[Exalted] The Dragon's Spite

[EarthScorpion]

XXIX. The Calm and the Storm

Slowly, you wipe a speck of his spittle off your face with a finger. "Arrogant boy," you say, forcing the surging hot anger deep down behind your mask. You don't want to say things you shouldn't. "And shallow. And deceitful. You falsely invoke the names of the gods to try to get away with your crime, because you think your blade will allow you to escape punishment.

You jab your finger at him. "But they are watching you, you yelping puppy. Yes, I accept your challenge."

He snorts. "I wouldn't think a creature like you would have the courage to do this. You're more about killing men in the night."

That bastard. "I've already accepted your duel. You don't need to throw these dishonourable insults at me anymore," you say, hiding your feelings behind a blank mask of proprietary. If you show how much he's hurting you, he wins.

"Of course, my doll-faced lady. To the death?"

"To the death," you say. Your fingers twitch, wanting to jab him in the throat and let him taste your venom.

He looks down his nose at you, tilting his head back to do so. "Have your second talk to mine," he says. "Now, get out of my room."

Karenna crosses her arms. "My guards will stay to keep an eye on you, young man," she says. Grabbing your arm, she leads you out.

In the corridor, though, she looks up at you with some relief. "Thank you for being so cooperative," she says.

"I beg your pardon?"

"This is much… cleaner. Everything will be sorted by the time the Demio hears of it."

Oh, she's scared of that ruler, though she hides it. "I know I'm innocent and he's just trying to…"

"I know, I know," she tries to soothe you. "But this is the Cahzori way - and if he winds up dead, ad-Dib know the customs. And ak-Kas will have their blood."

What about you, you want to ask. But don't. She doesn't care about you; only about her family and their appetites.

You look at Kareena. "I want Sadia as my second," you say, rage twisting in your gut.

---

Your blood is still boiling, and you pace back and forwards over the rug. Your soft slippers are in a corner, where you kicked them.

"You know," Sadia says, leaning against the wall of the small room she commandeered to help you get ready, "he's actually been very clever."

"Very clever? What's clever about this?"

She raises her plucked eyebrows. "Oh? You don't see it?"

"I'm just a little distracted right now. Given I am shortly going to be fighting a man to the death."

Sadia's lips curl up. "Very well. If he wins, he's innocent. And if he loses, you kill him."

"How is that clever?"

"It's better than what he'd get if the Demio got her hands on him."

You don't shudder, but the only reason you don't is that you are in control of your mind and your body. Yes. When she puts it like that… "If she lets him go," you say darkly.

"Well, that's always a risk, but again, at least he has a chance of his soul escaping her," Sadia says idly.

Well, that was a winning Gateway move from you. You were just fishing for information, but at the very least Sadia isn't surprised by the idea that the Demio could trap a man's soul. "Forgive me for not appreciating his cleverness much," you say. "But… thank you for being my second."

"Oh. We're friends, aren't we?" she says with a shrug.

"And of course you get to see a bloody fight."

She laughs. "My dear, I only met you about a week ago, but already you know me so well. This should be something to watch. There are only a few dragon-children in the duelling cults, but to watch them shed blood for the gods is really something."

You flex your fingers. "Are there women in those cults?"

"A few."

"Then," you gesture at yourself, "what do they wear when they fight?"

"No armour, obviously. So, the point of the duelling cults," she rolls her eyes, "is to get impressive scars out of it, so 'showing as much skin as possible' is the dominant theme."

You snort. "You mean the two boys weren't really dedicated because they didn't have their dicks out, flopping all over the place?"

That draws a laugh from Sadia. "Yes, actually! Only the hardcore men do it, because for some reason they're scared of a cock cut, but there are some that do it. But against Hilmi, yes, he won't go full naked-and-oiled-up." She looks over you. "You've got a bra on so that should be fine for support. You're big enough you'd be flopping all over the place if you went fully topless. Hmm. And I can get my hands on one of the short leather kilts some people wear."

You wrinkle your nose. "This is my favourite bra," you tell Sadia firmly. "There's no way I'm risking it getting cut. Just fetch me some bandages." You measure out the dimensions with your hands. "At least this wide."

"I'll see what I can do. And when I get back, we'll need to talk about what weapons you want me to negotiate for."

She leaves you in this shady room. Rising, you open the shutters and peer outside. The rain has slowed down to a drizzle, and the evening sun is visible through the off-colour clouds. Sunlight. The storm is nearly over.

Yes. If you'd held off much longer, Hilmi could have made a run for it. But you're committed to this path, for better or worse. Taking a deep breath, you try to settle your mind.

"Haven't you gotten yourself into trouble?" a sardonic voice drawls from behind you. "It's amazing. I leave you alone for a few hours and you're in a fight to the death."

"Hello, Sei. Where have you been? Feeding off Blue?"

He chuckles, a deep sound more appropriate for the form you can remember he wore when you first met. "Oh, my lady, just like you, I do enjoy to latch my lips onto him and suck out his vital essence."

Classy. Very classy from your asshole familiar. "You didn't kill him?"

"Of course not. But he's sleeping like a baby."

"You drink the breath of babies."

"I know." There's the sound of Sei jumping down off the table. "You know, you could just call on your magic and destroy this little man. Leave him as bloodied chunks on the floor. And let these silly little people see that you are a sorceress. Let them fear you - and let them want your power. I'm sure they'd want you as a war-sorceress for their little squabbles."

"What are you getting out of this?"

"Oh, my lady, don't you know? There will be so many injured men lying around such battle. Gasping with their last breaths. And if they're found dead… well, clearly died of their wounds." He brushes against your leg. "It would be a rich harvest for you - and I'd eat well."

"The power of sorcery isn't easy to call up in a duel."

"I'm sure you can find a way, my lady. You're inventive. It's one of those traits you used against me."

"And you're just thinking of your stomach."

"Correct again, my lady. But if you thrive, so do I. And if he kills you," he purrs, "he'll deny me the enjoyment."

Ah, Sei. Love him or hate him, you can trust his very particular view of the world.

"I'll think about it," you say.

"What was that?" Sadia says, pushing open the door. Sei, of course, is gone.

"Just talking to myself," you say, turning away from the window. "The storm is nearly gone. I can see the sun. Oh, and thank you so much." You take the bandages she offers. They're woven hemp, and stretch in your hands. "These will do nicely."

She flaps a hand at you. "Don't mention it," she says, tossing you the leather kilt. "That should fit you, although I'm not sure the belt will like those hips."

"The Dragons gave me a certain body," you say, pulling off your dress and trying on the kilt. It really is very short; it won't cause you problems, but won't do much for modesty. Still it makes you look more fierce. The bra comes off, and you begin to bind your chest. You can't help but sigh as you get used to the sensation, the shift in the weight.

"What is it?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing important." You stare out into space. "It just… just makes me feel young again." Back in the days at the Viper School, you'd get yourself ready like this every morning. Isn't it funny how memory can crawl out of some dark pit from a century ago, just from the pressure of a chest binding?

Of course, back then, there was less chest to bind. The you of back then would probably have made fun of your weight and accused you of looking like a sushi roll. What a bitch.

"Ah," Sadia says, looking you up and down. "So that's where you got those scars?"

"I was more of a hothead when I was younger," you admit, unconsciously tracing that scar that runs down the centre of your chest. No, that one was of more recent providence. "Everyone's a fool when they're in the first bloom of youth."

She snorts at that. "Should I leave you to this?"

"Of course not. This is much easier with two people. Help wrap me up, would you?"

The two of you get to work, and though you have to correct her tendency to make it too tight, it does speed things up. You suspect she may have bound her chest before, but only to fit into clothing - or possibly to pass as a male for a party. You're going to need to breathe, though.

"What if he cuts through the bandages?" Sadia asks.

"They'll fall off," you say, shrugging. Good. You can shrug. "Maybe he'll get distracted and I can stab him in the throat. Good, now just loop it under and tie it…"

When the work is done, you take the bandages off her and start on your hands, feet, and joints. You practice a few jabs and bounce on your toes, then adjust the tightness around your right ankle a little bit. You don't have any shoes suitable for fighting, but that should at least help you keep your grip. And strengthen your joints when you kick him in his stupid dick. Shaking out your hair, you tie it back into a rough ponytail, then turn it into a bun so he can't grab it.

"You know," she says, stepping back, "you don't look much like yourself."

"Like myself?"

"With those bandages and the scars and those snake and bird tattoos out and... and your hair up like that and your breasts bound, you look a lot less like…"

"A decadent?"

"I wouldn't call you…"

"I would." You shake your head, amused. "Darling, I spent my youth getting into fights and training and other boring, boring things like that. When I got older, I realised that there were much more enjoyable things in life." You grin at her. "And much more pleasurable things to do with a hot-blooded men than stabbing him. Though there's still some thrusting involved."

That draws laughter from her, and she runs her fingers through her short hair. "Now I'm reassured you're still you."

"What remains to be done?" you ask.

"As your second, I have to come to an agreement with his second as to what weapons you're allowed."

"We're fighting to the death. Shouldn't we get our choice of weapons?"

"There's still such thing as standards."

You smile. These Cahzori. "So who provides these weapons?"

"The parties in question - that's why I'll need to discuss this. Though I know some of the duelling cult will be willing to offer their weapons given you're fighting over Haitham's death." She smirks at you. "After all, that would let them brag that it was their weapon which avenged him."

"What if they lend it to Hilmi?" you ask, amused.

"Well, then they'll be hoping he wins. The gods decide the winner."

You rise up onto your toes, and stretch. "Do you actually believe that?"

Sadia meets your eyes, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "I believe that people who are best at fighting seem to have the favour of the gods. And as you're a dragon-child and clearly have more experience at killing people than you let on, I suspect the gods will prove your innocence. Now. What do you want to try to kill him with?"

Smiling, you give her your conditions.

---

Article:

Approval voting is in effect here, because Rena is instructing Sadia what her negotiating terms are. That means you can vote for multiple options.

Note - this vote is both what Rena wants, but also she needs to consider what Hilmi would want.

Which of these is Rena okay with using to fight?
[ ] Unarmed only. You're certainly trained in unarmed fighting, but you don't know if he is. Your hands are more deadly than his are, though; you're pretty sure about that.
[ ] Knives. This is to the death, and knives are in form for both the Peacock and the Viper. You'd be most confident with a familiar weapon in your hand - and would he expect a thrown blade?
[ ] Short blades. The guards are armed with those weapons, and you're pretty sure you could borrow them. You could use them with Viper Style, and you're pretty sure none of those weapons could be rigged.
[ ] Cahzori duelling blades. You saw he's not comfortable with them, but you're not sure how good you are with them. Still, it might get you more respect from onlookers.
[ ] All weapons allowed. Sorcery is a weapon, right? You'll show all the onlookers how powerful you could be as an ally - and he won't expect it.

 

[EarthScorpion]

XXX. Violence & Sex

Look, the title is pretty clear. There's graphic sex in this chapter, under the spoiler blocks. Also bloody violence, though somewhat less graphic and not in the same section.

Would you believe me if I claim I didn't deliberately pace the arc so chapter 30 could have this warning?

This time, you are the one stepping into the duelling circle in the temple. The jansi are here, packed into this room that stinks of burnt meat. The great statue of the ak-Kinzira god wafts smoke from his nostrils; his belly glows cherry-red. You can feel the heat from here. The light only touches the gloomy corners of the room enough to cast long shadows, which dance as the crowd moves.

The air is stifling hot, the Cahzori warmth taken to a dry roast by the temple and its sacrifices. But the stone under foot is cold; as cold as the grave.

And people fall silent as you enter. It's not like the last duel. That was sport. People were tipsy and joking around and laying bets on the outcome. If they've been doing that, it's already occurred. Or maybe it's not something that'll happen for this one. Maybe it's even in bad taste.

Because you can feel it in the air. Everyone here knows that they are going to see a death tonight. There's this hunger. The hunger of a cat that's seen something small and chirping out in the gardens. The jansi can smell the fore-echoes of blood, and it's whetted their appetites.

What do they see when they look at you? What do they think of you? You meet Inaam ak-Kas's eyes, and she at least has the guts to not look away. There's no guilt in her eyes; only a sort of dark glee. She thinks she's killed you. Killed you without getting her hands dirty. Just like one of those desert beasts that flock to a carcass to get the food without risking anything on the chase and the hunt.

Yes. You know her for what she is. And you even respect that, of a sort. She can't help her nature. No more than any rabid dog.

The crowd parts, and you see Hilmi ad-Dib there, waiting for you in the duelling ring. They're sprinkled fresh chalk dust over the ring's floor. He's stripped down, wearing only a leather loincloth and sandals whose leather bindings rise to the knee. The marks of his battle with Haitham are obvious. The long gash down his right forearm and the line on his chest stand out, ugly and livid in the lantern-light. His back must be in a similar condition. He's wiped off the lip paint he was using to cover the split lip's scab.

Things to remember. Things to take advantage of.

"So you didn't run like a mewling she-cat, witch," he calls out in greeting. Such as it is. He probably can't manage anything better.

You say nothing as you take your place in the ring. He is trembling. Faintly, but it is there. You don't think it is pain. Neither is it fear. No, you've seen this a few times before. You suspect he's taken stimulants, to numb the pain of his wounds from Haitham's blade - and to counter the pain of any blows you strike. You're not sure which herb he's ingested, but those things tend to share traits. He'll likely be more impatient, more agitated; maybe even able to power through the pain of your venom. You won't be able to trust that agony will incapacitate him.

One of the younger ak-Kinzira clears his throat, cradling a box. You try to remember his name, this greasy-looking young man who's running to fat, but it simply hasn't registered. "We are here this evening to settle… s-settle accusations of murder." You hear his voice shake from nerves. You wonder why. "Meira, of the Sayu family and a stranger to our lands, and Hilmi ad-Dib have vowed to fight to the death. Here, within this ring, in the eyes of the gods. Kamis, bless us and bring truth to this matter."

You pace forwards, eyes locked on Hilmi. "This man murdered my lover, Haitham ad-Dib, so that he could steal back the black jade-steel knife he had lost to him in a duel. A duel that he still wears the wounds from." Your words sets off a buzz of voices in the temple. "The Dragons will see my vengeance through and will see justice done."

Hilmi tenses up, his dark eyes narrowing. "This foreign witch accuses me of murder, has sought to slander my name and frame me for a murder. When in truth, it was her that did it! Your blood will feed the gods, and they will devour your lying soul."

"Shameless," you say softly, shaking your head. "Is that all you can do? Lie and lie and lie?"

"Look now how she breaks the form of the challenge!" Hilmi appeals to the crowd, to the onlookers. "She can't stop with her poisoned words."

"She is a foreigner," Sadia interjects quickly. "She doesn't know the intricacies of a challenge." She glances at the Kinzira. "We should move on."

"Yes, yes, quiet down, everyone. Their… um, seconds have come to an agreement that it will be done with the bronze knives of Kamis, as offered by ak-Kinzira." He opens the catch of the box, revealing two fine and well-polished bronze knives, sitting on red fabric. "Take your weapons."

So Sadia couldn't restrict it to fighting with your bare hands. Honestly, you had been over-optimistic to try. When you were fighting to the death, no one had any reason to fight with bare hands - unless someone had a lethal trick that the other didn't. You should have thought of that.

Hilmi takes a knife first, stalking back to his side of the ring. You take yours, testing its weight in your hand. The grip is slightly worn, but it should be good. The blade is long for a knife, with a slight curve to it. Its edge is a razor.

The Kinzira man scurries out of the way between the two of you. "On the chiming of the bell, you may start - and may the gods ensure that justice is seen through," he says. You only barely hear him.

They're here. Watching you. Not just Sadia, behind you. Everyone else you've met at this party. Everyone is here. Even little Inaan.

You'll give them a spectacle. Something that shows them you are not some weakling stranger. You are not dying here, not here, not now. Not after crossing the world after escaping the Immaculate Order and House Ferem. Not because you were falsely accused, of all things.

If the world had any justice then you'll die in your bed at a ripe old age. But if it has the justice that fools claim it has, then at least you'll die because of something you actually did. It's too humiliating any other way.

"Ready to die, witch?" Hilmi growls.

Why does he keep saying that? It's not like anyone here actually know you're a sorceress. You don't say anything back. You just look at him, with your expression as doll-like and perfect as a Cheraki child in the presence of her elders is meant to achieve.

"Well? Why don't you say something?" Oh, your silence is agitating him. He bounces up and down on his toes. You'll need to watch for those sandals. "Nothing to say, witch? Seductress? Murderer?"

Your heart seethes, but you simply look at him, eyes focussed not on his face, but at his jugular. He doesn't like that. He twists, taking up a stance that you recognise. That's Blazing Bull style; his arms resemble the horns, able to grab as easily as he stabs. He's a wrestler, and his stockier build reinforces that. He's not using the Sword-Wind style you saw in the last fight.

Interesting.

You sink into your Peacock school stance; weight forwards, back arched, your arms out wide ready to fend off blows or bring them in. You can feel the strain in your muscles. They're protesting at you from the wounds and the withering of old talent. Your left thigh aches along the scar. Your posture is poor; this is a poorly weighted knife for this school; you have no flowing sleeves or corded off-hand weapons to disguise your movements or bind.

"Peacock?" He recognises this too. "Peacock? A weakling's style." He laughs, and oh there it is, the relief in his voice. He was scared. And now he's less scared. "I thought you were going to try to kill me."

The jansi take up a beat. Not clapping, exactly. One hand open, the underside of the other hand, balled into a fist. The motion you'd make when stabbing someone overarm.

The bell chimes; deep, old, sonorous. The beat fills your ears. It drowns out the sound of your bare feet against the chalk-sprinkled stone floor. Each movement throws up some dust. It wraps around your bare legs like fog. The beat of the jansi makes the chalk swirl and dance.

The two of you circle each other.

"Come on, do something!" Hilmi yells at you. He steps in, the muscles in his chest clenching and relaxing as he tries to inure you to those little movements. So you won't notice when he attacks for real. "You're scared. Scared and weak and soft! How long since you've fought for real, rather than just take men to bed?"

He's taken stimulants to numb the pain. He's fighting with Blazing Bull; he thinks you're using Peacock which never wants to get too close to a foe. And he thinks you're rusty. And you are. If you were back at your peak, this wouldn't have to be like this.

Hilmi, bless him, huffs and puffs. His snorts make the dust swirl. How like the maddened bull he emulates. But he has just enough sense that something must feel wrong to him. Maybe he thinks you're pretending. So rather than charge and overcommit, he closes in more slowly, that knife in his right hand a weaving, dangerous thing.

He cuts at you; you lean back. Again he jabs; again, again. His knife whistles through the air. And it's much closer than you should like. You cut back, but he flicks to your wrist and you have to jerk out the way.

Right. Right. You're sweating. The chalk dust clings to your skin. He's stronger than you. Faster, too; not much faster, but when you're using Peacock such a little thing matters.

And fuck you were watching his knife hand too much. His left hand lashes out, grabbing your skirt, and you didn't even think to look for that. You can't step away and now the knife is coming in as he twists to your left, away from your knife. With a kiai, you block his right arm with your forearm but his weight is on there and he powers through your block. Pain lances into your shoulder as the tip of his knife slices through the skin and rests on your collarbone. He's got a grip on you, and you can't twist to stab him without giving him the leverage to cut things that matter much more. And then he starts to angle the blade, using your bones as a fucking pivot as he works it around to…

You get your thumb over the cut Haitham gave him on his right arm, and squeeze. There's no real finesse in the strike, so you barely manage to get any venom in - but it's enough that his arm seizes up. You press down on the broken, damaged tissue and he pulls away, ripping your skirt away as he does.

The two of you separate, both gasping.

It's shallow. Yes. Pretty sure. It's shallow. If he'd managed to cut any of the important things in the area, your left arm would be useless or there'd be a lot more blood. But he's cut you to the bone there. You switch your knife to your left hand and pinch the gash shut. Stopped the blood loss. Yes. Even if it's throbbing and you can't tell the difference between the beat of the jansi and your own hammering heart anymore.

Fuck. Close. Too close. Shit. A little deeper, a little to the right, and he'd have cut a major blood vessel and you'd be fucked. Shit. You haven't fought a knife fighter and grappler like this in decades. Not in a real fight.

For his part, Hilmi is wheezing, too. "Stuck you," he gasps, as he winds the leather of your borrowed skirt around his forearm. Fuck. That's smart. He's going to be much more dangerous now, because that's enough leather that you won't be able to easily cut to his arm. You'll need to put serious force into things. He can feel a lot more confident about what he's doing.

Confidence, much like viper venom, is such a slow and insidious killer. And you've been saving your winning tile in your hand.

"Hilmi." It's the first thing you've said all fight. And you smile at him, through the shaking, through the gut-clenching fear, through the rasping of your breath and the throbbing pain in your shoulder. You smile with all your contempt. "The reason I didn't sleep with you is that you're obviously shit in bed. I talked to other women. They say you've got a small cock."

That needle is the horsefly to a bull, and with a snarl he presses his advantage. An advantage which no longer exists.

You see your chance, and take a step back, straightening up and focusing your strength in your spine and lower back. What had been a rusty Peacock stance becomes a grounded, strong Viper stance. The stance of the Disturbed Snake. Green surges out from your skin, wrapping you in your soul's mantle.

One step in, and a twist of your hip. The fingertips of your left hand strike his right shoulder, and the Viper's poison surges into his muscles. An ugly bruise spreads across his upper leg like red ink in water. He lets go of the knife, and it goes flying. But he can't stop the momentum of his charge, and he barrels you down. The stone floor is a slam of pain against your back, and chalk dust goes everywhere. Your hair bun is the only reason you didn't slam your skull into the hard ground.

But you had your knife, braced against your hip. And his own weight has just driven it into his lower abdomen. It's trapped between the two of you, driven in to the hilt.

You're close enough that you can see his pupils contract to little dots. He's lit in green. His weight is on top of you, and he can't hold himself up with only one good arm. His head sags down onto your shoulder as he writhes against the blade, an ugly sound coming from the back of his throat. His blood is on your hands. Warm. It drips down onto you. And you smell the coppery tang - and the stink of his guts.

"Fuck you," he gasps. Clinging to you. Scrabbling you with his nails, trying to get purchase on your skin that's wet with sweat and now his blood. Trying to fight for the knife with his weaker left hand.

"You wish," you spit, and with a twist of your hips you're on top. Grabbing your knife in both hands, you yank it forwards, tearing through flesh and organs in a vertical slit. His hot blood dribbles down your arms, wets your thighs. Under you, he screams. He's dead, even if through some miracle he kills you now. A gut wound like that will turn foul.

It'd be a mercy to kill him now, but you're not doing it for him. Your knife goes into his other shoulder, putting an end to his attempts to hold you off.

You yank his head back and hold your knife to his jugular. It's not just so his throat is more exposed. It's so you can see his eyes.

"This is for Haitham," you growl, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Wait," he gasps.

But there's really no reason to do anything he says.

