Witch Ember

Esmeree checks Squirrel’s hair in the mirror one last time. CC is waiting downstairs in the bar and must be nearly out of her mind with impatience by now. Tonight is a big night for them. Tonight, the city of Cliffs Reach celebrates the birthday of Duke Valven, Superbus Tyrannus of the Seven Kingdoms. Tonight, a new year begins.

Pooling their money together, they’ve rented a private room in a Marble Town inn. Wealthy celebrants, men and women from all around the Skudd Sea, will be in the streets, looking for companionship, love, and entertainment. Perhaps looking for sellâria.

With that, she pulls out Squirrel’s chair and helps her to her feet. The fall that broke her back last year was cruel irony, she being the Mill’s most beautiful acrobat. The fact that this time Esmeree’s ember answered her call is perhaps even crueler. Rather than let her die, the injury was healed, but poor Squirrel’s back was fused. Never again will she scale sheer walls or walk a hair’s breadth ledge on her hands. Never will she dance or promenade in Palpi courts. Never will she be a sellâria. It is a sad truth Esmeree’s never allowed herself to admit.

Carefully, Esmeree and Squirrel navigate their way down the stairs to Rat Face’s bar. Thankfully, despite the loss of Eclipse, he still tolerates their presence.

CC leaps to her feet immediately, impatient to get on with the evening. She’s paid little attention to her appearance beyond dressing in traditional Brack bna dresses. Her defection from the Black Embers to the Crimson Rraakks is still a raw wound with those in the Mill, but Esmeree understands her reasons. Josidy can be very persuasive.

"Ah, children," swoons Myrdd, "You look so beautiful!" He sets down his mug and shuffles to the girls. Holding her by the shoulders, he admires Esmeree from coifed head to ringed toe. "My daughter’s first court reception! Oh, you look beautiful!" He shakes her gently.

Esmeree smiles sadly. The injuries are nearly healed, but she fears the beating the old man suffered by the gang of Rraakks may have had much deeper effects. He believes she is his daughter and he a genteel Palpi aristocrat. Perhaps it is better that way.

She touches his cheek, "Bratos, old man." Again, she has Rat Face to thank for putting up with Myrdd in his inn.

"Ach!" he snorts in disgust, "Such things you say!" He wags his finger first at Esmeree and then at Squirrel. "You watch over my daughter, young lady," he admonishes Squirrel.

Squirrel struggles with a courtesy, "Yes, my lord." She smiles past him to Esmeree and winks. Esmeree can always count on her friend to play her part in the game. Her shoulder is hunched and her neck bent, but Squirrel is still beautiful in Esmeree’s eyes.

"Please!" shouts CC, "Let’s get movin’! The less I’m in this neighborhood, the better!"

"Yes!" declares Myrdd, "You mustn’t be late, at least not too late. But be sure to make a big entrance; it is the best way to get noticed."

Esmeree slips by Rat Face as he stirs his slurry. "Good night, Lucius," she whispers, "Be kind to him."

The Synesi sips from his ladle and gags. "Yeah, to be sure, child," he coughs, shaking sensation back into his head, "We’ll be fine. I’ll see to your old man."

He drops his ladle with a clatter, "Now begone with you all. You drive away the paying customers, you connus whores."

"Here now, man!" barks Myrdd, noble outrage in his voice, "To whom are you speaking?"

Rat Face rolls his eyes as he limps across the tavern on his wooden stump, "Ah, m’lord. T’was speaking to the vagrant trollops outside. I feared they would trouble your daughter and her fine friends."

It is at the stroke to midnight when the rockets rise high into the air. Their explosions fill the night sky with colored streamers. Cheers and cries of appreciation fill the city streets. The bells of the Mercantile Exchange ring from the Guilders.

The three girls meet just inside an alleyway to share stories. So far, Esmeree has been successful beyond all expectation. She’s shared her bed with only a handful of men tonight, but they were wealthy and generous. They were also sorcerers. It has become Esmeree’s custom to use her ember detection spell to single-out sorcerers from normal men and women. She feels drawn to them. She has learned from experience that such people are usually prosperous–any sorcerer not in the custody of the Inquisition is usually prosperous–but also, somehow their embers merge during lovemaking, creating a most delicious experience. She finds, the more she does it, the better it gets.

More important than the money she’s earned, however, are the cards of introduction she’s received from more discrete clientele, men who seek her company at future parties and in more private venues. At last, she is a sellâria.

CC shrugs, unimpressed. "Yer still an oainjyr," she says as she sucks at a gap where a tooth used to be. Since CC moved into the Homestead Neighborhoods, she hasn’t benefited from Esmeree’s hygiene summonings. The effects are already showing.

"Yä don’t understand," squeaks Squirrel. "Esmeree can now attend court functions. Meet state elders and nobles!"

CC mulls this over for a moment. She takes a mouthful of her moonshine, swishes it around, and spits it out, perhaps hoping to dispel the taste of her latest man. "Gock damn yä, inigena," she says at last, admiringly, "Yä did it. Mol!"

Shrugging, CC takes another drink and then sniffs. She checks her armpits and then the oily stain on the bosom of her dress. "Fuck," she sighs. "I gots the stench on me. I’d better quit a’fore me man won’t let me share his bed with him."

CC pauses, "Yä missin’ him, yäh? Of course yä do." She good-naturedly flashes the sign of the fig before swaggering off.

Esmeree smiles at Squirrel, but that smile quickly fades. "What’s the matter?"

Squirrel shrugs as much as she’s able. "Easy, I’m sä proud of yä! A sellâria! It’s everythin’ we’ve ever dreamed…" Her voice trails away.

