XV. Smoke and Sunlight
The sands here, under the burning light, smell of rust. The banners on the old, sand-worn walls are dominated by reds and bronzes. The sun-faded canvas covers flap over the stands in the light breeze, sounding like wings. And indeed, sometimes bird shadows pass over the floor of the fighting pits. They're circling. Hungry.
The vultures are here. Waiting for the roar of the crowd to go down.
But the last fight didn't end in a death, and so there is nothing for them to eat. Not yet. But they know what the clamour of the pit means.
Down on the sands, two fighters do their best to maim each other. For your amusement.
The taller fighter is a scarred brute of a woman who
must have deyha blood somewhere. She's a wall of ocre war paint, wearing a polished bronze helmet styled after a bull. You're not sure if the horns are functional weapons, but they're definitely sharp. Her entire right flank is armoured up and she carries a brutal-looking cleaver, but that's nearly all she wears. And the slimmer, smaller man with the net and the spear and the monkey-helmet wears just as little. That's the draw in these arena fights, you've noticed - all the 'real' fighters have their own styles and their own unique helmet designs.
The crowd roars its approval as the Monkey slams the butt of his spear into the She-Bull's armour, producing a clang that's audible even over the noise. She falls back, her cleaver dancing a figure-of-eight in the air and he tries to circle, whirling his net like he means to ensnare her. You suck in air through your teeth.
Dammit, you have money riding on her!
The Monkey lunges, helmet gleaming in the fierce sun. His spear scrapes along her armour, but he's misjudged it and now she's in his reach. She reaches out, and with a fierce backhand sends him flying. He kicks up clouds of sand as he hits, and for a moment you can't see what's happening. Your She-Bull charges in - and goes down, hitting the sandy floor hard. What was that?
"His net!" cheers the woman next to you. "Take her down!"
As the sand clears, they've both dropped their weapons and now are brawling like a pair of tavern toughs. No, that's not right, you realise as the Monkey rolls away, and flips to his feet, keeping his back straight, his posture low. He's taken the stance of Grinning Ape Style, while the She-Bull is fighting with the hulking strength of Ox Style. Her fists are lethal, but she's not landing her blows. He's dancing around, light on his feet. Neither are trying to get their weapons, and… ah, yes.
They're professionals. If they're both unarmed, it's more likely they're both going to walk away from this.
Well, that's removed the tension from things. You slump back in your seat, sipping at your slightly resinous wine. It's changed the whole tenor of the fight.
You are here at the invitation of Sadia az-Zumurrud, who right now is cheering on her chosen fighter. She's a petite woman, with a puckish appearance. Her short-cropped hair pokes out from under her loose silken veil; her green eyes gleam with bloodlust in the bright light. You met her gambling, and immediately realised she was much more intelligent - much more dangerous - than most of the jansi aristocrats at the casino. She's clearly someone who keeps an eye on things, and that means she's a source of information on the politicking and the backstabbing of the jansi.
These clans are… you make a disgusted noise to yourself. It's an old story, much like that of House Ferem. They were more fortunate than your ancestors - at least at first. Three hundred years ago, they would have sneered down their noses at the Odat. The jansi trace their descent back to the legions who fled the burning of the Anam, and unlike your family, they never bent their knee to the Realm. But they wasted their fortunes through sloth and incompetence, and let their dragon-blood weaken. There are jansi who have had no dragon-children in generations, and when they do have them, often they leave for cities that are not slowly rusting in the heat.
Among those who have not left is the Demio of Cahzor-Upon-Dam. Naima ar-Redar is a child of Pasiap, and is even older than you. She's said to be a recluse, who seldom comes from out of the fortress. That's just fine. She can have the fortress, while you enjoy the luxuries of her city.
Down on the arena floor, the Monkey trips the She-Bull, sending her sprawling into the dirt. She's clearly exhausted and struggling to rise, and though he's not moving much more nimbly, he manages to grab his fallen spear and place it against the back of her neck.
"Damn," you mutter as the crowd cheers. "That's money down the drain."
Sadia looks over at you with a quirk of one of her plucked eyebrows. "Did you think she'd win just because of her size?"