You slit his throat. Scarlet sprays out, splattering on the shrine's floor. He gurgles and he thrashes, but there's no strength in his arms, no words to say through a cut wipepipe. You hold his head back and let the blood flow. It drips from the bronze knife in your hand; it soaks into the padding bandages around your feet. There's blood on your hands and some of the spray droplets are soaking into the bandages on your chest.

Your heart is hammering. Pounding, really. You straighten up, still straddling the dying man as your soul's fire dies down. There's an uncontrollable trembling in your left arm, and you feel the ache in your muscles and in your scars. The aches and pains of a body that just drew on the demanding arts of the Disturbed Snake. The soreness of a body that just fought for its life and won.

He's dead, or nearly so. You're not.

You want to laugh. You do laugh, between the panting gasps. You're alive. Not just because you're not dead; you feel alive. The rush hits you, the rush of relief and exhaustion and exhilaration and a thousand other things all mixed up and you couldn't pull them apart if you tried.

Dragons, you feel young again.

You rise from the meat, dripping with blood. It's still spasming and gurgling, and you step away from it before it can befoul you. Like one of the gladiators from the arena, you lift the bloodied blade above your head.

"I have avenged my lover!" you announce to everyone. "The murderer of Haitham ak-Kas is dead!"

Yes, how must you look to them indeed? Hands red with gore, your thighs painted red, the hemp bandages dyed scarlet.

You get your answer when they cheer you. They howl for you, they scream for you, they call out your name and hammer their hands together in a clamouring caterwaul that rises to the roof itself.

All you can do is hold your right hand up and pant for breath, even as Sadia appears and drags you to someone who can clean the cut on your collarbone. The herbal paste they smear on hurts like blazes, and makes you feel light-headed. Even more light-headed, that is. Little Inaan holds your hand, and says something but it doesn't register. In your almost-floaty state, one thought can't help but strike you.

Shit. You better not have ruined this set of underwear by getting his blood all over it. You like this pair.

They're probably confused why you start laughing. You laugh until you cry.

---

The shrine priests take Hilmi's body, and wrap it in a hemp shroud. As the cloth is wound around him, it dyes itself red. The bindings hold his guts inside. And then they pour spirits over his remains. They pour them until it is soaked through.

And then the priests lift it up in slings, to prayers and burning incense. He is condemned into the gullet of the five-eyed god. For the gods - so they say - have judged him, and the body of the murderer is given to them.

You've calmed down a bit by then, as the rush of pain dies down into a dull throb and the realisation of just how filthy you are drains away your elation, and the reminder helps you calm down even more. No one had told you that was what happened to the loser of these things. But Hilmi must have known. Hopefully the gods will accept him as a sacrifice and won't let him return to bring his vengeance on his killer. He was the one who challenged you, after all.

Still, you flinch when the spirits catch and sooty flame erupts from the god's mouth. You feel the skin on your face grow taut from the sudden wave of heat. What will they do with his bones? Will there be bones, or will divine Kamis take them for himself?

Well, the god is welcome to that meal.

There's an outcry as the belongings of the killer are given to the family of the deceased, and one of the ak-Kas realises that there's a lock of Haitham's hair among the trophies pinned to it. It nearly comes to blows when an ad-Dib suggests that maybe it was old - but no. It's too fresh, too soft, nothing like what months-old hair winds up in the fierce heat of Cahzor. You are vindicated in the eyes of anyone who wasn't convinced by the fight.

You should be happier about it, but you're too tired and too covered in a man's blood to have your spirits lifted.

Kareena ak-Kinzira bustles up to you. "That's that settled, then," she says, looking you up and down. "I probably should congratulate you on avenging him. It's a shame. Haitham was a good man. Really, in many ways, we should have seen that coming. We always knew Hilmi was an angry young man, but we didn't think he'd go that far.

You don't tell her to go fuck herself, though she rightfully deserves it. You remember the talk you had with her and Sadia when you arrived; everyone knew those two hated each other, and then Hilmi lost a duel. Maybe Haitham wouldn't be dead if someone had kept a better eye on Hilmi. "Mmm," you say, blotting your face on the towel someone left you. "I hope this is the end of it."

"I hope so too," Kareena says. Even in your state, you can see she doesn't think so. It's going to escalate. Something of that must have shown on your face. "If things do, uh, go bad, it'll be between ak-Kas and ad-Dib."

"Ah."

"After all, Haitham was murdered by Hilmi."

"Mmm."

Kareena seems to realise that she's doing most of the work in this conversation. "You know," she says, tilting your head back so you're meeting her eyes, "there are quite a few handsome young men from the duelling cults who really want to get to know a woman who can do that."

"Even when I'm all… filthy?" You didn't mean to let it slip, but… you do. It's bothering you. It's bothering you a lot, to feel Hilmi's blood drying on you.

She winks at you. "Especially then."

Oh. Oh.

Yuck.

"It must be lovely to have young men falling over themselves to get you at your age," she adds, somewhat wistfully.

"Might I ask a favour?" you ask, trying to hide how tired you feel.

"Oh?"

"I really have to ask to use your family baths," you say. "I'll be down at the party later, but I just… I just can't manage it when I'm covered in blood." You force yourself to smile. "With you there, they'll hardly miss me."

Fortunately, Kareena is very understanding, and you are swiftly hurried to the Kinzira family baths for the second time this day. It's so good to watch the blood washed away down the drains. It strips away the memories of caked-on mud and caked-on blood, up in the frozen North. The servants promise they'll try to get the blood stains out of your underwear, though you're only somewhat hopeful.

With a sigh, you step into the warm water and sink down, letting the heat infuse into your tired muscles. Yes. It's like there's been a weight lifted from your shoulders. Poor Haitham. You hope he'll rest easy. You don't think he's the sort to return out of love for you, because it was just a fling for you two. But at least his killer has departed this world. As the Immaculate Order of your childhood taught, good gods permit the souls of the deceased to pass on to be reincarnated, while wicked ones jealously take hold of them and inflict sufferings that are the equal of the self-inflicted misery of a lingering ghost.

You hope the Kinzira gods are wicked.

---

Washed and dressed once again, you make your grand appearance into this evening's party. When you step out at the top of the staircase, it is to thunderous applause that echoes through the black-pillared room.

Which is quite a nice little booster to your self esteem which helps banish your previous gloom, if you do say so yourself.

"Thank you, thank you," you call out, with a great sweeping curtsey. "You're too generous. No, really, thank you. I have seen so much of what the jansi have to offer, in this trying time, and I just want to thank you all for the support and delights you have shown me." You save a particular smile for Inaam, beaming down at her. "And maybe someday, I might be able to return the favour. I can tell you, in all my travels across the world, I have never seen a party like this. The grand affairs of the jansi of Cahzor should be renown across Creation!"

That gets you a second round of cheers, and you curtsey again. It's not that you're shameless. It's that you have nothing to be ashamed of.

"You're too kind, too kind. I just want us to put the unpleasantness we may have seen behind us, and enjoy the good times. I am delighted that the gods have shown such generosity as to clear me. They must be as wise as the men and women of this city are generous!"

You continue like this for some time, playing the crowd and flattering them with unearned compliments and remarks that don't let on that you're remembering faces of people who were whispering about you. But why would you? Everyone is friends here. Friends.

"... and lastly, but not in any way, I think we should all give great thanks and applause to the mightiest hearts in all of Cahzor, the Kinzira, who have put us all up during this unpleasant storm and fed us all so well that," you smile, "I fear if we were trapped here much longer, you might need to roll me out the door. So for such a distinguished display, I hope everyone here will join me in unconditional, effusive applause for our fine hosts!"

You descend the stairs as the hall is full of applause, curtsey to Kareena and the grotesque, corpulent Boulos. Because you are a charitable, benevolent soul, you even kiss the disgusting old man on the cheek, and try not to breathe.

Then you head to the drinks table and disinfect your lips with a small glass of spirits. And goodness, there are quite a few handsome boys who want to talk to you. Many of them with the nicely muscled physique and prominent scars of the duelling cult.

"Let me treat you to a drink."

"I saw your blade play there. It was so beautiful!"

"Want to see my sword? Let me tell you, it's not a short sword."

You fend them off with smiles, pleasantries, and in the case of the one who thought he was so clever with the sword thing, a certain cutting edge to your comments. You might be considering them a little more firmly if you didn't have a handsome fae waiting for you in your closet.

But there is certainly a different feel to tonight's party. It is wilder. Less restrained. The Kinzira know everyone will be leaving so want them to have good memories, and so have broken out treats they were saving. The weight of the murder has been lifted off people's shoulders. It's all in the past now. And, of course, the storm is passing. This is the last night to get in everything that makes these parties worthwhile. Which is, in the eyes of your fellow attendees conspicuous consumption of everything set before them, fine spirits, music, and the freed passions of the libertine.

Which is a euphemistic way of saying that, oh my, some people aren't even waiting to head back to their rooms before they start fucking. You mention this in passing to Sadia as you hand off a pair of your more handsome swains to her, introducing her as your 'gallant, beautiful second'.

"Well, of course," she says, leaning in to whisper into your ear. "This is a party of the jansi. We enjoy the good things. And this is going to be the last night. So some people are getting… frisky outside of the group rooms set aside for this sort of thing."

You blink. "I hadn't seen that earlier."

"Well, you've either found a single partner or gone to bed early every night," she retorts. "Of course you wouldn't be invited into one of those rooms. And you used your own, rather cramped guest rooms rather than one of the ones set aside by the family."

"Goodness," you say, for a lack of anything else to say.

She giggles. "I thought that was what you were doing in that private room with Zia. That's one of the things that kind of room are for."

Oh. Any other questions are going to have to wait, as one of the duelling cultists wraps an arm around Sadia and pulls her away. "I see, she is as beautiful as you say," he says, with a grin, "but surely you're not teasing us with her before keeping her to yourself?"

She winks at you. "Oh, no, she was just telling me something. Gentlemen, if one of you could fetch me a drink because I am positively parched. Then perhaps I could see a private display of your bladework?"

"Winner takes all?" the other asks.

Sadia smirks. "Well, I think I'd be triumphant to have two such strapping men attending to me," she says, as you walk away, trying to conceal your smile. She's having fun. That's nice. They're a handsome gift for her.

There's no sign of Fatin in here, nor of Zia or Inaan. There is Inaam ak-Kas, however, and you sashay over with a generous smile on your lips and a heart full of glee.

"Well, hello there," you say, trying not to look too malicious. "How are you doing this fine evening?"

She grips her glass tighter, and tries to smile. She reeks of a certain eau de death rictus. "Just marvellous," she says. You swear her teeth are grating together like nails on a slate. "Thank you for avenging my nephew."

"Oh, it was the least I could do," you say, reaching out to pat her hand. She pulls away. "After all, I was his last lover and that horrible boy Hilmi was more than a little jealous."

"Ad-Dib has always been like that," she says.

"I wouldn't know such a thing. But like I said, I do hope we can put everything behind us."

"That would be good."

"Yes, wouldn't it?" You pat her on the hand again, just to see that twitch below her eye. "Well, I simply mustn't monopolise your time. Do have fun. I certainly am. After all, it's wonderful to be surrounded by so many people, all praising you."

"I wouldn't know," she says through her clenched teeth.

"Oh, you wouldn't? Darling, it's marvellous. Toodle-loo." And then you wave her goodbye, a little gesture with just your fingertips, as you leave her behind in the crowd.

Ah. You shiver with pleasure. Truly, it is the little things in life which make it worth living.

Goodness, you could do with another drink.

"Excuse me," a familiar voice says. A man in long black gloves approaches you. He looks vaguely Cahzori, but you don't think you've seen him before. His sleeveless blue shirt is damn near painted on, and must have cost a fortune for the dyes, and his thigh-high boots are made of black desert-beast skin.

But you know the voice.

You meet his orange eyes, and there's just a moment as you start.

"Lady," he says, with a fucking arrogant grin that makes you want to slap it away then kiss him better. "I'm surprised you don't recognise me. We're quite well acquainted."

"Sir, you forget yourself," you tell Blue. That cad! He didn't tell you he was a shapeshifter!

"And you forget me? Lady, that hurts."

"I simply didn't recognise you in this light." You gesture up and down, taking him in. "You were much more… colourful the last time we met."

"Oh, I can be plenty colourful if you want."

"Please don't. Not here, in front of everyone." You smile at the others, and hook your right arm around his elbow. "Why, we should get drinks together and renew our acquaintance."

The alcohol burns as you throw back the clay cup. "What are you doing, wandering around?" you demand, trying to both whisper and convey the depths of your annoyance at the same time.

He sips his drink more sedately. "I woke up well-rested, lady, and felt I just simply had to see you."

"You didn't think about anyone noticing you?"

"Oh, I did." He smiles at you, boyishly. "That's why I spun myself a new shape and put it on. I'm not too fond of the skin colour, but it'll do." He leans in, to kiss your hand. "At least if I can be by your side."

This is what you both love and hate about your charming princes. They're just too damn adorable to stay mad at for long. "I am very annoyed with you for not following my instructions. I had to fight a duel, you know."

"I know, I know!" His eyes are wide. "Lady, I should have been here for you. I would have cut that dog to pieces without you having to put yourself at risk." He looks up at you, his kissable lower lip wobbling.

Naturally, you kiss it. "I am very angry at you for disobeying me," you whisper to him, running your fingers through his cascade of long, night-black hair that hasn't changed at all. His ears come to points. Well, that's not rare among the princes of chaos. They seem to like it. "Very, very angry."

"What can I do to earn your forgiveness?" Oh, look at him! So distraught at the thought you might not trust him! It's causing that idiot nearly physical pain when he thinks about how his plans might have gone awry.

"I can think of something," you say, a note of whimsy in your voice.

---

Spoiler

Look at you, pretending that you don't know exactly what you're going to do with him. But first you circulate, mingle, talk to people and generally bask in your newfound status. And you watch Blue at work. People don't question him. He looks about right, he dresses right, and their eyes skip over his inhuman eyes, pointed ears, and a few little too-perfect details.

It's the magic of dreams, and it's a magic you're not sharing with the several ladies and couple of gentlemen who proposition him.

Eventually that gets on your nerves. By that point, the party is notably lower in its cups and inhibitions are falling away. You're one of the more sober people in the room, because you need to be for what you plan - and Blue is such a handy disposal vessel for all the drinks people keep handing you when they're trying to charm you.

In your circling, you make certain queries of individuals about the various side rooms, and identify one that sounds like fun. And it's one of the private ones, so you obtain its key from one of the mute Kinzira guards and then lead your darling little azure lambling to it while they light the lights.

"What is this place?" Blue asks, as the servants leave you in peace.

Oh! How thoughtful of them. Certainly, they didn't make the interior door bar from an iron pole for things like this, but it's so perfect. You seal the door. "This?" You smile at him, hand rubbing against his crotch as you bear him backwards. "This is where you make it clear that you're not a naughty boy. It's where you make it up to me."

He beams at you. "What do I need to do?"

"Well, first off, just… get rid of your disguise." You flap a hand at him, as you look admiringly at the salacious art. Nymphs rut with djinn on banquet tables; a wall-hanging that looks like it came from further north shows an embroidered daisy-chain of young men. And there's what looks like a Tengese statue in black stone, of an elephant-headed god whose trunk is only matched by his endowment. You idly wonder if it's realistic or merely symbolic, because the width of that wine-bottle-sized thing inspires a wince. "I like you more the other way."

His tan skin peels off, dissolving into many-coloured dust that effervesces away, and the glamour that hid his limbs as gloves and boots fades like morning mist. "I like that you like me like this," he tells you earnestly.

That is so much better. You try not to stare too much, because he's shed all his glamour-clothes too, but Sadia is welcome to those two handsome young gentlemen when you have a prince all to yourself. In the low light, his white facial markings glow. His soft dick rests against his thigh, standing out against his shiny black leg.

"Now, close your eyes, and don't open them again until I tell you to. No matter what you feel," you say. "And don't say anything, either."

He screws them shut, face trembling with concentration. Oh, now you feel bad!

Wait, no, you don't.

"Such a good boy," you murmur to him, as you get everything into position. "Such a good, good boy." You run one hand through his pubic hair, stroking against his cock until it twitches to life.

You shed your clothes, and arrange yourself on the softly padded chaise longue in the middle of the room. The pale covering doesn't complement your skin tone wonderfully, but the shadows fall over you and give you a delectable aura of mystique, if you do say so yourself. You almost tell him to open his eyes, and then you pause. You bite your lips to redden them, and then pinch your cheeks for a little more colour.

That's better.

Seeing him like this, obedient and naked and… well, it's a very good thing that the seat has an absorbent cover cloth covering, because otherwise you would be staining the fabric. It is definitely doing it for you. A pleasant yet needy warmth is in you, and when you look at him there, obedient and so pretty, you know you're going to enjoy what comes next.

"Oh, Blue," you say. "You can open your eyes." He does so, and you can't help but blush with delight at the way his eyes widen and he licks his lips. Oh, look at where he can't be sure where to look; face, breasts or between your legs! "Now, we're going to play a little game. One to make sure you know to obey me. You just have to kiss whatever part of me I tell you to, and keep on doing it until I tell you to stop. And do it with the feeling, the emotion I tell you to. And if you get it all right, then you get your reward. Do you want to play, darling?"

He chuckles. "Is that all? Lady, I can tame the stormclouds with my kisses."

"We'll see. We'll see." You hold out your right arm. "Now, sir, you may kiss my hand, like a true gentleman."

The man approaches slowly, and falls to one knee before you. "My lady," he says, gently taking your wrist in his grip as he holds your hand. His lips are so soft, so gentle they're like butterflies landing on your skin. He does each nail in turn. "I am graced that you offer me this chance to be of such service to you."

You can't help but giggle. "Sir, sir, you can stop." He looks up to you pitifully, as if he has just been denied his greatest delight. He doesn't let go of your hand, though. "Now, though, kiss up my arm to my shoulder, like a man who has just met his love again after a long time abroad."

His eyes widen, and his grip on your hand tightens. "It's you," he gasps, bringing his head to rest on your arm. He doesn't kiss, not at first, but instead just gasps and sighs in relief. Somewhat overacting, if you want to be honest, but you're having too much fun for things like honesty. "I have seen ten seas since l left you." His first kiss is barely above your wrist. "Ten seas and twenty lands and," another kiss, more pressing, wetter, "cities beyond count. Great spires, my lady! Great spires and towering… towers," he covers up the poor phrasing with more kisses, tingling pleasantly on your arm, "and I have seen the so-called beauties of other lands."

"Oh, have you?" you ask him archly, trying not to giggle as he kisses the inside of your elbow. No, curses! He's found one of your weak spots. You are intensely ticklish there.

"Well, other men said they were, but," his lips are on your viper tattoo, now, and heading towards your shoulder, "I couldn't see their attractions. Not compared to you."

Blue, that devil! He's pressing up against you as he showers kisses against your upper arm and shoulder, and that means his cock is now pressing against you. He's hard now, and each extravagant kiss rubs him against you.

What a delightfully naughty boy. You grab him, and he groans as you squeeze - not hard enough to hurt, but just hard enough to remind him who's in charge. He pulses in your hand, warm and slightly sticky.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," you whisper. "You serve me, darling. Your pleasure comes when I say it can." You rub your fingers against the tip of his dick, running against the rim of the head, and you bite your lip when you hear his breathy squeal. "And won't happen if you're not very good."

"I'm sorry, lady, but I have been desolate without you for so long," he says, with a sniff.

"Better. Now, you may kiss me chastely on the cheek, to greet a maiden good morning." Of course, there's nothing chaste about the situation, and you continue to stroke him with your fingers as he leans in to kiss your cheek. "Again." Each time you tell him to kiss you like that, you rub his dick. He's growing darker in the face, eyes half-hooded, and your fingers get hotter and stickier.

"Stop." You let go of him, walking your fingers up his chest to present your upturned palm to him, all smeared with his excitement. "Kiss my palm. And use some tongue," you order him. "You've made quite a mess."

It's hardly a kiss, but both of you know the spirit of the game, and he laps at your palm. His long tongue brushes up against your palm and your fingers, licking up his faintly luminiscent orange pre-cum. You can't help but giggle in a shivering frisson, your chest heaving. It tickles, but you want him so much.

"How was it?" you ask him.

"Delicious," he says, hints of it glistening on his lips.

You tap yours. "Now, kiss me like a lover," you say, and he needs little more encouragement. This time it is a true kiss, and he frames your head with his hands as your lips meet. You can taste him in your mouth, sweet and spicy like star aniseed, and you wrap your arms around his back. The strange carapace of his arm presses into your breasts. You ache for him, your inner warmth needing to be filled.

But you break the kiss. "Very good, Blue," you murmur. "Those clouds must have been very impressed."

"I've never heard complaints." He goes to lean in again, but you pinch the skin just over his spine to chide him. "Ouch."

"But, darling, the game isn't over yet." You uncross and cross your legs. "Now. My feet. Like a servant desperate to please his mistress."

He works his mouth.

"Is something the matter, Blue?" you ask him, and somehow the sight of him wanting to keep on kissing you only to be denied is just as good as the kiss. You squeeze your thighs together, and smile innocently at him.

He settles on a pout. "Of course not," he says - though he chooses to take some liberties in how he slides down your body to kneel by the divan. You decide to allow him that. "This humble servant of yours will do anything to see you happy." He lowers his mouth to your feet, planting the first kiss just where your foot meets your leg.

Looking down your body at him, you shift your right arm, covering your breasts like you're feigning modesty. It's nothing of the sort, of course. Right now you're just so aware of how soft your skin feels, especially with it resting against the hard warmth of your nipples. You can feel your heartbeat in your clitoris and it's all you can do to wait, but wait you do. Wait until he's covered both your feet in kisses, to muttered "Please enjoy this, mistress," and "One hopes this humble servant can be of assistance" and other things you're pretty sure he's never said before, but has heard others said.

That's when you spread your legs, resting your heels on his back. "Kiss me there," you order, a little more urgency in your voice than you wanted. "Kiss my thighs, kiss my lips, kiss my clit. Kiss me until I come, like it's the thing you want most to do in the world!" You run your fingers through his hair, and pull his head to where it needs to be. "Kiss me like you never ever want to stop!"

And that he does. Everything gets warm and relaxed, yet intense as he gets to work. It's not that you're needy, but you need this. Even while he's simply kissing your inner thighs with kisses that feel like petals falling on your skin, you're using your leverage on his back to grind against his cheek. You can't live without the pressure. Your hands are at your breasts but it's not exactly helping, only building up the pressure inside you with every heartbeat. And then when he actually gets to business with his lips and his tongue and all this prolonged foreplay has a point, everything is pulsing and swollen and wet and

oh. yes.

In the warm, sticky afterglow, you look down at him and run your hands through his mane of hair. "Aren't you a good, good, lovely boy?" you coo. "So pretty. So obedient."

"Did I do the game right?" he asks earnestly.

