Babylon Steel (13 page)

Of the Avatar of Babaska, who we were to serve, we saw nothing. She was dealing with the business of her own great temple at Don-panat. Or she was out fighting a war. Or she had taken a new lover, and he was occupying all her time. The rumours flew everywhere, but we never saw her. All the other Avatars spent some or all of their time at the Temple of All the Gods, but not, it seemed, the Avatar of Babaska, yet it seemed to me quite reasonable. She had things to do, exciting, important things. Why would she want to come and watch a lot of tedious ceremonies, and a bunch of girls sitting about having lessons? Already, I felt she was slightly superior to the other Avatars. Apart from Hap-Canae, of course.

He fetched me from my lessons one afternoon when the wind was blowing off the desert with a constant itchy whine, making everyone uneasy. He had great skeins of amber beads roped around his neck and a scroll tucked up the sleeve of his gold and tawny robe.

“What is that?” I said, and he glanced over to where Meisheté was standing, and drew me away before he answered.

“Only a treatise on the worship of Babaska. I thought it might help you with your lessons, but it is very dull.”

After he had finished with me, feeling restless, and – although I didn’t want to admit it – unsatisfied, I slipped out of bed while he was sleeping and looked at the scroll.

It was very dull indeed; a discussion of some minor ceremony I had never heard of, full of ramblings about which incense was most appropriate, with long digressions on how it was obtained; what cloth should be used for the officiant’s garments, and whether one dye should be used as opposed to another, whose colour was less good but which was produced in some village Babaska was supposed to favour.

Honestly,
I thought,
What sort of goddess would even
care
about such things?
I kept reading only because I had nothing else to do, and in the vague hope that Hap-Canae would wake and see me studying and be proud of me.

There was stuff about the proper decoration of the altar, and about how the officiant should stand, and speak.

There was a little phrase at the bottom which I noticed because the writing, while nearly the same, was not quite. The letters wavered a little, and the ink was slightly less faded. “As it is said at the point where the incense is lit: ‘And with her sword she cuts the way to power; true godhead comes only with blade and flower.’” The scroll was damaged here. I could see faint scratches near the words.

I came to with a start. Hap-Canae had been right about it being dull; I couldn’t even read it without falling asleep.

I folded up the scroll again and looked out of the window at the desert until Hap-Canae woke.

“You tried the scroll, I see. How did you get on?”

Since he had, as I thought, brought it especially for me, I was ashamed to admit I hadn’t even finished it. “Well, there was a lot to read,” I said.

“Come, you were bored,” he said. “Were you not? So was I. Shall we rid the world of a little piece of boredom?”

“How?” I said.

Hap-Canae smiled, and touched the scroll with his finger. There was the toasty smell of burning paper, a brief flare of flame, and the thing was gone – ash.

“Oh!” I said. I felt an odd sense of shock; the scroll might be dull, but it was very old, it had survived so many years, the priest who had written it was long since dust, and yet, now, it was gone in an instant.

“What did you do?” I said.

“The Touch of the Sun. A gift from the God Hap-Canae to his Avatar. Don’t look so startled, child. You must get used to these things.”

CHAPTER TEN

Day 3

4 days to Twomoon

I
WOKE WITH
that ugly hung-over feeling a bad dream smears in its wake, and decided another bath would be a good idea. I was hauled out of it by Essie calling outside the door that the new butcher’s boy was here, wanting payment, and no-one knew where I’d hidden the petty cash.

I hadn’t hidden it, I’d just shoved it behind a lamp in the parlour.

Frithlit emerged onto the landing as I went downstairs wearing towels. I waved him a casual good morning, wondering whether the normally early-rising Previous was still sleeping the sleep of the happily rogered. He ducked his head shyly and smiled, his pearly-blue skin gleaming in the morning light. I had no idea what plane he came from. In fact, I realised as I went downstairs, for all the chatter he’d done at the table, I hadn’t learnt much about him. Still, so long as he made Previous happy.

