LXVI. Hot Water
No, you decide quite firmly, now is not the time for rash action. Now is the time for considered, controlled research of your opponent. For investigation. And for pampering in the company of pretty fox-men. So you can discover their weaknesses, of course.
Really, it would be irresponsible to do anything else. And no one can accuse you of being irresponsible.
Okay, you are overplaying it, you are forced to concede in your head, but clean baths! With hot water! And fox-men! A girl can only be so reasonable; past a certain point, the unreasonable thing is to expect her to behave herself.
"Oh, sir," you say, playing up the circuitous vocabulary of certain Cahzori noblewomen you've met, "that would be our delight! What a charming place you have here! I didn't expect to find such a civilised place out in the countryside!" You watch his eyes. "And such a peculiar style! How quaint!"
He did
not like that. His firey-irised, slit-pupiled eyes narrow. "Quaint? Lady, how could you possibly say that? What possible complaints could you have — why, we are the very most comfortable bathhouse in all of Cahzor!"
You can't push him too far, but this is a wonderful chance to test him. "Maybe for Cahzor, but I am not Cahzori," you jab, cloaking your true intent in your entirely justified desire to have nice things, "and I have somewhat higher standards!"
He relaxes slightly. Interesting. "Oh, lady, please," he says, running a hand through his loose hair, "I am sure you will find the baths and the inner quarters more to your satisfaction. We are, of course, entirely attentive to the needs and wants of noblewomen here! Especially ladies as exoticly beautiful as yourself!"
"I should hope so!" you say in your most empty-headed way possible. You can already see the flower-painted cords thickening around him. He's doing something. Probably adjusting the glamour of places you haven't seen yet. But there are three patterns of wyldflowers here, writhing against each other in a way which would make someone less brilliant than you think they were one.
"Oh, please!" Inaan says, "don't make a fuss! I'm just glad to be off the boat!"
You pat her on the shoulder. "You have to make a fuss in places like this, darling, or they might not offer you the quality you deserve," you tell her, both to cover up what you are up to and also because it is an important life lesson that she needs to know.
"But it's so nice here!"
"And I know how to handle these places." The twitching ears of the foxes have absolutely no respect for private conversations, so you'll tell them what they want to hear while also not, for the moment and technically speaking, lying. You laugh again, and turn your attention back to the fox-man who is clearly a self-willed being compared to the wisps around him. "Oh, my dear, I do veritably declare, I find myself afflicted with a strange and queer affliction of the transient vapours. I haven't even thought to ask you your name yet."
You do hope you're not overplaying it. But you've seen how loopy some people who are not used to being ensorcelled can get; wyld-drunkness is pleasant in moderation, but hits people hard.
He seems to buy it. "Ma'am, you can call me Silk-and-Eye."
Damn. Even when he thinks you're ensorcelled, he isn't going to let his true name slip. "And are you the owner of this establishment, Mister Silk-and-Eye?"
He laughs at that. "No, no, that is not me. I would not claim my master's authority falsely. This is the house of Redtail Dae."
Well. Silk-and-Eye is definitely one of the noble fae here, and you suspect the ghostly-thin swordmaiden standing to guard the door is the second. She is not a fox; she is clearly an ally, or one who like Blue enjoys the story of the warden.
But it is the third one that worries you.
You have a lot to think about as one of the fox-maidens — mere wisps, a prop in the tale-spinner's story — escorts you and Inaan to your quarters, and helps you get changed for the baths. Because you have talked to Blue, and 'Silk-and-Eye' fits the general way local fae tend to name themselves - but Redtail Dae does not. But that is what is curious, because that
would match a Northern naming scheme. Could the master of this place be another emigre from the North?
If so… this might be very bad news.