"Of course you did, and you should feel so, so good about yourself for that," you tell him. You pull his hair until he crawls up you to lie on top of you, his weight and his warmth and his scent like a reassuring blanket in your lovely post-orgasmic world. "And now," you kiss him. "Kiss me. Like you love me. And you'll get all the rewards a darling, adorable man like you deserves."

---

Your night is very busy, and it's only a little before dawn when, somewhat bow-legged and stiff, you creep back to your room with the disguised Blue trailing behind you. He collapses face down onto your bed.

He hasn't had any real sleep, poor thing.

On the other hand, you're feeling wide awake. You napped for a few hours, head on his lap, and right now you're in this strange state of super-aware exhaustion that you often get some of your best ideas in. Sometimes you think that this altered state of consciousness puts to sleep all the bits of your mind that chain your sheer brilliance. Though it does make you slightly… erratic.

Oh. Like the fact that you apparently forgot to put your dress back on when you came back. Which means you walked through the thankfully empty halls in just your bra. Where is it?

Right. You were leading Blue with it, using it as an improvised leash. See! That's what you mean by brilliance! He looks so handsome like that!

You need some fresh air. You need it! It was stuffy in the other room, and you just can't… you just can't think properly without it! The window is boarded up, but not to worry, you have a knife! You'll be rid of those nails in no time!

Well, maybe a little time. But you do tear down the barricades obstructing the shutters, and throw them wide open. The night's air is delightfully cool. You can see the stars in the sky through patches of clouds. There's just enough of the wyld in the air that it feels like anything is possible, without any of the much less pleasant results of 'anything is possible' making themselves known.

There's a freshness to the air, so unlike the dry heat of Cahzor. You'll be leaving the Kinzira estate tomorrow, heading back to your rooms at the Blue Lotus, with a darling new fae lover. Hopefully Amigere won't kick up a fuss. You'll have to make it clear to the boy that he doesn't own your heart. Or any other part of your body. At most, you'll let him stay there if he pays his rent. Of course, you'll probably have to make him feel better about this, but this whole murder incident has left you very tense so you'll need to spend a few days releasing some stress anyway.

It'll give the city down below time to burn off the chaos. And then?

Well, if Cahzor is to be your oyster, you'll need to go fishing. Hire some men, buy some supplies, and start following up on those leads. You've made more than a few contacts in high society, and oh, a certain name for yourself. Probably some enemies, too, but enemies make things more interesting. If you were friends with all the jansi, it would be very awkward when you work to steal their power and birthright and suchlike.

You light a cigarillo from the lantern, and suck in a contented breath. You can feel it swirl inside your mouth, like all the thoughts inside your head. Buzzing, buzzing, like a flock of birds all cawing for attention. You exhale blue smoke into the pre-dawn light. It drifts out of the window, catching a hint of aurora for a moment as it is lost among the maddened spires of the ak-Kinzira.

Yes. You could have done a lot worse here.

---

Article:

Yeah, this is basically the end of the arc. Next update is just wrap up, and then there'll be the XP vote - of which you have a fair amount due to the length of the arc and how much you've got done. This vote isn't going to be a conventional vote, but is the starting point for discussion and conclusions.

Okay, but does Rena have any doubts about what happened with regards to the murder?
[ ] Nah, everything's wrapped up. She doesn't actually care enough to ask questions; she's out of trouble.
[ ] Write-in her questions/conclusions/theories.

 

[EarthScorpion]

XXXI. Afterglow

In the end, you do lie down and sleep, snuggled up to Blue's back.

You are not woken early by the clashing of thunder or the scream of the wind or the rain against the shutters. You are not woken by any of these because they are no longer present. As a result, it is past noon by the time you stir and that is only because there is a rapping at your door from a servant.

As you dress, your shoulder makes itself painfully known. If you were merely human, you'd be in a lot more pain, but you're a dragon-child. It's just something to be aware of. And the nasty herbal gunk they put on it might have hurt and left you light-headed, but there's no sign of infection.

"Darling," you tell Blue, "stay here. And look human, in case there are any servants who poke their heads in."

He nods, heavy-lidded and bed-headed. "As you wish. And I will convey you where you wish on a mighty steed."

You kiss him. "That's nice, darling." Pausing at the door, you notice he's re-spun a human-like appearance, but hasn't thought to put clothes on. You consider pointing that out, but decide otherwise. People might wonder why you have a stranger in your bedroom, but not if he's naked.

For you, lunch is breakfast. The Kinzira estate is emptying out quickly. There are only stragglers left; those cautious and waiting for noon to pass before they leave, and the ones who like you perhaps indulged a little heavily even by the standards of the jansi.

But hey, at least that means that there are witnesses here to play the adoring crowd. Which is nothing less than your right, naturally.

"Well, look at you," Sadia says, insinuating herself into the seat opposite to you. "The conquering hero graces us with her presence." Despite her words, she's smiling.

"I was injured," you protest. "I slept late because I needed my rest."

She looks you up and down, taking in your heavily mussed state and the fact that your borrowed dress is by now one big crease. "Certainly. Of course. I believe you. By the way, aunty is going to want that back."

"Yes, yes." You look at her over a spoon of apricot jam and couscous. "I certainly won't comment on how you're up just as late as me, so I will merely observe you're not exactly sitting comfortably."

That earns you a chuckle, tinged with a wince. "Touche, my friend."

"You had fun?"

"I had lots of fun. You were jolly considerate. Those two play at being rivals, but… well. They can also be very affectionate." She sighs. "And that's going to be the last fun for a while. The Demio will be wanting reports on what happened here, and then I'll have terribly boring things as we see what damage this storm caused and what chaos-maddened horrors it unleashed."

"My, my."

She throws a husk of bread at you. "Don't you look so smug! Or I won't give you a lift back!"

"I don't actually need one," you inform her. "A handsome gentleman is taking me for a ride."

Her eyebrows rise. "Some girls have all the luck," she grouses.

You lean in, voice lowered. "Of course, I don't think I got to the bottom of this," you say softly, letting the noise of the dining hall drown out your words.

"Oh?"

"Just a feeling. I… some things just didn't line up."

Sadia looks at you over the top of her drink. "What are you going to do about that?" she asks.

"Me? Nothing." You sit back, stretching. "It's not my problem. I got my revenge for Haitham and no one is trying to frame me. But given your position in the city, you might want to look into that. So like a friend, darling, I thought I'd toss all and any responsibility over to you."

She sighs in relief. "Oh. Yes, I don't think things quite were wrapped up myself. Don't worry, I'll take care of everything. I was just concerned you were going to declare vendetta against someone else. You know the Demio will have hard questions if my friend starts murdering people indiscriminately. Just leave it to me."

You shake your head. "I just want to put this behind me. But be a star and tell me if you find anything else, will you?"

"We'll see," she says. She sips her wine. "Depends what the Demio orders me to do. Sorry. You're a friend, but she can have me crucified upside-down from the dam. It'd be awfully bad for my health, don't you know?"

You suppose that's all you're going to get from her, but perhaps that's enough. After all, it isn't your problem anymore.

---

Your goodbyes are so forgettable and rote that you can barely recall them moments after making them. Most of the interesting people have either already left, or are so hungover that there's nothing to be said about speaking to them. You flatter Kareena ak-Kinzira with unearned compliments, and send your regards to the patriarch Bolous.

"I'll see you some time later," Sadia says. She winks. "Probably in the casinos."

You kiss her on both cheeks. "Darling, I'm up any time. I still need to get back what you won off me at the fighting arena."

She laughs. "Not likely," she says, kissing your cheeks in farewell.

Outside is fresh and wonderful, away from the claustrophobic gloom and greasy scent of the estate. The air smells of rain and fresh growth. There is no heat haze; no shimmer; no low hanging dust in the air. The sun shines down between dark clouds that it hasn't finished burning away yet. It lights up fresh growth, which is mostly green. There are patches of red and violet and cyan among the leaves, but that's what happens when plants feed off the change rain.

The landscape is worlds apart from how it was when you arrived. And you love it for that. Oh, the harsh sun and the cruel desert winds will flense away this gift of chaos in time, but for now, Cahzor feels alive. Even the mounds of sand carried by the storm are alive with frantic, furious, desperate growth.

The desert wind blows up from the greened valley, warmer than the surrounding air and carrying the scent of roses. You inhale, filling your lungs, knowing well that this is just a transitory thing. But oh, it is beautiful while it lasts.

"Lady!"

Your attention is drawn to a figure of beauty, riding up to you on a stallion. His hair flares behind him, his shirt is open to the navel, and he shimmers like he's freshly coated with dew.

You meet his orange eyes. "Why, hello, cutie," you purr. "Would you be up to taking a lady home?"

Blue frowns. "Of course," he says earnestly. "Don't you remember? I said that…"

You rap his knee with your knuckles. Being coy is wasted on this sexy moron. "What a fine steed," you say instead.

Blue's horse does not exist. You can see that straight off, even if the jansi are blind to it. It is a grey, tinged with sky-like azure, and its eyes are the same orange as his. It has no teeth, and when you brush your hands against its withers you feel for a moment its paper-thin skin tear. Then, of course, the tear never existed.

It is a dream of a horse, likely woven from the remnants of the storm, though it will carry you two well enough back to Cahzor-upon-Dam. After all, a dream can drive a man to sail to the Far West in search of silver and spices. One can carry you a few kilometres with no great strain.

"Lady, you praise me," he says, reaching down to take your hand. His skin is a little cooler than a man's. Blue bends to kiss you on the hand. "Please, allow me to take you away from this place."

"Oh, if you insist," you say. You can't help but laugh. You are feeling better. This chaos-tainted landscape brings the life your spirit was missing. Oh, no doubt there are monsters out in the vegetation, but you have a darling cataphract to keep you safe.

And then after only getting slightly distracted by admiring his shapely calves in the fake-leather thigh high boots of his glamour, you let him lift you up onto his lap. His steed rears up with a showy neigh, and then trots off showily.

Sitting side-saddle, you rest your head against his chest and enjoy the feeling of one of his arms wrapped around you. None of it is real. His form is a lie; his horse is a lie; his affection for you is a lie. But a lie like this darling, stupid princeling is better than the truth. There are no pimples on his chest and his horse will not tire; he will not hurt you when he betrays you because his act was never real.

The road winds down the valleyside. Far below you can see the Little Nam, its polluted surface covered in shimmering rainbow wyldslick, the water rippling with things stirred to life by the storm. The stones of the great dam are stained many colours, and even from this distance you can see workmen brushing sand off the edge. And there, near the landdock! The corpse of some great scaled beast, slain by the defenders or simply marooned in a world that does not permit such things to exist.

Oh, there will be marvels in the markets of Cahzor from this storm in the next few days. Strange rocks twisted by chaos, the body parts from fae who fell - perhaps even a little wyldstone! Such delights to obtain!

And behind you as you ride away is the Kinzira estate. The dawn light paints the stone a fleshy pink. Its towers jut up to the skies like so many broken teeth. The water from the wyldstorm oozes down the sandy slopes, dripping. Salivating. Many of the mounds of mine slag have experienced landslides in the storm, and you avert your eyes from where you think there used to be a village of a few wretched hovels, canvas roofs stretched over old stone walls.

You are glad to be away from that place. Its dark corridors, its grease and its unsettling gloom. The corpulent Boulos is welcome to his ancestral home. You don't think you'll return any time soon.

Unless you're invited to another party with food as wonderful as that first night, of course. That's different.

---

Article:

You have reached the end of arc 2. And with that, you have 1300XP to spend, in plan format. You can spend the XP on Styles as listed in the character sheet.

Current Style Summary:
Viper Style - Disciple (Crippled) (0/800XP) (Wood)
Peacock Style - Initiate (Crippled) (100/400XP) (Air)
Graceful Willow Style - Initiate (Crippled) (0/400XP) (Wood)
Unnoticed Breeze Style - Student (Crippled) (100/200XP) (Air)

Petal-Wreathed Diva Style - Master (0/2400XP) (Wood)
Smiling Siaka Style - Master (0/2400XP) (Water)
Wyldwoods Scholar Style - Grandmaster (0/3600XP) (Wood)

Optionally, you may also spend 400XP from that on a "Sorcery lucky dip" of searching through the markets of Cahzor for sorcerous materials. If this is done, a vote will be offered allowing you to pick a single new sorcery spell. That vote should be listed as "[X] Sorcery Lucky Dip" in a plan that takes the option.

XP Vote - Allocate 1300 XP
[ ] Plan Vote

 

[EarthScorpion]

OK, pretty solid lead for the not-very-charismatically-named "Plan Got to build some defence".

As a result, Rena will pick up a new spell in the first vote of next arc (it's a good inciting incident). The vote for that option will be offered there.

Rena has raised Graceful Willow Style to Disciple, and reacquired another new Charm for it:

Article:

Pick one Graceful Willow Style Charm

[ ] Weeping Branches Technique - Channelling her essence into her garb and hair, they moves around Rena like a living thing. Deadly blows that think they found her will often turn out to merely have hit a flowing sleeve or passed harmlessly through her hair. Loose flowing garments and the use of implements such as ribbons or fans will accentuate this effect. Even if not dressed suitably, when she calls on her anima it serves to protect her.
[ ] Flower-Season Sickness - Focusing the power in her wood-blood, Rena exhales a cloud of allergenic pollen in the face of a nearby assailant. This pollen causes the symptoms of severe hay fever if inhaled or their eyes are unprotected. Note that this will not incapacitate or kill an enemy unless they already have a severe allergy to pollen, but it will provide an advantage.
[ ] Garden Meditation Reflection - By meditating or otherwise relaxing within a place aligned with the element of Wood, she and the location harmonise. Rena swiftly regains stamina and her healing rate increases. Meanwhile, the garden grows and strengthens its aspect, becoming healthier and fortifying itself against its environment. This can over time rid the area of outside influences, such as demonic taint or the touch of the underworld.

Rena has raised Peacock Style to Disciple, and reacquired her first Charm for it:

Article:

Pick one Peacock Style Charm

[ ] Hidden Talons Methodology - Rena has an incredible talent for making use of improvised weapons without any of the drawbacks from their nature. A chopstick is a dagger; a scarf is a garotte; a playing card is a thrown knife. This can only be used for weapons within the theme of Peacock Style.
[ ] Hundred Feathers Stance - Rena's hands blur as she throws out a hail of blades and darts. Her speed is such that she can ready new weapons in nearly the blink of an eye. This murderous barrage is exceptionally hard to defend against, particularly if the opponent lacks a shield. This stance is physically exhausting, and is limited by ammunition.
[ ] Polychromatic Eyes Practice - When performing this technique, iridescent blue-green images trail behind her limbs and flicker around her and her projectiles. They only sometimes follow her actual motion. Those without keen senses will struggle to track her movements, making it harder to tell feints from real blows or where she's aiming.

Additionally, she has increased Unnoticed Breeze Style to Initiate. Since it is Air Aspected, she does not unlock a Charm for it.

 

[EarthScorpion]

XXXII. The City's Corpse

You remember very few things when you wake, and that's for the best. You lived through those experiences already; you don't need to see them in your dreams. But ah, it's other senses that cling to you.

The cold. The thick, clammy mud that soaked through your layers. The ache of your muscles; the hot warmth of the blood in your hair from the shallow cut to your scalp. And the coppery smell everywhere.

The way your eyes burned from tears.

You don't cry out. You don't.

Kicking, thrashing, you fight to free yourself from your sheets and groan. Your room is dimly lit, with just a hint of pinkish light creeping in past the curtains and the blue gauze veiling your bed. The black-and-white tiles of the ceiling meet your bleary eyes.

Some utter bastard has had a party in your throat without inviting you. That's your first thought when you wake to the sound of temple bells, which make their way even through the walls and crystal-glass windows of the Cerulean Lotus. It's been about a week since you got back from the Kinzira estate, and you thought you'd been living more cleanly. And cheaply. Money might be starting to press on your mind as a worry. Just a bit.

Last night's memories remind you of what happened. Okay. Maybe it was past-you that had the party, but she's a selfish bitch who drank too much. The taste in the back of your throat and the pounding just behind your eyeballs is reminding you of that.

You are alone in your bed, and you can't remember why. Your nightmares usually leave you alone when you have someone warm to snuggle up to. Maybe that's why you sought companionship in a bottle instead. You remember your two boys bickering over something unimportant. You don't remember what exactly, but… bleargh.

Perhaps in your nostalgia for those times when you had plenty of handsome young men to wait on you hand and foot, you may have somewhat brushed over how prone to drama men can be. And of course, your princes thrive off drama. It's their meat and bread.

But, seriously, you cannot deal with it sometimes.

Swinging your legs out of bed, you gracefully lurch to the window and yank the curtains open wide. The sudden rush of blood to your head from rising too quickly leaves the world spinning, so you lean against the glass. It's cool against your brow and forearms, thankfully, but it'll be heating up soon enough. Just before dawn is often the coolest time in Cahzor.

The great ruin lies down below. In the pink pre-dawn light, the domes and spires of the temples that are probably making all that racket catch your eyes. For once, there is greenery. Long-dormant seeds sprout from the broken stones of the dusty roads and the accumulated dirt on rooftops. There is water in the river, though it does not make its way all the way down its old bank before the thirsty ink drinks it up. A few days ago, you saw a waterfall from one of the faceless mile-high statues that loom over the valley. It was almost like it was weeping.

It is not just the plants which are experiencing a brief flourishing, you think with a wry smile. Cahzor itself has come to life in the aftermath of the change rain. You have seen more sandship sails down in the ruin as hunters and desperate men try to harvest the bounty of chaos. Water prices are cheaper up here, and the souks of the city are selling strange mutated creatures and plants.

The souks…

Yes. That's right. There's no way you're getting back to sleep. You don't want to get back to sleep. Not if it means more nightmares. So you might as well start the day early. You can nap during the hottest hours of the day, perhaps after a romp with one of the boys if they feel like kissing and making up. That sounds like a sound plan.

You idly rub your thumb against the raw patches of skin on your hands and fingertips. Maybe there might be some aloe leaves in the souks, too. Or at least some oil infused with such leaves. That would be good for skin rubbed red by your personal training with Blue. Your darling has been such a use for helping you get back into shape. Maybe you should get him something nice.

Stepping away from the window, you begin the bleary hunt for your dressing-gown. You feel cold and clammy; you probably reek of fear-sweat from the damnable nightmares. There's no way you're going out like this. So what you will do is get your maid, whose name you might even remember one of these days, and head down to the bathhouse. You want to get as much done before the day heats up.

---

Listen to the sound of the wind cresting over the rim of the dam and blowing through the narrow buildings. Such a melancholy sound, no? It is almost musical. It sounds like those wailing pipes from those towns up near the top of the Fire Mountains.

But you left those behind a month and more ago. No, now you are in Cahzor-upon-Dam – or Zorpondam, as you have started to call it, just like the locals do – and it is unmistakable. You couldn't believe that you are anywhere else. It's the smell of the wretched Little Nam, you see. It's quite unforgettable, though you wish you could. You might have gotten slightly inured to it, but then again that might have just been the rainfall diluting down that foetid cesspool.

Even if it wasn't for that awful, nose-ruining scent, you'd still know where you are. There are many souks in Zorpondam, but you have little interest in the little ones on rooftops that only sell the strange, squirming crustaceans from the Little Nam, coarse flour, or ration-measures of water. No, what you are more interested in is the markets that might accumulate things from the city below.

That is why you have come to the creaking edifice of the Tahrib, which sits in an ancient arcade which grows out from the side of the dam like a cyst. Its roof is canvas and sheets of plundered metal, its walls shake when the wind howls, and cables as thick as your waist anchor it to man-sized pitons sunk into the stone. It is not, technically, part of the city on the dam, because it does not sit on it. It is a tributary, ruled over by its own petty warlord. His men and women stand around, each one wearing a crimson turban wrapped around their helmets and a brass ring in their noses. You've already seen them viciously beat a suspected thief - and threaten to toss her over the edge.

But no one could control this souk. There are many people in here, locals and travellers alike, and the raised voices of the vendors with the bright head scarves and lurid market paintings overload the ear and the eye alike. Each seller seeks to drown out the others - or perhaps it's in their interest that no one can hear themselves think. Blue smoke swirls in the air from the market vendors and their hash and tobacco. Polished mirrors diffuse light around the spaces inside, cutting god-like rays through the haze. At least it is cooler here than it should be with all these bodies around. Clunking mechanisms take the strength of the wind that blows over the edge of the dam, and turn great fans that look like they were once the propellers of Shogunate ships.

It is Jupiterday today, and that means that the Tahrib has the paper-merchants and the books-sellers here. If anyone asks why you are here, it is simply you need some finer writing-paper - and you certainly do! You have letters to exchange with some of the people you met at the Kinzira party. But that is not the whole truth.

Anyone who knew you - and no one in this city does, apart from Sei - would know you like books. You like them a lot. And Zia had mentioned at the party that the Tahrib often had books for sale, found in the city below. But when you had been planning this day's excursion, you hadn't fully appreciated that just because the book-sellers were here it didn't mean that everyone else left. Instead, it feels like everyone else has just crammed in tighter.

And so you wander through this trove of scrap and plunder and waste, taken from the remains of Cahzor. There, a merchant sells cutlery and plates, the ancient metal polished to shine until you could use it as a mirror. There, someone is doing just as the Chiaroscuroans do and is selling weapons made from shards of the crystal-glass from the towers that gleam down in the heat haze. Over there, a seller of cloth and garments plundered from long-forgotten wardrobes; there, a showman who boasts about the wyldfruits he's selling, "Freshly plucked after the change rain, oh yes!", and their many marvelous medicinal properties.

A puff of flame draws many eyes, not least because it is tinged green. It casts long wavering shadows through the smoke, and for a moment strange creatures seem to dance on the walls.

"Come one, come all, and see the mighty demonic curiosities of Wazir the Wise!" calls out the man at the front of the store; his hair elegantly swept back, his goatee neatly trimmed, his fingers bedecked with rings. Prize among them is something that is either a sizable emerald or a good fake. "Power beyond question, wonders beyond understanding, and all for the right price."

He gestures to the strangely shaped brass statue before him, and another jet of greenish flame erupts from its mouth.

"Ladies and gentlemen, for just a small payment one can initiate into the masteries! Books! Books! Books of hidden secrets, for the learned!"

You laugh. Oh, you're no demonologist, but you have known those who were - and alchemists too. And as a result, you can say for a fact that that puff of green flame was copper-green, not the strange fire of Hell that casts no shadows.

This showman is a con-artist, nothing more; a man with a knowledge of a little alchemy and just enough knowledge of Hell to fake the green flame. Still, he has the con-artist's patter down. You linger by his stall, for the amusement if nothing else.

"You, beautiful lady," he calls out, with a florid flick of his long sleeves. You're wearing a thin veil like many of the locals, but there's no way you can pass as one of them to someone who pays attention. "Come to seek power from my trinkets and magical accoutrements? Safeguard your fortune, hide your valuables, perhaps even acquire a potent familiar spirit?"

"What would you recommend?" you ask him, smiling. You want to see how he works.

