by Jill Braden
As QuiTai watched, Jezereet slowly raked her fingernails from her wrist to her elbow, leaving long angry welts.
She roused as she saw QuiTai.
QuiTai quickly shook her head and motioned for Jezereet to be patient. She pointedly turned away, but not before catching Jezereet’s furious stagger up the stairs.
A rangy, white-blond customer sat at one of the small tables in the center of the room, ignoring the woman who tried to talk him into buying her a drink. At first glance, QuiTai thought his frock coat had a raised collar, but when she drew closer, she saw the blue veins that branched between the knobby bones that supported the frill. Until she saw a dewclaw on his toe she couldn’t be sure that he was a Ravidian, but she didn’t know of another race with a neck frill like that.
The expatriate at the next table could have been the Ravidian’s twin. He daubed his sunburned forehead with a folded handkerchief. An ugly red scar ran between two fingers, across the back of his hand, and disappeared under the lace cuff at his wrist. When he saw her looking at it, he hid his hand under the table.
These two weren’t familiar to her: In a small town like Levapur, that was unusual. It seemed odd that they’d choose to come to Ponong now, since it meant crossing the Te’Am Ocean during typhoon season. Besides, the history of the continent was written in Thampurian and Ravidian blood. Why would Ravidians come so far from home to a small island controlled by their enemies, unless they were the Ravidian smugglers PhaNyan had promised to deliver to her?
After admonishing herself for jumping to conclusions, QuiTai reminded herself of the task at hand. The smugglers could wait until after her business in the Red Happiness was complete.
Kyam glowered as she threaded her way between the tightly packed tables toward him. He’d missed a spot on his cheek whenever he had last shaved, and his straight black hair was sorely in need of a cut. The tropical sun had turned his skin a healthy golden brown and etched a few lines around his dark eyes. His only defect was the impatience that set his face into a permanent scowl. Tonight, she could match his mood and then some.
His easel sat before him and he held a brush, but QuiTai had observed him long enough from across the road to know that he had yet to apply the orange paint to his canvas. That was in keeping with his cover as a dilettante artist and wastrel son. In the year that he’d lived on the island, she’d never seen his façade drop. Her admiration for him was grudging, though. After all, she’d played her part for far longer. Only his bitterness seemed real to her, although she couldn’t imagine what he had to be angry about.
His sleeves were pushed back to reveal powerful forearms and his open collar showed more of his broad chest than was proper. When she reached his table, he dropped his paintbrush into a glass filled with murky liquid. “What’s with the fancy dress?”
She flicked a raindrop from her soft velvet sleeve. What a delight that her pains to dress for this meeting hadn’t been in vain. It was as if some cruel god had plucked her from an afternoon stroll in Thampur’s lush Suvat Park and dropped her in a sweatbox. She hoped it reminded Kyam of his home: she took such pleasure in poking the snarling Thampurian in his tender spots.
“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. I always dress like a Thampurian when we conduct business, Mister Zul.”
“Business!”
His grudging laugh hinted at mockery, but his gaze slid to the Ravidian nearest him. She knew it was a signal to her to make any watchers believe that the animosity between them had not changed. That was easy enough. It hadn’t, except that he wanted very much to speak with her. There were plenty of dark alleyways in Levapur where they could have conducted any business he had in mind, so he must want witnesses. That was enough to pique her curiosity.
“I don’t like it any more than you do, sea dragon,” she said.
He picked up a bottle of rum, but paused before taking a swallow. “The Devil has enough thugs to commit his crimes, and he has you to do his really dirty work, snake. So what business could your master possibly have with me?”
She’d called him a sea dragon first, so she supposed he thought was only fair to call her a snake, but the terms weren’t equally derogatory. Thampurians bragged about being sea dragons; the Ponongese didn’t think of themselves as snakes.
QuiTai turned to the typhoon shutters. Outside, rain fell in misty swirls that obscured the world beyond the veranda. He wanted everyone to think she’d sought him out: That didn’t mean she had to make it easy for him. If he wanted a favor, he’d have to earn it. Then he’d have to atone for calling her a snake.
