XVIII. Dancing
Your eyebrows rise as you see the mask choices. The feminine, lilac-skinned mask with very thinly woven black cotton stretched across the eye sockets is a representation of breed of demon you have encountered. Demon-summoning has never been your
thing - so many demons are frightfully ugly and just plain strange - but as a sorceress it behoves you to keep in contact with fellow travellers in the arcane arts. And get invited to their parties, of course.
Anyway, the point is that this mask is very life-like. You suspect the artist had very good reference material to work with, and since you haven't seen any dragon children among the Kinzara, you think they might have old tomes of demonology passed down from some of those sorcerers that Zia had mentioned.
Trying on a few masks, you find one that fits you. The thin cotton covering the eyes is quite easy to see through, and you admire its sit in a mirror. It's shaped to slim the face, with high cheekbones, and when you adjust your black hair, it frames the lilac nicely.
Sadia grins at you, as she grabs an identical mask. "Good choice. If we're going to be stuck in this place, we might as well have some fun, right? There are things to do other than sitting around eating. Dance until the night is old, then retreat to bed with someone handsome."
"I don't plan to dance that long," you say. "My feet are already hurting from standing up so long." Not your feet, so much as your leg. But you're not mentioning that to her.
"It's good to rest on your back," she says impishly. Sadia looks out over the dance hall. "See anyone you like?"
"I plan to investigate," you say.
"Honestly," she says, lowering her voice, "I'd recommend Haitham. He's an unbearable ass if you're courting him, but," she winks at you, "he has a very bearable ass if you're just looking for fun."
"You're giving me permission to pursue your former fiance?" you ask, amused.
"Well, I could see him eyeing you up - and honestly, my dear, if he's distracted by you, he won't decide to try to woo me for old time's sake. I'm quite thoroughly over him," that lilac mask stares at you, "and it'd honestly ruin my evening if he started making passes when I'm looking for someone new."
"I do appreciate the thought - I really do," you say, "but I think we'll just see how this goes."
Sadia pats you on the hand. "Well, if you can't find someone, I might set you up with him," she says. You can see the sides of her face creasing up; she's smiling behind the mask. "I feel
so awful for dragging you to this party and getting you stuck here."
"I'm not sure that's so philanthropic, darling," you point out.
"Well, it's a teeny tiny bit philanthropic," she retorts. "Just accept the gift."
The first of the dance cards you took is for the towering Fatin ak-Kebez. And while there is meant to be some kind of sport in finding one's partner when everyone is masked, to see where he is, you simply have to look across the hall. If it ever rained in this parched city, he would be the first to know when it happens.
He's certainly a sight to admire. He's removed his long jacket, to reveal a tightly fitted shirt underneath. He hasn't removed his elbow-length silk gloves, though. His mask is a white human face, its lips locked in a neutral expression that nevertheless looks disapproving.
"Well, aren't you the handsome one?" you say by means of introduction, your head tilted back to take him all in. "I am
honoured to be your dance partner, really." You step in, left hand snaking down to wrap around his waist, and he takes a small step back.
"Please," he rumbles. "Not so close."
You pause at that, frowning behind your mask as you look around. Oh, is it an insult to his masculinity? It seems to only be women who have partners hold them like that. Sigh. Little boys can be so boring sometimes. And you have heard that some southern men have awfully eccentric ideas about how men are meant to take the lead.
"I have some gloves for you," he adds.
You don't understand at first. And then you look up to that masked face and the yellowing silk gloves he offers, and realise he wants you to wear gloves before he'll dance with you. There's a bit of you which wants to call things off here and now. Why would a man like this even dance with you if he doesn't even want to touch you? You're glad you're wearing this mask, because you're finding it hard to cover your emotions.
No. No, you're not in a position where you can afford to make enemies of another dragon-child. "Of course," you say, with a false smile he can't even see. You put the gloves on, looking around. "Now, what is the custom here?"
"I am not sure," he says. "I seldom dance."
