‘Do not despair, my High Alchemicalness. The Eel has eyes like a hawk! And had it any limbs, why, they would be the thews of a panther! No pale wriggling albino cave fish is the Eel! Er … that is … unlike said fish, no pickling jar could ever be quick enough to capture it!’
All through the alleys of the bourse of the dancing girls, beneath its multicoloured awnings and drifting fumes of burning prayer sticks, the gossip of the day was fixed upon the unprecedented arrival of a bright new star among the constellation of its most talented practitioners.
The heart of the bourse was the narrow Way of Sighs, a length of shadowed alley not incidentally overlooked by the open window alcoves of the dancers’ quarters. Here in the cool of the twilight the girls often gathered in their window seats to take in the pleasant night air, observe dusk prayers, and to receive the admiration of suitors lingering below. This eve the courtiers and young bravos talked among themselves, comparing rapturous descriptions of the new dancer’s goddess-like grace and classical beauty; while, above, tortoiseshell combs yanked rather savagely through midnight manes of hair.
She had appeared out of nowhere, this diminutive captivating sprite whose confidence so far surpassed her apparent age. No school could boast of having trained her, though many wished they had. A secretive rise of her painted lips and a flash of her green-tinged sloe-eyes easily deflected even the subtlest of questioning and left would-be interrogators speechless. Schooling at home by her mother, herself once a very famous dancer, was all she had admitted so far.
Then the romance began. How the alleyways resounded, the awnings fluttered, with twice the usual wistful sighs of admiration! The dedicated, brilliant dancer (no doubt of the lowest of family origins) and the awkward son of a noble house (and that house in poverty and decline). Why, it was like the stories of old! Jeshin Lim, the bookish, unpromising son of the once great Lim family, cousin to councilman Shardan, himself cut off so tragically, madly in love with a dancing girl of no family and no connections. What other explanation could there be but pure unadorned love?
In their window nooks some clenched perfectly manicured nails to palms and muttered through pearl teeth of
Then the unlikeliest of strokes. The cousin vaulted to a seat on the Council! All nod sagely at the obvious tonic to a man of the love and devotion of a gifted woman. And the path to said Council seat no doubt paved by the freely given gold bangles and anklets from those very shapely limbs!
Yet inevitably must come the tragic and tearful end. All know the conclusion to such star-crossed affairs. Lim, having achieved the vaunted rank of councilman, is far too prominent for such a low entanglement.
And so, in the cooling breezes of the window nooks, brushes now slid smoothly through long black hair, and kohl-lined eyes were languid and satisfied in the certain knowledge of such pending devastation.
Now he came, this very eve, drawn in a hired carriage to the apartment houses near the dancers’ quarters where so many girls were similarly kept at the expense of their, shall we say, patrons.
Lim’s carriage pulled up at the private entrance and he stepped down wrapped in a dark hooded cloak. He held a delicate gold mask pressed to his face, obscuring his features. The guard bowed respectfully, eyes averted, and pulled the sliding bolt. The councilman slipped within.
He came to one specific door along the second-floor hall and knocked four quick raps: their agreed secret code. Yet the door did not open; no smooth naked arms entwined him. The gold mask edged right and left, then a hand rose to try the latch, and found it unlocked. He stepped within, pushed the door shut behind. ‘My love?’
No answer from the cluttered darkened room. Layered carpets covered the floor in heaps, cushions lay about draped in abandoned gossamer clothes. He edged forward tentatively. ‘My dear?’
He found her at the window — no open seated alcove here: bars sealed these small openings. She was peering out to where the blue-tinted night flames of the city seemed to battle the green-tinged night sky above.
‘I am sorry, my dear …’ he began.
She turned, arms crossed over her small high breasts. For a moment her eyes seemed to flash with a green light akin to that of the night sky. ‘And who is this who comes intruding upon my privacy?’
Jeshin stared, confused, then lowered the mask and examined it wryly. He pushed back the hood, revealing his long black hair, his narrow scholar’s face. He tapped a finger to the gold mask. ‘You see? Even now I come as you request. Though why this facade of anonymity when everyone seems to know of … well.’ He tossed the mask aside.
‘You should not have come,’ she said, hugging herself even tighter, as if struggling to keep something in.
Jeshin turned away, pacing. ‘Yes, yes. Now that I am a councillor. Even now you shame me in your concern for my
Slipping forward, she silenced him with a finger to his lips. ‘No.’ She spoke soothingly, as if to a child. ‘I’ll not have you weakened in any way. Your opponents will use it against you. Paint you an impetuous fool. You must not be compromised.’ And she peered up at him, her gaze almost furtive. ‘Your great vision for the city, remember?’
He squeezed her to him. ‘But without you?’
Dancer that she was, she somehow easily eluded his grasp to put her back to him. ‘We … both … must make sacrifices,’ she said, facing the window once more.
He shook his head in awed admiration. ‘Your determination is a lesson to me.’
She turned, finger at her chin. ‘Yet there is one last thing I can do for you, my Jeshin, my noble councillor.’
He waved the suggestion aside, still shaking his head. ‘You have done enough — too much. Your advice, the things you knew … As they say: all secrets are revealed beneath the feet of the dancer.’
Her henna-lined lips drew up, pleased. ‘That is a very old saying. And very true. No, one last word that has come to me. There is an extraordinarily wealthy man in the city who shares your vision of a strong Darujhistan that commands the respect it deserves.’ Her lips drew down, dismissive. ‘True, he is a northerner, from Cat. But he should support you. His name is Humble. Humble Measure.’
Jeshin frowned. ‘The ironmonger?’
‘He is more than that. Trust in me.’
The young councillor held out his hands as if in surrender. ‘If you say so, dearest. I shall contact him.’
‘Excellent. With his resources your ascent will be assured.’
Jeshin stared, almost awestruck. ‘I do not deserve you, my love.’
Smiling once more, she pressed a palm to his chest and gently urged him down to a heap of cushions. ‘You shall, my love. You shall.’
Standing above him she struck the opening pose of
Then she danced.
Staring, mesmerized, his pulse racing, Jeshin could only moan, ‘Oh, Taya … Taya …’
The retreat had been established in the coastal mountains south of Mengal generations ago. Some named it a monastery, others a school. Those who entered did so in the understanding of a voluntary abandonment of the world, with all its diversions and deluding ambitions.
Why the legendary Traveller, slayer of Anomander Rake, the very son of Darkness and Lord of Moon’s Spawn, would come here was a mystery to Esten Rul. If
And that was not what he planned on doing after he in turn defeated this Traveller.
Even now, assured by numerous independent sources, he could not quite believe that this squalid mountain- hugging collection of huts and open-air temples was the retreat of the great swordsman. Entering the main sand courtyard he paused, eyed the passing robed priests on their unhurried ways. None even cast him a single glance.
