by Ailx Nichols
But the most striking thing about her was her face. With its silky-smooth skin, blue eyes looking upon the viewers with benevolence and a soft smile playing on her lips, that face could’ve belonged to an angel.
If she wore any makeup, she’d applied it tastefully and with moderation. From where he sat, Iyatt couldn’t tell if the blush on her cheeks and the red of her lips were her own or a product of artifice. Could that magnetic look in her eyes be a result of trickery, too? Was it possible to fake a look like that?
As she positioned herself to begin her dance, he stared at her, enthralled… until he remembered where he was. And who she was.
Quickly, he shifted his gaze to the only other person on the stage, her male accompanist. Perched on a high stool, he had a coilpipe strapped around his neck and a tambour mounted beside him.
As it happened, he was the one wearing the heavy eye makeup Iyatt had expected to see on Haysimina. He had long, wavy hair that hung down his shoulders and back. The musician’s muscled, lean body was clad in tight black pants. His white shirt gaped, revealing a smooth, oiled expanse of chest.
An outlier, Iyatt concluded. That was what the vestals in the orphanage called people whose appearance and manners set them apart from the majority of Ra-humans. When no adults were around, some of the boys called outliers much cruder names. But not Iyatt. It never felt called for. Just mean.
He pushed his shoulders back.
The moral rectitude that guided him through life and had become the backbone of his existence over the years could not be entirely alien to his nature. He’d been wicked, there was no doubt about that. But he hadn’t been evil. Perhaps there’d been a grain of goodness in him even in his troubled youth.
The accompanist began to play a rhythmic, pleasant tune. The public cheered and clapped. Haysimina commenced her dance.
Iyatt had heard of belly dancing before but had never seen it performed. A far cry both from the ungainly crawling dance of old and from boisterous jumping jigs, this routine was an unashamed hymn to the female body.
And to the heavenly delights it promised.
With an easy, natural sensuality, Haysimina shimmied her hips front to back and side to side, vibrating them while her upper body remained still. Iyatt leaned forward, unable to look away. Rotating her wrists, she raised her arms and snaked them in the air with a grace Iyatt had never seen before. Her long-fingered hands drew small circles in the air.
Iyatt’s breathing grew shallow. He tried to will himself to look away, but his body refused to obey the order. Ruthless, Haysimina added one more layer of moves—and more torture for Iyatt—by shimmying her shoulders.
The accompanist increased the tempo.
She put one foot forward, bending her knee and angling her leg slightly. Iyatt tensed, trying to guess what she’d do next. Surprising him, she undulated her entire body this time, head to toe. He swallowed thickly, his heartbeat ratcheting up. Another full body wave, and then she pulsated her chest and stomach in crisp little hits that made him dizzy with want.
Get a grip, Samurai!
As he realized he’d grown hard inside his pants, a dark, burning shame flooded him. Unie, his fiancée, his love, had departed only four months ago! How could it be that his body—his lewd, stupid body—was already capable of lusting after another woman?
How dare he!
Iyatt angled his chair and shifted his body to face the door instead of the stage. He needed a respite. Profoundly shocked by his lack of control, he focused on his breathing and then looked around the room.
The crowd consisted mostly of middle-aged men with a few harlots ensconced on a smattering of men’s laps. In the back, a familiar face made Iyatt jump.
Between a stout nobleman and a bespectacled proficient sat Lippin. He was Rhori’s locksmith buddy, a rebel who’d joined the Association shortly after Rhori, and a fellow member of the Fulcrum.
What was he doing here?
Same thing as you and every single man in this room, a sarcastic voice in Iyatt’s head prompted. Leering and lusting.
Except, Lippin wasn’t leering at Haysimina. He was leering at her accompanist.
Spotting Iyatt, Lippin’s eyebrows rose momentarily, as if he hadn’t expected to see the samurai in a place like this. Then he touched his forehead and inclined his head. Iyatt responded with a brow-and-bow of his own.