"Well, then," you say, feeling your false smile turn into something more of a rictus grin, "let us just copy the others." You lead him onto the floor, and let the wailing flutes and beating drums surround you.
You dance. And it is one of the worst dances of your life. You are glad for the mask that makes it hard to see your eyes, because you are looking enviously at some of the other women on the dance floor.
They don't have a lumbering ox as a partner.
He is not a flexible man. You knew that already, of course, but you thought his inflexibility was merely in his manners and his ease in such social situations. No, he is so upright and rigid in his posture that it is like dancing with a stone pillar. There is no grace in his movements; no flow. His steps are like he's trying to plunge through the floor to the bedrock below; his arm movements are slow and never on time with the music. There are risque, spicy dance moves, yes, but you don't even get to try any of them. He's too uncomfortable with the figurative boiled cabbage of dance.
Children of Pasiap are like that sometimes, but you've never met one as bad as him.
The music dies down, and you congratulate yourself at not having had your feet trodden on. With a graceful dip, you acknowledge him - and the stiff-necked bastard doesn't even return the favour!
"Now, Fatin," you say, guiding him away from the others before the next dance because… you just can't do that. Not again. You're not sure you can dodge his feet for a second dance. "Why don't you tell me something about yourself?"
Somehow, he manages what you really hadn't thought was possible before with him, and stiffens up further. "My mother is Nahla ak-Kebez. She is a dragon-child. She is also Yasmine's mother."
You wait patiently. But no. That's really all he says. "A man is more than his mother and father," you say. "Darling, I want to know about you."
He stares at you from behind that mask. You wonder what his expression is behind that cold visage. "You are a forward woman," he says.
"I just want to get to know you better," you say softly. "After all, I'm new in Cahzor. I am a single woman. I need friends." You pause. "Good friends," you add. You're not entirely sure if he's just dense, or… why would he offer you his dance card if he doesn't actually want to dance with you?
"Hmm," he says. He stretches his shoulders, looming over you, and you feel a twinge of regret that such a wonderful body has to have the head of such a lump attached to it.
"After all, if I know more about you, maybe we could be
close friends," you add. "You're one of the few other dragon-children here."
Fatin huffs at that. "You are very forward."
"I just know what I want," you say. His tone stings, but you swallow your resentment down. "And you're handsome - and single. Why not let your guard down a little? Relax. Have some fun..."
He stoops towards you, and for a moment, you think that he's going to kiss you. But then, "Would you sit with my sister for a while?" he asks softly. "She is often lonely at home, and she wished to come to this party. It's the only reason I came to… to this stinking hall full of apostates and heretics who bury their faces into troughs of food." His voice drips with contempt. "Like pigs. When we get home, Yasmine and I will need to purify ourselves thoroughly."
You're not sure what to say there.
Fatin shudders. "At least you have not given yourself to unclean gods," he says. "So Yasmine would like to get to know you better." He pauses. "Perhaps you might even dance with her. She dances much better than me." He huffs. "Though you might have noticed that many, many things do."
No, you don't actually want to do that. What you want is to dance with handsome men, and then to get laid tonight. But… argh, this is a family that has two dragon-children in a generation. You can't risk offending him. You pat him on the hand. "As a favour to you, of course," you purr. "And then, of course, maybe we could talk more later."
He clears his throat. "I would need to… talk with my parents at the very least."
You sidle closer. "Would you really?"
"Yes." The response comes out immediately.
Oh. Oh. You feel your cheeks rise with the faintest blush of mortification. Is it that he's only interested in other men? No, you don't think it's that. When he looked at you earlier, he was looking at you both as a rival and a woman.
What a lump! What a poor example of a man! To turn down your transcendent, wonderful beauty like that is just… it's just ill-mannered! And he wants you to spend time with his sister? When you made it clear what you wanted! He's being a wretched, stinking, kindly brother, who's stepping aside to give his poor, maimed half-sister a chance to talk to a woman who doesn't have all the baggage of these closed-in social circles.