"He looks like a piece of nothing," you protest.
"Oh, that's the nature of this sport." The corners of her eyes crinkle up in merriment. "He's very fast. And she doesn't have the reach to deal with his spear. Did you see how many places she was bleeding from by the end?"
With a grumble, you pay up, and she beams at you. "At least you're a good sport when you're beaten," she says slyly. "Some people squall and whine."
"It was no great amount - just an idle flutter," you lie. It was more money than you'd like to have lost, but fortunately you had made some winnings at the casinos. Still, that consumed most of them. There are enough dragon-children in Cahzor that some of your comparative advantage is lessened. They know how to deal with people like you.
Sadia leans back, pouring herself more wine as the She-Bull limps off and the Monkey takes his celebratory stand. Slaves rake the sand back into place, tossing fresh sand on where blood splattered with practiced speed. "Are you doing anything this evening?" she asks.
"No." Ah ha! A chance! "Why?"
"Well, the Kinzira are holding a party, and my would-be date has dropped out on me. Idiot caught the sun." She sniffs. "Men! So if you're going to be staying for the season, you really ought to get to know the social scene. And those fat morons
do throw rather good parties. They should, with all the money they spend on entertainment."
"Oh?" you ask.
A hot wind picks up, blowing in over the stands. "Mmm, yes. The Kinzira control the area," she gestures vaguely towards the southern side of the stands, "overlooking the Little Nam. They have their holdings in 'Zor-South-Pass, but they also have the mines. They've been digging away at the ground as much as they rootle in a barrel to get out the last of the dregs. They're as greedy as the Alliya, but they gorge their income as fast as they take it in." She shakes her head disgustedly, her silken veil puffing up. "As disgusting as they are."
"You're not selling attending their party to me," you observe.
"Oh, please do, please do! The food will certainly be fine, and you'll be the most interesting person there. I know everyone else who'll be attending; you'll certainly lighten up the conversation! And otherwise I'll have to deal with my great-aunt all on my own! You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"
"Well," you say, as if it's some great imposition, "I suppose I could."
"Thank you, thank you." She crosses her legs. "Now, care for another flutter? This time, it's a killing floor match."
"A killing floor match?" you ask.
"Oh, do they not have them where you come from?" She laughs. "Well, it's one of the Demio's little amusements. Certain criminals can be sentenced to the arena. Those who do well, they rise up! Like your She-Bull! If the crowd love them, they win a mask! But they start at the bottom! Such criminal scum are mere animals, after all."
The Monkey has left the pit, and now the gates on either side open. Slaves push a heavy iron cage. The wheels clank and clatter ominously. No, it's not just the wheels. There's something inside. Clang. Clang. Clang. It's hammering on the walls. Pounding on them.
You focus your sight. There are water lilies, blooming through the joins of the cage. Powerful magic - likely a curse of some kind. That tells you something. The Demio is a sorceress too, or has one in her employ at the very least.
"And what do they fight?" you ask, mouth dry. You sip at your wine, trying to remedy it - but it doesn't work.
"Oh, slaves, captured bandits, people who have displeased the Demio," Sadia says idly. "I heard a raiding party from one of the lower Cahzors got captured, so something tells me we're going to see plenty of killing floor matches until she's exhausted her supply."
"How amusing," you say, though in truth your heart isn't in it. It's not that you don't respect the right of a sorceress to find her own amusement. But a lady's amusements say a lot about her. And you don't like what this says about the Demio. Yes, you
may have fed the souls of your enemies, and a few people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, to the princes of chaos. But in your defence, they had things you wanted! And you had witnesses to dispose of!
The Demio's amusements suggest she likes death in its own right.
From the other side enter four men and three women, stripped naked and with fresh brands on their backs. They have weapons, of a kind - but you can see that they've been stopped from throwing them. Their limbs are wrapped with chains, or they carry tiger claws or cestuses their hands have been locked into. Even from this distance, you can see the fear on their faces.
The slaves who dragged in the cage are already running, and you can see the smoke from a slow match placed against the rope holding it closed.
"Do you know what…" you begin, but then the door slams open.
