Prologue ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 9 ... 10 ... 11 ... 12 ... 13 ... 14 ... 15 ... 16 ... 17 ... 18 ... 19 ... 20 ... 21 ... 22 ... 23 ... 24 ... 25 ... 26 ... 27... 28... 29... 30 ... Epilouge ... Glossary

Part 2: Servitude

Chapter 11: Viscount Jacobus Robertus 

Esmeree huddles against the wall, warily watching the two Brack mercenaries. She has long since given up trying to fight with them. Stopping short of hurting her, they seem content to simply prevent her from leaving this place. In fact, they seemed to enjoy restraining the efforts of the naked girl. She could see in their eyes the need to do more–the hunger–and she wonders what prevents them from falling upon her now.

One of them fingers his broad-bladed Brackish gully. She’s heard that true Brack cings could take down bull elk using nothing but one of those hunting knives. Esmeree wonders with a morbid curiosity what such a blade would do to her tender white flesh.

She’s no cuall. She decides not to press her luck. The largest of the beds in this room is covered with the most amazingly soft linens, and she wraps herself in the thickest—a thick bedspread lined with the finest vair–and she bides her time and memorizes the details of the room. Something in here–something possibly overlooked by her keepers–might just prove the difference between escape and an ugly, slow death.

She only had brief glimpses of the palace when those two courtiers brought her here. She only knows she is somewhere in Marble Town, in one of the palaces closest to the Citadel, possibly one of the finest in the city. Beyond the double doors blocked by the guards, Esmeree remembers there being some kind of extravagant garden or courtyard, complete with fountains and exotic birds. Beyond that, she can barely remember. It was all a blur of opulent galleries and sprawling chambers.

This room is obviously a bedroom of some sort. Elegant in its simplicity, white and ivory are the predominant colors. A dull chill creeps into the soles of her feet from the cream and pale rose marble floor. A fire blazes in the wide fireplace near the main doors, but it is too close to the men for Esmeree’s comfort. She endures the cold and keeps her distance.

Four beds occupy this room. The smaller three–little more than pallets–are pressed against one wall. The fourth, the largest, stands near the middle of the room. Never has Esmeree seen such a huge bed. Its four legs keep its sleepers far above vermin and the cold floor–gauzy white curtains provide a suggestion of privacy on all four sides–and Esmeree already is familiar with the softness of the bed’s white linens. Benches and chairs cluster throughout the room in intimate conversation circles.

A long table stands next to the three small sleeping pallets, and a feast of simple fruits and breads waits for her. Her eyes immediately catch the shine of polished silver knives. Obviously, such small blades are not considered a threat in her hands, but she makes no mad dash to arm herself. Such an act would immediately occasion their removal forever. Perhaps in the future, a sharp knife pressed against the right throat will help facilitate her freedom.

Across the room from the table, near the fireplace, the ornate doors to a garderobe stand slightly ajar. Her keepers probably assume she had never seen such a thing and would have no idea how to use it. In truth, she has never seen a real garderobe, but thanks to Myrdd, she can recognize one. Esmeree assumes its proximity to the fireplace helps mask the smell and allows easy disposal of the ash.

Opposite the main doors and the guards stand several large wardrobes and an iron gate, its twisted bars covered with green patina. Rising from her refuge, she snaps up an overripe apple from the table and sidles over to gate as she eats. Her sudden movement attracts the attention of her guards, but she does her best to ignore them. Gripping the gate, she presses her face against the bars as she peers at the room beyond. The air drifting through is thick and warm. The room is darkened, but she can make out some kind of complicated pit in the floor where steam lazily rises. Around the walls are darkened portals, suggesting other gates like this one. Her gate is locked or latched somehow.

Clutching her bedding tightly to her breast, she drifts closer to the fire and the guards, and finishing her apple, she pokes her head into the garderobe. Despite the fact it was cut directly into the solid rock of Cliffs Reach, the tiny room appears astonishingly comfortable. A small throne stands at the back, and peeking inside, Esmeree is disappointed but not surprised to see the hole is too small for her to fit through. With a sigh, she drops in her spent apple core. Somewhere down there, that dark tunnel probably empties into the Brack River, but it will provide no escape for her.

When she steps out, one of men barks in Brack-accented Palpin, "Uh! S’posed tä be for yä shits, yäh?" The other guard snorts in laughter.

She backs away slowly, watching their eyes carefully. She literally jumps when the two of them jerk into motion and step to either side of the doors. It takes a moment for her to realize that the doors have begun to silently swing open.