Esmeree holds her, "Hey, love. We started this together. I don’t see why we can’t go all the way together."

Squirrel opens her hand to reveal six half coppers. "I didn’t do as well as yä, Easy. Not nearly."

Esmeree covers the coins in her friend’s hand as she struggles for something to say. Gently, Squirrel presses her fingers against her lips. "It’s OK, Easy. It’s not yer fault–I know yä love me–but I’ll never be a sellâria."

Squirrel shakes her head, "Easy, I can make more than this at the Mill! Down there, me neck isn’t as important. Down there, I don’t need any grace or posture. The Mill is where I belong now, don’t yä see that?"

A tear runs down Esmeree’s cheek, "Squirrel, I’m sä sorry. I want tä help, I want tä keep tryin’."

Squirrel sadly, awkwardly, shakes her head, "Nage. It hurts too much up here, Easy."

Esmeree embraces Squirrel, "At least don’t leave Rat Face’s, OK? At least say with me?"

Someone clears his throat. Esmeree and Squirrel turn to see two men standing nearby, the streetlights behind them washing out their faces. A carriage with an open door stands ready in the street. "I have heard," says the tallest, his cultured voice distantly familiar, "That the services of a sellâria may be found here?" A gold coin flashes in his hand before it disappears again.

Esmeree steps forward, both to draw attention to her and to get between them and her friend. She smiles and courtesies in the way Myrdd taught her. "I am the sellâria, my lords," she answers, her voice and diction switching smoothly from street pidgin to courtly affectation.

After a glance between them, the two men step backwards into the street. The tall one gestures, "Step into the light, so we may see you better."

Esmeree follows them and stops beneath a gaslight. Their calf-length coats reveal two men richly dressed in silk and velvet. The buckles on their high-heeled shoes shine like real silver. The tall one–a relative term, he is barely taller than Esmeree–favors dark burgundy and black. The other, browns and blues with white lace. Both wear EroBernac dueling swords slung low on their hips and flintlocks in their belts. Both of their moustaches and beards are ludicrously oiled and manicured. The small one opens an ivory cameo and inhales some black powder (probably ground bay).

"Very beautiful, my lady," appraises the tall one, "Very beautiful, indeed. To see you now, one could never imagine your humble beginnings."

He smiles, "Ah, no. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Shall we say we know you by reputation?" The shorter man chuckles.

Esmeree has survived over 10 years in the streets of Cliffs Reach by reading the faces of men. Tonight, she sees only the darkest intentions beneath the cultured faces before her. Esmeree tries to think. Flight is impossible. While she may escape them, Squirrel would have no chance. Her hand rises to her breast and presses against her ember. "My lords," she says, stalling for time, "You have me at a disadvantage. Do you have cards of introduction?"

Reaching inside the sleeves of their shirts, they each produce a card. The tall one steps forward and hands them to her. The cards introduce the short one as Schliem and the tall one as Verole, both courtiers for a Viscount named Jacobus Robertus. Too late, Esmeree recognizes her mistake. Accepting the cards has allowed them to move back into the alley with her and step out of the light of the street. Now, they far too close for her comfort.

"What, ho!" shouts Schliem as he stalks past her towards Squirrel, "What beauty do we have here?"

Esmeree tries to intercept him, but doing so turns her back to Verole. Without warning, both men turn on her. She screams for Squirrel to run as hands close around her neck and waist. As she tries to swing her knife at Verole, Schliem catches the arm and smashes the hand against the brick wall. The knife skips away into the darkness.

Schliem is strong and a skilful grappler. Esmeree quickly finds both arms wrapped behind her back, and yet he has a hand free to press an elegantly thin knife against her throat. "Easy now, Easy," he hisses, "No one needs to get hurt here."

As if in contradiction, Verole steps forward and slaps her across the face. "She is beautiful, yes?"

Schliem grunts an agreement, pressing his face into her hair and inhaling deeply. "Smells good too."

With Verole’s proximity, Esmeree experiences the horrifying sensation of her ember’s power draining away. How could it do such a thing at a time like this? She calls upon it, and it summons weakly. Verole smiles at the mild breeze. "A little bit of sorcery, eh?" He pulls a small charm from inside his shirt. To Esmeree it looks little more than a bit of twig bound with string. "That would’ve hurt if it wasn’t for this, yes?"

He produces a fine silver knife and tickles her throat with it. Then grabbing the collar of her dress, he inserts it and cuts downwards all the way to the ground. He peels back the layers of her clothing with deliberate care until she is exposed completely. His eyes hungrily appraise her body.

Verole nods, "I think this is the piece of meat for us. But," he grins viciously, "We’d best be sure and check her for witches’ marks, eh?"

"Well, of course," mutters Schliem, obviously wishing he could get a turn doing the searching.

Esmeree closes her eyes as the physical search begins, up ankle, to thigh, and higher. Verole is meticulous, his fingers touching every inch of her body. Silently, she urges her ember to summon, but it refuses to respond, cowering from the tiny talisman the courtier carries.

At last, his hands pass from her breasts to her ember. "Ah!" he exclaims as if it is the first time he’s seen it, "She has a mark after all!"

Verole takes a handful of Esmeree’s hair and jerks it backwards painfully. His face close to hers, he presses up against her naked body. She can feel his arousal. "Burning Time’s not until the Winter," he hisses. "What shall we do?"

Esmeree shudders but refuses to let them see her cry. Verole seems to sense this and nods. "Tie her," he snaps to Schliem, "and get her into the carriage."

Chapter 10: End of Innocence