The Mirrored City (5 page)

Soren didn’t much care for the exposure of nudity, but it seemed criminal to put his filthy vagabond rags over his newly clean skin. His skinny chest was embarrassingly pale in contrast to his golden tan arms, but Dessim always had far worse examples of nakedness. The proverb went, the less you want to see a person naked, the more likely you will.

Not that he was much to look at. He carried his few remaining coins tightly clenched in his hand as he approached the Dancing Star. Beside the door were several small alcoves for various idols to the gods of the Host. You could tell a lot about a person by the gods they kept in their shrines. The gods were all men, representing divine portfolios of drunkenness, sex, and excess.

Soren pushed his way into the bar. Thankfully, he was not the only person without clothes. While immodesty was considered illegal in Baash, the people of Dessim considered modesty an option. He glanced around for Keltis, spotting his coat right away.

Soren steeled himself and approached Keltis’s table. A much older man, maybe forty years old, wrapped his arm around Keltis with a hand down the front of his silk shirt.

“Soren!” Keltis exclaimed and then explained to his friend, “He was my only friend in that horrible orphanage.”

“He’s too skinny,” the other man said. “And I don’t like the beard.”

Keltis leered at the man. “I’m sure your wife doesn’t like the fact that you enjoy getting fucked by a man who’s your son Nathan’s age. Not to mention how your son might take the fact that his father has an insatiable taste for cock.”

The man scowled. “You wouldn’t dare, you little—”

Keltis cut the man off. “Probably not. Why don’t you just get us a pitcher of mead and we’ll chalk this up to a misunderstanding? Or you can just leave the money.”

The man slapped five ducats on the table and stormed off. Keltis patted the vacated seat. “That was lesson two by the way.”

“Blackmail?” Soren asked.

“No.” Keltis sighed. “Shave the fucking beard. And for the Host’s sake, eat something. You look like a skeleton with a farmer’s tan.”

“Fuck you,” Soren mustered with the last of his dignity.

“Just being honest.” Keltis shrugged. “People judge you on how you look. They don’t care that your parents abandoned you. They like a clean shaven boy with some meat on his bones.”

“You’re nothing more than a whore and—
ugh!
” Soren exclaimed. He clenched his head as a dizzy spell fell upon him. Stumbling forward into the table, he nearly knocked Keltis’s drink into his lap.

“By the Host,” Keltis said. “Are you on drugs or something? Sit the fuck down before you fall out in front of everyone.”

“No. I’m having one of my headaches again.” Soren took a seat and rubbed his temples. “It’ll pass.”

Keltis reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny bottle of white powder. He unscrewed the lid, pulling out a tiny silver measuring spoon. He measured out a generous heap of powder. “Here. Sniff this. It fixes everything.”

The pain in Soren’s head pounded. He looked warily at the heap of powder on the little silver spoon. He pinched one nostril shut and inhaled. The powder had an almost sweet fragrance as it burned his nose. Then, within moments, a calming numbness spread through his face. The headache retreated.

Keltis screwed the lid back on the bottle and slid it over to Soren. “You’re welcome. Try to use it sparingly. It’s very expensive.”

“Why are you helping me, Keltis?”

“Your cheekbones,” he replied. “And your eyes. You have a natural beauty that could earn you money, and I hate to see them go to waste. Honestly, I could use some help. Since getting into the escort business, I have been overbooked for weeks. I mean, I
knew
I would be popular, but… I never expected to be so much in demand. Frankly, I’m exhausted and could use someone to fill in for me.”

“You want me to fuck men for you, for money?”

“You won’t get as high a rate as I do, and of course I’ll take a percentage for bringing you in. But surely it’s got to be better than this, Soren. Living on the street? You could have a warm bed every night of the week.”

“I can’t do that, Keltis. I don’t even know if I’m, you know,
that way
. I’m sorry. Can I get something to eat before I go? Just bread or something small.”

Keltis cocked his head as if considering Soren’s plight. “There is something else you can do for me. It’s not glamorous, but you’ll meet interesting people, and it’s a good introduction to the lifestyle. Have you heard of the Palace of Keys?”