She leans against a wardrobe, fighting back the nausea of her adrenaline rush, and watches as an older man and three Brackish girls enter the room. Two of the girls carry bundles of white linen. Esmeree notes that the guards bow briefly to the man, and she wonders if this skinny, balding creature is the keeper of this palace. She straightens as he approaches, making ready to dive for the knives on the table if necessary.

The slightly built man bows to Esmeree, and she scrutinizes his finely shaped head. His hair was once nearly black and loosely curled but is now graying at the temples and balding at the top. With his dark skin and strong Synesi features, she imagines he was quite striking in his younger years. "Esmeree of the Black Embers," he says as he rises, "I am Polaris, and it is my pleasure to serve you."

Esmeree takes a step back, "What? You serve me?" She can hardly believe her ears, "Then my first command is to get me the Gock damn out of here!"

"Ah-ha-ha," he chuckles as he licks his lips nervously. "Perhaps I had better clarify…"

She points at him, glancing first at the amused guards and then at the tense girls, "Get me my fucking clothes and get me out of here!" She points back at the guards, "Or let those two bagaudas animals rape and kill me"–two of the girls gasp–"but no more of this waiting around!" Her voice has begun to tremble as fear threatens to overtake her again.

Polaris makes calming gestures with his hands. "Please, Esmeree," he urges, "There is no need for talk like that."

She backs away, fetching against the gate with a clatter. "You tell that to those Bracks there," she shouts, pointing again at the guards. "You tell that to the those two ard-vitchoor bastards who beat and molested me in an alley tonight!"

He presses his hands together and pleads, "Esmeree, listen! You will come to no harm–"

"Harm?" she barks. She points to the burning redness on her face left by Verole’s blow and then shakes her bed linen robes, "You call this and this coming to no harm?"

Polaris steps close to her, and his eyes lock and hold hers. "Esmeree, I assure you, while you are in my care, you will come to no harm."

Esmeree pauses and swallows hard. Her face is wet, but she doesn’t wipe away the tears. Tonight was supposed to be such a special night for her and Squirrel. Why did things have to go so badly? "How can you say such things?" she asks quietly.

"Because I am Polaris, majordomo of this home and seneschal to Viscount Jacobus Robertus. All of his guests are under my care."

Her voice lowers slightly, "Prove it."

Without hesitation, Polaris turns to the Brackish guards, "You two are dismissed. Get out now."

The guards bow and silently leave the room. Esmeree watches as the doors close behind them, and she hears them lock.

Esmeree exhales, not realizing she had been holding her breath. Polaris looks back at her, "Esmeree, while it may be difficult, it is important for you to trust me. I must assure you, my master has brought you here for an important reason. He would not risk you or his purpose on frivolous threats or pointless violence."

"Yeah," Esmeree stammers, touching her face, "but Verole…"

Polaris shakes his head. "Verole’s methods are radically different from mine. What Verole has done to you before, I have no control over. I can only address the here and now." He gestures at the room behind him, "And right here, right now, you are safe. And all this is yours as a guest of the Viscount."

Esmeree glances around her, at the furnishings, the majordomo, and the girls waiting anxiously. "What do you mean, guest?"

Polaris smiles, "The Viscount wants to be sure you enjoy all the comforts his household can provide."

Esmeree shifts slightly, narrowing her eyes, "A guest? You mean I’m no prisoner?"

"Well," Polaris hesitates, "You must understand, the Viscount is very insistent that you enjoy your period of time here… but nevertheless, you must spend a period of time here."

"But I’m a guest here, right?" she asks, stepping past him and backing quickly towards the doors, "As a guest, I can leave here whenever I want, right?" She gives up trying to hide the note of desperation in her voice.

"Esmeree," Polaris’s tone stops her dead in her tracks, "You can, of course, leave whenever you want. But you must understand that by leaving these chambers, you will no longer be in my care." He gestures towards the doors and the Bracks beyond them, "You will be in theirs."

Esmeree slowly turns to face the doors. A deep emptiness seems to open beneath her. "But…"

Polaris smiles and walks up to her. "Esmeree, we have much to offer here. Please, while you are staying with us, try to enjoy yourself. I assure you, you will be well taken care of. You are perfectly safe under my care."

Esmeree mutely allows him to lead her back to the three waiting girls. Two of them are younger than her, the third is a bit older. Barefoot in white EroBernd dresses and each wearing a silver chain around their waists, they appear to be typical Palpi house servants. "Esmeree, these three handmaids will attend you at all times and cater to your every need–Drwg, Gwæth, and Gwæthaf Oll." Each courtesies as he names them. "If you need something, they will provide it. If they cannot, they will summon me, and I shall."

She looks at the girls with confusion and then back at Polaris. "What is all this? What’s going on? What does your master want with me?"