There are three broad kinds of northern fox spirit you know about (not counting beings of other story-clades who make use of fox iconography, such as a cataphract who takes on vulpine aspects due to her heraldry). The first of these are fox-born, beasts given a fey mind by the twisting power of chaos. But those creatures do not have the social graces and artistry of this place, so you discount that possibility. They do not set up bath-houses; they chase men through the hills or howl to cause avalanches so they can feast on the trapped and broken bodies. The second are the trickster-foxes, seductive fox maidens and handsome roguish fox boys. Compulsive pranksters, thieves, and joke-tellers. Sometimes their jokes are along the lines of 'What happens if a man is lured off the edge of a mountain path by foxlights during a snowstorm?', but if you avoid giving offence to them and play their games well, they are not all that dangerous. They are cowards, averse to direct confrontation, and you've tended to be quite fond of them in the past. They enjoy your company too, because they are vain and appreciate your appreciation. Silk-and-Eye might well be a similar breed.
And, unfortunately, that leaves the last kind; the man-eating fox, the Cheraki gumiho. Some prefer the liver while others prefer the heart; either way, they use the organ as a representation of the lower, bestial soul of men which is where one's life is seated. Interestingly, from your studies, compared to the trickster-foxes disproportionately many of them are man-born, turned into wyld-foxes by curses, bad decisions, or their own sins. You have studied their nature very deeply.
Sei is not exactly one of these, but he is distinctly kin to them.
You don't know the master of this place is a man-eater. You hope — and pray — that he's just a trickster. But at least you're forewarned and forearmed if he is a Northern fae. And he will be used to not being expected.
The baths take your breath away.
This is the truth; you have loved Cheraki bathhouses since you were a girl. The smell of the burning pines, the warmth, the elegantly geometric decorations. The heart of the steam rooms; the cold ponds outside and their bracing chill.
But they are also clearly, obviously an import from the Realm.
There have been attempts to naturalise them, but the origins shine through despite the veneers your people put in place, and to one educated in history such as you it is even worse to read things from past centuries written by Dynastic visitors talking about how filthy the Cheraki are for not having communal bathhouses. It didn't matter to those southern sneering bastards that in long, cold, northern winters you washed in the comfort of your own home, heating the water in the hearth rather than venturing out to freeze. And they sneered at the way that early Cheraki Immaculates considered hot springs to be too sacred to profane with the unwashed body and sent their own monks to 'correct the superstitions' and build new temples that honoured Daana'd in their way, not yours.
It is a fundamental part of being a member of House Ferem, though your people would never say it in company. Pride in your Cheraki heritage, which is as long and as proud as any Scarlet-necked Dynast — but also the nagging, awful need to have your richer, more powerful, more prosperous cousins from the south respect you.
You look around and see the way the women's baths are clearly made from your own dreams and expectations. And this means you have made Silk-and-Eye play his hand, for he has given away one of his tricks, but the clench of nostalgia leaves you regretting your choice.
It's something to tamp down. To force out of the way. Never trust a fox.
"How beautiful," Inaan declares.
"Yes," you say tersely, and submit yourself to the pre-bath washing.
"Will you and your daughter need more help?" the fox-maiden wisp asks once you are cleaned and ready to enter the water.
You… are temporarily unsure how to respond to that. Blurting out that she is not your daughter will not help you, because from how she is acting the ensorcellment should smoothe over that kind of mistake. But you're also simply confused as to how the fae behind this place put the wrong idea in their wisps' heads. They are either very unfamiliar with human relationships, or—
Ah. Yes. You had previously found out that Zia and Inaan's father was from the Realm. And people from the north of the Blessed Isle are clearly kin to the Cheraki. It would make sense that they saw the hints of non-Cahzori features in Inaan, and connected them to your clearly foreign appearance.
You are, however,
mortally offended that this idiot believes that you have a daughter in her mid-teenage years. You look thirty! Early thirties at most! You cannot believe that someone would assume you have a daughter so old! Slander! Slander and gross malice!
(The fact you could be Inaan's mother's grandmother is completely irrelevant to the matter at hand)
"We'll be… fine without you," you croak.
The wisp mutely leaves, and you lower yourself into water that is the perfect temperature, and confirm that it — like the decor here in the baths — is a falsehood, a glamour spun from stolen dreams. And brood over empty headed wisps that think you look old enough to have a daughter in her mid-teenage years.
"I'm sorry. I was being awfully beastly to you," Inaan says after a bit. She seems to have mistaken the reason for your ire.
Yes, she was being a brat, but you don't say that. "Water washes away ill words," you instead say.
"Huh?"