His eyes greedily look you up and down. With a flick of his hand, he has a hardwood box sitting in his palm. It would be more convincing as magic if he wasn't wearing such long sleeves. "Come closer," he says. You play along, as he pops open the catch and reveals… a dried frog. "This here is the demonic spawn of one of the demons known as the amfelisiae," he says furtively. "You look like the kind of powerful lady who has enemies. Yes? Something a good luck charm such as this would fend away."

"A what?" you ask, draping yourself in an ingenue air. Yes. As you thought. He knows just enough for the patter.

"These demons have the appearance of frogs," he says. "And this is an infant one. See how it has six legs?" It does, but in your professional expertise as a wyldworker that frog has been exposed to chaos and twisted. "It is because it is the child of a demon. Something like this would be a powerful protective thing, emplaced above your heart or hidden under your bed."

"Maybe later," you say, shaking your head. Powerful women look for protection, so that's what he recommends you? You're almost disappointed. You had hoped he'd at least try to lure you with a forged book of demonology or perhaps a statue of a demon. It might have been an amusing trinket, or something which could have been planted in the hands of a rival. A dried frog is just… boring.

Still, he isn't just relying on the interested travellers. You keep an eye on him, and more than a few Cahzori stop at his stall. None of them seem to take anything from him, but you see the handing-over of what you suspect is a promissory note.

Shaking your head at the foolishness of the locals, you resume your exploration of the souk. There are things to be found here you can make use of. For example, a roll of pink chiffon salvaged from a sand-choked warehouse nearly gets you to buy it, but the cost is just too much for you to consider it worth it.

Loud-mouthed High Realm manages to catch your attention through the clamour and you tense up. Cold fear churns in your gut. No, they can't be here for you. It's probably just traders. Just two tall traders, a man whose hair is coal black and speckled with embers, and a woman whose skin is porcelain-smooth and whose hair is marble-white. Well dressed. She has a two-handed axe with a black jadesteel blade on her back; he carries a sheathed sword on his hip. You don't need to see his fire lilies and her sprouting grain to see that they're dragon-children too.

Fuck. Dynasts. And they're coming your way.

"Oh look!" the man booms and your heart skips a beat. "Look at these weavings! They're so quaint."

"And overpriced. Look at this trash. You'd think these dust-mouthed peasants would think to cut their prices so we'd actually buy something. Maybe they're just waiting to go home to their stinking huts down by that disgusting lake. They probably relieve themselves in there, you know."

"Listen, Rani, you can't just say that in public, even if it's right."

"Why? These savages can't understand us."

A gemstone seller serves as a cover, and his rows of agates and moonstones look tolerable, polished to a shine by the pair of grubby children who squat in front of his stall. You square your back, preventing passers-by from getting a look at your face.

"Are these from the city?" you ask, trying to mimic the local accent as best you can. They're right behind you. Right behind you. Need to stay calm.

"No," he says, the look in his eyes telling you that you might not be succeeding. "They're bought from traders from Gem. Best quality, I tell you."

"Well, I suppose I can take a look."

After some bartering, you take a trio of moonstones off his hands for a fair price. Notably fairer for you than perhaps for him, but his first offer was really insultingly high. If he hadn't had such a presumption to ask that much of you on the assumption that you were an easy mark, you wouldn't have had to put actual effort into kicking his feet out from under him.

If there are two dynasts here - well, it would certainly benefit you to make yourself scarce from the city. You were planning that anyway, but this is definitely putting more pressure on you. Hopefully they're just travelling along the trade routes and will be gone after a day or two of rest.

Dragons, please let them not be here for you.

At least they're loud-mouthed and making no effort at all to blend in. Even through the clamour, you can hear them as they amble down the packed aisles. Just to be sure, though, you head for the nearest stairs to get away from them. You can't look like you're rushing, so you make sure to browse the stalls.

And it's at one paper merchant that you find what you were looking for. Well, no. Not looking for. Hoping against hope that you would find something.

Because as you sort through the samples of paper on the stall, you recognise something. The symbols on one sheet are done in the notation of Queen Tszalir, called by some Zaleer or Siluru. The ancient witch-queen, who ruled before the dragon-children cast her and her kind down; a great and terrible sorceress whose wicked deeds were only matched by her brilliance. Many spirits still use her notation to describe works of magic, and so you were forced to learn it.

Maybe this is just some scam. Some trick where someone is copying mystical symbols onto ancient paper to get people to pay above the odds. You almost hope this is the case. It hurts to feel such desperate desire pulsing in your chest.

The young man behind the stall, one side of his face scarred by pox, missing both his front teeth catches your eyes. "Milady, how about you? Fine quality papers for your household! Ancient is always better! The ink'll wash off, no problem!

These fools! These fools! Oh, you can see how this… this wretched city does it. In the dry, the ancient paper will be well-preserved – and it's not like there's the plants or reeds growing in the area that would allow them to make their own paper. So they plunder the archives and libraries down in the city below, tear the leaves out of books or cut up scrolls, and erase the ink. Just to jot down their… their family accounts or write insipid letters or whatever idiots do with paper.

How much priceless knowledge has been destroyed?

Some of your towering rage must have shown on your face, because the young man flinches and swallows. "Not that I meant any offence," he begins.

"No, no. It's nothing. It's alright." You try to relax your jaw so you're not speaking through clenched teeth. "This does look like particularly fine paper. I haven't seen much like it in a while." You call your dragon-blood to the fore, breathing out the scent of pines and mountain flowers. He might not know what you are, but he will know he's your inferior. He will know to obey you. "I will take it all. Even if it isn't as fine as that, my servants will have a use for it."

His eyes light up. "Yes, milady! And…"

Interrupting him, you raise one finger. "But there is something else." You brush your fingertips over your eyelids.

"Yes?" he asks eagerly.

You mouth Sei's true name, and his face goes slack as his mind falls into your eyes. "You agreed to tell me where this paper came from. And you have sworn not to tell anyone about this." You smile sweetly. The light from your eyes plays over his features. "You can wake up now, darling."

---

Elation turns so swift to rage. You retreat back to your rooms with your purchase - and a hired porter or four to carry it - and scatter it across the floor of your bedroom. You get to work sorting through the papers, simply trying to isolate the book that the Tszaliran symbols come from.

Blue enters without asking, perhaps drawn by the fact you might have been exploring the limits of your vocabulary a teeny weeny bit as you sought to vocally express your dissatisfaction with the document-handling of the Cahzori.

"Who must I kill, fair lady?" he announces. The air shimmers around him, like stars seen through winter cloud.

"How did this moron even get hold of something worth this much? Couldn't this simpleton have recognised it as something beyond his tiny understanding?" you yell at him.

"Huh?"

"He's probably sold most of the pages already! All I have are these scraps! Fuck all paper sellers who tear pages out of books!"

"It shall be done, lady! This I vo-"

"No no no no," you manage to get out before this can go very, very wrong. "I'm furious, Blue, but don't vow to go kill anyone!" You thump the nearest pile of paper, scattering pages. "Argh!"

"Huh?"

"Blue, I love you, darling, but I just can't deal with you right now. Go be stupid and adorable elsewhere." You take a deep breath. "Just stop saying 'huh' and go find other ways to amuse yourself."

He sweeps in, resting a shiny black hand on your shoulder. "But lady, what if I want to make you happy?"

"Blue?"

"Mmm?" He gazes into your eyes soulfully. There is distinctly an air of smouldering going on, and a pout on his lips.

"You are standing on my papers." You jab a finger on him. "And I'm trying to sort them! Out!"

"But…"

"I mean it! Shoo!"

You don't feel much better having banished him, and not just because he knocked over one of your piles that now you need to sort all over again. There's a little voice in your head that considers whether maybe what you need is some attention from him, but you trample that voice down and kick it into the recesses of your mind. Blue can't think he's being rewarded for this. And this is power! Dregs of power, from the book of some long-lost sorcerer of Cahzor past, but you were never one of those elitist, 'properly-trained' snobs from the Heptagram. You taught yourself, and that meant that you had to learn to get power where you could find it.

Even from scraps like this. Like a feral dog, scavenging from the bins. Except even now you really are scavenging, not just drawing knowledge from sources that those bastards with a 'proper' education disdain.

Argh! You can't work like this! You need a proper workroom for your sorcery. Somewhere no one can enter without your permission, somewhere with a proper filing system and space to do things and… not trying to do things in the bedroom of a hotel room! And you need books and proper shrines and reference materials and everything you don't have.

"This old paper," you mutter to yourself. "So dusty."

You blot your eyes on your robe's sleeve, and get back to sorting through the leaves. And by the evening, when the day is starting to cool down, you know more about the desperately few pages of interest.

The individual who wrote them was a priest-lord, who channeled the power of the Cahzori gods and the minor spirits of the world. But they were much less foolish than their descendants. You might not know the name of this long-dead sorcerer, but their personality seeps out through their work. And this one is someone who was some kind of Immaculate, or at least some kind of post-Immaculate heresy. One whose worship was - as proper worship is - a social phenomenon, an offering to powerful beings to win their favour in the grand designs of Heaven.

One needs the authority of the gods to use their magic, but a dragon-child has many ways to get it.

There is one spell that's nearly intact in all these papers, and fragments of others. You can use this. Oh yes, certainly you can use this.

You leave a note for Amigere, and then head out to clear your thoughts.

---

Night has fallen by the time he finds you. You await him cross-legged in the greenhouses of the Blue Lotus, sat under the boughs of the fruit trees. A few of the lights of antiquity still work here, casting a dim light over the space. The air here is humid; overhead, you can see unripe mangoes. They grow them under glass not for heat, but because it allows them to stop the water escaping. Cracking open an eye, you watch him look nervously over the flowers that lean in towards you.

"Meira?" he calls out.

"Oh, there you are, darling!" you say, pretending to only just have noticed him. You pat the earth in front of you. "Come, sit with me."

"Why the note?"

A hissing overhead and a faint shower of mist marks what this greenhouse has for rain.

"I needed to meditate." Yes, and with your growing conditioning and increasing health, you have regained your connection to your wood-blood. Meditation here, in this place of your element, has strengthened you; rested you; healed your minor aches and pains. It's a little trick you learned as a young noblewoman, because a graceful willow shows not weariness nor pain - but your own decline and your injuries meant you could not use it when you most needed it.

"Oh." He brushes his hands along the trees, but wipes the moisture off before he sits in front of you. "Are you feeling better?"

You smile at him. "Somewhat. Now, you know we are looking to launch an expeditiation down into the valley?"

"Yes, but as I said, we have to wait until the chaos-taint burns off."

"Mmm." You look at him. "We need to move the timetable forwards. If nothing else, I want to see what it is like in person. We might need to launch a smaller expedition than planned, or else attach ourselves to one that's heading the right way, but I think we can't delay any longer."

"Why?"

Because there are Dynasts here, you don't say. "Financial concerns, darling," you say. "The longer we stay up here, the more it drains my money. Even if this place is paid up, it's going to likely take several attempts before we find something, so we need to get started soon. And something else. I may have a clue about something which may lead to profit. Tell me, the gods of Cahzor - do you know anything of them?"

"Not much. Why?" Amigere runs his fingers through the feathers on his head, grooming out the moisture. You could tell him it's all for nothing. You've been sitting here long enough that you are quite soaked - and your light shift is distinctly see-through. He hasn't noticed yet in the low light, but that's all right. You'll spring it on him if you need to persuade him.

"I found some papers in one of the souks which hint at something - but I need the favour of the gods for it. I was hoping you knew about their temples."

"Ah." As you knew was coming, the misters spray again. "Well, the greatest temples of Cahzor aren't here."

"They aren't?"

He shakes his head. "No. No space, for one. And remember; once this city was mighty. They built grand temples for their gods. The city died, but some of the priests still hold on to their former domains. The way I hear, there are temples the size of small towns down there that have become towns, ruled by the priest-lords. The ones that aren't abandoned, at least."

"Mmm." They could be useful. The jansi have their own circles of power, but so will the priests. Especially when they have this secular power. Some people might hold out hope that the priest-lords are more morally upstanding than the other aristocrats, but you're not a naive child so you won't. The jansi… there's a thought. Of course, if you wanted to perhaps make a deal with one of the families you met, they have gods too. Not the Kinzira, though. You didn't like the look of their gods.

And then there's the abandoned temples. Oh, there's potential there. A desperate god is one who won't have much choice. But will need more doing for them. There's something to be said for an ally who's strong enough that you won't have to do everything yourself.

But regardless of what you choose, it's a way to get out of Zorpondam. A way to make yourself scarce. And then - oh yes - power. The very thought makes you pleasantly warm inside.

"What did you find? Because you're thinking of something," says Amigere, rudely disturbing you from your thoughts.

"I am, darling. I am." You lean in, and kiss him on the beak so he doesn't ask any inconvenient questions. From the way his eyes widen, he didn't expect it. Neither did he realise how clinging your wet clothes are. "And that's why you're going to help me. Aren't you?"

"I thought you'd have your new lover."

You laugh at that. "Amigere, darling, my love. Blue is a moron. I wouldn't trust him with a sheet of paper. When I met him, it was a small mercy he wasn't bright enough to know I was tricking him. Oh, he's handsome - and you had fun with him too, didn't you?" His neck pinkens, and you smile.

"You knew?"

"Darling, of course I knew. You two made enough noise. But I'm not a jealous woman." Blue is a moron, but he's a very sexy moron. And for someone like Amigere… well, you wonder how many people turn him down just because he has a bird head. That's not something a prince of chaos would do. "Now, I just want you to be safe. He's very deadly, but he has barely more mental capacity than his horse."

"He has a horse?" He relaxes slightly.

"Sometimes." You kiss him again, rising to your knees. Overhead, the stars glitter and gleam in the cloudless night's sky. "He's useful, but you're more than that. I need you, darling. I love you."

"D-do you mean that?"

"Of course," you lie. "Now, help me out of my shift. I don't want it to get muddy."

---

Article:

Rena has found a new, intact spell in these books - but can't use it yet, because she needs divine patronage.

Which new spell did Rena discover within the tattered book?

[ ] Amal's Gemstone Disc - Calling on ancient contracts with the gods, the sorcerer creates a flying, bladed disk made of precious stones which obeys her thoughts and which she can stand on. It can freely ascend up to around a mile or so above the ground, and travels faster than a galloping horse. In combat it can be ridden, or directed as a murder-frisbee.

[ ] Plague-Ridden Yas's Curse - On casting on food or drink that is then fed to a target, they will over the next few days sicken with a great number of illnesses known to the tallymen of Heaven. The target is non-infectious, and can be treated conventionally, although most mortals will perish even with treatment. The sorcerer can release the target from their illnesses by casting it in reverse. The notes also indicate that it can be cured by "true love's kiss".

[ ] The Lulling Mist of Ragiba - A rather amusing mis-use of the peace granted to the servants of the great goddess Venus, this spell creates obviously unnatural and faintly sparkling lavender mist that drugs any who inhale it (apart from the sorceress). Those with strong constitutions may be able to remain functional, but most will fall asleep where they stand under its influence. The mist obscures visibility, and moves at around walking pace when commanded by the sorceress's will.

Article:

What type of god will Rena look to negotiate with?

[ ] The Strong. There are gods who have adapted to this state of affairs, who lord over temple-towns and whose worship has spread far and wide. Rena will plan to travel to one such temple-town, and make an arrangement with their priest-lords. Oh, it's more Cahzori politics, but it's a political arrangement independent of the jansi.

[ ] The gods of the Jansi. Rena made contacts with the jansi at the party. She'll visit the home estates of certain of her new friends, and make an arrangement with one of them - perhaps for services rendered - for the backing of their family gods. It'll tie her to that family, but that has both advantages and disadvantages.

[ ] The Decayed. And then there are the gods who have not adapted, whose empty temples only hear the grinding of sand. Weak gods, who were once strong. Rena will look to seek out one of those gods, and make such a deal. She'll have to do more for such an arrangement of power, but they'll be dependent on her. Oh, and some exploration of ruined temples might be involved. There may be giant rolling boulders triggered by pressure plates.

 

[EarthScorpion]

XXXIII. Tea & Temples

With your new paper, you pen a rather elegant - if you do say so yourself - letter to the Sawahir townhouse in Zarpondam, enquiring if Zia wishes to have tea with you at the Cerulean Lotus. The chatter over the gambling tables over the past few nights had made it clear that he was still in residence in the town. After a moment's thought, you decide not to invite little Inaan. This isn't a social call.

He's useful to you.

You get a letter back the same day, and with a smile on your lips you go to make sure a tea room is prepared for you and your guest.

---

"Darling, welcome!"

The tea room is south-facing, like your suite, but the angled shutters have been closed so that the harshest light is blocked up. The walls are a very faded off-white and the worn-down blue carpet gleams with golden thread. The air smells of tobacco and hashish. And in among these time-worn splendour you stand, new and radiant.

You chose your clothes carefully; a cherry-blossom-pink overgown picked to make you look younger and more vulnerable, a delicate cream under-gown trimmed with gold and a wide crimson sash belting it in. Your neckline is somewhat lower than would be customary for this style, but you wanted to show off your dragon necklace in full.

It certainly makes an impact on Zia, though in truth you're impressed. You only sent the letter this morning, but he's immaculately shaven and his eyebrows plucked, and his somewhat-antique loose thwab is pure cream, trimmed in geometric patterns of blue. He must be eager to meet with you - or he always puts in as much effort into his appearance as he did at the party.

You take him in admiringly, before sashaying up to kiss him on both cheeks. He blushes, like many smaller men do in the fact of your assault. "It is lovely to see you again, Meira," he says, "and might I say that you are doing wonders with your look? That cloth - that is Bambiyy fabric, yes? From the looks of things, from a particularly well-preserved roll. And," he takes your hand, kissing it, "I might say, clearly tailored for you."

"Sir, do you presume too much?" you ask him playfully.

"Hardly. You have a quite distinctive figure, and I doubt there would be many things that fit you quite so well in the ruins. And of course, there is a distinctly foreign edge to this cut, but elements," he runs his fingers up your arm, tracing the long sleeves, feeling the willow hoops within the cloth, "are clearly Cahzori. So I suspect you instructed local tailors to imitate cuts from your homeland."

"You have quite the eye for female fashion," you tell him. That's interesting - and rather cute of him.

He blushes and looks away. "Someone has to appreciate how things were once were in this city." A darker note makes itself known in his voice. "Before we were betrayed and cast down. When all women could be as beautiful as you."

Mentally jotting up his score, you find it satisfactory. Even though you suspect a prurient motive on his part. "I don't suppose you happen to know a lot about the underwear styles of antiquity?" you tease him.

You manage to darken the blush, and he coughs, clearing his throat nervously. "A little, my lady."

"Well, maybe someday you'll have to help me get all the little details right," you observe. You're not doing this to make him squirm. Correction; you're not just doing this to make him squirm. But you want him soft and pliable, not totally incoherent. "But my goodness, Zia, you're very red in the face. It must have been frightfully hot outside. Darling, why not sit down and have some tea?"

"Um. Thank you."

You give him an innocent smile. "It's important to stay hydrated, you know."

The tea selection here is relatively poor and you certainly can't give it your approval, but you found a drinkable smoky black tea that almost certainly made its way here from the northern Blessed Isle. The way they dry the leaves over pine is very distinctive. On the other hand, the tea set itself with its abstract geometric trim on white china is not one of the styles you're used to, but it does its purpose. You let Zia calm himself down as you pour the tea, breathing in a fraction of the smell of home.

He doesn't seem to appreciate the tea as much as you do, but what can you do in the face of the local culture?

Zia puts down his tea bowl after only a small sip, and busies himself with pleating the linen of the tablecloth. "Mmm," he says, as the servants bring in honey-coated dried dates and other sweet treats. You don't say anything, but you do notice he rather dives in on the treats. "Almost… peaty."

"I'm quite fond of it."

He tries to smile. "It's clearly an acquired taste."

A trio of the hotel servants strike up a song on their stringed instruments. From the way Zia tilts his head, he recognises it. "How long are you going to be in Zorpondam?" you ask him.

He shrugs. "Perhaps a week or so," he says, after swallowing. "It's Inaan's first social season, so I'm having to make sure she's introduced to everyone and she's on the books as a marriage candidate. Mother would do it, but she is… ah, occupied. So it falls to me to take on that role for her."

"That young?" you ask, surprised. "Back home, marriage negotiations don't start in earnest until… well, usually their twenties."

"Oh, there's no way mother would approve a marriage until she's twenty. No one would marry off a daughter who," there's a look of pain in his eyes, "who still has a chance of her dragon-blood making itself known."

"Ah." Something you never had a problem with, thank goodness. As a dragon-child, everyone accepted you would get married in your own time - and your first husband was from another grand Cheraki Ferem family. Very boring, even if you were marrying for love. And later marriages… well, by that point, you were the Odat family matriarch. Such as Odat was by that point. No one could or would gainsay you.

"But it does pose problems. Some of the most promising catches will already have marriages arranged."

"No doubt." You sip your tea, and make more small talk about how things have been going with him. But after a polite wait, you clear your throat and put down your tea bowl. "Darling, actually, I did have a question for you."

He raises his finely plucked eyebrows. "Oh?"

"I was looking to explore parts of the old city, as a matter of fact."

Zia's eyes light up. "You most certainly should! There are things of beauty down there! Beauty and splendour. Cahzor may have fallen, but we can still turn our eyes to the wonders of better days. Oh, it is a melancholy thing, but," he inhales, "in some ways the sadness makes the enjoyment event sweeter!"

"Yes," you say, because that's something you just have to sort of say to that sort of comment. "And you were the very first person I thought of to ask for advice about the best places to visit."

He almost squeals in delight, clutching his hands to his chest. "Of course! There are so many wonders to see in the old city! The ancient spires of…"

You raise one finger. "Zia, Zia, darling. Hear me out out. Particularly, I heard rumours of some ancient temples which were wonders. But I don't want to see them as they've become now, because I've heard of the temple towns."

"Right, right! Yes, they've brought shame on their heritage," Zia says hotly. "They're taken the temples paid for by the jansi and turned themselves into warrens of corruption! When it was the failure of those priests that lost us the favour of the gods. Meira, you are wise to keep away from those sorts!"

"Mmm. So I was wondering what ancient temples still stood, particularly ones whose gods are less worshipped."

"Less worshipped?"

"Like you said," you say, spinning your lies, "I want to admire the temples as they were. No doubt time will have scarred these ancient places, but those gods who are still worshipped will have had their followers move things from those places. It'll be like they've been plundered."

"Oh! Oh. Hmm." Zia traces his finger along the table. "That does sound fascinating. Once this business with my sister is done, I'd love to escort you."

That can't be allowed to happen. You need your privacy for this. And to get out of Zorpondam while those two Dynasts are here. "Maybe some later time. But I really would like to get this done before the year gets even hotter - and you have family matters to see to. No, no, I was looking for your recommendations." You decide to sugar your offer a little. "Though… well, depending on the difficulty of travel, I would quite like to visit you as a guest some time. You're near the old university, or so I heard."

