn't you. Raised him on a diet of self-pity and gall."

  "You're mad. A grieving father."

  "My daughter isn't dead."

  Surah flinched visibly. Mortar could see the doubt in her face, questions she wanted to ask but was afraid of giving herself away.

  "Surah, what have you done?” he asked.

  "Me? I've done nothing."

  "Sources tell me she came back here for help."

  "Your sources are wrong!” She looked up defiantly. “What are you saying? Do you think I had something to do with this?"

  "I think you are as you were then—a vicious and spiteful woman."

  "Vicious am I?” Her eyes flared. “Because I dare speak out when I am wronged? Spiteful because I was never able to recoup from a loss? I put my life on hold to raise a son I never wanted! And all the while you lavished gifts upon your whore's daughter...."

  Mortar backhanded her across the face. Surah fell against a cabinet behind her then clung to it for balance. She wiped her mouth, laughing at a streak of blood.

  "Do you realize how much alike you are, even with Cade being raised apart?” she asked.

  "He's not my son, Surah."

  "No,” she said. “But he should have been."

  Turning, Mortar fled the room. The woman was insane, obsessed with their brief affair! How could he gain information from her? He followed the twisting tunnels, his bodyguard close behind.

  At least she knows now that Anneliese is alive. Let her feed her bastard son that tidbit.

  He scowled at the shadows, his ire taking him deeper into the ill-lit labyrinth. Gradually, he realized he'd lost his way. A light shone ahead—he caught a faint smell of garbage. The kitchen, he thought.

  But as he turned the corner, he saw a dumbwaiter. He remembered the accused murderer in the security office claiming to have tracked a boy to the saloon—his daughter, dressed in Harmadeur's robe. No doubt, the man would have killed her if he'd had the chance. Murderers don't look kindly upon witnesses. But, she'd escaped him through here.

  Mortar gazed up the shadowed ceiling. The dumbwaiter was
at the surface. He signaled for its return then rode the lift up the shaft. It stopped in a shed lit only by starlight.

  The air reeked of garbage. Mortar stepped out onto a rocky path, glancing toward the dump. A man stood nearby, emptying a wheelbarrow.

  Mortar called to him in the local language, “You! Wait there! I wish to speak with you."

  The man spun about, his face hidden by night. Even in the darkness, Mortar could see he was deformed, his stance ungainly, one arm hanging low.

  "Don't be alarmed,” Mortar said more forcibly than he'd intended. “I want to know about a child seen around here, an off-worlder who spoke only Standard. You know this child. She went down your dumbwaiter."

  The deformed man appeared to stiffen. Mortar stepped closer, shoulders straight, eyes narrowed.

  Incredibly, the man began to weep. “Don't ask me such. It means my life if I tell you."

  "It will mean your life if you don't."

  The man looked up at the stars, his face drawn in anguish. He said, “Salvation comes in many guises. So too, the curse of the blind. Have I grown so weary I do not recognize, do not see?"

  And Mortar realized he did not need to prod—this man wanted to tell him.

  Leaning against the edge of his wheelbarrow, the kitchen worker wiped his eyes. He sighed heavily, as if he'd carried a burden too long. “It is a woman-child you seek. So frightened and helpless. She came here looking for help. For help. Ah, but the city is cruel to such as us, and none more so than the mistress and her husband."

  "Where's the child now?"

  "Gone.” He sniffed loudly. “They sold her to a malpais scavenger."

  Mortar gasped. She was no longer in the city!

  "Which one?” He shook the man's shoulders. “Tell me which mehtar."

  "I know not.” The man wept. “I learned of it too late."

  Mortar could only stare. An icy rage crept up his stomach. Surah sold his daughter to scavengers. After all these years, she'd finally made good on her threats. He would kill her slowly, break her piece by piece, let her taste some of the suffering she'd fed to those he loved.