The music ceased, and the viewers threw coins onto the stage—some small, others bigger. A drinar, two drinar… Iyatt spotted a fiver. He pulled a tenner from his wallet and tossed it to Haysimina. She smiled in response.
Now I have her attention, he told himself.
He also told himself his gesture had been just that—bait to get her to come over to him so he wouldn’t need to look for her among debauchers and fornicators. It hadn’t been a reward for her incredible… err, indecent dance.
The accompanist went backstage. Lippin followed him there. Haysimina bowed to the public before stepping down and heading to Iyatt.
He sprang up from his chair.
She stopped in front of him. “Thank you again, sir. First time watching a belly dance?”
“What gave me away?”
“Um… nothing.” Her lips quirked with a mischievous smile, and her eyes darted to his still tented crotch. “Just a wild guess.”
Oh, so she’d noticed.
“Yes, my first time,” he admitted, refusing to act coyly. “And the last.”
She tilted her head to the side. “I thought you’d enjoyed our show, judging by the largeness of your”—her lips twitched again—“tip.”
Iyatt ignored her comment, wondering instead why no one in her eager audience had done more than blow her a kiss or tip his hat from a distance. Wouldn’t they be wanting more? Shouldn’t they be fighting over who gets the main course after such a mouthwatering starter?
She followed his gaze. “My number is dance only, just so you don’t expect—”
“I don’t!” He schooled his features into a more neutral expression. “I’m here to talk, like you’d asked.”
She lifted her chin slowly as comprehension lit her face. “You’re Iyatt Martenn.”
“Yes.”
“Given how our last conversation ended, I didn’t think you’d turn up here.”
“Curiosity got the better of me.” He arched an eyebrow. “How much do you want for your ‘spirit reading’ show? Does it involve any belly dancing, perchance?”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t want any money.”
“Then what?”
“I wasn’t going to ask for anything if you’d bothered to be civil.” Her gaze bore into his. “But now I will. Introduce me to Chief Ultek.”
“What for?”
“I hope to persuade him to do the right thing.”
“The right thing being?” He narrowed his eyes.
“It doesn’t concern you.”
Inexplicably, bile rose in Iyatt’s throat. Was she hoping to seduce Ultek? For a woman in her position to snag the police chief himself as a protector would no doubt be a very desirable outcome. Iyatt couldn’t blame her for trying.
And yet… he did.
“Just so you know,” he said, “Chief Ultek isn’t into brothel girls, be they harlots or belly dancers.”
“You won’t believe me, but I’m glad to hear he’s an upright man—”
“I didn’t say that.”
She gave him a quizzical look, and he debated warning her in less ambiguous terms to stay away from Ultek. But he decided against it. Ultek abducted and abused virtuous women only. Breaking them was part of the “fun.” Haysimina wasn’t in danger. But his job as the police force’s Rateh trainer would be if he talked too much. In the interest of the Association and of Eia’s future, he had to hold on to that job for as long as possible.
“So, will you introduce me to him?” she asked.
“No.”
They stared at each other in silence.
Iyatt’s lips curled. “Is this the p
art where you admit you’ll take cash since you can’t have Ultek? How much?”
“Ah, Samurai Martenn!” She released a long, frustrated sigh. “How keen you are on making it hard for me to help you!”
“Quite the contrary, my dame. I’m trying to make it easy.”
“Unie warned me you could be pigheaded, but, frankly, you’ve surpassed my worst expectations.”
“Assuming what you said is true, assuming she did come to you, why would a woman like her choose someone like you as a channel?”
“I’m going to ignore the insult in that,” Haysimina said quietly. “And I’m going to leave. My patience has run out. Goodbye, Samurai Ma—”
“Unless, of course, she didn’t have a choice,” Iyatt interrupted her, rubbing his chin. “You could be the only medium on Hente, right? It’s not like rich-bloods abound in the land…”
She raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Are you saying you believe me now?”
“Not really. I still expect you to try to swindle me. But I want to do the reading, anyway.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t concern you.”