Polaris hesitates and then busies himself fixing a lock of Gwæth’s hair, "Well, as I understand it, you are a sellâria, yes?"

Esmeree nods cautiously.

"Then I imagine the Viscount’s plans have something to do with that."

With a gesture from Polaris, Drwg and Gwæth lay their linen bundles on the large bed while Gwæthaf Oll follows him to the gate. Unlocking it with a key from around his neck, he swings it open, allowing the girl to rush inside. He extends his hand to Esmeree and smiles. She feels Drwg and Gwæth’s presence close behind her. "Esmeree, you are tired, hurt, and confused. Please trust me. As soon as you’ve been cleaned up, I promise you’ll feel much better. The Viscount is most anxious to meet you."

Esmeree allows the two girls to lead her into the next room. Their passage swirls the currents of steam in the air "Soon, the answers will come," Polaris assures.

Gwæthaf Oll has already lit several gas lamps around the room, and they glow warmly in the humid air. Steam dews on the surfaces of beautiful Ulbandi floor tiles, their designs beginning at each of the gates and spiraling into the steaming pool at its center.

Esmeree is awestruck, admiring the finely carved pillars, benches, and baths rising from the natural marble of the floor. Overhead, bright stars shine down through intricate skylights. Late night fireworks flare in the darkness, briefly filling the room with reds and oranges. "What is this place?" she whispers.

Polaris looks around him with a bemused expression. "These are the Viscount’s guest baths. You are welcome to use them as much as you need." He gestures to the other gates spaced around the room, "Currently, the Viscount is entertaining no other visitors, so you have this place all to yourself."

As she watches, Gwæthaf Oll slips out of her white dress and steps into the bath. She picks up one of several crystal decanters sitting at the side of pool, and pouring some of the fragrant oil into her palm, she rubs it into her hands and arms, neck and chest, and then pours the rest into the water. Wading gracefully through the pool, she uses her body to distribute it.

Esmeree glances behind her to see that Drwg and Gwæth have also removed their dresses. They pull gently at the sheet wrapped around her, but Esmeree refuses to drop it. Hugging it closer to her chest, she looks at Polaris. He smiles understandingly and nods to the girls.

Taking her by the shoulders, they guide her into the pool, sheet and all. Esmeree gasps as the hot water rushes through the linen and around her body. Chills and goosebumps cover her limbs, and her skin tingles. The heat fills her body with calming pleasure.

Polaris watches for a moment and then nods to himself. "When you are finished, I will return." With that, he leaves.

Acknowledging the silliness of it, Esmeree eventually abandons her sheet once it becomes soaked thoroughly. The three handmaids tend to her with practiced efficiency. They wash and oil her hair, clean and trim the nails of her hands and feet, and shave her body in the Synesi manner. Every inch of Esmeree’s skin tingles, and she feels as though she’s lost a great weight from her body. She’s heard of these hot water baths, but she never thought she’d have one. The Black Embers of the Mill always had to wash with the cold, muddy water of the Skudd.

When they are finished with her, the maids lead her out of the water and dry her off with soft cloths. Though she is damp, the warm air keeps her comfortable. They lead her to a nearby bench and lay her down on the thick blankets covering it. Warm poultices are applied to her various minor injuries, the results of her life on the street.

Carefully, gently, Drwg begins massaging her back, neck, and limbs, using scented oils to help relax Esmeree’s muscles. Gradually, Drwg’s ministrations become stronger, deeper. She is thorough and soothing, and Esmeree closes her eyes, allowing the girl’s work to undo some of the harm done by Verole’s search. Muscles groan under her strong fingers.

Drake used to touch her in ways like this, but his goal was more to excite rather than relax. She had never imagined that massage could be put to a non-sexual purpose.

Esmeree feels good. She feels peaceful–concerns about her and Squirrel’s immediate futures can be dealt with later–and she drifts off to sleep.

Quiet feminine whispers wake her. Opening her eyes, she feels the warmth and softness of the bed enveloping her body. The three Brack girls sit on their palettes and chat quietly. She is moderately surprised to hear them talking; they never said a word last night, so she assumed they were mute. Two of them are mending what looks like the remains of the black dress she wore yesterday, while the third snacks on bread and apple. This reassures Esmeree somewhat–if they’re going to go through the effort to repair her clothes, they probably don’t plan on killing her.

Gwæthaf Oll, the youngest, giggles and covers her mouth in a way that is painfully reminiscent of Squirrel. Her attention drifts to Esmeree’s bed, and her eyes widen when she sees her awake. The girl waves the other two into silence and points at Esmeree. Dropping their food and sewing, the three stand in a line and courtesy. "Will the Lady be wanting something to eat?" asks Drwg. Her voice is cultured–like how Myrdd taught Esmeree to speak–but with a pleasant southern Brack accent.