Out comes a hulking beast. It was once a woman, and perhaps it still is, but what it mostly is now is three metres of muscle and fur and teeth. They took a human and a fox, and then made something more - and less - than the sum of the two. Sand-coloured fur over a roughly human body; claws like no fox has; large ears and larger teeth and eyes without a drop of humanity or mercy.
"Oh, a new one!" Sadia observes, almost girlishly. "I wonder if this one will earn a mask."
"The She-Bull and the Monkey used to be like that?" you ask, horrified.
She smiles at you, clearly revelling what is about to come. "Sometimes, when the masked fighters are fighting a deathmatch, she lets them take on those forms again. It's quite a thing to watch."
The fox-like monster screams like a dying woman, and bounds on all fours towards the terrified cluster of men and women.
Red stains the arena floor.
Ah, Cahzor. It almost makes a perverse logic. The Demio declares them to be stripped of their humanity. So that's what she does to them. To make a sorcerous beast of this nature, you can only imagine what she does to them. And no doubt she still maintains control over them, both the transformed beast and the ones she permits to look human again.
But you know of this kind of magic. Of the costs it imposes, of the twisting of the soul one needs. You doubt the masked fighters are truly human any more. She's taken too much from them. So she lets her people cheer for the beasts in human skin she'll use to make an example of anyone who threatens her rule. They get to see the power of her slaves, and cheer for one or another.
"Damn!" Sadia says. "I forgot to set the terms of a wager!"
You watch as the fox-monster takes a sword-cut on its overly muscled forearm and keeps going, removing the offending arm with its own blade-length claws. "What would that have been, out of interest?" you ask, trying to sound ambivalent.
"Oh, we'd bet on how long it'd take to kill them all." She grins. "It's fairly challenging. Sometimes they play with their prey."
"I see." You swallow. You can smell the coppery tang in the air, even from this distance. "I see."
After that massacre, you make your excuses and retreat to the hotel, to relax in the baths before your evening out. Then comes the great and threatening conundrum; what do you wear?
Definitely not red. You've seen enough red today.
"Blue and black? Or white and gold?" You hold up the two gowns so Amigere can see them. "Which looks better on me?"
He eyes you up. "You'd look beautiful in both."
That's true, but not helpful. "Yes but which one would I look better in?"
"Maybe you should try them on?" he suggests.
"Not yet! I'll need the maid's help to get into these!" Urgh, he is not at all helpful. What you want is a nice wholesome answer as to whether the black leaves you looking too pale… or on the converse, whether all that white makes you look washed out. And he's not providing it! He's just staring at you in your lingerie as you try to make a difficult decision!
"I think whatever you wear, you'll look wonderful in."
"That is not helpful when it comes to making a choice!" you fume.
He rises, and wraps his arms around you. "I think you're letting the fire in your nature dominate," he says, "and it's making you tense and worried."
"I have to look good at a party of the local aristocrats! I can't have them looking down on me!"
"Well," he pulls at the side ties of your underwear, undoing the bow, "I could help you relax..."
You reach out and jab him in the side with your fingertips. It's a playful gesture, but it's not too different from what you could have done to leave him on the floor, coughing up his own blood. "Darling," you tell him firmly, "I don't have time to get mussed. I have a party to get ready for."
He licks your cheek with that adorable long tongue, in what you've realised is his version of a kiss. Your underthings hit the floor. "Oh, come on, it's not for hours. And mussing is a lot of fun."
"You can muss me up after I get back. But as it stands, I just don't have time to go and have another proper bath if you get me all dirty."
"But…"
You poke him on the other side. "If you really can't wait, you have hands. Use them."
He huffs, and backs away. You shake your hair, and pick up your fallen underwear. "I think I'll go for the black and blue," you decide. "Now, Amigere!"
"What?" he demands, sulkily. His tongue is hanging out.
"... are you pouting?" you ask, your free hand on your hips.
"I don't have lips. How can I pout?" he mutters.
You sigh. "Darling, I will make love to you later, if you're very good. Right now I'm busy." You slip on your dressing gown. "Now, how are matters going with regards to finding contacts in the city?"
"I've been poking around the mercenary market."
"And?" you ask, after a suitable pause.
