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

"Ah, once again, the beautiful Esmeree."

Esmeree stops short and turns to address the voice. She was hurrying to meet with the patron Jacobus had arranged for her–tonight is his big masquerade ball–but she pauses when she sees her accoster. His simple mask makes no effort to conceal his face, but even if it did, she would have recognized him anyway. The handsome noble is again dressed in blacks and whites, his finger still adorned with the ring. He extends his arms in greeting, "And no jealous sellâria to interrupt us this time!"

"And bodyguards?"

"Ah," he nods, "Tonight I have instructed them to remain at a more discrete distance."

"But, my lord, again you have me at a disadvantage!" She smiles invitingly. "This is the second time you have addressed me by name, and tonight I am even in disguise!" Esmeree’s hands gracefully showcase her mask and hair, carefully arranged by Drwg to compliment her eyes and skin. She spins with almost a dancer’s pirouette, allowing him to see all sides of her outfit–the dress is black satin and pearl, the finest she’s ever worn–and then she smiles and courtesies, taking exaggerated care to flaunt her well-displayed cleavage and the black diamond beauty mark that adorns one breast. "And still, my lord, we have not even been introduced!"

As she rises, he takes her hand and kisses the fingers. The skin tingles wherever his lips touch, and a thrill runs down her spine. She looks into his eyes and sees this man as a player of games. He is a gambler, a bluffer, and a man who very much hates to lose the advantage. She can also tell he is a man who works very hard every day, perhaps because his life depends on it.

"By no means," he says soothingly, "do I want to make you uncomfortable. It is not often that I meet a woman as lovely as you who does not fear me."

"My lord," she trills, playing his game, "Are you implying I would feel uncomfortable should I ever uncover your identity?"

His smile broadens, "Oh yes, of course."

Esmeree freezes for a moment, realizing he is perfectly serious. She becomes aware that he is still holding her hand, and she gently extracts herself from his grasp. When she realizes that nothing’s been spoken for several moments, she does her best to rally, "Then it seems a challenge has been laid at my feet."

He inclines his head slightly in surprise, "A challenge?"

"Oh yes. To discover my lord’s identity!"

He gestures towards the main body of the party, "Of course, you can merely ask–"

"Ah!" she interrupts, "My lord is well-known among the guests of the party! Another clue. Really, this won’t be much fun if you keep making it so easy for me!"

He presses his lips together and bows, "My apologies." Rising, he asks, "So where do we go from here?"

Esmeree slowly circles the man, admiring the cut of his clothes and the smell of his perfume. "What are my clues? First, my lord knows my name and my person by sight. Obviously, my lord is familiar with me, and yet I am not with him. How can this be? Can he be associated with the people of Viscount Jacobus’s court? Or perhaps he knows of me from before my time here? Hmmmn…"

She looks deep into those eyes, but they betray no secrets.

"Second," she continues, "He has implied a certain discomfort should I ever learn his identity. Can this be discomfort anyone would experience?" She smiles at him, "Or discomfort only a sellâria would suffer? Or discomfort unique to me?"

He says nothing, betraying nothing. Folding his hands behind his back, he watches her enthusiastically. "Third, my lord let slip that he is a man well-known in these circles. I need but ask anyone to learn his name?"

He smiles and bows his head. "Call me dumb as an alf in heat, my lady. I do not play this game well."

She presses close to him and looks him in the eye, "I’m thinking you play this game very well."

He blinks in feigned shock, but there is steel behind his eyes. Her finger runs down the velvet of his jacket, between each row of silver medallions. Each seems to depict a different guild of Cliffs Reach.

"And fourth," she whispers, her breath tickling his cheek, "You know I have a stone."

This time, his eyes betray genuine surprise. It was a risky thing to say, but it was worth it just to get the reaction. His hands slide around her waist, and he pulls her tight against him. "The truth is, your answer is right before your eyes," he whispers, "but time enough for this game later."

Jacobus is famous for his dances. Tonight, masked patrons and sellâria spin and mingle to the finest music Palpin can offer. Delicate cherubs carved from white stone cluster in the corners of the multi-faceted ceiling and witness the festivities below in blank-eyed fascination.

Esmeree and her enigmatic patron spin and skip to the fast music, her feet struggling to keep up with the pace it sets. Never had she danced like this with Myrdd! The lord’s skills are such that he guides her whenever her feet falter. At worst, he simply picks her up to prevent her legs from tangling, only to set her down immediately after. On-lookers can hardly notice her inexperience.

Viscount Jacobus stands across the room, entertaining a simple-looking masked noble–probably her intended patron for the night. He spares Esmeree hardly a glance, but she feels exultant that in some way she must have interfered with his plans.

Esmeree smiles at his discomfit. She hates it when Jacobus chooses her patrons for her. It robs her of the sellâria’s freedom that she so desperately seeks. She might as well be a dock whore in the Mill again. The men pay more here, but they truly are no cleaner or kinder. Someday, she knows she really will find her freedom and choose only those patrons that please her.

Glancing at the Viscount, she is unsure if he is angry with her. Time will tell, she supposes; tonight, she will enjoy the company of this mysterious new man, this man that she chose.

Mysterious only to her, it seems. Whenever they think she doesn’t notice, dancers around the room watch Esmeree with him. Truly, this handsome lord is a man of some importance. Most people bow with his approach or, at the very least, acknowledge him. She knows most of the wellborns here, and based on who does what, she guesses this man possesses the rank of count. Perhaps higher.

But anonymity is the rule for the evening–it is a masked ball after all–so no introductions are ever made. Polaris serves as doorman, but he never announces the names of the new arrivals. With a polite wave, Esmeree’s fine patron dissuades all attempts at conversation from other dancers–tonight it seems is reserved only for him and her. Even the whispers of gossip are wanting. Apparently, neither this man’s presence at this party nor his accompaniment with a sellâria are issues of much import.