Esmeree rubs her eyes and mumbles, "Which Lady? Who are you talking about?"

Gwæthaf Oll and Gwæth giggle, but Drwg frowns, "Why, you, my Lady!"

Esmeree blinks. She never imagined anyone would be calling her Lady–not for a while at least–and not by anyone older than she is. The experience is unsettling. She crawls out of bed and finds she is stiff all over–that damn bed is too soft. Dragging her blanket with her, she pads over to the food table and surveys her options. Yesterday’s food is already gone, but this morning the table is laden with similar fare.

The Brack girls stiffen as she unceremoniously drapes the blanket around her body, tucking the edges under her arms, and begins grabbing at rolls and cramming them into her mouth. Drwg steps forward, hands clasped before her, and asks, "Perhaps the Lady would like us to prepare a plate for her?"

Esmeree freezes self-consciously and thinks. Normally she’d enjoy the horror she could inflict on these prudes by being unmannerly, but now she wonders if that would be a good idea. What would she achieve by alienating these handmaids? Perhaps they might serve her better as allies? Perhaps they could get a message out to the Mill? CC would probably try to rescue here, maybe even Drake. She smiles slightly at the thought of those Brack vitchoor guards trying to face Drake’s wrath.

Drwg misinterprets her smile and nods happily, "A plate it is then, my Lady?"

Esmeree sighs. According to Polaris, she was brought here because she was a sellâria. Does that mean it would be better for her or worse to play the part? All she knows is, back in the Mill, it was the obnoxious fry that always got beat. She nods. "Yes, please," she says quietly, "And I’d like to see Polaris, please."

As Drwg busies herself at the table preparing some kind of meal, Esmeree’s sharp eyes follow Gwæthaf Oll as she skips to the doors and knocks quietly. When they open, she speaks quietly to someone outside, and then they close again.

"Perhaps the Lady would like us to lay out her clothes for the day?" Gwæth asks a little desperately.

Esmeree looks down at the sheet she’s wrapped around herself. Perhaps not the appropriate garb for a sellâria about to attend a viscount… at least not on their first meeting.

Bobbing a quick courtesy, Gwæth rushes to the two white linen bundles the girls brought in last night. As Esmeree sits on the bed and eats, she watches them lay out the simple clothes. The more she sees of those clothes, the more uneasy she begins to feel.

It is as they are dressing her that the doors open a second time and Polaris enters. He pauses self-consciously and looks away. "My apologies," he murmurs as he moves for the door, "I shall return later."

"Don’t bother," mutters Esmeree as Gwæth adjusts the silk garment cradling her breasts. "With these clothes, I don’t think it really matters."

Polaris hesitates but doesn’t leave. "I’m sorry, Esmeree. Is there something wrong with them?" Now concerned, the seneschal inside him takes over. All self-conscious modesty is forgotten as he focuses on serving the needs of his charge.

Esmeree sighs, "Nothing is wrong with the clothes, Polaris. I simply wonder why I am being dressed like an Ulbandi houri." She looks him in the eye, "Is a harem slave what I’m to be now?"

Drwg steps back to admire their work as Gwæthaf Oll fixes Esmeree’s hair and Gwæth helps slip beautiful silver setras onto her wrists and ankles.

Polaris clears his throat nervously, "Well, I assure you I do not know. I was told only to arrange for the garments. So far as I know, the Viscount desired for you to serve only in the capacity of a sellâria and nothing more… permanent." His hand reaches out and feels the silk of her garments. "By your reaction, I assume this is not typical attire for a sellâria?"

Esmeree almost laughs, "What? You don’t know?"

He gives her a neutral look, "I’ve never had the pleasure of entertaining a sellâria personally. Much less, catering to one’s needs. While the Viscount hosts many parties with sellâria in attendance, they have never stayed here as guests."

Esmeree’s mouth works silently, almost forgetting about her awkward garments. She’d have figured sellâria would be as common as furniture in a palace like this. Instead, she looks down at herself and shakes her head, "Well, for your information, I believe they would be more dressed. Much more dressed. At least at first."

"A capala wouldn’t wear such things?"

"A sellâria."

"What?"

"A capala is a whore. A houri is a slave. I’m a sellâria."

Polaris licks his lips and nods, "Well, I’m sure it will all become clear soon."

"Yes," she says quietly. Her fingers explore the small loops attached to the setras around her wrists. They are really quite pretty, and if they intend to let her live, she wonders if they’ll let her keep them. She’s never worn this much silver in her life.