Urgh! You don't care about that! But you can't risk offending a jansi that has actual dragon-children - and clearly keeps big stupid Fatin on a tight leash if he's turning you down with 'blah blah blah talk to my parents blah blah'.
Your inner diatribe lasts quite a while, making many good and important points about how unfair the world is. You're only broken out of it by a chuckle behind your left ear that sounds like Sei. Well, he can't laugh at you! You're his master!
There are drinks at the side of the room. One of them, downed in one gulp, is enough to take the edge off your temper.
Right. Right. Your thigh is aching, so you'll get this over and done with while you take a rest. You can go speak to someone who can't talk. This is a waste of your time. But something you need to do if you want to get the Kebez jansi on side.
Yasmine ak-Kebez is seated in the corner of the room. If she's trying not to be noticed, it's not working, because very few people in this hall have pale blue skin. She has a little book in her gloved hands, bound in white leather, and she seems to be absorbed in it. Which suggests strongly that she's not as blind as Sadia seemed to think.
"Excuse me," you say. "Is this seat free? I need to rest for a little."
She looks up at you, and her cheeks plump up in a closed-mouthed smile. She shakes her head.
"Thank you," you say, sprawling out. You rub your aching thigh, massaging the scar. "Sorry, I was stabbed by bandits on my way south and my leg still aches if I stand on it too long."
It's not true, not strictly, but she shows every sign of believing you. She holds up a too-long finger, and retrieves a slate and chalk from a small satchel beside her.
"
hello," she writes. Her writing is trembly; hard to read, and archaic in its lettering. "
i am sorry about your leg."
"It's fine," you say, bravely. Sometimes you can even forget about it, but you've been on your feet for too long. "It's healing."
Scratch scratch scratch. "
i can help."
"Excuse me?"
She reaches out, placing her hand on your thigh. Then you feel coolness seep into your aching muscles, and a twinge of pain that flares and then is gone completely. You stretch out your leg, and it doesn't ache.
"My goodness," you say. You've seen that talent from other dragon-children before, of course, but you never were particularly interested in medicine. "Oh, you are a darling. That's been bothering me for months."
Her cheeks have flushed to a darker shade of blue, and she doesn't meet your eyes. She focuses on her slate. "
the scar is not gone," she writes. "
i just took the pain for now."
You pat her other hand, which is still on your leg. "Darling, I didn't even expect that much." You slip your mask down, and let her see one of your best smiles.
"
i learned medcine for my kin. not helping people is bad."
"You're a treasure, you know that?" You say. What a nice girl. "If there's anything I can do for you, please, don't hesitate to ask."
She swallows, and blushes even darker. "
tell me what you saw on your trip," she writes. She pauses, then adds, "
please."
It is a patchwork, slow conversation. There is nothing easy or spontaneous about it, when every response from her has to be chalked out. Instead, you find yourself talking more and more, telling her stories about the lands further north. It gives her time to scratch out another question or response.
But, by the Dragons, you'll chatter with someone who can give you a release from your aches and pains. So you start to recount some of the northern coastline - not enough to let her know where you actually came from, but enough to entertain her.
She likes it. She leans closer to hear, and smiles at you whenever you look at her blindfolded eyes. And at first it isn't so bad, but then it sneaks up on you. Homesickeness. Talking about lands where it snows and where the hills are green with pine. Trying to describe the scent of sea air to someone who only knows of the wretched, stinking Little Nam as their body of open water. Even mentioning what the dancers wear in the north.
Several dances pass while you talk, and your throat is sore. "But anyway, listen to me talk on and on," you say. "I'm probably boring you."
Yasmine shakes her head while she scribbles away. "
no," she writes. "
i like you." A pause. Then; "
are you leving soon?"
"I mean, I do have another dancing card," you say, preparing to disengage. "So, while this has been pleasant, I…"
She grabs your wrist. She's scrawled an interruption. "
leving cahzor"
"Not until after Calibration and things cool down, at the earliest," you say.