Esmeree molds her body against his and lets the dance and his heady presence carry her away.

Their masks lay forgotten and buried beneath their clothes.

Esmeree rolls atop him, lacing her fingers through the tangle of hair on his chest. His lovemaking was pleasant in spite of his unremarkable technique. The smile on his face at least indicates his satisfaction, and isn’t that what a sellâria is for anyway?

He moans sleepily and cups her breasts with his hands. Looking down on him, he looks much less impressive without his clothes. His hair is salt and pepper gray. His body is pale and soft, without much definition, and there are no scars or calluses. This man has an important job, but it isn’t physical, nor has it ever been–even dukes have scars from their younger years as officers in the armies–this man has none at all. No military career?

His eyes blink and then focus on her chest with surprise. "There’s your stone!"

His thumb runs across it briefly, and she shivers. Glancing down, she tosses her hair and arches her back so he might have a better look. "I’ve never seen one before."

Esmeree is surprised, "Really?"

Smiling slyly, he sits up with her in his lap. "Well, I’ve seen them on Medianist priests, of course, but never on a woman."

He kisses her ember gently. "It looks so ordinary. Just a lump. You’d almost not even notice it, would you?"

She nods in agreement, "I guess that’s what I’m counting on."

He looks shocked. "Certainly I can’t be the first man to notice?" he asks in surprise. "It’s not obvious, but men of learning could certainly discover it. Others must have seen it!"

She shakes her head. "The danger is not forgotten by me, to be sure!"

She touches her ember. "The only people I allow to see it are those who know I have it or who would have no idea what it was."

He looks distressed. "You don’t disrobe for all your patrons?"

With a toss of her head, her hair hides her face, "I disrobe enough. I’ve never heard complaints."

He cups her breasts again, "And they don’t see these? Small as they are, I’d most certainly complain!"

She slaps him playfully. "Cad. The Viscount says the same thing. He wants me to plump up like some privileged nymph–lounging on couches and eating with abandon–just so my dugs’ll grow." She shakes them experimentally, "Besides, there are ways to dress, revealing ways, that give the patron the sights he so much desires."

Her ember echoes sardonically, "Jacobus’s cursed houri costume comes to mind…"

"Hmmn…" he sighs, resting his face between her breasts. His breath is hot against her ember, and she clutches the hair on the back of his head with pleasure.

"Most patrons like their women round, Esmeree," his voice is slightly muffled, "It implies prosperity, decadence, and wealth. Just as mute Brack women imply obedience."

"Foolish."

"Perhaps."

"It is logically unsound!" she exclaims. "Just because women from wealthy homes are round, doesn’t mean all round women are wealthy!"

"In all likelihood, but who can say what people will find desirable or attractive?"

Esmeree makes a rude noise. "Men are fools."

He raises his eyebrows in surprise, "Such a blanket statement! Just because some men enjoy foolish things, does that make all men foolish?"

Esmeree rolls her eyes and sighs. He nods, "You are largely correct though. Many men are foolish and do foolish things. Foolishness seems to span country, title, and income."

"Really?" she asks, slipping off his lap and settling down to a more comfortable position. "Are you speaking from personal experience?"

"Perhaps," he says carefully, likewise laying down. Rolling her onto her back, he gently traces his finger around each of her breasts. Propping herself up with pillows, she watches with interest. "These," he says, "are the western and eastern Skudd seas. And your stone shall be the Palpi peninsula."

"And the teats?" she asks.

He squeezes one nipple contemplatively. "Sea monsters."

She laughs, and he struggles to keep her in a prone position. "Now don’t disturb the world any more than necessary!"

Once she is calm, he continues. His finger traces her throat, "North of Palpin are the Bracklands. This arm is the Ymyl Gwland Territories, and the other is Ulbandus." He kisses her belly and traces two arcs across her ribs, "Here is the EroBernd Empire, and here are Ehre and Mut." His fingers coil through the tangle of her lower hairs, "And here are the Southern Territories, yes? Not quite the cold place I’ve heard them to be, but what can you do?"

"And what about Mynydd?" she asks, struggling not to laugh, "I have friends from there, you know!"

He sighs and pinches her waist, "Here! It doesn’t really matter!"

She giggles. "OK. Sorry."

He returns to the arc he drew on her left-hand ribcage. "Now, why would such a mighty duchy as the EroBernd Empire allow the tiny Palpi city-states to become the eighth member of the Seven Kingdoms? Why not just swallow it up and turn into a new EroBernac province?"

Esmeree looks down at her chest and frowns. In a perverse way, this reminds her of her lessons with Myrdd. "There are two possibilities," she sighs, "Either EroBernd can’t take Palpin, or it doesn’t want to."

He nods, "True. The fact of the matter is, they can’t, but they are always ready to try. The difficulty is in convincing them that they don’t want to. Here enters the foolishness of kingdoms."

Esmeree shakes her head, "What? What do you mean ‘can’t’? EroBernd is the largest, most powerful of the Seven Kingdoms. That’s why Duke Valven is Superbus Tyrannus. Even Ehre and Mut combined would have a hard time leashing it!"

He smiles. "Yes. And that’s what they believe–and what they continue to believe–which is why Palpin’s position is so precarious. EroBernd might invade at any time."

"What’s holding them back?"

He jiggles each of her breasts and then traces the lines of each collarbone. "We’re surrounded on three sides by the Skudd and by the Bracks in the north."

"So?"

He seems surprised. "Our navy! Haven’t you heard of our navy?"

She frowns and shakes her head. She knew the Palpi floated boats, but Myrdd rarely spoke of navies.