He folds his hands on the table in front of him, rubbing his thumb against one of his rings. "Mmm, yes. And ah. I see." He snaps his fingers. "Come back with me to our townhouse. I have some of my maps there, and my reference books. I can probably draw up a list of places you might like to visit, and it will certainly be much easier when I can show you how far they would be - because you're right, it is already getting frightfully hot. Soon it'll be very hard to travel in the old city until after Calibration."

Jackpot. "Zia, you are a darling," you tell him with a radiant smile.

---

The Sawahir townhouse is some distance from the Cerulean Lotus and the Demio's palace. You're hardly enthusiastic about going out into the heat of the afternoon sun, but Zia is like a man possessed at the prospect of getting to show you his research. You really can't say no to a very pretty boy like him, so you go to the hassle of changing to step outside.

As soon as the wave of heat hits, you promise yourself you'll have a nice long soak this evening to wash the sweat and the stink of the Little Nam off you.

Outside of the Cerulean Lotus, the noise of the city hits you. Clamouring voices and the squawking of chickens; screams and shouts and calling voices. The unmistakable sound of some kind of parade with horns and gongs and drums drifts from several streets away, but you're not sure what's going on there.

Zia is nearly lost in the chaos. His guards stick together, clearing the way for the pair of you. He looks enviously up at your parasol. You deign to allow him to share it with you, but only because he smiles so sweetly when he's under your shade.

Your sensitive nose picks up something else as you pass through a square. The sickly sweet reek of lilies and pomegranate. There! Bandage-wrapped bundles, hanging from the walls of the Demio's palace. The scent is so strong that you realise that this isn't, cannot be a scent that's purely material. This is a spiritual scent. The scent of death.

When you focus, you can see white lilies and blood-red pomegranates blossoming all over them.

"What are those?" you ask.

Zia follows your gesture. He looks away. "It's not very nice," he mumbles.

Your brain starts working properly, and you realise they're human shaped. Only suspended upside-down. "Oh. Displaying the corpses of criminals?"

"She… um. Eventually."

"Eventually."

Zia cringes under your look. "They don't start as corpses. They're alive for… a while."

Hung from your ankles, wrapped up in bandages. There's probably salt and other dead-trapping compounds in the layered bandages. How long do they last? Until they cook alive in the heat, or until they die of thirst?

You shudder. A horrible way to die - and one likely to stir up the restless dead. But that might well be the point of such cruelty; to inflict the suffering of undeath on those she chooses to execute. Rulers so often find it hard to scale punishments past execution, but you've already seen that the Demio is a creative woman.

Mela, hide you from her eyes.

"Can we get away from here?" Zia asks. "It's not something particularly pleasant to think about. And it's bad luck. So… let's move on."

"Yes," you agree thoughtfully. "Yes, let us."

The Sawahir townhouse is a narrow, tall building whose top floor gleams with a dome of glass-crystal. You can see the damage from the change rain where the whitewashed walls have been stained many colours. The servants have cut back the worst of the wyld growth, but there's still madcap flowers, wilting in the heat.

"Have the servants bring drinks," Zia orders one of his guards. "I'm taking Meira to the library."

"As you wish," the tall woman says, heading down the corridor to the lower levels.

It's nowhere as cool in the townhouse as you're used to from the Lotus, but at least you're out of the worst of the heat. You climb the steep-stepped stairs, up two flights and turn down narrow, rounded corridors until you enter the library. Zia lights just two oil lamps - "To keep it cool" - and so the two of you are here in this paper-filled gloom that smells of old parchment and ink.

"Very nice," you say admiringly, taking up one of the oil lamps.

"Please, take a look around while I sort through some things," Zia says, with a shy smile. "You like it?"

"Darling, it's fabulous. Are these all Cahzori books?"

"Not all, but many." Zia rubs his nose as the servants bring the drinks. "We've always been a bookish family, you know. So over the years, one's collection just builds up."

You can't help but smile back. How well you know that. Over the course of a century, buying only a few new books a year still results in you getting very short on free space. And sometimes you got your hands on many more than just 'a few'.

He's pulled on a pair of fine spectacles rimmed in brass, and lit another shielded lantern. Rolled out on the desk are several maps, all of Cahzor - though of different ages. "How old are these maps?"

He beams at you, and starts to explain in rather more detail than you need. In summary, though, he has three recent ones - from different cartographers, which differ in some important aspects and he's trying to reconcile - and then some older ones. "But the one which will most likely be of use here is the Funduq source, which dates from the late 560s and was originally part of a book that told travellers locations to stay when travelling," he concludes, delicately unfolding what must be a copy of the original. "It marked all the major temples extant at the time. It's from maybe forty years before the aggression of Gem tore down our beautiful city and finalised the collapse of Cahzor into little towns in the benighted ruins."

You sit down next to him, and take one of the cups to pour yourself wine. It's watery and a little resinous, but you're just thirsty after the heat. "I see."

He bites his lower lip. "So if I just cross-reference," he pulls out a leger, "ah yes, mmm. Mmm. Hmm. Yes, I knew that making a list of all the grand temples of Old Cahzor would serve me well. So we can just look here…"

This isn't unfamiliar to you, though - much as you are loathe to admit such things - Zia is better at it than you. You've done your share of riddle-chasing down old books, but Zia shows such glee as he measures out distances on the map and flicks through old books. More glee than you feel, so you go back and look further through the library to see if there's anything that catches your eye.

Vanishing into the aisles, you run your fingers along the leather-bound tomes and brass-capped scrolls. The dust is choking. Raising up your oil lamp, you look over the titles and find an incredibly eclectic collection. There's neither rhyme nor reason to how things are sorted in here - or at least there's none you can discern. Books on mineralogy and scrolls of elementals are thrown in with Dynastic literature and copies of the Immaculate texts. This isn't a reference library, not like you kept yours. No one actively uses this.

You could stroll down any stack here and find something unexpected, but finding something you're actually looking for must be a nightmare. It's an indulgence.

And oh, look at this - with all this dust, you can see what people actually touch and handle. There's a book bound in blue leather with so much less dust on the spine than everything else around it. Pulling it down, you let it fall open and find a lurid picture of a pair of handsome djinni in a compromising situation.

"'Oh, feel the heat that burns within me. I enter you and touch your inner fire,' blah blah, '... fanning the warmth at my core… hold my valour'," you read to yourself, lips curling into a smile. Zia, Inaan, or someone else? You slide the book back into place. The art was quite fine, with excellent un-faded reds and a tasteful use of gold-leaf.

You're looking through a book of desert plants, carefully illustrated in a neat hand, when his "Meira!" draws you back.

"Coming," you call, making your way back to Zia. "Goodness, this collection could do with some organisation."

"Oh? What, no." He seems confused. "If someone organised it, I would barely know where everything is. It's all set up so I can find things. And I don't have anyone else meddling, looking for things."

You raise your eyebrows at that, but maybe it makes sense to him. "So what are your thoughts? And I have to say, darling, I'm very grateful for you taking time out of your day for this."

He looks almost feverish. "It's nothing! Nothing! To spend an afternoon with a beautiful - and history-loving - woman is a reward in itself."

You rest a hand on his shoulder. "You're so sweet to say that, but I really will have to make it up to you some time." You perch on his desk, crossing your legs as you rest them on the seat meant for you, and pour yourself more wine.

"Well… mmm. Yes. So, I identified perhaps ten temples which I think are the best ones you could see. But… here, on the map… yes, I think you want to stay within that ring from Zorpondam if you're doing this before Calibration, and on top of that a few of them are rather closer to Zorgranzar than I think is safe." He sucks in his breath through his teeth. "And though the Pillars of Muqatil are a marvel, they are… ah, in the lands of ad-Dib."

Right. Yes. "Somewhere to stay away from," you observe lightly. "So, what do you recommend?"

"The Crystal Spires of Qanun were said to be the most graceful temple at the time," Zia says, holding your hand in his as he guides it to down by the still-present river on the map. "Qanun was of the law, and the law must be beautiful and true. Or at least it was so in Old Cahzor."

He opens a page to its bookmark, showing you a sketch of a delicate cluster of crystal towers set around a dome. It looks a little like one of the temples you saw in a city up near the top of the peaks, but that had been sandstone and copper tiles, not… this. "Amazing," you say.

"But after Gem came, people lost their reverence for the truth. And justice." Zia grips the book so tightly it shakes in his hands. "I've heard of the dark times. When warlords ruled the city. The priests there left when the water system failed in that area, but before they left they locked it down. People have broken into some of the towers, but others remain intact. So that's where I would start if I were you."

"Fascinating," you breath. Intact towers? But if they've been intact for so long, what are the odds that you can get in. You pour over his map, looking for his other pebble markers. "But I don't want to settle for the first one. What about that one?"

"Ah, I've seen this one." Zia's finger taps on the map, pointing at the northern edge of the valley. "The temple of Simsa, the Maiden of the Morning. Beautiful white stone, and though the springs have dried up, you can still see traces of gold on the roof."

"Sun worshippers?" you ask in surprise.

"Not like your tone of voice suggests," Zia says, eyes narrowing slightly. "The books are clear - for my ancestors, Simsa was the goddess of the early dawn, those hours when the sun has risen but it was still cool. She's claimed as the daughter of the sun by a mortal man. Or possibly granddaughter. The genealogy is a little unclear. Regardless, she does not have the cruelty of Lady Sun herself."

You frown. "Why isn't she worshipped?" you ask.

"Arrogant lordlings from the Realm passed through and thought it was a nest of the Anathema," Zia says darkly. "So - the story goes - they butchered the high priest on the steps in front of the temple, and it was held to be a haunted place that no one even dared to visit."

You provisionally make a note of that. "Anything else you recommend?"

"Well, there's the Halls of Lahn. Lahn the Songstress, the Nightingale Lady, whose music once sounded over all the great squares and plazas of the city. When Cahzor was victorious, she would sing in celebration with her followers. But she only wept when Gem came. That was how," he inhales sharply, "that was how the stories say we know that we were defeated."

You look over the map. "That's towards the southern side of the valley, close to the lands of ak-Kas," you say.

"I think it used to be in their holdings, but they've been losing land for years," Zia says dismissively as he passes you the book of sketches. "They brag on and on about how large their holdings are, but they're as dry as a bone. Even before gave up the claim, the only thing that could survive there were beasts and twisted once-men."

You look over the sketches, and you can see how that temple might have once been a grand conservatory. It looks like some of the grand opera halls you saw on the Realm as a young woman. This drawing must be more recent, because you can already see the ruin making itself known there. Idly, you flick through the other book-marked pages. One catches your eye - a looming, burned out edifice with defaced statues in front of it. "What's this one?" you ask.

"You don't want to go there," Zia says, a chilly note suddenly entering his voice.

"Maybe. But what is it?"

"It was…" he clenches his jaw. "The family temple of el-Elemi. The traitors. It was cast down and their gods made nameless for their betrayal. I don't want to talk about it. There is nothing of honour there."

You pat him on the shoulder. "There, there." But your eyes are already flickering to the map, and looking for the markings. Yes, you think you've found it. "Well, darling, you've been a real help."

"I've made some notes - please, borrow them if you need."

"You're such a dear." You glance over them. "Now…"

But the door bursts open. In marches Inaan. "Zia!" she shouts at him. "It's a disaster! A disaster! Nothing is going right and…"

"I'm in the middle of some-"

"This is far more important! I…" She sees you, and bites back what she was about to say, instead dipping into a curtsey that's somewhat ruined by her half-done make-up. "Lady Meira!"

You smile at her. "Oh, don't mind me," you say mildly. "Zia, I really can't take you away from family matters. You should see what she wants."

"I really shouldn't…"

"You should," you tell him. "I'm just going to finish my wine, and then I'll be going. You can see what she wants, and then come back to see me farewell. I'll just wait here."

He nods gratefully. "Thank you."

"No, thank you."

Though really you should be thanking Inaan. Because when you leave, you've made certain critical additions to the notes he gave you from the bits he didn't show you. They're certainly enough to select one of the forgotten gods who's going to become your ally. At least if they know what's good for them.

---

Article:

Which deity will you try to acquire as a patron?

[ ] Qanun - Down in one of the old business districts, the crystal spires still gleam in the sun but were sealed off. A deity of law and justice, who has no place in modern Cahzor. Said to be strict, and scrupulous in her fairness and adherence to her oaths.
[ ] Simsa - On the upper slopes of the northern side of the valley, the temple of the Maiden of the Morning, child of the Sun, laid waste to by travellers from the Realm. A goddess of the early hours of the dawn, when all is cool and quiet, forgotten in the burning heat. Said to be gentle, but with a volatile temper she inherited from Lady Sun.
[ ] Lahn - On the southern side of the valley, the airy temple-conservatory of a goddess of music and dance whose sacred bird is the nightingale. Left to wither as a luxury that Cahzor could not afford. Said to be vain, and a dedicated aesthete.
[ ] The Nameless Gods of the Elemi - The family temple of a traitor jansi, defaced and left to rot by the other jansi. Declared damnatio memoraie, and never to be spoken of. But as you see it, no one will expect you to get their help. Whoever they were.

 

[EarthScorpion]

XXXIV. The Mercenary Market

Ah, alas, if only the world worked entirely like that. It would be wonderful if you could just get things by flirting with pretty and bookish young men. But the world is cruel and hard and full of mean things - which is all the fault of the gods who rule it - and so there are other things you need to do before you can head to the old city and plunder the forgotten and forbidden temples of a traitor jansi.

For example, you have to have tea with a few of the people you met at the party, and not talk about money. You don't talk about money and they don't talk about money. But through your mutual avoidance of the topic of anything as base and venal as fiscal affairs, certain promises are made and certain arrangements laid out.

If one were to be very crude, you are a dragon-child and you are valuable. In fact, you're more valuable than you let on because you don't mention that you're a sorceress, but you make it quite clear that you can be of use to them. You don't even call upon your hypnotic sorcery for it, because you need people to trust you. It's all natural talent, and perhaps a little bit of dragon-blessed skill at framing contracts. And so by the time you've finished meeting with people from as-Sawahir, az-Zumurrud (Sadia put in a particularly good word for you), ak-Kinzira and al-Alliya, lines of credit have been arranged.

It is horrible to be in this situation. Wretched. But the sad fact is, staying in the Blue Lotus has given you the illusion of wealth but drained your actual resources until they're nearly as dry as Cahzor itself. You have to cling to your illusion, because that's all that you have left that lets you convince people you actually have money. You'd struggle to pay for a trip down to Gem with what you have to your name. And no one wants to be poor in Gem.

For better or worse, you're going to be here for a while.

Of course, you don't take that realisation as well as you could have, and the evening after the last arrangement is made, you are in a vile mood that needs a handsome birdman to lap away.

"I still don't see why you're upset," Amigere murmurs to you, his arms wrapped from behind as the two of you snuggle in what should have been a comfortable post-coital haze if you weren't so irked. Your eyes are locked on the late afternoon sunlit ruins that extend out through the window as far as the eye can see. They shimmer in the heat. "You've talked four jansi into extending you lines of credit. I wish I could do that. You're incredible."

He's right, you are incredible, but you're still rightfully upset. You only huff.

"You can talk to me, you know," he contributes. His hands wander and you squirm as he licks the back of your neck.

"I hate living like this," you say, avoiding looking at him.

"In the lap of luxury, with two handsome men willing to do anything for you?"

You twist in his arms to glare at him. He gives you a wide-eyed and falsely innocent look. "You!" you grumble.

He licks your face. "Me," he agrees.

You hook one leg over his, playing with the feathers of his head with your fingers. You can feel his tendons shifting under his skin. "We won't be able to stay here next season," you inform him. "It's draining my funds."

"I'd guessed that," Amigere says. "Oh well. I'm used to the rough life."

"Well, I'm not." You scowl. "And if things go like they should, things won't be rough. They'll just be hot. Hot and… and bleargh."

He sits up in bed, and you only get slightly distracted by the sight. "Maybe we'll get lucky. I am an accomplished scavenger lord, so if there's something to find, we'll find it." He gestures over to your working table, where you have a modern map of Cahzor. "And then we'll be rich."

"Mmm." You clamber out of bed, and stalk over to the map. It is covered with pins of locations from the jadescroll and annotations from Zia's notes. You bite your lip as you stare down at the pin wrapped in a twist of red twine.

You're lying to him, of course. Though that's not the most polite way to put it. It's more that you're just… not telling him everything. There did turn out to be one of the sites from the jadescroll close to the temple of the forbidden Elemi. As far as he knows, that's why you're heading there. He doesn't need to know about plans to contract with forbidden gods.

If things go as planned, you can leave him to oversee the investigation of the site, and then get your business done at the temple and be back before he thinks to question what you're up to.

Amigere paces up behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders as he starts to massage them. "You're so tense," he says. "You should relax. Come back to bed."

"I hate having to think about money," you say through gritted teeth. It's true. Money is a bane of your existence. Something that even back in Cherak only seemed to get in the way. Oh, it's too expensive, you should go for something cheaper. No, no, you need to concentrate on making sure taxes are collected when you're right in the middle of an investigation into the nature of the soul that really shouldn't be interrupted. Rena, we can't afford to send you to be educated on the Isle.

Of course, Amigere knows nothing of your thoughts. "Mmm. I love thinking about it."

"Well, maybe you should take it to bed instead of me," you snap. You didn't mean to be quite so harsh there.

Fortunately, he doesn't take it badly. "Money is like you," he murmurs, his hands shifting down from your shoulders. He presses against you, cupping your curves. "It's most beautiful when I have my hands on it."

Damn it. You find yourself forced to lean back and kiss him for that. You're weak to men who make you laugh. It's really a character flaw, honestly.

"Well, then," you tell him, snaking an arm around his neck. "Darling, relax me."

---

The next Marsday, you make yourself known at the hiring fair for soldiers, cutthroats, men of violence, and all those special people who make their living with bloodshed as part of their way of life.

It is held just north of the bridge, in and around the ruins of what must have once been a mighty fortress. Bright orange flowers born of chaos crawl up the walls, but the world is turning them into stone. The scars of the battle which destroyed this place can be seen on the sand-worn ruins; glassy streaks biting into stone and a crack in the earth which tore down one of the walls. You whistle as you glance down into the half-flooded chasm, seeing pale things moving in the wyld-polluted water. Some child of Pasiap really cut loose to do this. Given its location, maybe they were part of the same group who broke that gatehouse that you saw, circling Cahzor to attack from the north.

But for all the majesty of the location, you imagined better. Oh, whenever princes and lords want men to die for them, mercenaries will come to shed blood for jade, but this place is bitter and tired. The open square within the ruined walls has been turned into a number of warehouses, whose placards are faded under the already-warm sun. People here sit in gaggles in what shade they can find. A few of them have banners raised, but not all of them have that level of organisation. Many are just violent men and women who have shown up here, looking for work.

"Well, this is it," Amigere says. He's wrapped up against the sun, covering his head with one of the styles of full-face veils that you've seen some of the people wearing. It does hide the fact that he has a bird-like head to first glance, but anyone who pays more attention can see the difference in shape. He gestures over at the ruins of the main keep, which show signs of more recent work. Spindly semaphore towers rise up from the remnants of the fortification, creaking in the breeze.

"Why are there so few people here?" you ask entirely reasonably.

He scoffs at that. "This isn't Gem. There's real mercenary markets there. There might be better soldiers down in Zorgranzar, but here, at the hottest time of the year?"

"Watch your tongue," you chide him. He's just being a little bit too loud, and you certainly don't want the locals to hear.

He locks arms with you. "I'm known here," he says. "Don't worry your pretty face so much."

"Amigere…"

"Trust me. Like I told you already, I've been drinking with the man who runs this place. Just play the role of my backer who trusts me to handle these things. That's all you need to do." He pauses. "Oh, and don't stare."

"Don't stare at what?"

"Well, uh…"

Akif Kazzaf is the man behind the mercenary market. From what you've heard from Amigere, twenty years ago he was some big shot mercenary down in Gem, but his number came out and he wound up coming back to the city he'd left as a young man. Amigere insinuates it's because there were too many people in Gem who wanted him dead.

Some might say it's shallow, but you can see their point on aesthetic grounds alone. Akif might be the ugliest man you have ever met. It isn't even the wounds that claimed one of his legs and left glossy scar tissue on the right side of his neck. But his greying hair is cord-like straggles, decorating an egg-like head, and his thin lips are twisted and split by an old cut. Deep pox scars cover his cheeks, his ears are cauliflowers, and his nose looks like it belongs on a Calibration puppet of some Anathema witch. It is like some cruel artist of a god took all the ugliest features from their set of parts and put them all on one man.

You sit next to Amigere and drink a herbal spirit that is so peppery it's all you can do to swallow it. It burns as it goes down and you find your eyes watering. There are cracked jugs of water hanging from the ceiling, and they slowly drip down onto the bare stone floor in this bare room. It takes the edge off the heat, if only just.

"A thousand, thousand apologies. Really, if only you had been willing to sign last week, then my men could have already 'phored the relevant parties." Akif says. His voice is nasal from his many-times-broken nose, and as oily as cod. "Sammach's crew were looking for work. But as it is, well, ak-Kas and ad-Dib have been hiring." He makes an expansive gesture with his hook. "And the later it gets in the year, the higher the water-cost gets. It is no fault of mine, you know; no, not at all. It is just the way things are. My friends, I would advise you to sign as fast as possible If you hold out much longer, no one is gonna want to head down into the city. Not for money and certainly not for love."

Amigere shakes his head. "Akif, my friend, I know you're trying to get me to make a quick decision, but my employer needs more to go on than that. She told me, isn't that right, milady," he glances at you, "that if we can't find who we need here, we might have to take a landboat to Zorgranzar. The mercenary markets there might have more choice, and the madmen down there work even in the hottest parts of the year."

"Did she?" He takes another sip of his vile drink. "Ach. Well, if you trust those savages to do anything. I would not, not with someone as beautiful when you are responsible for her. Pretty thing like her, they'd probably try to sell her off in Zorgranzar's slave markets. There are buyers for a woman as fine as her."

Your lips curl in disdain. "They'd be making a mistake."

His scars crease up in a smile. "Ten thousand apologies, oh beautiful lady, oh dragon-child of the world, but as one who would be your friend, do not fall for the trickeries of that place. No no no, that is not something that you should do.

"And what do you mean by that?"

"There are things down in the Old City that can chain even someone like you. I pray to gentle Lilia that you do not go to Zorgranzar, and suffer for your pride." He leans in. "I really would hate to see something happen to you. No, you you should stay clear of that place and get the men you need here."

Amigere raises his palms. "Akif, please. Don't insult me or my employer by acting this way. We want men - and we have money for you."

The ugly man settles down, resting his hook on the table as he sips his vile herbal drink. "You are still planning to go down into the valley?"

"Yes."

"I have looked through the ledgers since you spoke to me - there are a few hirelings here, but most of them will be ones who I will message to meet you. That is good for you, yes? Costs less in supplies." He rubs his hook with his other hand. "Just this week, we have some deserters from az-Zummurud looking for work. And of course, Rabia Wolf-Heart still has her raiders out for tender. But with Sammach's crew hired by ad-Dib, well, there are always people looking for work, but their most upstanding virtue is that they are cheap."