Yasmine isn't bothering to erase her slate. "
i want to see you again," she writes.
You can read her body languages; shoulders huddled up, not meeting your eyes. She looks ill. Or nervous. Oh.
"
you are pretty," she scrawls, and smiles at you awkwardly. Her deep blue lips part, giving you a glimpse of rows of sharp teeth. "
dimon mask"
Oh. Oh dear. You sigh. So that's why Fatin passed you over to her. She must have asked him to do so. This isn't the first time this has happened to you, but it's always awkward. Especially with this poor, sickly creature, twisted by her genesis, with dragon blood so thick and stagnant you wonder if she hatched. But for how much dragon she has in her, she still has the urges of a woman. "Oh, sweetheart," you tell her carefully. "I'm flattered, I really am. And I'm sure that there are girls out there for you. But I only like men that way."
She flips her slate, onto a fresh surface. "
wood blood from north. Sinis."
Ah. So she's been fed rumours of the Realm and House Cynis, that infamously decadent Great House that descends from Sextes Jylis just like you. The tales that would have listeners believe that every woodblood is completely controlled by their lusts, with no care for looks, sex or physique.
You're not at all like that, of course. You're only interested in pretty and-slash-or handsome men. It's totally different.
You explain some of that, trying to be gentle, and Yasmine's blush darkens. She can't meet your eyes. "
you wanted fatin," she writes, handwriting clearer now she isn't desperately trying to get words down.
There has to be a tactful way to put this. Hmm. "He is quite handsome," you settle on. "And those muscles like something a sculptor would carve. I was certainly considering inviting him to my bed."
You could probably have been more tactful.
"
kebez will say no."
Fortunately, you don't say anything about your opinion of families not approving of you sleeping with their sons. "That is a problem," you instead say.
She erases the last two words. "
kebez will let you bed me" she changes it to.
"Yes, but darling, really," you pat her hand, "trust me when I say it - I'm not interested in women that way. Please. It's nothing about you. Except that you're a woman, obviously."
The awkward silence drags on as she busies herself with cleaning off her slate. Poor girl. That family clearly has no sorcerers who could ease her crippled flesh - or summon creatures who wouldn't care about her looks. She must be feeling just as frustrated and humiliated as you were when her brother turned you down. And here in dying Cahzor, there clearly aren't so many women who are interested in her - especially not dragon-children.
But clearly she doesn't know how good it feels to kick a pillow a few times and rant at your familiar. She just bottles things up inside.
Well. You rise. "I hope you do find someone," you tell her.
Yasmine glances at you, cheeks blue, wetness staining the corners of her blindfold. "
thank you," she shows you. "
it was nice to talk."
You can feel her eyes on you as you leave. You don't look back to the corner. It would just make things awkward for you.
Your second dance card is for Munir al-Alliya. He takes more finding. You almost don't recognise him. He's wearing no mask.
Ah, but no, that's not right. He is wearing a mask. He wears one over the top of the silver mask that covers his burns; one which must look like he looked before his accident. It's been painted carefully to match the colour of his revealed skin. There's even a false, immobile eye painted onto the left side of the mask, that constantly stares straight ahead no matter where his real eye looks. His left hand wears a black velvet glove, but his right arm is bare to the shoulder and covered in an intricate pattern of five-colour tattoos that stand out against his darker skin.
Up close, you can see he's older than many of the funny little boys you've been playing with. He must be in his late thirties, and while he's clearly strong and works to keep his shape, he has some of the softness that comes to any man in time. His arms are strong, but his gut is rounded. His bared skin isn't boyishly smooth anymore; it has character.
When he takes your hand, you feel the built-up callouses on his palm and fingers. Soldier or smith; he works with his hands. The precise opposite of soft, weepy Zia.
"Dear Meira," he says, and you can
hear the self-satisfied smile in his voice. "I'm so pleased you chose me as a dance partner this evening."