"You see these bracelets?" she asks him, tapping them together once. The pure silver makes a nice sound. "And these anklets?" pointing down to her feet.

Polaris nods but doesn’t say anything.

"They’re traditional. They’re called setras, an Ulbandi word. They came from the manacles the Ulbandi i-has made their slave girls wear. Nowadays, they’ve replaced thick iron with fancy silver. Looks prettier, I guess–more civilized–but they still serve the same purpose, yes?"

Polaris is silent. She indicates the small silver loops attached to each setra. "Back before the Medianists, this was where the chains were attached." She spreads her arms wide in simulation, "Made breaking in the new girls a lot easier, you see?"

Polaris frowns at her nonplussed smile. "I’m sure nothing quite so sinister is in store for you, Esmeree."

Esmeree drops her arms. "Yes, of course."

Their path leads them through lush gardens, cavernous chambers, and endless galleries. It is customary for important guests to get a full tour before they meet their host. Perhaps this is to impress and intimidate visitors–and at first it has the desired effects on Esmeree–but their walk through the palace is endless, and she quickly tires of it. Esmeree surmises that she is definitely getting the royal treatment, and she wonders if this is the Viscount’s attempt to make amends for her abduction or if Polaris is just buying time for someone.

She could never imagine such a huge place being in Cliffs Reach–if she didn’t know better, she’d wonder if she was still in the city–and to top it off, she knows this is just one of many palaces in Marble Town and not even the largest. Eventually, one room blurs into the next, and Esmeree isn’t even sure if they haven’t already gone through some before. The procession is ludicrous, and she begins to feel even more self-conscious and exposed in this houri’s costume. Servants stop and bow at their approach, but she can feel their stares and hear their whispers after she passes.

On occasion during her tour, she gets tantalizing glimpses through windows, only to be disappointed to see more gardens beyond. Should she see Cliffs Reach’s familiar streets, she just might risk the leap for freedom.

Her two familiar Brack guards are a sobering presence. Assuming she doesn’t understand them, they mutter to each other in their southern tongue about the suppleness of her breasts or the taste of her crotch. When she spits back that Brack bnas cut out their own tongues so as not to gossip about their men’s undersized unwashed pricks, they both lapse into embarrassed silence. Polaris chuckles at their discomfit.

Finally, Esmeree sees Drwg waiting outside a pair of grand doors, and she assumes they’ve reached their destination at last. Her stomach flutters, and she is not sure if it is due to nervousness or anticipation. Muffled harpsichord music and masculine conversation issue from within the room.

Drwg is carrying towels and a tureen of water. Sudden apprehension fills Esmeree as Polaris instructs her to sit in a nearby stool, but it is replaced by confusion as Drwg proceeds to wash and dry her feet. As a means of explanation, Polaris says, "To the Viscount Jacobus, attention to detail is everything."

He carefully checks her hair and then hands her some small green leaves. She examines them and finds their pungent odor pleasant and somewhat familiar. Gesturing for her to put them in her mouth, he says, "It is my duty to help present you in the best manner possible."

He steps back and admires her, "In other words, perfectly. Now chew the mint."

Esmeree nods as she chews. The initial taste is bitter, but afterwards, she feels more than smells the fragrance throughout her nose and mouth. He gives her a goblet of water and instructs her to rinse and spit and then checks her teeth.

"Is this really necessary?" she snorts as she pulls away from him.

Polaris pauses for a moment, "Of course."

Sensing Esmeree is done with his fussing, he sighs and nods to the guards. "Here I must leave you."

"You’ll not be coming?" Esmeree asks, suddenly straightening in her seat.

He shakes his head. "No. This meeting is for you alone."

"Wait a minute!" she says, her voice dropping to an urgent hiss, "You said I’d be safe only while in your care! You made it clear, not to be with you was not to be in your care! How can I be safe if you leave?" She glances up at the guards, remembering her insult.

Polaris nods sadly, "This is true, Esmeree." He points at the door, "But it is through there that you must go. It is through there that you will learn the purpose of your stay here." He smiles sadly at her expression. "You must trust us, Esmeree, if just a little."

Esmeree shudders and slumps. Eventually, she nods. There really isn’t anything else she can do.

Polaris seems to agree. "Time to meet the Viscount."

The foyer is as lavish as Esmeree expected. Broad picture windows overlook the garden. Perhaps it is the same garden outside her chambers, but she can’t be sure. Sitting on their perches by the windows, a pair of brightly colored griffettes shriek and claw at each other irritably. There are people in this room, but the Viscount is not the first man she sees.