"Do you think anyone will be coming to the end of their contracts in the next week or so?" Amigere asks.

"None that I know of, and with ak-Kas and ad-Dib hiring, I would not be confident that the pickings will improve. Now, there are others here - a pair of deyha sisters, if you can believe it, among others! - but if you want a force that can keep you safe in the ruins, then good sir, my lady, you should hire… and hire quickly. I will have representatives for them brought here if you want to speak about terms, but it will take a while."

Amigere looks at you. You nod. "Yes, do that," he says.

"Mmm. To good business, then!" But before you can drink, someone pounds at the door, with such violence you swear dust falls from the ceiling.

"I'm meeting with someone!" Akif hollers.

"Boss, the Khamsin is here!"

Akif hisses between his teeth. "Lady, please, if you do not mind, countless apologies… but I really must meet with this man. He can be… violent." He spreads his hand and his hook. "I will have my servants provide drinks for you, and perhaps a small repast. But please, I must ask you to step outside. I will… will give the orders to have the people brought here for you, too!"

You rise, and step outside - only to find that there are soldiers here, lingering with intent. They look much better quality than the ones you'd seen lazing around the streets up here; their weapons are polished and they even have a degree of uniformity to their, well, uniforms.

"Who are these?" you ask Akif. "Are they for hire?"

"No, apologies, apologies lady, but they will not be. These are Khamsin's men and..."

And then you see him. Tall, taller than any of the other men here, and nearly as broad as he is tall. His skin is the colour of the sandy mountains that rim the valley, and his white hair is a shaggy ruff that bleeds to red towards the tips; he wears silver jewellery rich with rubies and opals. His coat is a hot pink that grabs the eye by its throat and starts choking and he wears it open, to show a body that growls its strength to the world. His fists are sheathed in jade cestuses, well used and pitted with age. The air around him reeks of ozone; you can feel the heat rolling off him. He pretends to be human, but you know what he is.

That is a wind-bear. A powerful elemental spirit of the air who chooses to walk as a man for his own reasons.

"Well, Akif, my boy," he booms. "You found me someone worth hiring this time?" He looks at you. "You, dragon-child. What do you bring to my company?"

You blink. "I beg your pardon?"

There is a moment of mutual incomprehension. Then, "Lord Khamsin, no, no, this is Meira as-Sayu, a traveller and here to also hire from me."

"So she is not the dragon-child I wanted?"

"Lord Khamsin, they are scarce pickings and…"

"Pswah!" He turns his back to Akif, squaring you up. "Still, this might not be entirely a waste of time. Bow and serve me, wood dragon. Kill my foes, and I will reward you."

You want to throttle him. Your hackles are up and oh, there might be advantages to a powerful patron but such flagrant disrespect is quite another thing. He talks to you like you are a dog he could leash. "Good sir," you say, teeth clenched behind your smile, "I am not looking to be bought."

"Then you stand against me?"

"I didn't say…"

He raises his hand, and snaps his fingers. "Who stands against me?"

"Only a fool!" the armoured men behind him bellow in unison.

"Who dares challenge me?"

"Only a fool!"

"That is my rule!" He slams his fists together. "I am called Khamsin in the language of the humans here. All who have stood against me have fallen. All who have denied me my desires have been destroyed."

Well, he practices that. "But I am not standing against you and I am not challenging you," you say, with the viper's false sweetness.

"You are going into the city." It's a flat statement from him.

"And if I am?"

"You will work for me, or you will stay out of my way. Because if you seek to deny me the treasures I seek, you will be challenging me." He grins at you, like the bear he is. "Though looking at you, you are soft and plump. Like many of your kind, you waste your nature on human pleasures. Maybe the city will eat you up and spit you out without me doing a thing."

"I will take that under consideration, Lord Khamsin," you say. Oh, you've heard of the wind-bears; monsters, gluttons, princes of the sky. He's right. As it is, you couldn't take him in a fair fight. He could tear you limb from limb without even shedding his human form.

Now, why is something like that choosing to walk the ground as a human?

"That you should!"

Akif clears his throat. "Apologies, apologies, Lord Khamsin, but while I could not find you a dragon-child to serve you, I could find others who were on the list your servants gave me. I have some of the mead you like, so perhaps we could speak further and…"

That gets his attention. "Yes," he barks, turning his back on you. He doesn't look at you when he heads into the room; you get the feeling you're out of his mind. He postured at you, threatened you when you wouldn't work for him, then got bored.

"I've heard of him," Amigere says over the watery wine you're offered by the servants. "One of the most famous treasure hunters. Khamsin is the name he's taken, but that's a local hot, dry, sandy wind that blows in off the Burning Sands."

"It's not his real name?"

"No."

Damn. You can't use that against him. Stupid name-hiding spirits. "Does anyone know why he's walking among men?"

"Not that I've heard. But the stories are that he's made a fortune, and his private army is one of the best in Cahzor. It's not just men, either. Elementals march with him."

One of those elemental warlords, an outlaw from Heaven's laws. Who destroys anyone who he thinks of as a rival, and who's plundering the city below for his own gain.

"Well, fuck," you say eloquently.

At least Amigere laughs at that. "Yes. We should pick up who we need and then get out of here. And pray to the gods that he's not looking for… what we are."

You scowl as you start jotting down figures on a slate, working out how much you're willing to spend. He's right; best not to linger near a wind-bear. You need the forces to keep you safe down in the old city, and to hold the site you want to investigate so you can go and slip into the Elemi temple. But you also don't want to get yourself too much in debt.

Hmm.

---

Article:

The base cost of this expedition is 2 Debt. Additional hirings will be added on top.

Votes should be done plan-style, covering the main choice and the up-to-two auxiliaries you take.

Select one mainstay force:
[ ] Cahzori Dregs. Just gather up the people who hang around this place looking for work. They can fight, and they work cheap, but they're a motley crew. [3 Debt]
[ ] Zumurrud Deserters. Formerly soldiers for az-Zumurrud, but deserted and took up work as mercenaries due to their wages not being paid. A few fangs of light infantry, with spears or bows. [5 Debt]
[ ] Raider Hirelings. Hired from a warlord down in the valley, who supplements the pickings from his land by renting his men to any who can pay. Men with the blood of the desert tribes, and a goodly number of camels. [7 Debt]

Select up to two auxiliary picks:
[ ] Porters & Labourers. There are plenty of people who head down into the Old City looking for plunder, and they need people to help dig, set up camp, and carry supplies. You're hiring a comfortable number of them. [3 Debt]
[ ] Guides. A few people who know the area you're heading to. Your nose wrinkles at the price they're demanding to show you the way, though. [1 Debt]
[ ] A Fang of Ruins Scouts. A team of hardened men and women in sand-coloured clothes who know the treacherous landscape down below, riding camels and armed with blade and crossbow. And demand a very high price for their services. [6 Debt]
[ ] A couple of land-barges. Related to sand-ships, Cahzori land-barges run on wheels or runners and have mules to help when buildings block the wind. Considerably increase carrying and re-supply capability. [10 Debt]
[ ] A pair of dehya sisters. Thugs on their war-hyenas. You know what they're like. They say they're the last remnants of their band, so they're just working for coin-hire. And that they'll smash in the faces of anyone who gets in the way of their payday. [2 Debt]

 

[EarthScorpion]

XXXV. Descent and Dust

You are not a young woman by the standards of short-lived humanity, and even for a dragon-child you are not a child. You're not old! But you have lived a long time and seen many things. Despite all that, though, your stomach churns with butterflies as you step onto the elevator that leads down to the old city.

Yes, of course you're nervous! This will be the first time you set foot in Cahzor proper; the first time you venture into its burning-hot wastes and the morass of ruined buildings that make up its landscape. It is natural to be nervous.

But you don't let it show. Not as the gibbering demon-slaves, collared in iron and branded with a crest, turn the mighty wheels that lower the cargo elevator through the interior of the dam. Even when the ropes creak and chains screech and gears clank, you are as calm and as patient as an ancient pine.

It's dark in here, as you descend through the guts of the dam. There's only one lamp permitted, and it's hanging over by the man who operates the brake. All it does is give the darkness texture, hinting at things off in the long shadows. They said that too many flames in here makes the air go bad. It doesn't taste good. There's a dampness to the air, but not a wholesome one. Something thick, something you can taste; the smell and taste of a place that has never known the sun.

In the gloom, you can see spectral pomegranates and white lilies blooming up the walls. This elevator shaft is close to the lands of the dead. Worse: people have died here.

You don't need to be a genius - though you are - to know how they died. There are so many ways that these crudely restored mechanisms could go wrong. And you're still so high up. If the chains broke and you fell, screaming, would your lungs empty before you hit the bottom?

Blue reaches out and squeezes your hand. The poor boy must not like it. Just to keep him happy, you wrap your hand around the black glove of his disguise, and squeeze it tightly. You're going to have to be nice to him tonight. The poor boy must be scared.

You glance over at Amigere, who's talking quietly with some of your hired guides. You're not going to be nice to him, though. He clearly doesn't need it! Hrrmph!

"You know," Blue whispers in your ear, "we could take your mind off things. Instead of thinking about going down…"

You can't help but smile. "I could think about going down?"

His adorable brow creases up. "No. That's what you shouldn't do. I was saying, we could make love in a dark corner."

You want to bash your head into a wall. Or possibly his, because it's not like he'd be losing anything from head trauma. Innuendo is lost on this sexy idiot. Honestly, It's a tempting offer, but you don't want to rock the boat. Or. Well. The elevator. The idea of getting slammed into one of the side walls is scary enough to warn you away from the prospect of… that. "You're very thoughtful," you tell him, leaning over to kiss him, "but let's wait until we're on solid ground."

---

The name of the town that clusters around the base of the dam is Lobay, the lower district of Zorpondam. It hugs the wall closely, cowering in the shade. The buildings here are not as ancient as the ruins further down the valley; many more people live here than up on the dam and they have lived here for a long time. You can see former wealth, from before Cahzor was eclipsed by Gem, but they have rebuilt and built in the centuries since then and now this looks much more like the small towns you passed on the way down south. The walls might be built from blocks of stone which once formed sky-scraping towers, but they are still walls. The fields here are watered with sun-boiled liquid from the Little Nam, but they are still only sad things on too thin dirt.

Amigere explains all this, but you see something else entirely. The djige who rules this place is no real ruler; he is the Demio's hand puppet. She could cut off his water at a moment's notice. And so it is his job to manage this sprawling town that only sees sunlight half the day, to make sure upper Zorpondam gets its food, and to make sure that no one obstructs the treasure hunters who descend into the city and bring back resources that she can tax.

Hydraulic despotism always looks the same in the end. You'd applaud her, but you're too irked about the steep taxation.

You, your boyfriends and the guides head first to the dusty market where you'd arranged to meet the leaders of the Zumurrud deserters you've hired. They're waiting for you on time, under the shade of a withered tree that has bloomed to sudden life in the change rain. Captain Burhan Saqr is a tired-looking man with the face of someone in his fifties, though you'd wager he's younger. The heat and the scars have dried him out like jerky.

"Milady," he says in a croaky voice, pipe in his mouth. He, like his men, are dressed in loose layers of light cloth, and he wears a turban wrapped around a beaten brass skullcap. "Welcome to Lobay. It's too damn hot to be outside, so I'm glad y'didn't keep us waiting."

"You're not wrong there, captain," you say. "I am Meira as-Sayu, as you would say here. These are my companions, Amigere and Blue. And..."

Burhan nods. "You hired the Far clan. Well, some of them." He snorts. "Smarter than most."

"You know them?" You're mildly surprised. The leathery, wyld-touched guides have the blood of the desert tribes; you wouldn't think a group of Zumurrud soldiers would be familiar with them.

"We've guided Zumurrud men before," Zakiya Far says. She's younger than some of the others in the little group of bands, but seems to be one of ones who speaks for them. Maybe it's because she blooms with many-coloured flowers and has an orange wyld-touch on her cheek, shaped like a six-fingered hand.

"Zumurrud no longer," Burhan says.

Zakiya shrugs. Her shrug seems to encompass the inevitability of any given job coming to an end.

"When do you plan to set off?" the captain asks you.

"We need to collect the porters," you say. "From Yanbu square."

"Ach? Well, I'll get some men to help you," he says, rolling his eyes. "Yer gonna need to round those sorts up. And stop them drinking away what coin you give them. We won't be leaving today."

You nod. "I was assuming there'd be some delays. I've arranged provisioning."

"That's good, lady, that's good. Now, let's talk about our advance…"

---

That is a distinctly unpleasant conversation, as all conversations about money are, and by the time you track down where your intended gangmaster for your porters has gotten to, it's getting dark. It's not a sign of the lateness of the hour; not quite. In fact, it's not long past noon. But this town cowers by the foot of the wall of stone that makes up the dam that Zorpondam sits on, and the sun is barely past its zenith when it falls behind the shade.

It irks you that you can't leave now. But the captain was right; your gangmaster is tipsy, and needs to round up drunks with the aid of your hired soldiers. Your instructions are clear - you will be leaving shortly before dawn tomorrow, before it heats up. So after you arrange for the hired soldiers to take custody of the provisioning, it's only mid-afternoon.

So you, Amigere and Blue head to some moderately priced accommodation, which you promptly haggle down to cheap accommodation, and sit out on the terrace in the unnatural gloom to drink wine and eat fried cornbread and couscous, staring out at the sunlit expanse before you. Down in the streets below, pipers play for coins and nearly naked men and women dance in the half-light.

"Do you trust him?" Amigere asks you. His feathers are slicked back with water from a jug; he fans himself and has pulled off his shirt as you're now out of the sun. Beads of water roll down his chest, giving the contours of his body a sheen you admire with pleased contentment.

"Burham? No," you say, somewhat surprised that he asked. "But he's signed my contract, so I have some hold over him."

"And if he cheats our fair lady, why, I will run him through!" Blue declares. He's sprawled out bonelessly, a clay cup of wine in hand. His coat is open, exposing his darling chest and the little tuft of hair emerging out of his baggy, nearly translucent trousers. He isn't sweating; he looks perfect.

"Of course you will, darling," you tell him fondly.

"Such impudence will be his death!"

"Mmm hmm." You sigh dramatically, sweeping back your hair. With the sun behind the dam, there's no reason to cover your head and you make full use of that. "I do hate that our porters are a bunch of drunks."

Amigere rolls his eyes, reaching out to steal your cornbread. "They always are, don't worry."

"I don't think so," Blue says, frowning.

"That's because you weave servants from chaos to attend to your needs," you point out.

"Yes? I don't follow."

You pat his hand, and steal his cornbread as you've just found yourself rudely deprived of food. "Don't worry about it, darling."

The heat haze shimmers, making the buildings and spires in the distance dance. But the temperature here in the shadow of the dam is falling notably. It's much nicer this way, but you are starting to get chilly. Or, at least, that's why your excuse for why you shuffle your seat along, and wrap Blue's arm around your shoulders.

Amigere glances over in your direction, and sticks out his tongue. He takes the chance to shuffle up to your other side, and also wrap his arm around you. He rests his feathered head on your shoulder, as he eats the food he filched off you.

"It's nice you two are so thoughtful," you say, shifting your position so you're half draped over their laps. You brush your fingers along Blue's thigh, feeling the muscle under the glamour-woven cloth that's as thin as silk, while 'accidentally' resting your knee on Amigere's groin and feeling him twitch. You guide his arm down to your abdomen just to hear his breath hitch. "I was getting cold."

"It's still quite warm," Blue says.

"But getting colder," you insist.

He tilts his head. "Huh. So it is."

It might not be his fault. He is a princeling of the chaos outside reality. He might not feel the cold. That is what you have to tell yourself. "Just kiss me, you damn fool," you order.

"Me or him?" Amigere asks you. The boy thinks he's being clever.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye as Blue's soft lips brush your cheek. "Yes," you tell him. Like it wasn't obvious already.

Honestly. Men.

---

In the end, you put the bed to very good use. It's not really meant for three, but hey, you're creative. And it's the last proper bed you're going to get to sleep in for a while, so you deserve someone nice.

The next morning, you ride east into a sky painted pink with dawn's first glimmers. The Far guides say you should be able to reach Zorjanplaza before things get too hot to continue. Then you will rest there and water the steeds - scrubby horses, asses and camels - during the hottest hours of the day, and set off again as things cool down again. Then you will travel until past midnight, then rest only to rise before dawn.

The days slip by. The strange patterns of sleep are unpleasant, but you can survive. And as you travel further east, stopping at caravanasi and villages built in the ruins of apartments and camp under old bridges, you leave the shadow of the dam. And then you see the real Cahzor.

At first, there are people you meet on the way through the city. There are clear roads that lead to Lobay - to Zorpondam - and people travel along them. On the second day, there is a tense moment as a band of rag-tag fighters travel the opposite way to you, and there's nearly a scrap between them and your soldiers. Fortunately, cooler heads prevail, not least because you outnumbered them.

But soon you leave the main trail, leading into the twisted ruins. And you stop meeting any large convoys or caravans. The settlements you stop at by broken water pipes or wells that draw from flooded basements are smaller, more measly. On the roads you only encounter stragglers, ones and twos, and your guides pause with each one to talk about what is on the road ahead and whether there are any dangers.

You can see why they do that.

In all your years, you have never travelled through a landscape like this. It was not laid down by the faceless forces of nature. Everything is artifice. The mountains are towers that scrape the sky; the hills are collapsed apartment blocks; the fields are parks and streets covered in thin dusty soil. In places where the buildings have served to funnel the hot winds, there are mounds of sand which trail down from the windward walls of slowly collapsing buildings. Close to the places where people still live, scrubby grasses have been planted to try to hold these dunes together, but all it would take is the old structure to give way under the weight of the sand and everything on the other side will drown.

But the buildings are not solely the backdrop to the world. They are the world. The paths your guides take lead you through the ancient buildings. There are the remnants of great halls now flecked with scabs of grass whose sand-coloured walls still have flecks of faded blue paint on them; there are corridors that serve as streets when the roads themselves have crumbled. Sometimes to get across sand dunes, you have to scale wide staircases or ramps that zigzag up the interior of factories. Sometimes the glassless windows give you a fine sight over expanses of ruined structures where the interiors are stagnant swamps of wyld-polluted water, protected from the glare of the sun by heavy roofs. There are desert birds here, and vultures and scrappy sandy dogs follow your convoy.

The heat is oppressive. Oily heat-haze hides everything a hundred metres from you. The cold of the nights is biting, and the mercurial moon and diamond-like stars gleam down on you. When the wind blows, you have to wrap your burnoose around your face to keep it out of your mouth and nose. There are areas subsumed by dying wyld-plants, that your guides keep far away from. Their sickly sweet smell has subtle scents of decay now. And always, the faceless statues on the edges of the canyon. No matter where you go, no matter how tall the buildings are around you, it is like you can always see one of them. Whoever built them wanted all the attention in the world; to always be watched and always watching.

You congratulate yourself on your foresight to hire guides for this. Oh, you could probably have followed the paths others have taken to travel between cities, but the guides know the landscape and the glyphsigns that others have left on the walls to explain the routes. Several times you have to pause while your guides read a freshly painted glyph, and then the warning goes out; "Hungry dust ahead!". Or sometimes "We'll have to detour - there's been a collapse and this road isn't safe".

In Old Cahzor, you are crepuscular. Crepuscular; it is a funny word, is it not? Nocturnal, diurnal, crepuscular. It doesn't fit the pattern. You wonder why.

---

It is on the fifth day, in the mid morning that your convoy snarls to a halt. You have dismounted to rest your steed, and you push forwards to the front, trailed by Blue. "What's going on?" you demand.

Zakiya squares up to you. "The bridge over the Riba Sari Canyon is out," she says bluntly. "Must have collapsed in the wyldstorm."

"This little idiot wants us to march all the way up to Qirmiz's bridge," one of the older guides snaps, red in the face. From the intake of breath of the other guides, he wasn't meant to say that - but tempers are clearly flaring. "In this heat, in the face of that bastard!"

"How far away is it?" you ask.

"We won't reach it before we have to rest," Zakiya says. "If there's been no more falls, maybe two thirds of a day's march. It won't affect things on the other side, though. We were going to have to tack south anyway."

"Qirmiz is a monster! He'll try to rip us off, and that's if he doesn't cut out throats and stake out for the gods!"

Zakiya whirls on the man. "Ubay, you idiot. We got enough soldiers he won't try anything. Your plan is worse – you want to head down into the Riba Sari! When it's still change-flooded and we'd need all of Lilia's blessings to stay safe!" She jabs her finger at his chest. "And on top of that, that won't fix nothing! We still need to come back, idiot!"

"Show me," you order.

The bridge they talk about is of ancient construction, connecting two buildings over what was once a wide boulevard. The sunlight reflects off the crystal of the upper floors, casting the world in shimmering refracted light. There are noble statues leering from the walls, worn away by pitiless sand. Small desert birds perch on their heads before swooping after sandflies. You can see the remnants of the stands where trees must once have grown. But that's all that remains of the street, because it's given way entirely and now descends down tens of metres, cutting through layer upon layer of subterranean architecture. Dark water gleams with rainbow sheen where the reflected sunlight catches it. The bridge was the only easy way across, and now it's out, its elegant lines and dragon-headed guardians melted like wax sculptures in Cahzori heat.

"So the options are detouring to a warlord's bridge," you look to Zakiya for confirmation, and she nods, "or… heading down into that? What's down there?"

"Monsters," Zakiya says. "Ghouls, djinn, gods only know what."

"It'll be dangerous," Ubay says, "but if we cross at zenith, the things down there will be weak. I've crossed before, back before this chit," he glares at Zakiya, "was born. It looks steep, but there's a narrow path for the mounts and the supplies can be unloaded and carried."

"Why do you think that path even exists?" she demands.

"If it doesn't, then we can risk that human monster and his brutes," he counters.

"Oi!" someone calls from behind you. Since this argument is going nowhere, you twist and raise your veil. It's one of the porters; a lanky fellow with a broad-brimmed hat.

"Yes?" you enquire in a tone that implies that this had better be important because you do not appreciate being talked to this way.

"Yer ladyness, I reckon we can set up out of the sun, and then some of us can head back to Zorfordiwon. Looking at it, this bridge ain't too wrecked - I reckon we can prob'bly get something working with some rope and some shimmerglass. Enough for us all to cross."

That gets both guides looking at him like he's an idiot.

"If you don't mind being gouged," Zakiya says. "A place like that will charge through the nose for anything."

"Ha! Assuming they even have anything to spare," Ubay says.

They degenerate into bickering, and seem to spend more time tearing down the suggestions of the others than actually justifying their case. You glower at the broken bridge, and think.