"The Palpi own the Skudd, Esmeree. We have the ships, we have the cannon. It is through our stranglehold of the Skudd that we were able to compel the Seven Kingdoms to recognize us. Defy us, and the only ships sailing above the water will be our own."

She frowns and shakes her head, "Why didn’t the city-states just petition for independent duchy status like the Southern Territories are doing?"

He laughs in surprise. "Are doing? Esmeree, the Southern Territories’ bid for independence died when the Count of Fornjotnr was assassinated by the EroBernacs. That happened over 30 years ago!"

Esmeree cringes, humiliated. Damn that Myrdd! He’d been teaching her politics three decades out of date? The bastard odocos should have gotten out more often!

"EroBernd," he continues, "or just about any of the other Seven Kingdoms for that matter, could bury us neck deep in soldiers if they ever managed to invade us. The trick is landing them on our shores."

Esmeree smiles, "And the Bracks won’t allow any armies to march in from the north."

"Exactly. With every council meeting, we vote in unity with the other duchies to try to convince the Bracks to allow railway through their lands, but behind the scenes, our agents make sure the Brack tribes will never come to consensus. We pitch this tribe against that one, and that tribe against this one. And as we do that, we try to persuade the Superbus Tyrannus through other channels that an independent Palpin is a good thing."

"Other channels?"

"Diplomacy. Not that it works. Note that the EroBernacs still refer to us as the Abaisd Territories. To them, we’re already part of their duchy. We have to be vigilant, Esmeree. Someday, our navies may be useless, or the Bracks united, or some other previously unknown variable will change the way things are, and then the Superbus Tyrannus will come."

"And?"

He shrugs, "And in this way, nations are as foolish as men. The fact of the matter is, the city-states would whither and die under EroBernac rule. Our contribution to the Seven Kingdoms would be diminished if not destroyed. An independent Palpin actually helps the EroBernd Empire. Not that their pride would ever allow them to admit it." He sighs, "It’s the games we play."

"We?" She leans closer to him, and her eyes narrow. "And fifth, it’s safe to assume you are involved with the government of the Palpi city-states."

"Well," he smiles, "the government of Cliffs Reach, at least."

She stares at him for a long moment, her finger tapping her thigh. Then her eyes widen with realization, and rolling over, she snatches his jacket from the floor. He looks on with interest as she examines each silver medallion. Every official guild and municipal organization within Cliffs Reach is represented. Horrified, she looks up from the jacket to see him smiling. To think, he even shoved his ring of office right in her face, and she only had eyes for the gem!

"Me thinks the lady is ready to guess?"

"Oh, God! Oh, Gock," she whispers, "I’m so sorry I was so rude to you! Please forgive me! By the Ice…"

"By the Fire!" He responds happily, waving the apology away, "You see? Knowledge of my identity causes anxiety." Taking his jacket from her, he tosses it on the floor, "Things were much more fun when you didn’t know me."

She bows her head, "Please, Doge Marius, please don’t tell the Medianists about me."

He tilts her head back up, "You forget. I knew of your stone before I laid with you. If I was to turn you in, I would have done so a long time ago."

"Then," she says with confusion, "What is all this about? How do you know about me and my ember?"

Marius smiles and touches his finger alongside his nose. "Shall we say, the Viscount and I are collaborating on a project? We have an agreement with Primate Klemm–"

"Primate Klemm? The Medianist Primate?" The leader of the Medianist church is arguably the most powerful individual in the Seven Kingdoms, more powerful even than the Superbus Tyrannus. How can such a man be interested in Esmeree?

Marius nods, "In return for our efforts, he provides Jacobus with monetary incentives."

Esmeree is now wary. Whatever their plans, they obviously involve Esmeree in the most intimate of ways. "And what do you receive?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" he asks, "I receive the Primate’s influence in the matters of EroBernd-Palpi relations. And that, my dear, is my highest priority."

"And what about me?" she asks quietly.

"What about you?"

"Why this? Why tonight? What are we doing together?"

He smiles warmly, "Tonight is because I have seen you, and I liked what I saw. Tonight is what it is."

"What’s to happen to me? What is it you need of me? I can’t believe the Doge of Cliffs Reach–much less the Primate of the Medianists–has any interest in a simple sellâria!"

"Ah. I see Jacobus hasn’t spoken to you on this issue." He nods. "Perhaps it is best then if we follow his timetable."

"Please," she pleads weakly, "Please tell me."

"I can tell you only to obey his wishes. His plans are very specific. Everything will work out if you do what you are told." He kisses her gently on the forehead. "As I said before, Esmeree, enjoy the party. It most certainly gets complicated from here."

***

The pavilion is filled with beautiful girls and their attendants. The sellâria relax in Jacobus’s gardens, chatting and gossiping with each other. It is several minutes before the patrons will begin arriving, and the girls are making the most of the time.

Esmeree approaches with Drwg in tow and greets the few sellâria she knows.

Her inclusion in the lives of the other sellâria is a relatively new turn of events. While she can trace the change to the night she participated in the Court of Love, she has no clue what or who was responsible. Perhaps it was one of her fellow Court of Love officers. Perhaps it was the silent table girl.

She had previously never had contact with any sellâria. This changed when she received a note the night after the Court of Love. It was an invitation for her to join the sellâria before the next party. Their gathering places are always well hidden, or at the very least, very discrete. At gatherings like this, they gossip about patrons, compare notes on fashion and technique, and exchange names.

Under their tutelage, Esmeree has studied new sensual arts like cuisine and perfuming. She has learned ways to eat that would drive a man mad with desire. She has learned the many varieties of aromas and where to apply them on her body to achieve maximum effect. At first she smelled like an Ulbandi capala, but over time, she has improved her technique. She has even contributed tidbits of her own extensive knowledge of lovemaking. She is surprised to see how naïve some sellâria are.