The butcher’s boy was an appealing young thing; same species as the butcher, judging by his coat of thick chestnut fur and round brown eyes. He was looking around with a vast, yellow-toothed grin I didn’t think could get any wider, though when a few of the crew wandered in, yawning and half-dressed, in search of breakfast, he somehow managed it.

When I paid him and signed the bill he looked speculatively at the money in his hand and said, “How much is it for, you know, an hour?”

“More than you’ve got, even of your boss’s money.”

His grin drooped, then perked again. “Okay, I’ll get rich, then I’ll come back.”

I like a bit of entrepreneurial spirit. “You do that,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now, off with you.”

On his way out he gave me an even cheekier grin. “Hey, how much for you?”

“Get rich. Then we’ll talk.”

He went off laughing.

I went back up to finish my bath, but it was nearly cold and the damn soap seemed to have disappeared somewhere. I gave up, got dressed and put on my rings. My seal-ring, the only thing I had from the past, looked dull. I rubbed the thumb of my left hand over it and it came away soapy. What had the ring done,
eaten
the soap? It was a funny thing, that ring; I often wondered why I kept it. But somehow I always had.

Never mind, it was about to get greased up anyway, because I needed some serious breakfast.

Flower, with a big orange stain down his apron, was still adding food to the table, though there was barely room. “Ah, look at this. I’d better put it in the laundry.” He whipped off his apron and tucked it under his arm, his massive green torso gleaming.

“We expecting an army?” I said. “Or are you just planning to keep open house for the Vessels if they come back?”

“Everyone’s hungry before Twomoon,” he said.

I couldn’t really blame him for being extravagant. I’d spent enough time in my life hungry, I wanted my crew well fed, and the punters liked it. It helped add to our reputation as a place where you came away feeling fulfilled and happy rather than soiled and robbed – unless that was how you wanted to feel, of course.

Ireq came in, stretched, and filled his plate. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

He took a seat and tucked in, having used up about half the words he allowed himself each day.

“So,” Laney said, whisking into the room in her pink silk dressing gown, her green eyes slitted as she yawned, and reaching for coffee, “Previous not up, then?”

“No, but her boyfriend is. Saw him on the landing.”

“He’s sweet,” Laney said.

“Came in useful yesterday, I’ll say that for him.”

“Didn’t he? Such a poppet.”

So long as he stayed out of the way of the clients I didn’t have a problem with him hanging about. If he hurt Previous, though, I’d bounce him down the steps on his head. Or give him to the Twins.

We’ve a saying – talk of a demon and hear him fart. Frithlit appeared in the doorway.

“Morning,” Flower said. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you. Is very much food! I eat all this I am go pop, yes?”

“I expect you need your strength,” Jivrais said, reaching for another pastry. “Previous up yet?” Laney nudged him hard in the ribs and Jivrais dropped his pastry. “Ow! What?”

Frithlit went an even prettier shade of lavender, and Previous walked in, noticed everyone grinning, and went bright red.

They really did clash.

I tried not to laugh, and distracted myself by digging in my trouser pocket for something that was pressing uncomfortably into my leg.

It was Enthemmerlee’s portrait. Any desire to laugh drained away. Two days, already, and who knew what was happening to the poor child? I finished my breakfast quickly, and headed for the docks.

TIRESANA

A
LONGSIDE THE LESSONS
in the sensual arts, we had martial training. My friend Radan had been good, but the trainers they brought in for us were the best that could be found, although they never lasted very long.

“Why do they change them so often?” I said.

Hap-Canae frowned down at me. “Understand that
everything
we do is necessary,” he said. “You are doing very well, I am pleased with you. Your training is working. Do you have some complaint?” He let a little anger show in his voice, then, or at least the potential for it.

“Oh no,” I said. “I only wondered... is it so we won’t get stale? Miss out on something? After all, if you learn only from one person, you’ll only know what they know. If you learn from lots...”

“Clever child,” he said, stroking me. “That’s it exactly.”

He hardly had to make an effort at fooling me, by then I was doing almost all of it for myself.