Oh, of course they don't have anything like that saying. There isn't enough running water in this city. It explains a lot. "It's a saying where I'm from. Especially if you cross a bridge over running water, you should let an argument pass."
Inaan considers this. "Do people do that?"
You wince. "Mostly only for small things," you admit.
"Hah! Knew it." She lets herself float in the water, staring up at the ceiling. "This building isn't like any bathhouse I've seen before."
"Oh?" Is she seeing around her ensorcellment?
"The building isn't like any I've seen before. And how they do the bathing, too. And there's this dark wood here, and the paintings are all geometric shapes. There aren't humans or animals here."
"Ah." You stretch out, as nostalgia claws at your heart like Sei claws at fine furniture. "That would be because this is a more northern style of bathhouse. It wouldn't surprise me if the proprietor of this place came from up north. Or their ancestors, at least."
"You sound like you recognise this style."
"I do. It's quite familiar. It… makes me think of home," you confess.
She is silent for a while, and you stare up at the dark wood and the painted green and black tiles. Lost in your memories, perhaps. You can feel this place trying to influence you, testing you, and so now is time for a studied surrender, letting it think it can entrap you. If you fight too vigorously, you will flag the masters of this place. Now is not time for thoughts like stone, which is hard and obvious and sharp; now you must think like smoke, dispersed by the hand and yet obscuring the eye.
"Why did you leave your home?" she asks.
"A lady has secrets."
"Is it related to those scars?" she asks, dark eyes roving over your body.
Without thinking, you trace them with your fingers. One on your left arm, that was that grim-eyed swordsman who said that it was revenge for his mother and expected you to know who in Creation he was talking about. The one on your right thigh, that was a crossbow bolt. The one that runs from crotch to throat, nearly bisecting you… that was betrayal from Doseon. Betrayal and infamy, after everything you'd done for him! How could he do that to you? There are more. And there are the older ones, the ones which date back to when you were a young woman and which are now barely more than lines of slightly raised skin that do not tan in the sun.
"The life of a scavenger lord is a dangerous one," you say. Which isn't a lie, except in what it implies. "Before I came to the south, a lot of jealous people came to kill me."
"Really?" she asks eagerly. She does like your stories.
"Oh yes. I'd discovered things they didn't want me to have. So they came to kill me, and take everything from me. A whole army." And Immaculate monks, to kill your lovers.
"How did you survive?"
"Barely." Oh so barely. If the gods had any love for you, you would have burned through every blessing they had for you in your whole life. Instead, it was just a question of sheer random chance. "They had me cornered. Up on a high parapet. In a fortress. Over the river."
The fires — the fires must have reached your laboratory. You remember the explosion, the many-coloured fire of chaos rising up, consuming and changing everything it touched. And the fortress gave way. Doseon, in his monk's robes, those green eyes — your eyes — glaring at you. He still grabbed for you. His hand around yours. Slick with your blood. He screamed when you fell.
The truth is, you let yourself slip from his grasp. Rather an honest death in the river that ran by the Odat fortress or upon the rocks, than what the Immaculates would have done to you. Better that than letting your wretched, traitorous, fae-sired son save you. To confine you in a nunnery as a penitent, or put you through the infamy of a public trial. You had been willing to die then. After all, you had nothing left to live for. They had taken everything from you.
And yet somehow you survived.
"How many did you kill?" Inaan asks in complete disregard for your concealed feelings.
"Not enough. But many." Oh yes, your gentlemen and your spells made them bleed, but nothing you inflicted on them could have made up for what they took from you. "Killing spells, my loyal men, collapsing the bridges… yes. We fought hard. But there were just too many of them."
"Amazing! What was it that you found? What did you dig up that made them send so many people to kill you?" She pauses, tilting her head. "Wait. Is that why you're in Cahzor?"
You can't actually follow her line of logic here. "What gave you that idea?" you say, vaguely interested in a jansi interpretation that you might want to borrow if it's a good explanation for why you're here.
"Don't play coy." Inaan crosses her arms. "You're a northern scavenger lord. But someone tried to kill you for some great treasure. And then you cross the world just to come to this city. This dried-up dust bowl. I didn't want to be the heir. I wanted to leave and see the sea. Or just the lands where there's lakes so big you can't see the other side. You know there's even places where water flows properly up stream from the Little Nam? If you don't mind sailing in the stink, you can follow it up to Coxati lands!"