Kyam grunted. The chair scraped across the wood floor as he kicked it toward her.
QuiTai said, “I see that one can send a scion of the thirteen families to the finest schools in Thampur, but even they can’t make a gentleman out of him.” She settled into the seat, put the box she carried at her feet, and hooked her umbrella’s handle onto the edge of the table.
“If I wanted to be a gentleman, I would have stayed in Thampur.” Kyam took a long swig from his bottle.
“I didn’t think you’d had a choice about leaving.”
Kyam took long, deep breaths, as if trying to calm himself. He failed. “Whatever business your master has with me, tell him I’m not interested. Go away!” He pointed to the door.
QuiTai crooked a finger at Kyam as she leaned across the table. He glared at her but met her halfway. The Ravidians, she noticed, tried to act as if they alone in the room weren’t eavesdropping on the conversation, even though QuiTai could have reached out and touched both of them. She gave him her wickedest smile, as if she planned to say something that would make even the workers of the Red Happiness blush; then she whispered, “Now what am I supposed to do?”
“You’re smart. You’ll think of something.” Kyam said through gritted teeth.
“I may be smart, but I’m not a nice woman and I grow tired of this game. I could leave. That’s something.” Her teeth barely nipped his ear.
Kyam slammed back in his seat as if stung. He slowly lifted his fingers to his earlobe while watching her.
QuiTai chuckled quietly. “Come now, Mister Zul. Those weren’t my fangs, only my teeth. Too many witnesses, and I don’t particularly care to hang.” She rose.
Kyam gripped her arm. “What do you want, Lady QuiTai?”
Briefly, she thought about leaving anyway, but curiosity won. “Ah! Excellent! You found your manners.” She pointedly stared at his hold on her arm until his grip eased. She sat back down, but didn’t say anything.
Kyam’s impatient growl only made her smile more. But as fun as it was to irk him, she decided to play nice – for now. “My master requests a portrait.”
“A portrait?”
Kyam’s acting skills impressed her. He sounded genuinely surprised.
“You are an artist?” Her tone implied doubt as she flicked her hand toward his canvas, evoking and dismissing it in the same gesture.
“Tell the Devil that I only paint flowers.”
“Is that what those lurid whirls are supposed to be?” She held up her hand to stop Kyam’s outraged comments. “I told him you don’t do portraits, but I’m afraid I was unable to dissuade him.” She wondered how long she was supposed to continue this scene, and to what purpose. While it showed that Kyam had some respect for her intelligence, it was maddening that she didn’t know where the conversation was supposed to lead.
Kyam glanced at the Ravidians. He picked up his drink and sent the contents swirling inside the bottle with a slight flick of his wrist. The sight seemed to mesmerize him. She stabbed his foot with the pointy tip of her umbrella. He held back his yelp as he tapped on the table with his forefinger. When she glanced down, he looked away while turning the paper under his finger. She recognized the chop of the Dragon Pearl. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to admire his ingenuity.
QuiTai’s small velvet purse dropped onto the table between them with a solid thunk. “It’s a long time between remittance payments, Mis
ter Zul, especially when you have gambling debts.” She rose. It was time for him to come to the point.
His eyes widened a bit too much, but it was for the benefit of the audience, not her. “How the hell did you know about that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Exactly,” he muttered.
Her eyebrow rose. Had he finally mentioned the reason he wanted to speak with her?
He grabbed her purse and shoved it into his pocket without counting the coins. Then he ran his fingers through his hair until it was tousled, and grinned as he stretched. QuiTai could feel the other patrons poised for a demonstration of his cutting wit.
“I guess if I can paint a flower, I can paint the Devil’s whore.”
“A whore, Mister Zul? That’s the best you can do? Not up to your usual level of banter. Are you feeling unwell? A dose of the cleanse should clear up that little problem.”
While she was poised to go, there was a point that had to be made now, before they pursued whatever it was he wanted from her. QuiTai leaned over him again and whispered, “This is a game for grownups. If you ever involve a child in your plots again, you will not live to see the sun set.”