Trained as she is to spot danger, her eyes immediately find the huge Brack cing at the back of the room. The warrior glares down at a castles board, pulling thoughtfully at a long braid hanging from his temple. When she enters, his dark eyes quickly dart up to meet hers, and Esmeree freezes. These are the eyes of a trained killer, and she is filled with deep terror. This ve’co berserker makes Catræth look like a braidless mosac. He quickly looks her up and down and then goes back to his game, dismissing her as either irrelevant or uninteresting.

Much to her distress, the next man she sees is Verole. Dressed in fine silks the shade of old bone and a matching jacket, he sits at the harpsichord playing a sonata with easy indifference. His face is powdered white with black accents, and the curls of his gaudy wig are piled high on his head. His eyes widen when he sees Esmeree enter the room, and his music transitions into the ritornelle of a famously erotic EroBernac opera. Devouring her costumed body with his eyes, he exclaims loudly, "Beautiful, isn’t it?"

There is a deep sigh across the room. Two boys, naked except for white loincloths, lay on a divan at the center. They kiss and touch each other in blank-eyed, mechanical disinterest. Behind them, a man of slight build stares out the windows and into the green glory of the gardens beyond. Despite the enormously padded shoulders of his perfectly tailored clothes, his thin, bony arms belie his generally scrawny design. Sagging turkey skin has begun to form on the backs of his arms and neck. This is an older man–though not as old as Myrdd–who has gone to seed and hasn’t realized it yet.

The older man waves dismissively at the growing morning light beyond his windows and reluctantly agrees, apparently bored with the world. "A perfect Green Season morning," he sighs again and mutters unhappily, "Happy New Year."

"The parties in Aquilaleon will be raging for days," Verole adds helpfully. "Doge Marius will probably throw some here as well." He changes key to something happier for emphasis.

The man at the window makes a noncommittal noise as he tosses the griffettes a scrap of raw meat. The housecat-sized versions of true griffins squabble violently with each other over the morsel. Esmeree finds it interesting that he only threw one piece to them.

"Valven’s birthday only happens once a year, my viscount. People want to celebrate." Verole tilts his head and smiles at Esmeree. "Your birthday is soon, yes?"

"Seven days hence," the older man mutters. His voice bears the annoying nasal affect that is usually indicative of excessive inbreeding.

Verole’s eyes never leave Esmeree, and his message is clear. While the men in this room can probably trace their lineage back for hundreds of years, she is acutely aware of her own questionable pedigree.

"An auspicious date, so close to New Year’s," the man at the window adds, "but good only for a viscount’s title–or maybe a count’s if I’m lucky."

Verole shrugs, "I was born in Grey Summer. We take the cards we are dealt."

"Irrelevant. Rules are irrelevant, especially rules for cards. You and your birth are irrelevant." The Viscount turns and sees Esmeree for the first time. Surprised, he makes an expansive gesture, and Verole responds with a musical flourish. Smiling, the Viscount walks towards her and circles slowly, examining every angle of her body.

"Some people bend the rules," he says to her. "For example, did you know they cut our own precious Superbus Tyrannus from his mother’s belly just so he may see the light of day precisely on New Year’s?"

"I did not know that, my lord," whispers Esmeree.

Viscount Jacobus shrugs and smiles at her, "As a result, the Superbus Tyrannus was small and sickly, characteristics he's kept to this day." He sighs despondently, "If only I had parents that loved me as much. What is a week early, really? It is a matter of timing, you see. Kings and wizards are to be conceived on Wedding Day. Thus, they are to be born 9 months hence, on New Years. The logic then follows, does it not, that if you were born on New Years, you must have been conceived on Wedding Day, yes? Hence, you are suitably blessed to rule the world!"

Esmeree is silent, unsure of what is expected of her. The Viscount continues to circle her. Suddenly, his face is close to hers, scrutinizing it closely. "Her nose is crooked!" he exclaims to Verole. One finger traces the crescent scar on her cheek, "and she’s got a scar."

"Adds character," Verole offers, "They make her more handsome than those painted dolls I see at the Doge’s parties."

Jacobus leans left and right, examining Esmeree like she was a sculpture. "Hmmn…" he sighs at last, "Yes, I suppose you’re right." His thumb presses against her mouth, lifting her upper lip. She has to physically restrain herself from slapping his hand away. "Her teeth are perfect!" he exclaims.

"I’m no piece of livestock, my lord!" she snaps. Verole laughs.

Ignoring her, Jacobus steps back, "But her breasts are too small. And she is so thin! You can see her ribs!"

He speaks as though lecturing her. Waggling a finger chastisingly, he says, "To be truly beautiful, a woman needs to be plump. Round."