“It’s a really expensive brothel,” Soren said.

“They need someone to work the front of the house. The last one went missing, probably married off to one of the wealthier clients. Anyway, you just need to look presentable and be friendly as you pass out room keys. A monkey could do it. The pay is shit, but I could put in a word.”

“You’d do that for me?”

Keltis shrugged. “I did go through some trouble getting you cleaned up. The proprietor will owe me a favor if I bring you in. And you, if you ever prove useful, will owe me for life. So the day isn’t a complete waste for me after all. Now should we go somewhere else? The food here is awful.”

Soren nodded and rose to leave the tavern. He held the vial of powder in his calloused hand and a few coins in the other. He didn’t trust Keltis but had nothing to lose. Maybe he had changed. It seemed like so much time since they had been in the orphanage together. Keltis seemed stronger and more self-confident.

Keltis probably only wanted Soren around to torment and humiliate. The man didn’t need to be a bully, not when he could make Soren dance for a crust of bread. But it was better than spending another night on the street. Soren resolved that even though he needed to play the part of the pitiful street rat, he still could preserve his dignity. At least he hoped he could.

F
IVE

The Devil’s Bargain

H
EATH

The Orthodoxy foolishly believes it is enough to simply believe in Ohan and pray to him, may His Light shine forever. However, belief is irrelevant because with simple belief comes interpretation. One can believe in many things, to differing degrees at different times, so it is clear action and devoted practice that matter most as the measure of faith.

Ohan is not pleased with the occasional prayer, offered only when the supplicant wants something. It must be performed thrice daily (sunrise, noon, and sunset) and at no other time. This ensures continued favor by a show of devotion.

Likewise, one must practice the art of correct living in one’s daily life. Ohan’s purity must be sought vigorously. This means avoiding the forbidden foods, avoiding intoxicants such as alcohol, practicing personal cleanliness, and abstaining from fornication outside the bounds of a marriage between a man and his wives.

Ohan, Light of All Things, does not ask you to place your faith in him; rather, he demands your absolute commitment. We live to serve our God always, never the other way around.

—MISSIVE TO HIS FOLLOWERS FROM IBIQ QAADAR, GRAND PATRIARCH OF BAASH

HEATH WORE A
flowing quilted robe that left his dark chest and arms bare. His eyes were silver and gem hard as he marched into the white marbled hall of House Ibazz. Between each pair of smooth columns of polished marble, a Patrean warrior in lacquered white armor held a spear at his side. A long purple carpet inscribed with intricate knot work led Heath to a pair of massive titanium double doors, inscribed with a bas-relief of the liberation of Saint Juliet.

Two seasoned guards preceded him as he made his way down the hall. The two guards rapped on the doors in unison, and like a massive vault, the doors slowly opened. The entry hall was grand, but the room beyond was a sumptuous feast for the eyes. A table laden with bowls of tantalizing vegetables and salads drew his eye first. Then a line of women with ice blue eyes wearing veils and jeweled headdresses bowed gracefully, parting to reveal the house Patriarch, Vyzad Ibazz, seated on a gold-trimmed pillow. He was older, with gray at his temples and beard, but he seemed fit.

“Heath Gissasos.” Vyzad rose and extended his arms. “Be welcome in my home and partake in Ohan’s bounty, may He be praised forever.”

“May His light shine eternal.” Heath flashed an ivory smile and bowed slightly.

“May His radiance fill every dark corner of the world,” Vyzad said with a hint of challenge in his voice. “Even to the depths of the darkest oceans.”

Heath smirked. “And to the corner of every ignorant mind, that they may see His truth, bless His name from each generation to the next.”

Vyzad laughed. “I see you have studied our customs, but I warn you, these professions of faith can be quite lengthy affairs. Abaya and Galut declared their love for Ohan for fourteen days before the Messenger had to intervene and judge their love for Him equal. However, you do not need to impress me. Your eyes tell me more than your words.”