---

Article:

What does Rena decide?
[ ] You'll wait here, and send some people back to buy the supplies to fix the bridge. It'll cost, though; not only in things for the repair, but also in your food and water while you wait for them to fix it. (+3 Debt)
[ ] Zakiya's plan sounds best; you'll cross at Qirmiz's bridge. You have plenty of men, and when it comes down to it you're a sorceress and you have a fae cataphract with you.
[ ] You don't want to delay, and you're no small occultist - you'll brave the chasm. If it works, it should allow you to get to the next village on time, though gods only know what's down there.

 

[EarthScorpion]

XXXVI. Down and Further Down

Cahzor burns in the scorching heat. It is midday, and the sun lances down, painting chiaroscuro shadows in the dusty streets. The ground sizzles in the inferno of the valley, the urban landscape trapping the heat like some hellish witch's cauldron. Everything that lives has found shade; straggly dogs napping in abandoned apartments, birds sleeping in ruined alcoves, insects crawling into the dirt.

But you are not on the surface. And there is no sun, no, not here. Your hired scouts led you down a sandy ramp into the basement of one of the tower-blocks, and that revealed that the entire structure has given way. There is a crack in the ground, and the internal floors have through. What exists is a jagged and rough path down into the underlayers of the city. A shady tunnel, lit by the light that pierces the shutterless windows of the higher floors.

The air that rises from the depths is cooler, and there is a hint of humidity. Just enough that you can feel it in your lips. Strangely, it isn't reassuring. This is dead water; water that never sees the light. There will be unwholesome things living in it. Or dead in it. You can taste the lack of greenery.

"Well, this is it, lady," Ubay says, gesturing. "There's this rough ground, but it connects to one of the old maintenance tunnels and from there, there's a path that'll lead us down. It must have been, oh, two decades ago that I last took the route, but I've heard from others who've done it."

You permit yourself a little bit of doubt. Oh, you can climb this, at least now. You couldn't have before you'd mostly recovered from your injuries. But it doesn't look friendly to the steeds. It looks as dangerous as some of the northern passes when choked with snow in the depths of Air. The ones no one sane would ride a horse through for fear of setting off an avalanche.

"You're sure the steeds can make it?" you ask Ubay.

He nods. "Once we're out of this building, we're mostly onto strong-ish rock and foundation. We're going to have to take it slowly, but the ground after this bit of the descent is fairly solid. For the most part."

You rub your chin. You don't like how many quantifiers he appended. "We'll want the soldiers to spread out through the column," you say. "We'll keep a rearguard here. And we'll need a vanguard, too, to secure the far side. Otherwise, make sure the beasts aren't too heavily loaded, so if one gets lost or goes down, we don't lose too many supplies. I don't want us going hungry because a dumb beast panicked underground."

Captain Burhan pauses from where he had been striking a flint to light his pipe. "Makes sense," he says.

You crack your knuckles. "Before we head down, I want us to know we can get back out. Ubay, take a few people and make sure that path still exists. I don't want to get stuck down there. If it's been washed away or crumbled, then we head to the other bridge."

"Yes, lady."

"Captain, in the meantime, get people ready to cross. I don't want to do it late in the day. I want plenty of sunlight to retreat to."

"Mmm."

You consider matters as he rounds some people up. If they all get killed by monsters, well, that'd be awfully inconvenient for you. Hmm. You tap your fingertips together, then go and look for one of your lovers.

Zakiya is leaning against the bare wall by the entrance down to the lower levels, chewing something. She focuses on you. "I hope you know what you're doing," is all she says.

Ah, those words. So pernicious. So treacherous. Anyone who says that is probably plotting against you. Or at least considering whether they might want to plot against you. Like they did back in Cherak.

And yet for all that, you're maybe two-thirds sure you're doing the right thing. There's a distinct side of you that thinks it might be better to risk the warlord-ruled bridge. You hadn't exactly been planning to go spelunking when you woke at an ungodly hour this morning. It's nagging you with doubt that maybe it could be safer to face the known threat of humans against whatever lives down there.

Well, that part of you should shut up. You've made your decision, so it should accept the will of the Rena.

Blue is sprawled out in the shade, looking for all the world like he's comfortable on the rim of a dried-up fountain. One hand trails through the sand which chokes the bowl. Straggly, yellowing grass grows there. Maybe there's still a hint of water oozing underneath. The windowless tower groans in the soft, hot breeze.

"Darling. I want you to do something for me."

He turns around with the general mood and attitude of a puppy, orange eyes bright. "What is your command, lady?" he says, sitting upright, legs crossed.

"We're going to be crossing this chasm through the underground route. Some of the scouts are going to make sure the path is clear. I want you to go with them and keep them safe." You meet his eyes. "Blue, listen to me. If something happens to them, we'll have to wait even longer out here under the sun."

"Oh, that'd be the worst!"

"Yes, yes. So, go with them. I know I can trust you," you blatantly lie, "so you'll make sure they can see if there's a path.

He springs to his feet. "It will be done!"

You see him off, striding confidently behind the lead scout, and then you get to work reassuring your followers, letting your presence soothe their worries. They don't need to be concerned. They just need to do what you say. Some of the workers find a damp patch in one of the alcoves, and they get to work digging. The water isn't something you'd want to rely on except in an emergency, but it's good enough for your mounts. The asses and the camels are fighting for it even before they've finished.

It's too hot for you to be working, so you settle down on the same dry fountain Blue had been lounging, and cross your legs. A little meditation might settle your mind. This isn't a time for worry. And this hot, dead landscape is making your skin crawl. Yellowing grass isn't much, but it's something.

Of course, you don't get anything nice. You're woken by your handsome birdman, chequered kaftan blowing behind him as he shakes your shoulder.

"Yes?" you demand irritably.

"Were you napping?"

"I was clearing my mind."

Amigere sits down next to you. "Are you really sure you want to be doing this?" he asks.

"Yes."

"It's just that," his gestures take in the ruins. "I've heard about the Cahzori under-layers. There are things down there. Monsters, demons, spectres, things much worse than Blue."

"You heard what they said," you say. "Two thirds of a day just to get to that other bridge – and then there's the warlord who runs it."

"I don't like it. This is dangerous, Meira."

"And bridges guarded by murderous warlords are safe?" you scoff. Just to reinforce your point, you raise your eyebrows at him as archly as possible.

"We should rebuild the bridge. Some of the men were talking about doing that. Surely that would be more sensible. I could take the men back, get some supplies. It wouldn't take too long..."

"Darling," you say firmly, "I'm not paying for that."

"I just think…"

"Good. Thinking is good. But keep it to yourself." You flap your hands at him. "Shoo. Shoo. I need to prepare myself for what comes next. I'm going to need to be alert when we're down there. Clear-headed. And I recommend you do the same."

---

Of all the things in the world you are currently thankful for, near the top of the list has to be good quality boots. That is all you can think as you descend, in the middle of the convoy. You found an excellent, if aged, pair in the markets of Cahzor, and whoever the long-ago woman who had commissioned these had been, she had been a sensible woman. With conveniently sized feet.

Blue, of course, is offensively cheerful. "It's awfully good down there, lady," he says. "No sun, a perfectly doable climb, and the slope up the other side is even easier than heading down! The only problem was I didn't have a chance to show you my bravery. I wanted to bring you the head of some fearsome beast, but would you know, the only thing that attacked us were some biting insects." He pauses. "I stabbed them, of course, but they're not really a heroic prize."

"Thank you, darling," you say absent-mindedly as you step down shallow stairs made of chipped, worn blue tiles. They've been swept clean recently. Not by people. By the flow of water. The thirsty earth has devoured the gift of chaos. "But aren't you meant to be at the front? Heroically ensuring our safety."

"Well, I thought that…" You glance at him, combining disappointment and a pout. "Yes, of course."

He leaves you alone, pushing past the men in front of you, and for that you're thankful. There's too much to see, too much to think about without being distracted by Blue's common inanities.

You hadn't realised how far you'd actually have to travel down here. As the crow flies, it was maybe fifty metres across the missing bridge, and that's generous. But there is no bridge, and while perhaps an agile man with a rope could scale the side of the chasm, you have steeds and supplies. Which means a much more circuitous route has to be taken.

Mounts and baggage and soldiers with their clanking gear follow the trail of white chalk on the walls laid out by the scouts. People are getting tired, and there's a low level of grumbling, but no one wants to wait down here too long. It's several hours past noon and sun-hating creatures will start to get more active by dusk.

The air is damp, and shockingly cool compared to the surface. You've broken out the oil lamps, but they're not always necessary. The plants down here are glowing chaos-infused grasses that have never known the sun. They recoil away from the honest light of a flame. Sprouting among them are mushrooms that feed off the rot of Cahzor, but the scouts burn those when they can, extending candles on the end of long poles. The spores, they say, are toxic.

And then there are the noises. It's not silent underground. You've climbed down a long gallery, made your way down old maintenance corridors, passed along water-smoothed rock paths bare to the sun, and now you're in the remains of a building that slumped down into the chasm.

A dead building is like a just-dead body. They both make sounds that almost sound like they're still alive. They groan, they make noises as they settle, they ooze out fluids from ruptured pipes. The normal sounds of the life that the city must once have had are silent here, so you can hear the load-bearing walls creak like old bones and the hot wind creep down the abandoned corridors like a monstrous breath. It blows through tunnels; architecture becoming stonewind instruments. And then there's the dripping from that wet, water-damaged corridor.

Below it all, there's the sound of running water. It's getting louder. You can't help but wrap your hands over each other, feeling for the throwing knives you have up your wrists.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Ahead of you, one of the mules starts braying, the agitated beast trying to get free. The soldiers pull at its ropes while someone holds its head and whispers to it. You push up towards them.

"What's the matter with the beast?" you ask.

One of the soldiers turns to you, a leathery-faced woman whose nose has clearly been broken twice before. "Something's spooked it."

You can see that. "See what you can do," you say, looking around. There's a sense of hollowness ahead of you in the dark, a shift in the air pressure. Maybe that's what set the animal off.

"There's nothing to worry about," you announce, loudly. You do your part, reassuring people. Being the dragon-child they need, someone they were born to follow. You do that even though you're just as tired as them, and want your bedroll and something soft. Honestly, you appreciate a rest. Your thigh is aching from the constant up-and-downhill climbs and the unstable terrain.

You smile to yourself wryly. Could just be that the mule is feeling as tired and achy as you.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound worries you. Nags at you. Something is off.

Where's that sound coming from? You focus properly, listening for the closer dripping of water as the hair on the back of your neck rises.

There's a door off the main path, that leads to some long-collapsed room. There's still some floor on the far side of the wall, too far away to jump. Leaning in, you can see a table stacked with mouldering books, and an overturned chair that's half-way fallen into the hole that's devoured the floor. There are water stains around that hole.

Something darker than the surroundings moves, just out of the circle of light. You immediately raise your lantern, but there's no sign of what it was. You don't dare blink.

Behind you, there's the sound of the stupid mule finally starting to move. You swallow, not wanting to turn your back. You stand there until someone nudges you. Yes. You should go.

The path leads on, out of the building and down a ramp made of a collapsed wall. The blue sky can be seen, a slash of a semi-circular smile. The building you were in looks like it was once some kind of grand shopfront, and there's still a few hints of its once-magnificent yellow facade. The structure must have slid down the side of the chasm, and the fact that it is still somewhat intact is a mark of the indomitable strength of Shogunate architecture.

Your eyes widen as you inhale the damp, not-quite-wholesome air. You're in a sizable natural cavern. No, not a natural cavern; some kind of water still of the ancients. But the walls are ruined and eroded by the passage of time, and the bare sandstone is revealed in many places. There is a lake here, a hundred metres across or more, with rivers flowing into it from old pipes. Rays of light from on high catch the dirty, dark water and make it gleam and glitter like a hidden treasure. Picking out the ripples. There are other buildings that have fallen down into here, collapsing into this ill-lit abyss, and some of them rise half-flooded from the lake.

"What is this?" you ask one of the guides, who's waving people along. He's a small man, barely taller than a boy in your eyes.

"This here? 'S a still. Flooded 'cause of the changerain, but looks like it's burned off pretty much all the chaos by now. It'll be dry before 'Bration." He looks like one of those monkeys who like the hot springs in Cherak, you decide; his face is nearly as red as theirs from the sun. "This is about as low as we go, lady. The crack by the bridge connects up to this place, and now it's basically uphill from here."

That's something. That's definitely something. "Is the water potable?" you ask.

"Huh?"

"Drinkable. Can you drink it?" you clarify.

"Dunno."

Helpful. You purse your lips, then give orders for everyone else to keep on moving. The convoy will take a good amount of time to get past here, so you can have some time to check this water. You want to see how long it takes for the chaos to decay from this changerain. It'll matter for your sorcerous experiments.

The water smells stagnant - a sign that the chaos has mostly left it. Stagnant and dead. And there's a faintly acidic note to its scent; perhaps, yes, a mark of the pollution in the ground of Cahzor. Just like the Little Nam is laden with the waste of ancient mines.

Stooping, you pick up one of the water-rounded rocks that lie on the impromptu beach, and weigh it in your hand. And then with a calculated toss, you send it skimming along the water. One, two, three - you count the bounces. You manage nine. Nine is a symbol of imperfection, of subtle defects, of events waiting for their culmination - and thus of potential. Potential is by its very nature imperfect, for it has not come into being.

Could be that it's not an sign, of course. Could be that you're just very good at skimming stones.

Your eyes adapt to the darkness as you stare at the intersecting ripples, looking for omens in the motion of the water. And perhaps that's why the movement in one of the half-flooded buildings draws your eye. There is a robed figure in one of the structures, waiting at a glassless, shutterless window. And there, another one, another one on the roof of that one over there. And yet another, and this one stands against one of the walls, knee-deep in water.

There are many of them. And if that window is the size you think it is, that would mean that the robed figures are taller than the men of the south. A good two metres and change tall, despite their stoop. And the neck is too long - no, they're not human. Perhaps they're mutants living in the depths. Maybe something else.

But this isn't a place to linger.

You hurry back to the main body of the convoy, and find Zakiya. Who wasn't who you were looking for, but you'll take her. She purses her lips as you explain to her in a hushed tone so you don't scare the soldiers.

"Deep-watchers," she tells you. "I know of them. They're scared of fire and sunlight. I'll have the soldiers light torches 'for the climb ahead'."

"Have you ever seen one up close?" you ask. Maybe you can identify them…

She shakes her head. "I met a man who said he'd been the lone survivor of an attack on a small band of delvers. The others had been lured away by their lanterns, and wandered into danger, and he'd nearly followed. But something had allowed him to realise he wasn't meant to be following the light, and he'd run back to the surface. So no, I haven't seen one up close and I don't want to."

Damn. Not enough to narrow it down much. There's a lot of creatures out there that can trick weak mortal minds with lights.

"I'll make sure people don't linger," you say. "If they're scared of sunlight, we want to be out of here before it sets."

The air of your group changes as the new orders come through and men light smoky, tar-dipped torches. Enough of them have been down into the underlayers that they know that an order to light torches means there's often a risk of danger from the creatures down here. People stick closer together, and you hear the muttering that they're glad they're working for someone who took enough soldiers to scare off the beasts. If there are only a few of them down here, then hopefully they won't make trouble with such a large group.

There's no sign of the deep-watchers after you leave the lakeside, and then you're climbing again, picking your way through dusty galleries and cutting between slumped buildings. You reach the surface again without any trouble, clambering out of a sunken road which now slopes down into caverns below the city.

It's hot and bright and bone-dry after your time in the depths, and your eyes water in the reddish light. The sun is low over the dam, and it'll be dark soon.

Some of the soldiers fall to the ground, hissing the hot sand and praying to various Cahzori gods. You don't do such a thing, of course, but you do mutter thanks to the Dragons that they chose not to afflict you with misfortune.

"Phew," Amigere says, wiping his feathered brow as he leans back, hands on his hips. "My nerves are as limp as an untuned shamisen after that."

"I told you you'd be fine, darling," you make sure to remind him.

He sighs ruefully at you. "Yes, you did."

"I don't want to say that I told you so."

"But you did tell me so."

"Of course I did. Because I'm right. Have a little more faith in me."

"Yes, my lady."

You nod happily at that. "Ubay," you call out for the elderly guide, "where is the next safe resting place?"

"Zorthirbank is perhaps a mile that way, built into the side of the tall pyramid there," he says, pointing over to a looming structure that lost its tip long ago. "It has walls, and a well."

"Captain?"

"The men can make it, though we'll need a rest day after that," the captain says.

You could use that. Your feet are sore and you need to lie down. "Very well. We wait until everyone has regrouped here, and then push on," you order.

---

Everyone is feeling much better after a rest day, and you manage to even have a bath. Water is expensive, so you have to share it with your boyfriends, but that's not actually something you object to.

Then you're back to the crepuscular life, inching across the burning alleyways and crystal-glass scattered highways, diverting around cracks in the land and cutting through the ruins of yesteryears.

It's a few days to the nearest town to your destination; Cahzor-Pearl-Souk, or Zorpearl to the locals. The Pearl Souk, Amigere tells you, was once a great shopping arcade, and the Elemi jansi built their initial fortune off plundering it. They were doubly blessed, because not only were there treasures to mine from the ruins, but an ancient pipe spilled water into a canyon, giving them water for their fields and to grow strong. To make plays for the title of Sugun, and even hold it once or twice. But they declined as they exhausted the natural resources of their land - say the jansi - and in their decline they grew desperate and hungry, betraying Cahzor to Gem.

The town itself is ringed by a wall, made from rubble from demolished buildings, but the wall is much too vast for how many people who live here. Instead, many of the buildings within the walls have been cleared, and there are fields here. Shallow soil lies in the shade of low walls, protecting irrigation channels. The houses here are clearly of recent build, even if they are made from blocks of Shogunate stone with roofs covered with old road tiles. Within the outer ring is an inner wall, and rising above that is one of the tower blocks, crenulated and turned into a fortress.

You make arrangements with a farmer who stops to talk to the newcomers to pay a small amount to let your men set up camp in some empty barns of his, and together with a few others you head past a second set of gates.

Hands tucked up your sleeves, you stride through the town proper. It is oddly well-preserved. The paint may have flaked from the walls and the statues may have lost their faces to inclement time, but there are still some traces here of style and grandeur just as there were traces in Zorpondam. There is an elegance to the curved walls of the buildings that rise above markets that sprawl out of antiquated shopfronts. Verdigris ornaments squat on fountains watched over by water-vendors and their club-wielding thugs. Dirty barefooted children in faded reds and blues play jumping games in the street, chalking grids on worn devotionary plaques. Washing lines stretch from building to building, leaving their contents dangling. The web of streets here all lead to the markets squares of antiquity, now with new occupants; shrines and holy places that lure all towards them. You can't go far in Zorpearl without seeing such a building.

The bells of the temples chime out, with shrines to gods you don't know. Ah, no, you know the figure that stands in the shadowy courtyard of that black-walled temple; that's the night-goddess Lilia, who the Cahzori worship as a figure of mercy and protection. You're hot enough that you can see their point. But you don't know that lanky four-armed woman, or that black-haired goddess with dark-eyes, or that wizened old man surrounded by hanging origami cranes.

Zakiya lets out a long whistle. "Water prices here could be a lot higher," she says, checking one of the boards in a square. "They're still not as cheap as Zorpondam, but they're a good sum cheaper than they were last time I was here. The new warlord must have struck blue."

"Oh?" Blue asks. "I don't remember that."

"We're not talking about you, darling," you tell him. "New warlord?"

"Last time I was here, the Fuha jansi held this place - a breakaway branch family of the Kinzira - but some nobody with a distant family relationship took over after they lost their heir against raiders and then plague struck. The new one doesn't even use the name."

Well, you've seen what a mess the Kinzira make of their land. Anyone could do better than them. "Hmm." You look around. "If water's cheap here, Amigere, I want you to see what the prices are for anything we're low on. Check with the captain and take the scouts with you. But don't buy anything unless the scouts think there's no way to get a lower price. I'll stop them ripping us off." You stretch. "I'm going to see what halfway decent place they have where I can sleep. Blue, you're coming with me."

"I am?"

"Yes, you are." You look over the others, and clap your hands imperiously. "Come on, chop-chop."

---

You find a guest house willing to rent you the top floor for a considerably lower price than they thought they were going to offer when you stepped in. It fronts onto a square where a wilting lemon tree grows, showing signs of recent and extreme trimming. There's signs of rain-damage on the tiles, and the stone is discoloured.

With an extravagant sigh, you flop face first onto the bed. Which turns out to be a little less soft than the amount of force in your extravagant collapse really was suited for.

"Ow," you mutter face-first into the bed.

Little paws dig into your back, as someone decides he wants to sit on you.

"You've shown up," you tell your familiar.

Sei yawns. "Be reasonable. It's been hot and lacking in privacy down here. So I thought I'd let you do the walking."

"You asshole," you grumble, rolling over. He leaps off before you can accidentally-not-accidentally crush him, and settles down by your face.

"Look at you, engaging in exercise. All your dresses will get loose if you keep on exerting yourself."

He's just trying to get a rise out of you. Unfortunately, it works. "Why are you such a fucking pain?"

"Are you denying that you've put on weight since we first met?"

"Are you denying you should jump in a well and drown yourself?" you say, as you grab a pillow.

His little tongue sticks out at you. "Temper, temper. So, here you are. Not too far from the Elemi temple."

You glower at him, but reluctantly nod. "Yes. I think I'll get people started on the work on the site, and after a day or two head off myself to see that place." The sound of a screaming child drifts through the window, and you hope their parents shut them up soon.

"I wonder if the town dates back to them," he says. "This is definitely in better shape than the Kinzira lands. They were fools. You should have let me eat them."

"Then you'd have gotten fat," you say, pulling off your headscarf and running your hands through your hair. It is greasy and sweaty and dusty, from days of travel. "Do you think they have public baths in this town? I wasn't hopeful when I saw this place, but they seem more functional than the peasant squats I've seen in most of the valley."

"You should just clean yourself with your tongue."

As you are not a cat, that really isn't an option, and you explain it to him. But your explanation is interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Coming," you holler, pulling yourself to your feet and making sure you have a knife close to hand. Sei pads up, twining against your ankles, his little horns poking into your shins.

It's a plump young man at the door, backed up by an armed man. "You are… Meira as-Sayu?"

"Yes," you lie, folding your hands up your sleeves and grasping your knife handles. You taste metal. No one should know you're here; no one should know your fake name. So…

"I am here on behalf of the Ulinke."

"The… 'ulinke'?" You haven't heard the word before.

"Ulinke Fahd ah-Hakim rules here, Lady as-Sayu." Ah, you aren't familiar with the Cahzori titles. "He wishes to invite you to dinner this evening. He longs for news of the rest of Cazhor and how it has fared in the storm. We have not seen anyone from Zorpondam since the great wyldstorm."

"There is a bridge down," you tell him. "We had to take a dangerous route through a chasm to get here."

"Ah! The ulinke would like to be told of such things - as well as the news from the court of the Demio of Zorpondam, if you know it?"

You smile at him. "I have only just arrived here, so…"

"Oh, he understands. He will extend the hospitality of his citadel to you." He clears his throat. "And whether you attend or not, he wishes to know your purposes here. And the purpose which you bought quite so many armed men for."