"Voluptuous!" Verole exclaims. He finishes his music with a flourish. He takes up a Chroani salt stick and sucks on the end. Anywhere south of the Abaisd Territories, the habit-forming rods of seasoned salt are considered delicacies; here in Palpin, they are one of the few goods the Chroani have to trade, and the refugees flood the streets with them.

"Voluptuous, yes."

Verole rises and walks over to the castles board, making an act of studying the pieces carefully. Ultimately he stands behind the cing and peers over his shoulder, while the Brack continues to labor over his next move. "Well," Verole calls back to the Viscount, "She has spent most of her life running in the streets. I don’t imagine that leaves much opportunity to for lounging, eating sweetmeats, and working on her figure."

The Viscount grunts and turns away. "Perhaps."

Looking at Verole and the Brack together, Esmeree realizes there is something distantly familiar about the powdered fop and the braided cing. Could they be the two bounty hunters that insulted Catræth in his inn so many years ago? Could their paths have crossed that long ago?

"My lord," she asks, "Perhaps if you said what was expected of me…"

Jacobus collapses on the divan between the two boys. They had long since ceased their half-hearted lovemaking in lieu of watching Esmeree’s examination. Now they devote their full attention to the Viscount. Jacobus gestures vaguely at Esmeree, "Dance."

Esmeree blinks, "I beg the lord’s pardon?"

"Dance! Dance for us. Dance like a houri."

Verole leaps back to the harpsichord and plays his best imitation of Ulbandi music. The music is truly awful.

Esmeree grimaces and strikes a pose, snapping her fingers. Then she lets her arms drop. "I don’t know how to dance like a houri, my lord."

Jacobus looks surprised, "But you’re dressed like one!" Verole and the boys laugh automatically. "You can just call me your i_ha."

Esmeree’s recent conversation with Polaris still rings loudly in her ears. "My lord, I know enough of the houri arts to know that girls devote their entire lives towards the perfection of their dance. I would not dare attempt such a thing. It would be an embarrassment for me and an insult to them." She’s seen many woodcuts of Ulbandi dancers and watched a fair approximation of one once. Their bellies seem to writhe, and their arms and legs move independent of their bodies. Perhaps Squirrel could have imitated such art, but never Esmeree.

Jacobus frowns and looks at Verole, who has since stopped playing. "She speaks well, and she has the beauty you promised but little else. She’s built like one of these boys, and I can see in her eyes that she will not obey commands. She will cause problems for us."

Verole makes a helpless gesture as he kicks up his feet on the harpsichord. For the first time since she walked into the room, the Brack cing looks up from his game. His eyes hold the hungry eagerness of a predator.

"Their next act will be to call for him, that assassin," her ember’s voice whispers in her head. "It will be the death of you."

Just as Jacobus is about to speak, Esmeree steps forward. "My lord, Viscount Jacobus, please. You speak of my body, for which I regret I have no excuse. You speak of houri dancing, of which I admit I know none–but I also admit to not knowing the Brackish bwyell dances or folk dances of the Synesi peasants–there are many things I do not know. You speak of my spirit, but your own vassal expresses contempt for the pliant marionettes you’ve dealt with before." She takes perverse pleasure in seeing his reaction to being called a vassal. "What man wouldn’t want a woman with a little fire? Without it, what separates your sellâria from your wives?"

Jacobus leans forward, interested in the conversation at last. Encouraged, she continues, "My lord, these are small things. A sellâria is much more. I am much more."

Jacobus smiles past her to Verole. "You see? She does speak well." He looks back at Esmeree, "Tell me, then, what makes you a sellâria?"

"My lord," she says, tugging at the silks, "I am more than just the costume you chose for me. I have mastered the arts of EroBernac cortegiania and Mynyddi cortesia. I know the formal court dances of Ehre, Mut, and EroBernd for all occasions, plus Palpin variations. I can eat at a banquet, even with Ulbandi, EroBernacs, and Mynyddi in attendance, and not offend anyone. I am an accomplished storyteller, and while I have mastered no music or art, I know all popular and classical styles and can critique them all."

"Ah!" scoffs Verole, "A wordy little girl!" He wags a finger at Esmeree and warns, "Someone’s been breaking the church’s rules!"

"I know the laws of the Medianists," she snaps at him. "I know of all four Prophets and 1127 saints. I know of how Ehre worships God differently from Mut and Mynydd. I know of the Palpi and Ulbandi heresies and the Söderkarl sword-cults."

"And what of EroBernd?" Jacobus asks.

"I know the duchy originally consisted of 12 tribes, but the Ordohorht tribe now dominates them all culturally, financially, and militarily."