Heath nodded. “I was a priest of Ohan before Kondole. I still have love for Him, but Kondole has chosen me personally.”

Vyzad stiffened at the mention of the Father Whale’s name. He spoke as if his words tasted like rotting meat. “Yes… it has.”

The Baashan tradition of Ohan’s worship was sincere to the point of zealotry. By contrast, the Hierocracy in Rivern had been a bureaucracy of opportunists going through the motions of faith because the church served as a source of influence. During Heath’s time in the Inquisition, he had violated every single one of Ohan’s commandments in the service of punishing the wicked. In Baash, they really believed, which was both admirable and stupid.

Vyzad clapped his hands. “Tea for our guest! I hope you like mint.”

Heath nodded graciously. “I love mint.”

Heath took his seat on a pillow brought before the table by two of Vyzad’s daughters. Like a finely trained drill team, they brought him a bowl of rose water for his hands and set down a silver teapot with a gold-rimmed porcelain cup to go with it. Another daughter poured. Heath noted her skin was pale ivory, unlike her sisters.
No alcohol and nothing but young women besides Vyzad. Maddox would be miserable.

Heath held his hands over the washbowl and willed the water to come to him.
A little display of power.
A pair of watery hands emerged from the bowl and cleaned his own. He acted casually as one of the daughters stifled a gasp. Once his hands were clean, he pressed them together and bowed to the one who hastily snatched the bowl away as if it might burn her.

“Stormlord,” Vyzad said. “I would ask you to refrain from using your…
god
’s powers in my home.”

Heath shrugged. “My apologies. I have become so used to it, I do not even think about it. I will not be so thoughtless in the future.”

“Bah.” Vyzad shrugged. “It is only theurgy. Still, my daughters are not so worldly on these matters. Please eat.”

Heath reached for a bowl of cumin pastries, a local delicacy he’d come to enjoy, but before his hand could reach the pastry, one of the daughters grabbed it and held it to his lips. Awkwardly, Heath bit into it, nodding appreciatively as she continued to feed him the entire thing. “Thanks,” he said.

“Please try the meat.” Vyzad waved for a daughter to bring a slice of rare beef sprinkled with black pepper.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Heath gently interjected, “I would prefer to feed myself.”

Vyzad nodded. “Suit yourself. Perhaps my
sons
would have pleased you better.”

Heath folded his hands. “I hear they’re handsome, but no, Vyzad, I’ve just never been a fan of theater. So we’ve praised Ohan, we’ve cleansed, and we’ve eaten. Am I correct in assuming it’s sanctioned by Ohan to discuss business?”

Vyzad chuckled. “Maybe we are not so different. Yes, let’s discuss business. You have come to Baash because you know this year it is our Council who appoints a member to the Grand Assembly to represent the Mirrored City. Were it Dessim, you would easily have the four votes you need to convince the Protectorate to support Queen Jessa’s claim for the Coral Throne. But not so with the people of Baash, who regard the Stormlords as unclean before the light of Ohan, may He always shine upon us.”

“That’s the sum of it, yes,” Heath stated. “Will the Patriarch support us and ensure a peaceful end to the violence between the Protectorate and the Dominance?”

“No.” Vyzad shook his head. “The Stormlords have persecuted our faithful in Thrycea, and there will be no justice until the Light of Ohan shines upon the sunken palace.”

“Jessa believes in Ohan just as she does Kondole. She will end the persecution, and we will pacify the Stormlords.”

“She is a Stormlord. Her words are hollow. I imagine yours are as well… Inquisitor. It was not so long ago the Hierocracy branded us as heretics for our faith.”

“You have every reason not to trust me,” Heath said. “But you still met with me.”

“I did. Is that not strange?” Vyzad stroked his beard.

“Water,” Heath said.

“Shannon, bring him some water.”

“No.” Heath held his hand. “House Ibazz owns a plot of land on the edge of the fertile valley that provides a modest yield compared to the other houses. You’ve done wonders with irrigation, but your process is inefficient and your wells are running dry. Plants need both light and rain. And I can make it rain.”