He nodded slightly.
She picked up her box and umbrella, even though she still had no idea what Kyam wanted. It had something to do with her sources, but that was hardly enough for her to go on. She wasn’t sure what sitting for a portrait entailed, but it seemed to her that ought to take several sessions, which meant that he expected them to consult a few times. Interesting.
“I will call on you tomorrow morning, Mister Zul. Try to be sober by then.”
And now she had to pay the price for Petrof’s permission to meet Kyam. Normally, she entered the Red Happiness by climbing a vine in the back alleyway to the second floor veranda; but Petrof surely had her watched, and she wanted him to know that she’d obeyed him.
Kyam and the other patrons watched her with varying degrees of astonishment as she walked up the brothel’s main staircase to the bedrooms on the second floor.
~ ~ ~
The second floor hallway of the Red Happiness wasn’t as garish as the first; by the time customers walked up the stairs, the décor no longer mattered. Doors were clustered in threes down the long, wide hallway. The two side doors of each cluster led to the bedrooms where the workers plied their trade: the narrow center door opened to a passageway between the rooms where patrons could peek through spy holes. Peeping was cheaper, and some patrons simply preferred watching.
Two men came out of a room, exchanged friendly nods with QuiTai, and headed downstairs.
QuiTai knocked on the last door to the left.
“I’m not taking customers tonight,” Jezereet said wearily from within.
QuiTai knocked again. “It’s me.”
The door flew open. Jezereet gripped QuiTai’s wrist and yanked her into the room.
The walls were covered in rose and cream striped silk. The furniture was white wood trimmed in gold, a truly Ingosolian fashion. Rose silk draped over a table and cascaded to the floor; framed pictures and mementos crowded the lace doily. Little machines for playing music and other clever gadgets of entertainment sat abandoned on shelves and tucked under the divan. Although Jezereet rarely took customers anymore, a large bed filled most of the room.
QuiTai held out her arms. “Forgive me for staying away so long.”
“Did you bring any?”
QuiTai bit her lip. Then she forced a smile. “I brought you a present! I think you’ll like it.” She showed Jezereet the black box with crisp corners.
Jezereet scratched her arm. “You always give presents when you won’t let me have what I need.” Her underskirts rustled as she moved across the room. Short black tassels bounced enticingly against her backside with each step. Jezereet had always favored her female form.
She sank onto a chair before a dressing table with the slow grace of a tightly corseted woman, but from the loose laces on her cincher, QuiTai could tell that Jezereet had lost even more weight.
Jezereet checked her make-up, then picked up a pot of lip rouge and brushed some on her lips.
QuiTai placed the box on the low table and sank onto the pink silk divan where she could see Jezereet’s reflection in the mirror. “Would you like to see what I brought you?”
“You dismissed me.”
Jezereet had been a notorious diva and star of the stage before she came to Levapur. Now she was simply a diva. There was a time when her slightest frown sent actors, directors, and fans scrambling to please her; now there was only QuiTai. No one was more forgiving of Jezereet’s habits, though, and QuiTai knew that no one else had ever worked so hard to keep her happy. Once upon a time, it had been out of love. Now, it was more complex than QuiTai cared to reflect upon.
“If I had black lotus for you, I would have come up immediately,” QuiTai said sadly.
That was the Devil’s bargain. She had to torment Jezereet with the promise of black lotus and then not deliver it. His jealousy had a cruel edge. Now she saw how foolish it was to think a gift could soften the blow. All that Jezereet cared about was her addiction.
“I don’t want another damn gift! I need the vapor. Look at me!” She held out her pink-streaked arms.
Grief washed over QuiTai. The Devil was probably chuckling with glee right now, picturing QuiTai’s despair and Jezereet’s hysterics. He didn’t know Jezereet like she did, though: after the storm, there would be calm.
QuiTai patted the box. “This was imported all the way from Rantuum.”