"It's only been a few days! What do you expect?"
Urgh, mortals! So exasperatingly slow. And now he's acting all huffy. "I'm sure you've done very well," you tell him, approaching and running your fingers across his feathered head. He relaxes as you stroke him, breathing in your scent. "Now, darling, what are the broad quality of the local mercenaries?"
He blinks, clearly not quite sure which head he's meant to be thinking with. "Uh… well, they're mostly the… um. So, the thing is, a lot of the jansi are poor. So when they get into their wars, they tend not to pay their soldiers. A lot of the people in the markets here are either the personal guard of one of the jansi being hired out for cash, or people they've raised and not paid - so rather than scrape the sandy dry soil, they take their training to the mercenary markets here or in Cahzor-Grand-Bazaar." He leans against your hand. "And from there, the ones who do well go to Gem."
"So the local mercenaries are mostly trash?" you check. "Men who know how to scrap, but with little discipline and poor morale."
"Yes."
"Fuck," you say eloquently. You tickle his chin. "Well, you'll keep on looking, won't you?" you ask him.
"Mmm, mmm."
Hmm. You consider the two dresses. Maybe you can't decide because neither is right. There was that one in green...
The estate of Jansi Kinzira is not truly within Cahzor-upon-Dam. It's on the southern slope, past the landship dock, sprawling out over the hillside above the foetid lake. And 'sprawling' is a fine word for what it does. The members of the jansi have their own holdings on these steep slopes, gnawing at the hillsides so they can feast on what precious things remain in the mountains. Bulging piles of slag and rubble are littered around like bones in the feasting hall of an oni. There are scars on the land from where these mounds have slipped, and even a filthy shanty town where human ants swarm over the leftovers of the Kinzira.
Even as you reach the centre of their ancestral holdings, things are little better. There is no grace to this shapeless, formless mass of low buildings that huddle around the fortified bulk of what was clearly once a mighty citadel. But its walls are punched through time and time again, by ancient weapons that left the edges of the craters transformed into umber glass. The sandstone that stoppers up the pyramid has been built into more corpulent bulk; towers rise up from holes in the upper layers, while additional wings spill out of its guts.
"Novel architecture," you say mildly. You did choose the soft greens and sunny browns, in a long archaic cut that bares your midriff and draws attention to your cleavage and the dragon nestled within. The colours stand out in this dry, sandy landscape - and of course, brings to mind an adder. A few turquoises and tiger's eyes are placed to evoke a peacock, though you doubt anyone else gets the reference.
You do enjoy these moments.
Sadia sneers behind her thin veil, sitting side-saddle on her steed. She's dressed in what you suspect are more plunderings from the city below; layer upon layer of nearly sheer black, picked out with emeralds and verdigris jewelry. "The Kinzira," she says with a roll of her eyes, "are a fine reminder that there is a reason that things are done a certain way. Their fortress is quite worthless as a fortress these days - of course, the Demio wants it that way."
"Not a fan of rivals?"
"No, certainly not. That old hag is paranoid, who trusts nothing and nobody." She laughs. "Of course, given most of the jansi, it's not a surprise, but it makes her awfully hard to deal with when you are one of her trustworthy servants."
Speaking as someone who has to deal with Sei, anyone who self-describes as 'trustworthy' isn't. You smile, and make small conversation as the two of you ride up to the abomination of architecture that is the Kinzara estate. Her guards help her down, and she leads the way through the thick walls of the ancient fortress, both of you carrying parasols.
"Oh, Sadia, my girl!" The woman who greets her from an alcove is one hell of a woman. In fact, she's more like three women, at least in terms of weight. She's only Sadia's height, but she's so obese that you resist the urge to make a comment about her weakness to slopes. Her hair is bleached as blonde as straw, and her wrinkles and her fat-folds are merging giving her a face like a landslide. "Come here and give your great-aunt a kiss!"
"Auntie!" Sadia brings her into a close embrace, or at least as close as can be managed.
"And who is this? A new lover?"
"Hardly! Great-Aunt Kareena, this is Meira, of the Sayu family. She's from far in the north. I brought her along because I met her when I was having a little flutter and I thought she might bring a sparkle of glee and joy to your party."