Livaia showed us how our bodies worked, and how to make the most of them. She showed us how to be graceful in the event of everything from a failed erection to an unexpected fart. How to stimulate the unenthusiastic and hold back the over-eager. How to make someone smile, and how to make them shudder or scream.

One morning, Shakanti was supervising, and Meisheté had come in to check on us too.

Livaia said, “I have been told you are to be priestesses, but one may find oneself, even as a priestess, confronted with someone who desires to hurt you. This is the world we live in.”

“Oh, they have no need...” Shakanti said, and I saw Meisheté lean over, eyes gleaming in their shadowed surrounds, and whisper fiercely in her ear. Shakanti shrugged and glared and flounced away. Meisheté leaned back, her hands over her faux-pregnant belly, and waved an impatient hand at Livaia to continue.

After a moment’s hesitation, she did so. “If someone is threatening towards you, it is essential to remain calm. Move slowly. Look them in the eye. Speak in a steady voice, say that they seem troubled, and ask them what it is that troubles them. Speak of yourself, tell them of some little personal detail or preference, it makes it more difficult for them to see you as merely a body, or a woman, or whatever it is they want to hurt. And call for wine or food, remaining always calm and courteous. Many are less likely to become violent in the presence of others. If you can, make sure you can get out of the room ahead of them.”

“And if none of that works, we can always headbutt them, or get them in a grapple and stab them,” I said. We had been doing grapples and throws in fight training, and I was rather overenthusiastic about it all.

Livaia laughed. “Looking at you girls, I’m sure you could. However,” she turned serious again. “Sometimes, you may encounter those who are mad. I have seen it, and they are very strong, and seem to feel no pain. In that case, you must just
get away
.”

“How do you know when someone’s mad?” Velance asked.

I heard someone whisper, “Just look at Shakanti.” Probably Jonat.

“Sadly, it is not always easy to tell. But once you realise, the thing is to get away, whatever you need to do to achieve it.”

After the class I saw Meisheté in the corridor, speaking to Rohikanta. I hesitated, because of the Messehwhy. Their great coarse-scaled bodies almost filled the corridor. One turned its head as I came out and yawned, a cave of teeth and carrion stink.

“...endanger us all,” Meisheté was saying, the skin around her eyes so velvet-dark she looked like some exotic beast, her belly drum-tight. “They know she never lies.”

Rohikanta stroked his watery beard, sending the mist that rose from it into wavering curls. “And what do you suggest?”

“I think...” Two more girls came out behind me, giggling. Meisheté realised we were there and said, “I will discuss this with you later.” She beckoned Velance to follow her and walked off in her swaying, gravid way.

She was always in her pregnant aspect when she supervised the classes, as though to remind us what all this rampancy was for, though, of course, Livaia taught us about preventing that, too.

I didn’t know, then, that the Avatars paid a price for their power. Meisheté couldn’t have become pregnant, even if she had wanted to. I’m not sure she even wanted a real baby: power over other women and their babies seemed to be enough for her. She didn’t once, that I saw, make an affectionate or motherly gesture even towards Velance, her Chosen.

But if she’d wanted a baby, there were more than enough that could have done with mothering. They hung in bags on doors all over town.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
LIKE THE
docks. Loud, interesting, stuff coming in from everywhere in the Empire. Scalentine’s main river, the Druthain, runs there, through Portal Bealach.

Portal light bathes the docks, gilded and thunderous. The portal is an arc of flame; a huge shimmering hole in the stuff of the world. Bealach hasn’t closed in living memory, but it’s still a portal. It could. What would happen then... ask Mokraine, not me. We’d lose a lot of trade, that much I know.

The ships come up the river, clothed in the light, their masts shimmering with fire; the sailors clinging to the rigging glow like seraphim. Light sings gold in the planks and turns the sails to lamps of alabaster. Every ripple and crest of the water is flame lined with lapis lazuli. The low song of the portal, like the purr of a cat or endlessly ripping silk, dampens all other sound, so the ships float silent as ghosts.