One sellâria opens her arms as Esmeree approaches. She folds herself into them, and they hug warmly. "I hear Sir Guiromélans has sent you several letters!"

Esmeree is greatly relieved to see her friend here. Tonight, she takes her first steps towards freedom, and she hopes her friend is up to it. She smiles and rolls her eyes, trying to mask her tension, "He feels abandoned at his new post. It’s a shame he’s been called to Ehre. I shall miss his company."

The sellâria tosses her raven hair and smiles. "You shall miss more than that, I’d imagine."

Esmeree sighs and sits next to her, "No. I’m afraid I’ve never partaken. We were separated too soon."

The other girl frowns at first and then shrugs. "Oh well. I suppose that aspect of men is easily replaced."

"Replaced tonight, I expect."

"More than once, you’d better hope!" They laugh. Esmeree likes Leaena. It’s been a long time since she’s had a friend to talk to–Drwg and her sisters are less than brilliant conversationalists–and she misses Squirrel desperately. The older sellâria is a welcome change for her.

"Oh!" Esmeree exclaims, "I’ve got some patrons for you!"

Leaena raises her eyebrows with surprise as Esmeree turns to Drwg. The maidservant hands over the cards and smiles shyly when Esmeree thanks her. Esmeree’s found that in wellborn circles–among the sellâria especially–the servants are ignored, in some cases to the point where they essentially become invisible to their masters. In Esmeree’s eyes, such a life is lower than that of a fisher or fry in the Mill. She has tried to improve relations between her and her handmaids, but the ice is difficult to break.

She hands the cards to Leaena, who shuffles through them with interest. All of them are non-titled men from Palpin and the Bracklands, all of them are conspicuously wealthy and men of quality. Esmeree also knows them all to be sorcerers–heretics and warlocks in the eyes of the Medianist church–a secret not even they know she knows. They are good men, well-paying and gentle with their sellâria. They dare not risk the attention an angry sellâria could bring upon them. They are the perfect patrons for a sellâria, and Esmeree says as much.

Leaena nods, "I recognize some of these names, but I have never met them." She looks up at Esmeree. "You know them?"

She nods enthusiastically. "Intimately. But I can’t be with them all, so I want to make sure they’re well taken care of when they’re not with me."

Leaena laughs and hugs her friend as she hands the cards to her servant. "Well, thank you! Some day, perhaps I can return the gift!"

Esmeree hesitates and smiles. "Well, perhaps you can…"

Leaena frowns as Esmeree leads her away from the others. She even insists that their servants stay behind.

"What is this?" her friend asks.

"Leaena," Esmeree begins and then stops. This can be dangerous. She takes a deep breath and continues, "I need you to deliver a message to someone for me."

Leaena frowns, "Deliver? Why don’t you–"

"No, no! I can’t, and I can’t explain why right now."

Leaena’s eyes narrow and she smiles slyly. "Ah! A little illicit love affair? A married man? Engaged? Are we working for free? Shame on you!"

Esmeree waves away the speculation. "No, no! Please!" she whispers, "It’s nothing like that."

Pulling a small rolled parchment from her bodice, she presses it into the other girl’s hands. Finding the paper was easy enough. Finding something to write with was impossible. Polaris was extremely effective in removing or guarding all potential writing implements. She even suspects he recruited her handmaids to help. In the end, she had to use her ember to meticulously scorch each letter and word into the paper. She chose Synesi as the language. It was the easiest to write and the less readable to prying eyes.

"Listen to me," she hisses as Leaena suspiciously eyes the rolled paper in her hands. "There is a tavern in the Foreman Neighborhoods, just off the Doge’s Promenade. It doesn’t have a name, but an old Synesi named Lucius owns it. Give that message to him."

"In the Foreman Neighborhoods?" she asks warily.

Esmeree nods, "It’s important that you don’t go yourself. It isn’t safe. Don’t even send a servant of yours. Hire someone streetwise and trustworthy. I’ll pay you back."

Leaena blinks in surprise. "What is this? Why do you need this done?"

Esmeree touches her shoulder with a trembling hand, "Please. I can’t tell you right now. Please. Do this for me!"

Leaena looks at the message, "A Synesi bar in the Foreman Neighborhoods?"

Esmeree sighs, "Tell him it’s from Easy."

Leaena’s eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

Esmeree looks away, "Everyone has a past, Leaena."

Leaena smiles and nods. "OK. That’s fair."

"Esmeree." The voice freezes her with terror. Frowning, Leaena looks at Polaris and then back to her friend. Reading Esmeree’s expression, she slips the note into her dress and walks away.

Esmeree looks at the ground as the seneschal approaches. A mixture of anger and confusion swims in his eyes. "Esmeree, the Viscount requests your attendance."

Esmeree swallows and clenches her fists. She could summon right now. Lay him out on his ass and run. She might even make it to the streets. "What does he want?"

"I’m sure I do not know."

She looks up at him. "I’m sure you do!"

Polaris frowns and purses his lips, "I regret if I have offended you, my lady."

"Fuck you!" she snaps. Several sellâria look up at the argument. "All this buachar going on around here, you’re neck deep in it! Don’t think I’ve forgotten for a second that you’re the Viscount’s lapdog!"

Polaris’s mask of propriety never wavers. He steps closer to Esmeree and drops his voice, "Without question, Esmeree, my loyalties lay with my master. After you are long gone, I expect to still be serving him, so I would be a fool not to serve his interests."

His eyes are pained. Esmeree suspects she’s actually hurt his feelings. "That said, however, I want to make it clear to you that I have never betrayed my word. I have delivered everything I promised you. And I still maintain that I will do everything in my power to fulfill your wishes."

He sighs and looks over at the pavilion of sellâria. They watch Esmeree and Polaris with rapt fascination. "And then you go and do something foolish like this."