"I am pleased to meet you," you tell the tiny woman, who almost bounces up to you and brings you down to kiss you on both cheeks. She smells sour, unwashed, and the pudgy feel of her clammy fingers on your face brings to mind uncooked sausages.
"Oh, look at you, so tall and so slender!" she says, looking you up and down. Her brown eyes gleam wickedly. "Well, not all slender! It all goes to your breast and your thighs! Like a chicken! Good for eating!"
You smile. "Darling," you tell her, kissing her back though she makes your skin crawl, "I suppose I just have good blood."
She squints up at you; your green eyes, the flowers in your hair, your smell, and comes to a conclusion. "Do I have the honour of speaking to a daughter of Iulis?"
You blink. "Uh…"
"Great-Auntie, she's foreign, remember?" Sadia reminds the woman. "She's asking if you have the blood of the Wood Dragon."
"Oh, that." You smile. "It does rather show, doesn't it?"
"How delectable!" She pats you on the hand. "My grandfather was just like you," she says conspiratorial. "They said when I was a little girl, I was a perfect little blossom."
"And you've grown up to be a beautiful cedar," you lie gallantly.
"Ah!" Kareena smiles at Sadia. "She is a charmer! I like her!"
"I like her too, auntie," Sadia says with a smile. "But perhaps we can get in, out of the heat."
"Oh yes, yes." She shakes her head. "I must admit, Sadia, I thought you were not bringing a guest - well, not after what happened with…"
Sadia makes a disgusted noise at the back of her throat as you walk through the shadowed walls, into an inner courtyard. Desert plants sprawl up the walls, but what were clearly once grand gardens have been turned into fields. "Auntie, please!"
"Yes, yes, of course not. But my dumpling, where are we to sit her? We can't risk offending people! And so many people have showed! Including people from both Kas and Dib!"
Sadia sucks in her breath. The three of you huddle under your parasols for the burning hot walk. "Well, she can't sit with either of them, because we can't put them near each other and if she's seated with one of them, then the other will take it as an insult!"
"Oh, how right you are, my sweetling! You always were the brightest of my nieces! What a shame about your…"
"Auntie!"
"I do beg your pardon," you say. "The Kas? The Dib? From what you say, there might be a fight?"
"I should hope not," Great-Aunt Kareena says. "But… well… we do know Haitham…"
"Haitham is here?" Sadia says, turning pale. "Oh no! Please don't tell me that Hilmi ad-Dib is also here!"
"I'm afraid so, my dumpling."
"Oh. Oh dear." Sadia smiles at you. "There will probably be a fight then, when those two get low in their glasses."
"Please don't say such a thing! You know the gods take declarations of ill-will as an invitation!" Kareena gasps.
"Oh, come on, Aunty, isn't there just a teeny bit of you which would like to see those two fools dead by each other's hands?"
"Not under our roof! There is hospitality to think of!"
"Well, we could just make sure they duel each other outside," Sadia mutters, but Kareena's already moved her attention to you as you stroll pass rows of tomatoes growing in sandy soil.
"So, tell me a little bit about yourself, Meira," she says. "How far have you travelled? And what do you think of our fair city?"
"It's certainly unusual," you say. "So very dry and hot. It's not at all what I'm used to."
"Ah, it's a tragedy, a tragedy!" she says, blotting at her dry eyes with a sleeve. "Even when I was a girl… how long ago do you think that was?"
"Oh, no more than forty, forty-five years ago," you lie.
"She's sixty-eight."
"Sadia!" Kareena pats your hand with those sausage-like fingers. "I prefer your version. But even when I was a girl, the city was much mightier! There was greenery everywhere, and great fountains ran! But we are poor and hungry now! The food I offer here tonight is a passable fare, but nothing compared to what I could have given you if you'd come when I was young and beautiful!" She shakes her head. "I expect you get rains every month."
You chuckle. "Depends on the season, I must admit. In Air and Water… and often Earth, it's not raining because it's snowing."
"Snow! Oh, I've only heard of snow! They say it's like an ashfall of ice!"