"Look, look, the locals are out for their share of your profit," Sei purrs in High Realm. The young man doesn't say anything - perhaps he doesn't know the language.

But your familiar is right. A petty noble with his hackles up. How provincial. On one hand, you could keep things above board and tell him the partial truth, that you're looking to conduct a dig. There probably will be fees and taxes involved, which makes your skin itch. On the other hand, lying could irk him, because your expedition does look very much like one prepared for a dig. Of course, you have options open to you to get a man on side, but that might mean walking into his citadel. And you have no idea what manner of man this lord is.

If only you'd had a little more time here before he found out you were here. He must have sent his men to ask around as soon as he heard about your soldiers.

---

Article:

What does Rena do?
[ ] Decline the invitation. You're not going to walk into the fortress of some petty warlord. Especially if he might object to you digging up his land and plundering it. So you'll just deflect and distract for as long as possible, to try to get as much done before you have to see him.
[ ] Accept it. Of course you're not going to pass it over. And the lord of this place could be… useful. If you can get control over him, all of this will be so much easier.

What does she tell the partial truth about why she's here?
[ ] Yes. You're here for the purposes of an expedition, seeking treasure.
[ ] No. Write-in: What lie does she tell? Does she say she's just passing through? Or does she say she's hiring out mercenaries? Does she claim to be working for Amigere? Or does she say something else?

 

[EarthScorpion]

XXXVII. At the Table of the Pearl Lord

When the boys find you, you're digging through your luggage.

"I know I packed it somewhere," you growl to yourself. "Where is it, where is it?"

"Where is what?" Amigere asks cautiously. You don't know what he has to be cautious about. And you're going to be very irked at him if he isn't useful!

"I packed a nice gown just in case I had to do this kind of thing!" you declare, throwing your hands in the air out of sheer exasperation at the world and the beings in it. "And I can't find it! Has some fucking bastard stolen my dress? I'll kill them!"

"Lady, we are here - in all ways - to help you," Blue says. "I know not what adversity has afflicted you, but you need only tell me tell us and I will slay whoever stands in your way!"

You flop over your bags. "It's pointless! There's no use! The local lordling has invited me to dinner! If I don't go, he'll start interfering - he might even take it as an insult! And I can't find my dark green robe! I packed it just for this!" You whirl on them, hands helplessly twisted into claws. "And if I go there looking like this, these damn provincials will judge me! I can't have that! But I've said I'll go!" This is one of the great problems of being a dragon-child. You can't just say you have a stomach bug to avoid going somewhere you don't want to be.

To your shame, your eyes are wet. But you're tired and hungry and aching and sober and you're dusty and you haven't had a chance to clean yourself and… and it's just too much. You just… you just need to relax. But you can't. Because this fuck has decided that you don't even get one day to enjoy the comforts of civilisation. Such as it is here. No one asked you if you wanted to be invited and forced to choose in the moment - because a delay would be a sign of weakness.

Well, sometimes you want to get to be weak! It's shameful, of course it is, but at moments like this, you don't want to be a shining example of the prowess of the dragons. You just want to go to bed and sleep for a few days because you're getting weepy over the fact you can't find a fucking dress. Gods and spirits, why did you come to this reeking, too-hot, thirsty city? You nearly ran to An Teng. You would have liked it in An Teng. There would have been plants there. How are you meant to put down any roots here when even the grass is straw-yellow?

Blue pulls you into his hug, and you snuffle into his shoulder. He smells of cardamom and a hint of cumin. Your shoulders shake as you cling to him, holding him tightly. He leads you back to the bed, and sits you down.

"You feel as tense as a warrior before a duel," he tells you.

It's not that. "I just… I'm exhausted. I wanted a day to rest properly. To sleep when it's dark. To have some time to sit around and read. My feet are hurting and… and I just can't face a dinner with people I don't know." You slide down his body, lying your head in his lap. "I'll be better tomorrow," you mumble. "But I don't have until tomorrow. I'm dirty. And I need to go to a formal dinner and I can't find my gown and…"

"Isn't it in one of the heavy chests?" Amigere asks.

"What."

"You know, because you were worried that someone would steal it. So that's over in the camp."

"I didn't put it there."

"Yes, but you said it needed to be kept safe so…" Amigere looks from you to Blue, back again. He sighs, heaving his shoulders. The cheek of the man. As if he's the one being cruelly afflicted. "I'll go get it."

Blue beams at him. "Thank you, cutie." Amigere's neck pinkens at that, but he waves it off and steps out. You're left alone in lap of a sexy prince of chaos, who's running his fingers through your hair. You don't want him to. He might look down on you for how dirty you are. How dirty you feel.

He smiles down at you. As if he can't feel that you haven't washed properly in days. Like it doesn't matter to him. It's all a lie, but it's what you need.

"You're looking very pretty."

You wriggle against him. His eyes are a rich orange, and beautiful beyond description. They remind you of the light of a sunset. You just want to spread yourself out and bask in them. He holds you in his arms, with simple affection, and it's a wonderful sensation. The wobbly feeling that you're just not clean starts to fade, replaced by a wavering joy. "You're just saying that. I'm a mess."

"It just makes you look wild. Untamed. Like the lion-women of the sands."

"You know of such things?"

Blue's hands stroke your hair, his long black fingers massaging your scalp - and despite yourself, all your stress and worry seeps away. "Of course I do. I have walked through the burning sands, flown over them. Down in the sands there are lionesses who have learned to take on the shape of a human. And to become other stranger things. They run through the sands, feeding on the luxuries of the lower mountains. Past the red wall, there are principalities ruled over by mighty champions who ride steeds which never thirst and never tire. I have taken lovers from among them, and known nights of passion within their scale-skinned tents. But these princely men and fierce women fear the lionesses who can walk among them in human form, and you, you my lady, have something of the fierceness of these lionesses in you right now."

His words are lulling you, and you're just so tired from days of travel that you're half-asleep as you gaze up into those sunset eyes. His fingers tangle in your hair, so cool against your scalp. "Roar," you say to him weakly.

He smiles, and his teeth are a white crescent moon. You're no longer in his lap, and you're not sure when that happened. Now you're standing in the centre of the room, and something whose shape changes from moment to moment is holding a bowl of water.

"Let me take care of you," he murmurs into your ear, like a sand-laden wind across the dunes. His hands are wet, and so carefully he runs those black fingers through your hair. He does not wash your hair like a servant does, not like what's-her-name back in Zorpondam. No, each lulling sweep of his fingers takes away a little bit of dirt, a little bit of the sand and the dust from the road. It's like you've seen with the greatest swordsmiths of Cherak; the ones who hone the keenest edges of their blades on silk.

And when your hair is clean, he draws his blade and with oil and the edge he strips the dirt from you. It runs against your skin, and the hair on the back of your arms rises up, only to be sliced away along with the dirt. Ah, such a sweet frisson, to know that your prince could so easily slip and cut you with that glamour-blade - but he will not. No matter where the blade darts, even as he cuts away your clothing too and leaves you standing there naked. Bared to the eyes of the beautiful figures who watch from behind smoked glass.

It's all a dream. None of it is real. But fantasy is so pleasant sometimes. And when you slip from the sleeping chains he wrapped around your mind, you are sitting in a chair as he washes your hair with a bowl of water.

But that truth is so much more boring, so you succumb again.

---

The gown is found, and between the two of them - and your own indomitable efforts - you manage to get into a presentable state. You wouldn't pass muster at one of the fine balls of the rest of the Ferem, or even at the party at the Kinzira estate, but this place is so rustic you just hope and pray that things will be fine.

They'll have to be, without your boys. You're not taking Blue, not until you know whether there is anyone here who might recognise him for what he is. And Amigere is a birdman and the Cahzori can be so… close-minded sometimes. It's not something you want to risk. Not when the ulinke of this place knows why you're here. So you take a pair of your soldiers as an escort - and make sure they're women, for the sake of appearances if they care about such things here - and so set off.

At night, Zorpearl is different. The hanging washing lines are dark shapes against the sky and seem to twist and curl oddly as you walk through torch-lit streets. The chalk drawings of the children's games have too many legs; the time-worn bronze statues on buildings lurk in gloomy alcoves.

Feathery filigree fronds float through the air, the fluffy seeds of the drying bushes that bloom in the night. They must hide from the sun in the day, but here, where there is a little water, they come out at night. Insects flitter and flutter around the bushes, feeding from the night flowers. Dark moths haunt the gloom. And where there are insects, one always finds the things that feed from them; bats, hopping mice, spiders. These little islands of life in among the parched ruins are always surrounded by predators.

The fortress of the ulinke is what you thought when you saw it from afar; a four-story apartment building of ancient years turned into a citadel. Low buildings with no windows facing the exterior have been built around it, forming an outer wall which forces anyone who approaches it to enter through tarnished metal doors which clearly were dragged elsewhere from the ruins. Once they were decorated with the faces of mighty figures, but they have been scratched off.

The doors open before you. You are expected, and watched for. This man is either showing off, or concerningly good at making sure his people are always alert. And that's not a good sign. Not when you're planning to plunder his land and enter a forbidden temple of banned gods. The ulinke is waiting for you.

He is a strangely handsome creature, a man whose age is not worn on his features. No mortal in his late sixties should look like that. You would put him in his late thirties at most - but ah, something about his features reminds you of the silent dancers of your homeland. He is tanned, but not to leather like your guides. His choice of clothing is an imported silk suit of a distinctly modern cut compared to the ancient styles of Cahzor, violet with black spiderweb patterns. His strong hands are hidden behind black leather gloves, embroidered with needlework hibiscuses. His hair is stiff and bristly, and bleached; he has beaded it with onyx and they click together when he turns his head, sounding like tapping fingernails. When he smiles, a diamond tipped incisor stands out among white, square teeth.

This is Ulinke Fahd ah-Hakim, the lord of Zorpearl; a most singular man.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he says, with an almost mocking bow, standing among plundered splendour in his grand hallway. His voice is very soft, rolling out of his lips, and the accent is not quite Cahzori. Or, at least, not quite the same as the jansi who are most of the Cahzori you have spoken to. And he is a liar; this abode is far from humble. Old well-stained wood is everywhere, and black-and-white tiles set in the floor lay out a map of the valley that takes up the entrance. "We see so few travellers, and you, Lady Meira of the family of Sayu, have clearly come far."

He lies; you have seen other traders in this town - and you notice how he does not say your assumed name in the way many of the jansi do. But from the way he presents himself, he is not one of the jansi. "I didn't expect to find such a gentleman in these ruins," you say as you offer him your hand.

Fahd ah-Hakim smiles at that, dipping low to press his lips to the back of your hand. "I am pleased to surprise you, my lady," he says.

"I do enjoy surprises; I hope this will be a pleasant one."

And ah, the stain of purple lotuses makes itself known on his lips and his fingers. The flowers are particularly prominent on his gloves. A man, you suspect, who has made many rich sacrifices to the gods to extend his youth. You don't need such things, but lesser people do what they can.

"I will do what I can. Believe me - if you've been dealing with the inbred jansi of this place, I hope I can be a breath of fresh air."

"You've travelled."

"Quite extensively. I've spent time in Gem, and then I went exploring in the land of the Coaxti. Down by the Crimson Wall, in fact."

"Oh?" You're interested. Such a coincidence that Blue mentioned such things today. "I've heard rumours of that. It's right at the edge of the world."

"That's what Pangasutri teaches. But beyond that, there are the Ashen principalities. Past the red jade wall of the ancients upon which chaos breaks its storms."

What an intruiging man. You beam at him. "We must talk of such things later. Oh, but where are my manners? Thank you for inviting me to your fortress, my lord," you say, sweeping low into a graceful curtsey that takes full advantage of both your remarkable flexibility and your low-cut-dress. "I truly appreciate it."

The first test. As the beast walks into the trap baited with such fine meat, do his eyes linger? And indeed they do. Excellent.

"Well, my lady, I am always intrigued when such a beautiful woman comes to my lands." He pauses. "Especially when she comes at the head of an army."

"Merely protection from the beasts of the ruins and savage bandits," you murmur. "And this is hardly an army."

"By Cahzori standards? It is more of one than you might think." He smiles at you brightly, a movement of his face where only the corners of his mouth move. There's no creasing of his eyes; no crinkling of his brow. "Often it is more polite to send a warning."

"Oh!" You give an empty giggle. "I am sorry! It's just I was told that the dangers of Cahzor meant that you needed a good many men!"

You're pretty sure he doesn't believe a word. Oh well. Not all men can be as gullible and adorable as Blue. "Mmm," he says. "Tomorrow, you and I will have a talk to agree on terms for exploring my land. And I dare say they will be better terms than that dried-up woman in Zorpondam will give you. But," and he spreads his hands, smiling a wicked smile that might as well belong to the lips of one of your princes, "tonight you are my guest! Let us drink, eat, and make merry while you regale us poor isolated folks with stories of the lights and the affairs of our oh-so-superior cousins in high society! I have made sure that many luminaries of my humble town are here, eagerly awaiting your words. And oh, I have arranged entertainment that I enjoy greatly. I hope it will be to your liking."

You offer him your arm. "I do like to be the centre of attention, so this is most delightful of you."

With a chuckle, he takes your arm. "Everyone will love you. They will be so happy."

---

The guests are not happy.

Oh, they smile on seeing you. They smile like condemned men, lips parting and mouth drawn up into a mockery of happiness. But there is sick tension in the air. For once, on entering the room every eye is not on you. They are watching Fahd as he strolls in, his arm linked with yours, smiling genially.

"Ladies, gentlemen, I'm so sorry for the delay," he says. "I was just speaking with my guest of honour, the lovely Meira as-Sayu, who has come to me with a simply fascinating business proposition. And I must say, from what she's shown me already, it's very promising."

A black-robed woman narrows her eyes, a cadaverous man opens his mouth as if to protest but says not a word, and the woman at the right hand of the head of the table… well, she stares at you hatefully. Well, well. Either she has a problem with scavenger lords, or she has a problem with women who are more beautiful than she is arm-in-arm with the ulinke. And from her styles and the way she's dressed more expensively than the others here, you suspect it's the latter.

The fat man in water-blue is the first to speak. "Is… is she why we were all invited to this soiree?"

"Of course not, of course not. Am I the sort of man to do such a thing?" He turns to you. "Do you like my dining hall?"

You consider it. It's certainly unusual, and not at all like the Kinzira one. One wall is a fresco, but the colours are so old and so faded they only give the impression of shadowy creatures. As the candle flames flicker, the lairs of aged paint seem to dance. Another looks out over Zorpearl, gazing down one of its streets to a square where three bodies hang by their necks. Another; treasures that can only be from some dragon-child's tomb. You have seen those styles of coffins before. Four of them stand upright, dragon-faced deathmasks gazing out over the diners. It is... unusual decoration for an eating-hall.

And the final wall is nothing but glass. And beyond that is an aquarium. Such a wealth of water in Cahzor!

There is something moving behind the glass. Something big. Something crocodilian. Something which leaves water lilies in its wake.

You smile at him, reading this man. "A trapped elemental? Now I've seen everything." You lean in, looking at him from below hooded eyes, calling the scent of northern pine to fill his nostrils. "I hope I get to see it feed. I've heard such things about the beasts of southern rivers and their… hungers."

He is amused - and pleased. "Finally! Someone who appreciates my pet! These people don't. Khair, for example, pissed himself when I tried to show it to him a little more intimately. And that tub of lard over there, Harun, he goes on and on about how it's 'blasphemy' to trap a crocodile lord of the waters. Tssk tssk. Could you do that, Meria?"

You glance over that the aquarium, at the dark shape moving inside. "I am afraid not, Fahd." You smile at him. "You have me outmatched. I am certainly no elementalist."

Fahd relaxes slightly at that, letting go of a subtle tension you hadn't noticed, and with that, the room relaxes too. He directs you to a seat. "Sit, please," he says, as he takes his own seat. The oil lambs sitting on the table light everyone's faces from below, the flames flickering and dancing in their bowls. "I hope everyone here has a very pleasant evening."

---

Their names go by in a flash. Joelle aw-Wardiyy-Kuri, a slip of a priestess lost behind her black robes and her painted face. Harun am-Ma-Kuri, a priest who you can't tell whether is male or female, but also a water trader of sorts and who looks far more like a merchant-prince than a holy person. The bone-thin, cadaverous Haldun Farran, a scholar and scavenger lord from the university-town. And then there are the representatives from local jansi; Soha aq-Qard who looks like she's just bitten into a lemon, weak-chinned Lara am-Muskila and her brother Khair, and Reem ak-Kaslan. She is the best dressed of all the guests but wears the same non-Cahzori-styles as the ulinke.

He has placed you opposite to her, on his other side, and he smiles at that, looking between the two of you with his chin on his hand. Her lips are a thin line, despite her attempts to smile that leave her looking even more sickly than the others.

The first course is poppy-seed dusted bread, with a thick, eggy white sauce, and a thin soup that tastes very floral.

"So you're a scavenger lord," Haldun asks immediately, as he tears his bread apart into tiny fragments without eating it. His red eyes meet yours. This wiry man with many old scars on his too-thin body wishes you were not here. And you don't want a rival scavenger lord in the area. It's hate at first sight. "I'd love to hear stories of your exploits."

"I wouldn't say I'm only that. I have many skills," you say. Hmm. This sauce is surprisingly good. Very rich, but after days of hard travel, you appreciate it. "But I have experience with such things in my homeland."

"In the Realm?"

"No, no, I'm from further north than that. Though I have spent some time on the Blessed Isle. I heard of stories of Cahzor when I was a girl, though."

"Further north?" He seems surprised. "You have travelled far. What are you looking for?"

"Adventure and to broaden my horizons," you say mildly. And then you smile. "And wealth, of course. I might as well ask you what you are looking for?"

He tenses his jawline. "I serve the scholars of Zoruni. My masters bid me to honour the ancients." Oh, he didn't like the wealth comment. Not one bit.

"I hope you will make your masters pleased with you," you say, with just a little twist so he understands that you speak of him as a pet dog. He flushes, even if your remark slips past everyone in the room. "And with luck, they will speak well of you." Good boy.

"Do you mock me?" he demands, one hand slamming on the table.

"Mock you?" you ask, playing the ignorant foreigner for all it is worth. "Please forgive me if I have said anything that means something different in Firetongue. It is not my first tongue, you see." You smile at the ulinke, at the head of the table. "Fahd, I am sorry if I caused offence at your dinner. I did not think I did, but please, correct me if I say something wrong."

He pauses, mid-way through dipping his bread. "What's got into you, Haldun? You don't have first claim on my land. And you better not act like you do. Or I'll feed you to Jhodi. You'd like that, wouldn't you? A noble burial in the digestive tract of a sobeksis. Almost an honourable way to go, no?"

Haldun pales. "My… m-my lord, I do not…"

"Do not what? Speak up, man? I can't hear over the sound of my stomach rumbling…" He pauses. "Oh wait. That's not my stomach."

That's enough to have the scavenger shrinking back, with muttered apologies to you - which of course you accept with good grace - and the topic of conversation shifts to the wyldstorm and the damage it has done to the area. Everyone else is desperately trying to speak of other things. You can see the two weak-chinned siblings beading with sweat.

"How was your travel from… Zorpondam?" asks sour-faced Soha. "You're the first traveller from that direction since the storm."

You nod. "Could have been worse, I suppose. But there was a decidedly harrowing moment. The bridge over the Riba Sari Canyon was out, and rather than risk the bridge of the warlord Qirmiz, we had to traverse the canyon."

Somehow, her face twists further. "Awful. You mean the people at Zorthirbank weren't working on it?"

"I told them it was out when we stopped there, but they said they couldn't fix it." You gesture at her with bread. "Too wide. Though some of my people seemed to think they could have managed it, given plenty of time. And no small amount of money."

"They're probably wanting someone else to do it," she says, sneering.

"It might be needed," boyish Khair says. "Without the trade routes…" he glances at the water-priest. "Am-Ma-Kuri, revered one, surely your order has some interest in this."

Harun steeples their fingers together. "It is not so easy, young one. As the lady as-Sayu said, ach, it would be a great undertaking."

"But surely the Holy Temple of Ma has the funds, and with the bridge over the Riba Sari out, it can't be good for your water trade."

"It is not our duty." They spread their hands. "Why not the am-Muskila?"

"Y-y-you know we are not as prosperous as we once were," his sister interjects quickly.

"Yes, how dare you try to pin this responsibility on us!" he blusters. He half-faces the sour-faced woman. "Surely aq-Qard would be better if you were looking for partners."

"We of aq-Qard will not throw away our money. You, Khair, you are 'not as prosperous'," her tone is mocking, "because you do not know the value of money. Of course, if you would like to extend your loans…"

The young man protests, and then Reem ak-Kaslan interjects, and it degenerates into bickering. You say little of value, only mentioning things you have seen, and use the chance to watch Reem. She looks familiar; there is something of… ah, hmm.

"Excuse me," you say, raising your voice as you look at her. "I am, I am afraid, a foreigner and not fully aware of the ancient and venerable lineages of the jansi." You pitch your voice just so, as you learned long ago, and Fahd gets your other meaning; the mockery of their babbling and irresponsibility. "But ak-Kaslan - pray, tell me, does that make you a relative of the ak-Kas jansi? The names are similar, you see, and…"

"A branch family," Reem says, irritably wetting her fingers in one of the little bowls of water.

You nod. "I am sorry for your loss," you tell her, just to see her eyes boggle.

"What do you mean?"

"Hasn't word spread here?" You tilt your head, in falsely innocent confusion, before something seems to occur to you. "Oh, no, sorry, of course, I would have thought - but the bridge! Of course you wouldn't have heard the news from Zorpondam!"

Fahd leans forwards, grabbing another piece of bread. "What news?" You have him hooked.

You smile. "A story… of murder," you purr.

---

Article:

How does Rena tell the story?
[ ] Mostly accurately. The truth has its own power, especially given it was pretty dramatic. Murder, duels, a lover's revenge… let's be honest, it's entertaining enough as it is. Though she won't mention Blue.
[ ] Downplay her involvement. Oh, she was there, but Hilmi just murdered Haitham because of their grudges coming to bear. She wasn't responsible - sort of - for the events that happened. And she didn't sleep with Haitham.
[ ] Exaggerate wildly. Why yes, she was Haitham's fiancée, and the duel was not just in the temples, but it was on the rooftops. In the changerain. As she chased down the cowardly fleeing Hilmi, who spat curses at her.

And What Entertainment has Fahd Organised for Dinner?
[ ] Two gladiators, fighting for your amusement. His eyes are alight with bloodlust as he watches.
[ ] A public execution, of one of his rivals. This is a man who takes great pleasure in tearing down those who think themselves his betters.
[ ] A play, the air thick with stupefying drugs. He breathes so deeply of the hallucinatory fumes, his chest heaving.
[ ] Salacious half-snake dancers, to thin piping music. Oh, how he stares at their sinuous motions.