"I had a life before this!" she pleads, "People whom I cared about! How can you expect me to just forget about them?"

"Your life goal was to be a sellâria?" He gestures to the garden and the girls. "This is the life of a sellâria. Tell me, were you planning on bringing these friends of yours with you? Here?"

"Some of them!" she snaps.

"Really? Tell me. How would you explain that horrible Brack girl or that babbling old man to a potential patron? What about that limping Synesi that buggers boys? Or the girl with the broken back? How will they fit in this life of yours?"

Esmeree looks away and fights back the tears. She breathes deeply and at last asks quietly, "Please don’t hurt her."

Polaris looks over at the pavilion. Sensing the severity of the scene, Leaena has gathered her servant and left. Drwg still stands a distance away, her head bowed with embarrassment for her lady. "It isn’t my decision, Esmeree, but if it was up to me, I wouldn’t." He looks back at her. "The nice thing about sellâria, I expect, is beneath it all, they’re still connus. They all have their price. I imagine it is easiest for Jacobus to simply buy the girl off."

He smiles not unkindly at her, possibly assuming he’s saying something reassuring, "She might feel guilty about betraying you, but I imagine it’s a lot less guilty than how you’d feel knowing you got her killed."

Esmeree bites her lip hard and squeezes her eyes shut. Her ember summons and casts a charm for her friend, but she doesn’t know if it finds its mark. At last, she slumps her shoulders and opens her eyes, composure regained. "OK. Take me to the Viscount."

Tonight’s party is about to begin. Prospective patrons have congregated in Jacobus’s library waiting for their sellâria. Outside in the gallery, Jacobus and Verole wait and watch. As Esmeree and Polaris approach, Jacobus brightens. "Ah, my favorite sellâria! Good!"

Polaris brushes past her and speaks at length into his Viscount’s ear. As he speaks, she sees Jacobus’s visage darken. Slowly, his eyes rise to meet Esmeree’s. She straightens and prepares for the worst.

"I see," he finally says as Polaris finishes. "An unfortunate situation. I had thought you understood the delicacy of your position here."

"Evidently, she did," mutters Verole, "Seeing as she attempted to secret the note off the grounds."

"Ah," agrees the Viscount with a sigh, "I see your point."

"My lord," she says calmly, "I don’t recall ever being told I was prisoner here. As a guest, am I not allowed–"

"I believe," Jacobus interrupts, "that our meaning was clear."

He steps closer and drops his voice so the patrons in the next room cannot hear. "Don’t play the word games with me, you capala," he hisses, "We can use the nice words, or we can use the other kind–it’s your choice–but the reality stays the same!"

Esmeree swallows. She considers summoning–perhaps if she injures Verole and Jacobus enough, she could escape–but then she feels her power leak away. She sees that damn stick amulet dangling around Verole’s neck as the courtier nears.

"I believe I understand your concerns, girl," Jacobus says, his eyes making every word a lie, "You’re frightened. You’re alone. What shall the terrible Viscount do with this witch slut?"

His face and voice have become truly terrible, and Esmeree takes a step back. She feels Verole press against her from behind.

"Well, Esmeree, this Viscount can do a number of things to her. Which one depends on how cooperative she is, yes?"

"There’s nothing you can do to me beyond handing me over to the Inquisition," she says quietly.

Jacobus nods. "Yes. That’s true. And I expect it is true that you could ultimately escape from my home and my influence." He nods again, "Yes, that is true as well. Unfortunately, in that event, Cliffs Reach would no longer be safe for you. I suppose you’d have to flee."

"I could do that," she says defiantly, "I could survive anywhere."

Jacobus shrugs, "Yes, I suppose that’s true as well. At which point, people like Myrdd and Squirrel would most certainly die."

Esmeree is suddenly terrified as a pit opens in her stomach. She had prayed that somehow they would never be drawn into this. "Are you threatening them?" she asks quietly.

"Oh, no, no," he says jovially, "No harm would come to them by my hand! Just trying to help you consider the repercussions of your options, yes?"

He smiles at her shocked expression. "You see how agreeable we are when we speak the truth?"

His bony hand reaches out and takes her by the shoulder. Esmeree would cringe away, but Verole’s presence behind her prevents any further retreat. "Esmeree, my child, I understand your dislike of the patrons I choose for you. I know this foray as a sellâria hasn’t been all you had hoped for. I promise, things will change after tonight."

"What are you thinking?" she asks darkly.

He gestures over his shoulder to the library full of waiting patrons. "The patrons are present. The other sellâria are ready. The party only waits on you."

"What is it you want me to do?"

He shakes his head, "Only what a sellâria is supposed to do. Please your patron. Make this night the most special of his life. After that, I will require no such duties of you again. After that, believe me, our relationship will become much more lucrative."

Her eyes narrow. "No more parties? No more scabby patrons?"

"Parties and patrons, yes, of course. Always. But you need not attend them if you do not wish. And you are welcome to keep company with the men of your choice."

"And no more imprisonment?"

He shrugs and smiles at Verole. She can feel Verole chuckle behind her. "Certainly not, but you are welcome to stay here anyway. Your room and servants will always be available to you."

Jacobus bends closer to her face, "You may find, Esmeree, that life outside these walls is not as pleasant as you remember it to be."

She glances past him to the room filled with wellborns. She understands now–all of this, all of these parties and nights as a sellâria–they were only tests. After tonight, Jacobus and Marius embark on their grand plan in earnest, and her true involvement in the scheme begins. She wonders if there is a way she can wreck those plans and still escape with her life.

She glances at Polaris, but the seneschal refuses to meet her eyes. That is a bad sign.

"Which one?" she asks.