“Fine.” She lifted her pert chin. “Let’s get it over with.”
A few minutes later, Iyatt rushed from the building and headed home. On the way to his house, he tried to wrap his mind around what had happened tonight.
He’d gone to a brothel and watched a salacious show. To his shame, it had turned him on. And then, to add insult to injury, he’d made an appointment with a Lanterns bird to get a spirit reading he knew she’d fake.
Iyatt clapped a hand to his forehead. That’s it! The reason he’d done all that was to prove beyond doubt that Haysimina Lommen was a fraud and to move on. Nothing more.
For a second, he almost believed it.
Three
Twice a week Iyatt trained the special unit and kept his ears open more so than around the regular cops.
If anyone knew anything about upcoming arrests, raids and other shenanigans, it was these men. Chief Ultek handpicked, mentored, rewarded and, when necessary, sacrificed them. The fate of four of Ultek’s favorite boys was still fresh in their colleagues’ minds.
The officers had been tasked with eliminating Commander Jancel Heidd. But Iyatt’s best friend—a friendship Iyatt and Jancel had judiciously kept secret from everyone—had managed to kill all four and get away. Unsurprisingly, Ultek denied any knowledge of the op, and had his men’s families tortured to obtain fake confessions, which exonerated him.
Discreet, the special unit officers never openly discussed their work during their Rateh practice.
But if one paid attention—and Iyatt certainly did—one could pick up priceless clues. Words whispered between those waiting for their turn on the mat, comments exchanged in the locker room, boasts… When taken separately they made no sense, but when he pieced them together, those whispers often ended up telling a story.
Today’s story was that of an upcoming raid on one of Ultek’s enemies. Iyatt realized it on his way to the Iltaqa Temple as he replayed in his head the snatches of conversations he’d overheard during the practice. The question was who and, equally important, when.
It sounded like Ultek was prepping the op quietly, keeping it on the back burner until he obtained Boggond’s formal approval. After getting rapped over the knuckles for his unsanctioned and botched attempt to eliminate Jancel, Ultek had become wary. His new strategy was to “prepare and persuade” so that he was ready to act the instant he received the green light.
Iyatt pushed the door to the temple open and beelined to the contemplation chamber for an audience with Reverend Fo.
A longtime abbess of the Iltaqa Temple, Sannya Fo had become his rock and his beacon in life since the day she visited him at the orphanage and told him he wasn’t doomed. That day she told him she had faith in him. She made him believe he could turn his life around through hard work and rectitude. Iyatt was proud he’d proven her right.
“Your Glory.” He kneeled before the gray-haired vestal and dipped his head. “May Divine Aheya bless your endeavors.”
She touched her palms to the top of his head. “May your deeds please her, my boy.”
“I have a question about a certain gift,” he said, too pressed for time to reflect on his week.
He’d do that at his next contemplation, for which she’d been his guide for the last decade. But tonight, he had one more place to be. A remote place. Once he left the temple, he would head to a fallout shelter outside of the Habitable Area, which had become the rebel headquarters—the Refuge.
“What gift?” Abbess Fo asked.
“Communicating with the dead.”
She searched his face.
“Please don’t get me wrong—I have no such ability,” he said quickly.
She canted her head, still silent.
“But someone claims she does,” Iyatt said.
“I see.”
He drew his eyebrows together in a frown. “Is that possible, Your Glory? Can a living person, even a rich-blood, hear the dead? Don’t the dead leave the material world to go to Otherworld, be it Aheya’s Garden or hell, until their next reincarnation?”
His questions had tumbled out hot and fast, betraying the inner turmoil he’d been trying to keep a lid on.
“Is this about Unie?” she asked softly. “Has someone told you they can hear her?”
His mouth thinned. “I don’t believe her.”
“You’re wise not to, my boy.”
Nodding, he began to thank her for confirming his mistrust, when she raised a hand. “Most likely, that person is a con artist or an impostor, or both. But it’s my duty to tell you that, in theory, such a thing is not impossible.”
His eyes widened.