"Well, you know," you say, feeling quite satisfied at your choice. "Little boys don't always know how to handle a woman who's used to all their tricks. Sometimes one must look for someone a little less callow."
"Ah ha! Yes, indeed. Callow, I am not." He pauses. "A drink?"
You consider how you're feeling. Light-headed, yes, and slightly flushed. You're feeling the drink you had when angry about Fatin. "Nothing alcoholic," you say. "It wouldn't be much fun if I fell over on the dance floor."
"Ha! Yes." He nods over to the floor as he passes you a cup. "Rosewater. And have you seen the Kinzara girl there?" You can see a woman who's nearly bulging out of her faded blue gown. "She's clearly only being held up by Aziz over there. I do hope they get her off the floor before she throws up all over it like she did at the last party they threw."
"She can't hold her drink?" you say, frowning as you realise it's hard to drink with your mask in the way.
"Well, given she dropped a cup already, no, I would say she can't." He chuckles. "Young people. So foolish sometimes. And by the way, that little spout is meant to help you drink through the mask."
"Thank you," you say, trying the drink. It's flavoured with desert roses, and very very sweet.
"I saw you with Yasmine ak-Kebez."
"Mmm. Her brother asked me to sit with her."
"I don't know why that family shows up to these things, I really don't. He's a lump who refuses to touch anyone, and she's a cripple. I've never seen her dance, and a few men have even asked her."
Well, you know why. Something rings a bell, something Fatin had said. "The boy mentioned some kind of religious difference."
"Mmm. Yes, the Kebez are very old fashioned. They mostly just worship the Five Perfect Ones. They insult the other gods by refusing to give them their dues." Munir shakes his head. "Foolishness. Maybe that is why so many of them are cripples. I've heard take they have a fortress on their lands where those too deformed or too mad to be seen in public are confined."
"Goodness me." The current dance seems to be coming to an end, and you're quite interested in getting to know this older gentleman better. There's no sign of a wife, and that suits you just fine. While married men can be an enjoyable challenge, it's more effort than you feel like right now.
The musicians start a new song - a thin, wailing piece on the horns and bagpipes. A whirling rhythm then joins in on the zithers and ghaychacks that dances in the upper registers. The great drums beat out a slow pace underneath all that.
"Well, let us dance, then," you say, looking at him from beneath your lashes.
"Of course, my lady," he says. He reaches out, wrapping his good arm around your waist and leads you onto the floor.
With Munir, you can put Fatin's awkwardness out of mind. Oh, he's by no means a dancing master - and he favours his right leg, suggesting the injuries go all the way down his left side - but he's competent. And he's strong enough that he can quite thrillingly lift you as the bagpipes cry out their warbling call.
There are more than one set of eyes on you. Yasmine is watching you - insofar as you can tell from behind her blindfold. No doubt the girl wishes she was in Munir's place. But Hilmi is on the edge of the room, eyes dark as he ignores the woman next to him - and on the other side of the room, Haitham has a drink and is watching you. He notices you looking at him, and salutes you with his cup.
You lean back, back arched, and let one leg rise as Munir leans in, twining it behind his leg. His bare arm is warm against the flesh of your back; he smells of wood smoke, the meal, and under that something slightly oily and alchemical. "I'm having a lot of fun, good sir," you purr, soft and husky.
"A pleased lady is my pleasure," he replies.
You straighten up, so you're pressed right up against him, your arm snaking around his waist. "Well, perhaps after a few more dances, we can take this to one of the private rooms," you murmur.
He sweeps you low. "Ah, I'm afraid not," he says, sounding very polite. "I'm not looking for a fling."
Your muscles tense, and you step away. "You're married?" you demand.
"Not any more. Alas, my poor Alyssa now rests in Mukhdar's garden. The birth of my twins was more than she could take."
"That's unfortunate," you say, unsure where he's going with this. But no, you have to stay polite. "How old are they?"
"They've just turned six." He holds your hand, guiding you away from the centre of attention. "And you?"