Jacobus glances over his shoulder at the waiting men and seems to give the matter some serious thought. Ultimately, he speaks briefly into Verole’s ear. With a bow and acquiescence, Verole backs away and disappears. Her ember’s power returns in a rush. Esmeree does her best to hide her exhilaration. Is it possible Jacobus doesn’t realize the power he just handed her?

He leads her to the room and gestures, "On this last night, Esmeree–for you–you may choose your own patron for the evening."

The men look up in surprised expectation. She’s met about half of them before. The others are unknown to her. Some are Jacobus’s political enemies, some his allies. Some are visiting EroBernacs, others are Medianist clerics or Palpi statesmen. She considers them all. Which would Marius and Jacobus not want her to choose? Do they expect her to please the man or to offend him?

And can they predict her choice and hence counter it?

The twisting schemes of the situation make her head hurt, and she rubs her temples in frustration. "Is something wrong?" Jacobus asks. "Perhaps you need some bay?"

She waves away the offer and looks back at the room. Perhaps she shouldn’t try to out-think these men. Perhaps she should just follow her instincts and tonight simply choose the man that would give her the most pleasure. Closing her eyes, she summons, and in the glow of magic, one man stands out. He is a Brackish gwledig, a guest of another noble, and a man of no political significance. He is irrelevant to the plans of Marius, Jacobus, the Primate, or the Superbus Tyrannus.

She smiles as his ember burns in her vision.

Lovemaking with Bracks is always interesting. They expect their bnas to perform in certain ways, which means sometimes they expect their sellâria to perform in others. Esmeree never knows how the night will develop.

Usk the gwledig sits up in their bed and pulls the large platter of fruit onto his lap. He handles the knife deftly, and soon an apple is cored and sliced. He offers a piece to Esmeree. "I’ve been tä Cliffs Reach before," he mutters, "Low Summer last year was the earliest. I didn’t see yä then, uh?"

She rolls from her belly to a sitting position as she chews. Her fine camisole of Ulbandi silk is all she wears, but the sheer garment is all she needs to strategically conceal her ember. "I’m new in Jacobus’s court."

He chuckles, "A year ago, yä were still a smarach, me inigena."

She straightens abruptly. "By my best recollection, I’m nearly 17 years!" she snaps with some heat, "Nearly past my prime! According to the Medianists, I’m almost past marrying age!"

Usk laughs, "An old maid tä a Medianist, but not too old fer a Brack! The Medianists have strange ways and strange ideas on how tä treat their bnas, uh?"

Esmeree swallows her retort about cutting out tongues. Usk glances down at her lap, "I see yer not circumcised. What do yä care about Medianist ways anyway?"

Esmeree looks away. It is not a good idea for a sellâria to bicker with her patrons. It was Myrdd that turned her into a closet Medianist, and she has yet to shake it. Damn him.

"I’m a child of Palpin, gwledig," she says, "I guess I’ve picked up strange habits." She smiles, "I suppose I’m lucky if a little bit of Medianism is the worst of my sins."

Shoving the tray aside, he takes her ankle and pulls her closer. She sighs as he slides her beneath him. If there’s one thing you can say about Brackish men, it’s that they’re good for several times a night. He nuzzles her roughly on the throat and ear, and she yields against his powerful body.

When he climaxes, his head rocks back, and he bellows into the ceiling. His pleasure shudders through her body, temporarily overwhelming her own senses. The sensation is unbelievable. Their second time is more intense than their first–he must be a powerful sorcerer–and a blue spark even arcs from his shoulder to her ember. It is a good thing his eyes were closed at the time.

Almost immediately afterwards, he slumps on top of her, nearly all dead weight. Gently, she rolls him to one side and slips out from underneath. Despite her shaking knees and hands, she manages to crawl on top of him and begins kneading the muscles that roll across his back. She places soft kisses across his neck and spine, and he moans with pleasure.

"Mol, my gwledig, Usk," she sighs, "Never before have I felt anything like that!"

The fact that she nearly means it adds validity to what would normally be a sellâria’s pat line. Short of some special moments with Drake or Squirrel, that was her most intense sexual experience ever. Her ember is filled with power, and it burns under her skin like fire. Lovemaking with sorcerers has always seemed more pleasurable to Esmeree, but never had it been anything like this. She wonders why. Perhaps it is something that improves with practice–the more you do it, the better it gets–just like any spell casting with an ember.

Now she understands what Andelliza meant when she said that sex could aid a sorcerer in summoning. She will most certainly lay with this man again.

"Oh, me inigena," Usk moans beneath her ministrations, "I shall be certain tä visit yä again when I return."

Esmeree smiles. She’s glad she picked this man.

As she straddles his back, she can see his ember under the skin of his right shoulder. It is large, nearly half as big as hers, and Brackish tattoos swirl around it in reds and blacks. She coos as she traces the designs, and she immediately feels him tense.

"What’re yä doin’?" he asks sharply halfway rising. She can feel his body tightening, preparing to throw her off at a moment’s notice.

"These tattoos," she purrs, "They’re mirain."

Few people–the Inquisition, fellow sorcerers, or anyone else specially trained in detecting witchcraft–would recognize an ember when they see one. Certainly a sellâria wouldn’t, so she plays dumb and ignores the hard lump beneath the skin. "They look Brackish."

Relaxing a little, he looks over his shoulder at her. "Well, I am Brackish, yäh?"

"Do they mean anything?" She traces the designs again. She feels him shudder. What fun it is knowing a sorcerer’s ember is erogenous!

"Yä’ve never seen anythin’ like them?" he asks carefully, and she shakes her head no. "In me home," he says, "I am a holy man of Johlpa the Ax, a sacardd. The tattoos indicate me status and position."

"Where is your home?"

"A dunum called Ve’coDusios."

"Never heard of it."

"I wouldn’t expect yä would. Think of Ceilbyrig, but a bit further north."