Jezereet’s gaze met QuiTai’s in the mirror before she returned to fixing her makeup. “I haven’t even read the fashion magazines you brought me last time.”
“Let me save you the trouble. They’re showing a different silhouette in Rantuum. The skirts are quite narrow.” She flipped open one of the magazines. “Here it is. The ladies must take mincing steps, which creates a movement pleasing to a gentleman’s eye. The old pervert apparently likes some sway from the hips and a bouncing bosom.”
QuiTai saw Jezereet roll her eyes. “Leave it to my fellow countrymen to come up with something scandalous. Next thing you know, they’ll get rid of corsets.”
QuiTai wriggled, and pinched her waist where it itched: she could barely feel her own fingertips through the corset. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
Jezereet turned around to face her. “You used to get so impatient while your maid buttoned your bodice.”
“I should have been more grateful to her. It’s impossible to put on these stupid clothes by myself, and werewolves make terrible lady’s maids. Casmir had to lace me up again, with Petrof growling at him the entire time. If Casmir could have pulled the strings tight enough to suffocate me, I’m sure he would have.”
“So why are you dressed like that? That sexy Thampurian downstairs? He’s from a rich family, you know,” Jezereet said.
“And a remittance man. He’s as close to being disowned as you can get.”
Jezereet held up a curl and dissected it with her fingernail. “They don’t do that. Noble blood and all. They only want to teach him a lesson.” Her brow furrowed. “Although you should be careful. We know what the Devil does to people you love.”
That wound Jezereet always kept fresh. She had willingly taken the vapor with Petrof, but she’d never accepted her responsibility for it any more than she’d apologized for dallying with QuiTai’s lover. But as soon as she was addicted, Petrof’s visits stopped.
“I can only apologize for what he did so many times,” QuiTai said. After a while, no matter how much she meant it, the words lost their power. She didn’t want to say it anymore because it didn’t change anything. The past was the past, and no regrets could fix any of it.
Perhaps sensing that she’d sent QuiTai’s thoughts down a path strewn with recriminations neither wanted to revisit, Jezereet sat next to QuiTai. “Let’s open my gift. Although that is the ugliest box I’ve ever seen. I shudder to think of the hat insid
e it.”
“It isn’t a hat.”
The sturdy handle swung down so QuiTai could lift the top. From the box, she pulled a pair of big copper opera glasses with a long brass handle and one red and one green lens.
Jezereet gave QuiTai a doubtful look. “That’s hideous. What is it?”
“It’s a bit heavy, so be careful. Put it to your eyes and peer through the openings.”
Jezereet still seemed unconvinced, but she put the contraption up to her eyes.
“Now watch.” QuiTai wound a knob between the two lenses.
“Oh! Pictures. But they’re moving! They look so real.” Jezereet’s free hand reached out before her and grasped at the air. “It’s like I can touch them.”
“It’s a kinescoptic motion picture, the latest thing from Ingolsol. Your people are so clever. It’s like being at the theater for a show.”
“Only I can’t hear what they’re saying.”
Leave it to Jezereet to pay attention to what it wasn’t, not what it was. “There’s no sound. After a while, you learn to read their lips. Watch out for the Houltoness. I think she improvised her lines. At least, I don’t remember anything about sex with animals in the original script, but I might be mistaken. It’s been years since we were on stage.”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
“It feels like a lifetime,” QuiTai murmured.
“A card popped up with words on it. Wait! Now we’re back to the actors.” Jezereet’s hand went to her mouth. “That’s Gernert.” She lowered the device from her eyes. “He’s playing Kenertate? But he’s such a ham.”
QuiTai tipped the device with her fingertips so that Jezereet would keep watching. “Wait till you see who they’ve cast as Inaza.”
She didn’t have to wait long for Jezereet’s outraged squeak. “That little no-talent bitch!”
“She never had your presence.”
Jezereet sat in entranced silence while QuiTai tried to figure out a gift that might please her more next time. Then she lowered the device. “That was wonderful. Except Gernert. He wouldn’t know restraint and subtlety if they kicked him in the balls.”