"My husband is long dead," you say. "And I have nothing to hold me to one place, or that would keep me from travelling." You force your jaw to unclench. "Why shouldn't we look for some entertainment tonight?"
He raises your hand, pressing his mask's lips to it. "I have no time for affairs with a woman I barely know," he says, "and no desire for the costs of another mistress."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, don't mistake me. You are, after all, a very beautiful woman," he says mellifluously. "And if you are going to be staying in Cahzor longer, well, things can change. But as it stands, you're only looking for a fling, and I have a mistress. She'll likely hear if I were to bed you."
"I didn't say…"
"You are wearing the demon mask, are you not?" he says.
Stupid Cahzori masks! "She doesn't need to know," you say, stepping in. The scent of pine and mountain flowers embraces you even as you wrap your arms around him. This shouldn't be happening! "I'm just looking for a little fun tonight."
"And that is it," he says back - and for all that he says he doesn't want to bed you, he's not letting go. "I'm simply not in the market for something casual. A dragonchild such as yourself is a treasure beyond compare - but I wouldn't have you slip through my fingers so easily in a single night. No doubt in a few weeks you'll be gone, to forget me."
"Is your ego so fragile?" you ask, low and soft. The wailing pipes seem to mock you.
He dares to chuckle. "I'd rather let you slip away and lose a night of passion than have my mistress leave and take all the gifts I've given her. My greatest apologies, Lady Sayu, but that is the truth as I see it."
You exhale, and release him, letting your dragon blood recess. "So you're wasting our time?"
"My lady," he says, his normal eye creasing into a smile, "who is wasting time? To spend the evening dancing with a beautiful lady like yourself is quite a pleasant flippantry."
He's wasting
your time, you want to retort. You don't, though. "Well," you say through your pique, "then perhaps another dance? But only one or two more. I grow tired."
After two more dances - it's not
fair - you retreat to the side of the room. Looking over it, you scowl behind your mask. Sadia is in one of the corners, and her current swain is getting more than a little touchy with her.
Well, she gets something out of this! She does, even if you don't. Lucky her! And it's not just here. The wine and spirits have been flowing freely and in the fire-lit heat, many people have discarded items of clothing. Around the edges of the room, several couples are engaging in petting that grows increasingly heavy.
You pout. The men of Cahzor are
quite a disappointment, When they're not melodramatic weepy cute little things, they're serving as wingman for their sister or not interested in a casual fling. Honestly, you can't exactly frown on women falling for you and helping their sister is what a good brother should do - but a man with a mistress turning you down? The cheek!
This has
quite ruined your evening. To be treated so callously! So shallowly! The misfortunes of life fall down on you in unending storms, and all you can do is weather them!
You're going to bed. After you find out where you're sleeping. And maybe secure a good number of those little candied fruits to eat alone in your bedroom. At least they won't turn you down!
The quarters they gave you are old and unaired. There's a musty, stale scent to the air. There is dust in here on the surfaces, away from the corners. The walls are painted an ugly liver red-brown, that seems to swallow the light from your oil lamp. Palid white vases that would once have held fresh-cut flowers stand lonely on the surfaces. The Kinzara spend their money these days on food, not those little things. As a child of Sextes Jylis, that doesn't impress you.
You pause, hand just short of the tasteless walls. What greens have you actually seen on this estate that weren't being worn by a guest? Even the crops were yellowing. It makes you uneasy. Your skin crawls. To be too far from green things doesn't
feel right.
No, you're not sure you want to touch the walls. Instead, you inspect the outer wall. The shutters are bolted tightly, or at least you presume that they must be. They're hidden. Layers upon layers of fabric have been used to pad it, to muffle the sound of the wind outside.
Even despite that, you can hear the shrieking sandstorm, and taste the thick power of chaos in the air.
All around the room, there's the sign of a cursory clean. The dust is still in the corners of the room and on top of the mostly-empty bookshelf. You check down under an empty bed, and frown. The dust under there is thick, and there are several rat skeletons there, still stuck in rusted traps. Their bones have been gnawed.