Considering that, you… huh. Firstly, the idea of never knowing snow is something you struggle to comprehend. But secondly, that's not the worst metaphor one might manage.
You chatter along the walk to the central pyramidal buildings, scarred by ancient weapons and sandstorms, and then enter into the dark depths. The air smells of burning fat from the candles, and the stone walls near the entryway are greasy. The wall-hangings are none-too-clean, either, and have faint stains down the bottom.
"It's good to get out of the heat," you say, as you put your parasol down.
"Oh, quite so," Sadia says. "Auntie, where are we going?"
"Just need to see where we can put you and your friend," Kareena says, leaning you deeper into the household. The corridors are remarkably bare, twisting and coiling as they lead you through the too empty, too vacant household that clearly holds a fraction of the inhabitants that it was originally meant for. You suspect guests weren't meant to see this part of the house.
Kareena's quarters are painted a deep red, with scenes of hunting and feasting painted as frescos on the walls. The air is perfumed, but under it, there's the scent of old food. She pulls out a seating chart, and considers it.
"Who do you want to sit with?" she asks.
"She doesn't know the families, auntie," Sadia says with a sigh. She looks over the plan. "Hmm. If you move Wafaa… oh, but then they'd be with the Kas and they can't stand any of them. Hmm." She stares at it. "Zia, Fatin or Munir," she says eventually.
"Oh?" you say.
"Well, for one, I don't hate any of them so I won't be driven up the wall by having to sit near them," she says. She taps her lip with her forefinger. "Well, Zia is a Sawahir. They have holdings down in the valley, up near Cahzor-University. He's very bookish, if you don't mind his strangeness. And I suppose it's not like you can bring up his past or his family's reputation for," her eyebrows flute, "you know."
"Well, I don't know," you say, "but from the tone of voice, I can guess."
"You're probably guessing right." Sadia giggles. "He might try to share his erotic poetry with you."
"My goodness."
"It's actually not terrible."
"Sadia!" Kareena says, sounding shocked.
"What? She deserves the truth. If someone's getting you to read their smutty poems, it better be good."
"You can be quite the handful, my dumpling. You should blunt the edges of your tongue." Kareena sighs. "I think Fatin would be a better pick. He," she glances at you, "he's a dragon-child, too. Kin to the Earth Dragon. Very stiff-necked, and proud. Likes to be clean."
Well, that's something. You can respect that. "That's something."
"Not to the extent he takes it," Sadia says cheerfully. "Not to mention, the Kebez jansi, how to put it, doesn't marry outside the family. They don't want to taint the 'purity' of their blood. And… well, I suppose they do have a lot of dragon children, but bluntly they're all idiots."
"Idiots?" you say. Oh, that
is something. It happens, of course. People get so obsessed with maintaining blood purity that they wind up… how did your cousin put it? More inbred than a man who falls into a vat of dough. Maybe if the Odat had gone down that path, you would have had more kinfolk who could survive the depredations from the north - but then again, you quite like being the product of a family tree with actual branches.
"Sadia, don't speak ill of them!" Kareena snaps. "They're very touchy."
"I think they're a bad choice." She runs her fingers over the seating plan. "I suppose… there's still Munir. They have their holdings in Cahzor-Industrials, dredging what they can dig out of the old machinery. He's not the prettiest - not after that accident with the machine that left him scarred all down one side - but at least you can talk to him."
"He's a choice, I suppose," Kareena says. "But he does think he's the gods' gift to women, despite that scarring. She might not want to sit around him."
Sadia sighs. "He was gorgeous before the accident, despite his age," she says, shaking her head. "Now… well, I suppose I'll have to make the sacrifice and sit on his left side! But please don't make me do that, Meira! Thinking about it, I really don't want to have to go through a whole meal looking at that! No matter how witty the conversation!"
"I have a strong stomach," you point out. Thinking. Thinking about which of these men it would be most useful to get to know.
Who Does Rena Sit With?
[ ] Zia as-Sawahir, diminutive and androgynous, whose eyes burn with intensity.
[ ] Fatin ak-Kebez, coldly handsome with stone nails.
[ ] Munir al-Alliya, emaciated and with burn marks down his left side.
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