She flinches. "Ceilbyrig? Well! Now I know why you spend time in Cliffs Reach."

He looks back at her again, and his shoulders shake as he chuckles. "Yäh. Ve’coDusios is a harsh place, and it can be dangerous. Compared to yer safe, wealthy, mirain city-states, it holds little appeal, but me family is there. My people are there. Me donas and me pektus and me nieces and nephews depend on me. For them, I work hard here with the promise that I will return."

"That’s beautiful," she says and means it.

Something in her voice must have betrayed more than she intended. "Have yä na one tä care fer?" he asks.

She presses her palms against his shoulder blades and breathes deeply. She thinks of poor Squirrel and Myrdd and all the other people she’s failed to protect. "I… have people. But my promises have been hard to keep. It seems I am not the master of my own destiny."

She hopes Squirrel is safe.

He grunts, "If yä ever meet anyone who claims he is, I suggest yä flee before lightnin’ strikes and the earth swallows the cuall whole, uh?"

She laughs, grateful to him for the levity. "Usk," she asks, tracing designs across his back, "Is it true what they say about the rraakks around Ceilbyrig?"

He groans as he mulls the question over. Finally, he says, "The rraakks’re a subject we don’t speak of casually, inigena. It is best we don’t speak of them at all, uh? Leave it at that."

"But–"

Their door bursts open, and Verole strides in, leading three Medianist Templars. Usk throws Esmeree off of him as he leaps to his feet. "What is this?" he demands, looking from Verole to Esmeree.

Verole points at the Brack and nods to the Templars, "There is the witch. Take him."

The courtier smiles at Esmeree, "Good job. You picked him out for us. The Inquisition will be most grateful."

Usk sneers at Esmeree, "Yä boduus oainjyr! I enjoy yer touch only sä I can endure theirs?"

"No!" she shrieks, nursing the arm that smashed into an end table during her fall.

As the Templars draw their truncheons, Usk extends his arm. Esmeree can sense him begin summoning. Smiling, Verole steps forward with his talisman, and a look of pained helplessness spreads across the Brack’s face as it drains his ember’s power away. The Templars surge forward. Usk dives for the bed, scrabbling for the fruit knife. She hears the dull thuds and sharp cracks as truncheon blows rain down on him.

Esmeree screams, "No! Leave him alone you boduus son-of-a-bitch!"

Verole sneers, "Oh please. Spare me your racial epithets. It doesn’t sound right coming from you anyway."

Before she realizes what she’s doing, she is on her feet and leaping on the courtier. He flails at her viciously, but her hand finds its target. When he finally throws her off him, his wooden charm goes with her. His hand slaps to his unadorned neck with terrified realization. He looks into her eyes, "Esmeree, no!"

With a sneer and a sign of the fig, she snaps the charm in two. Her ember surges with power.

A thunderclap shatters the room, throwing the Templars off the Brack. He rises from the bed, bloodied and enraged. One Templar struggles to his feet and charges him. A sliver of silver flame seems to coil from Usk’s hand, and he wields it like a blade. With a simple swing, he neatly disembowels the Templar.

Cursing, Verole draws his pistol and jerks back the doghead. Esmeree screams a warning, and spinning, Usk severs the hand at the wrist. Blood spraying across the room, and Verole howls as he crumbles to the floor.

Usk quickly backs towards the door, keeping his eye on Esmeree and the two remaining Templars moaning on the floor. She leaps to her feet to follow, but he raises the needle of flame towards her belly. "Oh, nage, inigena," he spits, "Yä’ll come na closer."

"Please!" she begs, "I didn’t know! I didn’t mean for this! You have to take me with you!"

"Stay back, boduus. Yä’ll not get another chance tä orphan me pektus."

She raises her camisole, "Look! I’ve got a stone too! Please! They’ll kill me!"

His face twitches. "When yä make a blood-kirze with dusios, Esmeree, yä have tä lay with the devils, uh?"

As he backs through the door, the shade of Hiisi appears behind him. Usk reads Esmeree’s expression and spins to meet the attack. Silver fire meets steel spatha in a blinding flash. Usk spins the eldritch blade as if it was weightless, but Hiisi meets each attack his with huge broadsword and counters in kind.

Hiisi’s face is calm, implacable, but fury rages in his eyes. Usk is forced to take a step backwards and then another, and Hiisi presses the advantage. Checking Usk’s arm with his free hand, he brings the flat of his spatha down hard across his forehead. Left senseless by the blow, Usk shudders and falls to his knees. Without hesitation, Hiisi spins his sword and runs him through. Esmeree screams when she sees the sword tip burst through Usk’s tattoo, splitting the ember in two.

Wrenching his sword free, Hiisi lets the stricken sacardd fall to the floor. He brushes past Esmeree as he stalks into the room and stands over Verole.

The lacy fop is sprawled across the floor, clutching pathetically at his pumping wrist. Blood cakes on his powdered face and wig. "She took my charm," he says weakly and smiles.

"When yä pleads before Johlpa, boduus, " Hiisi growls, "Yä’ll have na hand tä hold yer weapon. How do yä expect tä fight, uh?"

Verole coughs and sneers, "I won’t, but at least I’ll have my cock to fuck your dead mam’a!"

Hiisi snorts and plunges his sword into Verole’s groin. "Na yä won’t."

With a single massive cut, he lays the courtier open from balls to throat. Verole dies with a gurgle.

One of the surviving Templars staggers to Hiisi’s side. "Damn good timing! If it wasn’t for you, well…" He gasps with exhaustion and points at Esmeree, "but watch that one. She’s a witch too! I heard her–"

He gasps again as Hiisi cuts him in two. The last Templar shrieks for mercy before he dies.