"Anything edible?" Sei asks hopefully.
"Not for years," you say darkly, as you place your haul of little sweet things into a bowl and then flop onto the bed. You kick off your shoes, and punch your pillow a few times. "Argh!"
"You can always talk to me, you know," Sei says, from next to you on the bed.
You stuff a fig in your mouth, and start to recount the evening to him - and how awful the men of Cahzor are.
Sei considers it. He nods sympathetically. "I don't care," he says, with a yawn.
"You said I could talk to you, you terrible beast!" you snap.
"I didn't say I'd listen. Or care. But if you want my opinion, that was entirely self-inflicted. There were horny young men out there, but you chose to chase after the inbred who was obsessed with cleanliness and the man you knew nothing about."
"There's nothing wrong about wanting to be clean!"
"You used to carry a little bottle of alcohol around. Not because you're a lush - though you are - but just to clean your hands."
"You're just saying that because you're horrible," you sulk.
"Maybe." He leaps down to the floor. "I think I'll go look for some food. I'm sure when people start falling asleep, they'll dream interesting dreams."
Such an awful, self-interested, unsympathetic, egocentric, petty monster who only cares about his own pleasure! "Don't get caught," you order him.
Sei's tails lash iritably. "When has anyone caught me?" he demands. "Or even seen me if I don't want them to? Go to sleep, my lady. You're drunk."
Naturally. he steps behind a chair and is gone before you can retort. Because he's an asshole.
You know, some other sorcerers have nice, reliable, faithful servants who do what they want. They obey them, and never answer back, and don't whine and whine about wanting to devour the souls of mortals. What did you do to deserve such a creature? It is a burden you bear. An affliction.
An affliction nearly as dire as having gone to a party and met quite a few handsome men, and yet to be sleeping alone. You're tipsy and horny and bored and angry and… urgh! This wyldstorm makes you want to
do things, but you don't have anything you'd need to work with because you didn't even know this was a thing that happened in Cahzor!
You sulk for a bit, until pouting with no one to observe and possibly kiss your lips better loses its attraction.
Further investigation reveals a smaller room behind a wall-curtain that serves as a cleaning-room. The servants have laid out a small bowl of water scented with local herbs along with other things to help you with your evening toilet. You strip off your dress, and clean off your makeup. The mirror is polished bronze and barely better than nothing at all; there really isn't enough water to wash yourself further. If you're going to be trapped in this house for more than another day, you're going to need to find what they expect their guests to do to clean themselves properly.
There
has to be a bathhouse somewhere in a house this large. There has to be. Even though the Kinzara didn't seem the cleanest…
Well, not you're definitely not getting to sleep. Not until you can get those dark thoughts out of your head.
You pick up one of the yellowing books in the bookshelf, which turns out to be a book of poetry written in High Realm. It's clearly written by someone who doesn't have it as a first language - the grammatical errors suggest they spoke Firetongue. You can still read it well enough, though, and you begin to flip through it as you start eating your sweets.
The poems turn out to be better than you'd thought, and you lose track of time. Outside, the wyldstorm screams and wails. There are voices out there, or things that might be voices, but you know not to listen to them. You're only brought back to yourself at a noise.
The great bells of the fortress chime midnight.
There comes a rap at your door.
You consider what to do. It could be a soul-eating monster. But then, what if it's a handsome soul-eating monster? Or, shit, what if Sei has locked himself out?
Wait, no, he can sleep outside. You're not letting the little bastard in. Even if he scratches at the door.
"Oh, Meira," Haitham says. "Are you in there? And awake? Please don't tell me it's the wrong room, because I'll be awfully embarrassed."
"It is the wrong room," you say, out of pure contrariness.
"Well, I'm mortified. I might as well walk out into the sandstorm and let it end me. There's no way to live it down," he says. He sounds drunk. The kind of drunk where men get very jovial, but not drunk enough to fall over. "But if it's the wrong room, then fate has blessed me, because you're in it."