“Again, in theory,” she said. “Some souls may linger in a place, a kind of limbo, which the Book of Xereill calls Middleworld. There’s a passage in volume 8 that talks about souls destined for Aheya’s Garden who…”
She paused, throwing him a look full of compassion that bordered on pity.
Iyatt leaned forward. “Who what, Your Glory?”
“Who have some unfinished business in Thisworld that troubles them so much they cannot find their way to the Garden. Those souls get stuck in Middleworld.”
His mouth fell open as he stared at the abbess.
She touched her ouroboros. “That being said, I’ve never heard of a soul reaching out from Middleworld through a medium. Which is why I advise extreme caution with whomever told you they can hear Unie.”
Thanking her, Iyatt said goodbye and strode out of the temple.
Loath to arrive late to the Fulcrum meeting, he had to hurry. With the rebels’ numbers steadily growing, and Association chapters springing up throughout the realm, the need for a leader had become pressing. Problem was, none of the original members wanted to be the leader. So, they formed a board with each member holding one vote. At Marye’s suggestion, they’d dubbed the board “Fulcrum.” It met at the Refuge every week.
After twenty minutes of jogging through the poorly lit streets of Iltaqa, his backpack light on his shoulders, Iyatt sprinted across the fields to the tree line.
In the forest, he stepped into his rubber boots and waded a good part of the way in shallow streams to throw off his scent for any cops or hive cyborgs snooping around the forest. Both moons were hidden by clouds tonight. That gave him and other Fulcrum members making their way to the Refuge additional cover.
Exhaling a gust of breath, Iyatt let memories of another moonless autumn night in this very forest invade his thoughts.
He was twelve. For what seemed like an eternity, he ran and ran and ran, panting, faltering, but refusing to stop. In the distance, cops and their dogs pursued him. The heavy rain slowed them down, confusing the dogs. Sticky hot fear made Iyatt queasy. It made his legs move despite the pangs shooting up to his knee from his injured left foot.
As clearly as if it had been yesterday, Iyatt recalled his feet slipping o
n the wet carpet of leaves, tripping, and tumbling down a slope. The painful slide, his fingers grasping at roots and shrubs to halt it. The cops shouting orders to their dogs, getting closer, much too close. Panic constricting his chest.
And then, unexpectedly, relief.
The moment he curled into a ball, with his back to a tree trunk and his head between his knees, he felt at peace. It was over. Iyatt still remembered the realization that had struck him at the time. A part of him had wanted to get caught all along.
Peering ahead, he gave his head a vigorous shake to refocus on the here and now.
He’d reached the pickup point. Hidden in a waterproof bag in a hole dug under an ancient bokk tree, a space suit had been waiting for him where he’d left it last week.
Venturing into the Contaminated Zone without it would be much too hazardous. You wouldn’t die on the spot, not even weeks later. But within months you’d get the blight, which would kill you long before your time if left untreated.
None of the reckless youngsters who ventured into the zone every now and then lasted more than a year. The level-two equipment and drugs that could cure the blight were illegal on Hente. In other words, getting the disease was a death sentence.
But the ingenious Timm had managed to get a protective space suit for every Fulcrum member. This made the coordination of their meetings much easier, and considerably reduced the time they took.
Iyatt had heard that before reinventing himself as a smuggler on Hente, Timm had been an enforcer and that he still worked for Colonel Yaggar. The cyborg always denied it. But some of his skills, and the way he signed off his calls—“Itkis, over”—suggested otherwise.
No matter.
Whether Timm worked for Yaggar or not, he and Iyatt were on the same side. The colonel happened to be one of the most honorable individuals in the galaxy. And as for Timm, he’d helped rescue too many of Iyatt’s friends to count. Iyatt trusted him with his life.
When Iyatt entered the Refuge’s communal room, he greeted Dame Heidd, Nyssa, Jancel and Rhori. Half the Fulcrum members hadn’t arrived yet. Those present stood by the wall, knives in hands, eyes riveted to a target on the opposite wall.