Jacobus raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, "Is this all? A sellâria must know more than dates and places and names…"

Esmeree smiles, "I have also mastered all 4 Medianist-approved forms of lovemaking, as well as 13 prohibited techniques and some Ulbandi and Synesi extras that not even the Primate knows about."

Verole waves his salt stick in the air, "My mouth waters!"

Jacobus frowns, "To know so much for one so young! Have you borne children yet?"

Esmeree hesitates. The answer is no, of course, but it is something she had never considered. Her hand touches her ember. "No."

"No? Surprising for a girl of such experience. What do you use? Alligator dung? Queen’s Lace? Wild yams? Do your men wear sleeves?"

"No…" Her eyes dart around the room. When she sees Verole watching her carefully, she quickly drops her hand from her ember.

Jacobus waves her answer away, no longer interested. "Whatever."

He rubs the leg of one of the boys as he stares at Esmeree, obviously trying to make up his mind about her. His eyes roam from the boys, to Verole, and ultimately settle on the Brack at the back of the room. He looks back at Esmeree and smiles. "You say you’re learned, yes?"

"Well, yes," she answers carefully as she slowly looks over at the cing.

"Then perhaps you can help our friend over there. Verole has been giving him a terrible time with that castles game."

Slowly, the Brack looks up from the board, and Verole laughs. "Yes! Please do! I’ve even forfeited four moves, and yet the poor man still appears baffled."

The cing leans back in his chair and smiles with a mouth full of black teeth. It is obvious he is not used to being the object of such sport, but he is tolerating it for now.

Esmeree does not move or say anything yet. She dares not approach the Brack uninvited. It is only after the cing makes eye contact and nods briefly that she steps forward. Somehow, this man appears uninvolved and uninterested in the games Verole and Jacobus are playing with her. He is perhaps an ally she should foster. He is definitely an enemy she should avoid.

Giving Verole a wide berth, she drifts over to the game board. The Brack is a massive cing, probably from a northern tribe where they grow them bigger, and he smells strongly, pleasantly male, with a hint of courmi beer and leather.

While he may be an impressive physical specimen, he appears to be a poor castles player. Esmeree frankly hates the game–she hated it when Myrdd tried to teach her–and she hates it even more today. Now she struggles to recall those lessons. When she was a little girl, she always wanted to play the attackers. She liked the idea of slowly picking apart the defender’s fortifications. Much to her dismay, the Brack is playing the defending side. His pieces are tightly clustered around his flag in typical beginner’s conservatism.

On the attacking side, Verole has used a misleadingly casual placement of his pieces, looking very similar to the default startgame positions. Somewhere in there, Esmeree knows, is a devious invasion in the making. She tries to put herself into his position. What is to be gained by this strange arrangement?

She looks up at Verole, who grins and winks lecherously. She looks into his eyes and reads him as the sadist that he is. He likes to see his opponents suffer–he enjoys the struggle of his victims–and most importantly, he enjoys watching their faces as he suddenly, decisively crushes them.

The Brack cing has been working on his next move for a long, long time, and this is just what Verole wants. Esmeree realizes that as soon as the cing takes his four moves, no matter what they are, Verole’s counterattack will destroy him quickly. With this realization, she looks back at the board, and she quickly sees the danger. Verole is prepared to threaten the defender’s flag in two places. She recognizes it as Bewfiz’s gambit, a relatively simple tactic but used in an unconventional way.

Without hesitation, she begins moving pieces. She relishes the erosion of Verole’s cocky grin as she spends three turns strengthening the Brack’s defenses and the fourth to capture one of the attacker’s cannon pieces. Cursing, Verole sits opposite her and begins playing the game in earnest. Jacobus and the Brack watch with interest as they do battle.

In the end, Esmeree is victorious though she sustained heavy losses. Verole pushes away from the board in disgust and sulks over his harpsichord.

The Viscount laughs gleefully as he helps her from her chair. "Excellent! Excellent!"

As he leads her back towards the center of the room, he smiles at Verole, "Didn’t think she could do it, did you?"

Verole sneers and plays several quick, sinister notes. "The capala bitch can play castles, yes."

Jacobus laughs again. "Yes, I think perhaps you will do as a sellâria." As he sits her on the divan between the boys, he adds, "There is one more thing, however."

With a snort, the Brack rises from his chair and stalks from the room. Verole pays him no heed. Instead, he leans over the harpsichord for a better view.

"What is this?" Esmeree demands as the boys tug at her houri silks.

Jacobus smiles as he unbuttons his jacket. "Time to sample the wares."

© John Lawson 2001