Well, he's got you there. You swing your legs out of bed, remember to brush stray grains of sugar off your front and open the door a crack. It could still be a trick by an unattractive soul-eating monster. Haitham is there, leaning against the wall, his overrobe gone and his shirt partially unfastened.
"What do you want?" you ask.
"Well, I noticed that you had gone missing, but both Fatin and Munir hadn't left with you. And Sadia mentioned you'd left alone. And for a woman who wore lilac so beautifully, it seemed like such a shame," he says, swaying faintly. "Your flower is too gorgeous to wither without a gardener's attention."
"And I suppose you're volunteering to water it?" you ask him. You raise an eyebrow.
"Oh, your thorns wound me! I am not that shallow." He pauses. "Oh wait, I'm exactly that shallow. But in my defence, I come bearing a great and mighty treasure."
"Oh?"
"I picked up a bottle of sweet dessert wine from the dining room," he says shamelessly. "It would be a shame to drink it all alone."
You look him up and down.
He's slim, but he's not skinny like Zia. And he has a few scars on the outside of his arms - too randomly angled to be anything but taken honourably. After a long day, the bags under his eyes are looking worse, but still, your initial evaluation of him holds true.
Haitham notices you looking him up and down. He grins, slowly and goofily. "Like what you see?" He supports himself against the wall. "You looked really good dancing with that old man, you know. Has he already laid claim to you?"
"Munir?" You scowl. "He's not interested. He has a mistress."
"I don't!" he blurts out. "I mean, I could if I wanted, but…"
You giggle. You can't help it. Oh, young men.
"What's funny?" he demands, puffing up his chest. Oh, you've touched a nerve there, just like any young man. You know the sort. He'll take rejection poorly, especially when you've seen that his rival is already pursuing you. He doesn't look drunk - or stupid - enough to try to force it but the resentment will simmer.
"Little boys are so touchy sometimes," you tell him. "I wore that mask because I'm only looking for someone to share my bed."
"My lady, that's fine with me." His grin widens. "You're the prettiest woman there. If you would only be a cherry blossom to me, then I will hold the memory of your flowering forever."
You laugh at that. "You do like the old poetry, don't you? I'm pretty sure I read that one in the book in the room. You, sir, are a lazy young man who steals from older works."
"I prefer to think of it as homage," he retorts, "a respect for my elders. Now, why don't you let me respect you?"
In the previous vote, you picked the two characters who weren't interested in casual sex, but wore the mask that indicated that was what you wanted. As a result, neither of them reciprocated - while, for example, Munir would have been open to pursuing a further relationship if Rena had worn the mountain lion mask (and something may or may not have happened), because she would have indicated she wanted something longer term.
Though, let's be honest, Fatin had already shown that he didn't like touching people, so maybe the demon mask wasn't the best choice to interact with him.
And so the choice of the demon mask is something others can observe - like Haitham, who noticed that choice mask and the fact Rena went to her room alone, so is taking the chance to make a move. You can still turn him down, of course, but as Rena observes, that will have its own consequences. To put it another way, when you voted to do the political stuff in Cahzor, you made it much harder to not get involved in Cahzori political conflicts - and "I don't want to choose sides" is a choice in its own right with costs.
Does Rena Invite Him In?
[ ] Yes. He'll do nicely as entertainment for a night. And things work out, he could be useful later.
[ ] No. While you wanted to get laid tonight, you're not interested in him or being seen to side with his family - and because you're tipsy, you say as much.
What are Rena's Plans For Tomorrow? (Pick Two)
[ ] Find a viewing gallery for the wyldstorm and observe it.
[ ] Girl-talk with Sadia, and see what you can pick up from her.
[ ] Explore the fortress of the Kinzara jansi.
[ ] Seek out someone else you talked to at the ball:
- [ ] Who?
[ ] Look further into the Cazhori duelling culture you've heard mention of.