Huh. And yet that makes sense. Curse the Demio, of course she wants to control the only river route from this wretched city. And that explains where the fresh fruit served at the Kinzara feast came from. Wait, no, you are getting distracted. "So what makes you think I'm here because if this?"
"It's obvious that you found some treasure map or clue that led you to Cahzor in hope of a big score," she informs you. "You managed to come back with a big find on your very first trip, and now you're here, heading to our lands which are right by Zoruni. Don't treat me like I'm a child."
… crap. That's too close for comfort. She's missing some information, but she's basically worked out about the existence of the jadescroll you stole from the goddess and has rather more insight into your motives than you would like. "You read too many tales of high adventure," you dissemble.
"You're a treasure-hunting dragonblooded foreign lady who attends parties, gets involved in murders, fights duel-cultists to the death, and then goes down into the city and returns with both treasure and a rescued noble. Your life is a tale of high adventure." she points out very rudely.
"Whatever happened to treating me with respect?"
"How am I not respecting you?" she asks, seemingly confused. She's probably mocking you. "Your life is full of excitement. I'd love that!"
"I don't want an exciting life," you grumble. There is a chuckle from somewhere in the room. It sounds like Sei. Fortunately Inaan ignores it, probably assuming it's the burbling of the pipes. "No, I mean it. Too much excitement ends with you being stabbed repeatedly."
She looks at you. "Okay. I can see that. Also, wow, now that you're undressed I can see your tattoos are even more covering-you than you showed me. I thought they were just on your arms."
You jump on the chance to tell her some more about them, and you only realise afterwards that once again she has diverted you into telling her more stories. Damn. She needs to stop doing that. It's not your fault you like to talk, and doubly so like being the centre of attention.
And of course, it turns out she's not the only one listening, because once you get out of the baths you wander through the shaded, unrealistically lush gardens where vipers and peacocks roam freely without attacking each other. So the locals were spying on you in the bath, and listening in on your conversation. They do seem to have been taken by your inked school rankings.
"How delightfully beautiful!" you say loudly. "This is just perfect. It really is a shame we'll have to leave — but not too soon. I'm sure we can stay a few days. Maybe even a week. It's just too hot to travel this late in the year."
Then for good measure, you go and flirt with some of the handsome, shirtless fox-men who are lounging around the gardens. It's not that you
want to do this, after all. It's just you need the locals to think that you're venal, utterly driven by your urges, and shallow. And given they constructed the glamour of these baths from Cheraki bits they picked up from you, you need even Inaan to think you're just like that.
Because you know what you'll be doing this evening.
What is Rena's Plan?
[ ] Pass Among Them: Oh, others might have believed that you had salacious intent on these pretty fox-men, but your interests are far more mystical. Which is to say, they're a source of clothing and also souls (or whatever passes for one for a lesser fae creature), and you'll have a fey face to wander the halls when the guests are meant to be asleep, and see what is really going on here. (Soul-Thief's New Face) (Fleeting Breeze Style)
[ ] Call Up Your Smoke Servants: This place is well-lit by fires, and ruled by chaos. It will be a wonderful place to try your new talent for making those almost-hob smoke servants to spy on this place and find out what happens here so that you can… (Cinders-and-Smoke Homunculus) (Wyldwoods Scholar Style)
-[ ] Examine the Glamour - The art of glamour-spinning here is quite distinct from the way your northern gentlemen would have done it. It bears further examination, to understand its limits and whether you can reproduce it later.
-[ ] Study Your Companions - Oh, it will be educational to have your servants watch your companions and see how each of them respond to the glamour. And also the feeding vectors of the fae here.
[ ] Indulge To (Their) Excess: Time to make a move. You are a master at the arts of the Petal-Wrapped Diva; a storyteller, a vivacious beauty, the centre of attention. You will challenge them within the frame of their own narrative, and pit your stories and style (and alcohol tolerance) against theirs — and may the best woman, who is you, win. (Verdant Revelry Inspiration) (Fume Serpent Style)