Esmeree barely notices when Hiisi takes her by the arm. All she can do is watch Usk slowly dying at her feet. "More Templars’ll be comin’," Hiisi says quietly. "Yä has tä leave."

She doesn’t respond, and he has to push her towards the door. As she passes Usk, the dying gwledig sighs. "Yä’ve turned me sweet pektus tä orphans, Esmeree."

She looks down at him. "I’m sorry," she whispers. Though her heart is breaking, her voice sounds flat.

"Don’t be sorry. I go tä a better place, but I fear fer me families. Just make sure, inigena, it was worth it, yäh?"

Hiisi grunts. "Yä died well, gwledig. Johlpa will embrace yä."

As Hiisi pushes her out of the room, she makes the sign of the Median and swears, "I will. I will make it worth it."

***

"Well, that Brack sorcerer proved quite a challenge it seems." Jacobus sits back in his chair and steeples his fingers, "But was killing him really necessary? Our friends would have paid quite generously for him."

Esmeree stands in the corner, still a little stunned by the previous night’s events. She is grateful, however, that this time she is not the subject of the Viscount’s displeasure.

Hiisi crosses his arms and glares back at the Viscount. "Considerin’ Verole’s cuall sloppiness and the braidless boduus mosacs he brought with him, yäh. The caragus was about tä escape."

Jacobus fidgets slightly and then sighs. "Oh, very well. Verole’s loss is most definitely disappointing, but we won’t let that delay our plans." He claps his hands lightly, and his eyes shine. "I saw the room, what he did to Verole and those Templars. Quite a mess, yes indeed. It must have been quite exciting, eh?"

"Yäh, very."

"How did it happen? I thought we took precautions against his magic."

Hiisi sighs, "Seems tä me, the sacardd discovered Verole’s amulet and destroyed the graney thing. From there, Verole’s problems were just beginnin’, yäh?" He chuckles.

Jacobus looks past Hiisi to Esmeree and cackles, "Charms against sorcery! Can you imagine! Too bad you didn’t figure that out, eh?" He laughs at length.

"Yesss," Hiisi drawls. "I arrived just as he slayed the last Templar."

Jacobus snaps his fingers at Esmeree. "You were there! Did you see it? Did you see it all?"

Esmeree looks blankly from Jacobus to Hiisi. The cing’s eyes are calm, unconcerned. Her ember’s voice trembles, "He told Jacobus that Usk killed Verole and the Templars?" She looks into those dark eyes. "Why would he lie?" she wonders silently.

She looks back at Jacobus. "Yes, I saw it. It was horrible. He was a powerful sorcerer."

Jacobus giggles as his hands pantomime the imagined sword battle. At last, he slaps his hands on his knees, looking around the room and licking his lips. "Such action! Such excitement! What to do… What do to…" Then he points at Esmeree. "You, sellâria! Take off your clothes!"

Esmeree is startled, glancing first at Hiisi and then at Jacobus. "What?"

"You heard me! Take them off! I need a celebratory fuck!" His eyes are wild as he tugs at his own clothes. Esmeree wonders if this man is truly insane.

She’s just not prepared to deal with this right now. "I thought we settled this last night! I’m not doing anything like that for you anymore!"

Jacobus frowns, "I don’t remember–"

Hiisi clears his throat. When Jacobus finally looks up, he says, "Jacobus, we need tä be leavin’…"

Jacobus blinks and looks from Hiisi to Esmeree. "Ah, yes!" he exclaims, slapping his desk as punctuation. He points a hooked finger at Esmeree again. "Girl, last night you’ve proven your skills as a sorceress. We have certain interests in them."

Esmeree swallows. Here it comes. "What kind of interest?" she asks quietly. Wasn’t he just interested in seeing her naked? This man is a maniac!

"We know you have a talent for detecting the stones of other sorcerers. Last night was the final test, and I must say you came through beautifully."

Esmeree glances at Hiisi, "You want me to find other sorcerers? Why?"

Jacobus shrugs, "We know certain parties who have an interest in them."

"You mean the Medianists." She thinks of the pact with Primate Klemm that Doge Marius mentioned.

"I wouldn’t say that."

"I would."

Jacobus pauses and stares hard at Esmeree. "Hmmn. It seems someone’s been sharing a little too much with our little sellâria, yes?"

He glares at Hiisi but gets no reaction. He sighs, "Nevertheless, yes. It is the Medianists. Seems they found a better use for them other than fueling bonfires, and they pay very well."

"It doesn’t matter!" she exclaims, "They’d kill me! I’m no fighter! I can’t catch sorcerers!"

Slowly, Hiisi turns to face her. Jacobus laughs, "Of course not! You won’t need to."

He gestures towards the Brack cing. "He will. You just have to point him in the right direction."

The reality of the plot begins to settle on her. The Viscount wants her to travel with this orgetos, pick out the witches for him, and watch as he captures them. She is to condemn them to an unknown fate at the hands of the Inquisition? "I don’t know if I can do that."

Jacobus glares. "Of course you can! You want to pick your own patrons as a sellâria? Fine! You want your freedom from this palace? Fine! You want to travel and see the world beyond Cliffs Reach? Fine! I give you all these things, plus more wealth than you can imagine!"

"But what happens to these witches?"

"WHAT DO YOU CARE?" Jacobus bellows. "When you were groveling in the mud of the Mill, did you care what happened to the children you captured? Your little fry? That they were beaten, raped, killed? Of course you didn’t! All you wanted was that next handful of copper, that next fuck, that next fix of bay!"

Reaching into his desk, he throws several shining disks at her. Gold coins the size of her palm clatter on the floor, spinning and rolling in all directions. Esmeree gasps and instinctively drops to catch them.

"You see?" Jacobus smiles at Hiisi, "Every one of these connus whores has a price."

© John Lawson 2001