Well Met in Molos Page 2

  Orianna looks around her wildly. Outside, she hears running footsteps. A voice, rough and authoritative, calls, "Who's there? Show yourself!"

  Downstairs, the great doors boom closed.

  *~*~*

  When the doors of Gabrio's house are once more thrown open, the streets of Molos come alive with torches as guests spill out still laughing at their host's misfortune.

  Orianna leaves in their midst, slipping between them silently and swiftly, moving too fast to be politely or even forcefully accosted by any who might covet her. She hears in her wake more than one startled sound of recognition, and a few urgent whispers from conspirator to conspirator. But she is past them and beyond the ring of torches before any can seek to follow.

  She emerges from an alleyway well away from Gabrio's house with her body concealed inside dark robes, the valuable and attention-grabbing blue dress now a tight bundle against her belly, and her feet encased in securely strapped sandals far more practical than those she had worn on Gabrio's polished floors.

  She slips from shadow to shadow as quickly as the tiny bats that fill the air about the city's eaves, making no more noise than them and frequently going unnoticed by those she passes in her flight.

  Behind her, against the eastern wall of Molos, looms the great stone fortress where the Duke rules for the Empire. She can see the imperial seat if she turns, for it is the only building in Molos higher than any other, but few in Molos care for or about the Duke beyond his crest on the uniforms of the city guard. Besides, she has too far to travel to waste time on sightseeing.

  As she runs, she leaves behind her the mansions of the rich merchants who cluster about the fortress's walls like fawning court attendees. She passes through the Market Quarter, but the market itself is quiet and the square almost deserted at this witching hour before dawn.

  She passes without entering the Artisans' Quarter, where craftsmen, craftswomen, and their apprentices live in their stores and workshops. It is neat and respectable and easily forgotten by others. She avoids, in case customers or patrons linger outdoors, the inns that cater to those whose stay in Molos is brief, and the bathhouses and bordellos that cater to all those—all indeed, for there are even places where women may purchase the attentions of a man, should they desire it—who have the money to rent luxury, but not to buy it.

  She comes, at last, to the edge of the Market Quarter and to Saradakh. Only those who live in Saradakh give that dense, chaotic mass of humanity a name. To all others, it is "the poor."

  Merchants sneer at it, although their workers live on the edges of its warrens. Guards who venture within it patrol in groups, their faces hard and their hands ready on their weapons, although in truth there is no more crime there than anywhere else in Molos. The poor look after their own and police themselves.

  Saradakh means "the inner desert" in the tongue of those who live north of Molos's walls, beyond the great upthrust fault which spreads on the other side of Molos like a great fence to keep the desert from the Empire–or, depending who is doing the telling, the Empire from the desert. Not all who are poor show desert blood, but all who show desert blood live in Saradakh, and most who live there keep to desert clothing, and many to desert customs.

  Saradakh occupies barely a quarter of Molos's total area, crammed against the western walls, but it holds inside its crude buildings fully half of the city's inhabitants.

  All buildings in Molos are of stone or baked bricks, with thick walls, two stories, and solid wooden doors and window shutters. In Saradakh, they huddle closer together and are cruder and more drab of construction. Not even the least observant of visitors ventures without reason into Saradakh's narrow streets and twisty lanes.

  Orianna crosses most of Molos before plunging into those cramped streets, and makes short time of it, yet she is not tired or breathing hard when she reaches the unmarked border.

  She runs lightly, attracting little attention in a city which makes the most of the cooler night time hours. At this late hour, some seek to follow her simply because she is small and running, but none have any success as she weaves her way seemingly at random from street to lane to alley.

  In Saradakh, she bends her steps until she comes at last to the carefully neutral, carefully respectable fringe occupied by those who go each day to draw a respectable salary at stables, or by cleaning streets, or carting water, or selling food or produce from trays around their necks.

  Here, the walls of Molos loom close, and seem as much like the dark walls of a cell as the strong walls of a house.

  The buildings here are as solidly made and roughly finished as those elsewhere in Saradakh, but seem to cringe beneath the walls. Instead of proud defiance in solidarity, they radiate self-critical uniformity.

  Each house holds its own single family, but many are so narrow, albeit long, that some families sleep on stacked bunks, like bales of cloth on racks. Each house stands separate from its neighbours, but often by such a small amount that only the thinnest and youngest of children could fit in-between. Here, there may be windows on the outer walls, to admit light, but they are small and high and covered by thick wooden lattices to ensure privacy. There are vents high and low on the walls, but the lower vents admit air through channels that promote coolth without threatening by sight or sound the confidences of those inside.

  Orianna darts between two rows of such buildings, through a narrow laneway to the narrower and dirtier space behind them, where an adult man may think twice about attempting to pass.

  Holding her cloak tightly about her, she backtracks past three houses, running without making more sound than a heartbeat and with her eyes constantly scanning before, behind, and above her.

  A startled rat, neither its ears nor its feet having given it sound or vibration of her coming, flees in panic when her foot lands too close to it.

  She stops behind a house no different from any other. She scans once more around her, looking with glinting eyes from beneath her drawn hood, then swiftly ties her robes snugly around her belly, leaving her legs bare, before climbing straight up the stonework, her fingers and the toes of her sandals finding easy purchase in joins that barely appear to be gaps at all.

  Two stories she climbs, to the roof, where she pulls herself up and over the outer wall so quickly, and staying so close to the bricks, that any who saw might imagine her a scrawny cat.

  Although the outer walls of the house are straight and even, the top floor is of two parts. While the front is enclosed, the rear half is an open courtyard, its privacy well protected by its walls. Into this Orianna drops with ease despite the height of her fall, landing in a roll from which she stands into a brisk walk.

  A wooden door against one outer wall admits passage from the courtyard into the house. Next to it stands a shallow brazier on tall legs, containing black coals. Orianna takes a wooden splint from a bundle on a shelf next to the brazier, thrusts it into the coals, then with patience and breath elicits a glow that soon becomes a bright ember on the tip of the wood. She unlocks the door, opens it with barely any sound beyond the scrape of sand on stone, and slips through.

  *~*~*

  Inside, the door securely latched behind her, she lets loose an oath even more extreme than the one she directed after the absent Kalle.

  These dwellings are as simple inside as out. The ground floor contains an alcove into which the door opens, there being therefore no way for anyone outside to see in, and after that a living space complete with a brazier or similar for cooking. The upstairs is solely for sleeping. In the hot season, many choose to spend their night time sleep in their courtyards, under the stars.

  The space into which Orianna first passes is lit but dimly by moonlight shining through a grate in the ceiling, there never being any rain to trouble Molos. In front of her, a staircase descends to the lower level. The remainder of the space is partitioned into two sleeping quarters, each entered through an archway covered by its own curtain.

  An oil lantern sits next to the
door. She lights this with the splint.

  She then swiftly divests herself of her jewellery as she stalks into one of the quarters to drop it all into a carved wooden box atop a long, low cabinet. All the while, she maintains a low-voiced, snarling commentary beginning thus: "That goat-fucking, camel-ridden, rancid, diarrhoea-shitting..."

  The floor revealed by the lantern's light is covered in rugs, and every wall likewise. Only the ceiling is still naked stone. From it depends a larger and more shallow oil lantern, which Orianna ignores.

  In desert fashion, there are no chairs or tables, but many cushions instead, and the bed, a thin mattress stuffed with camel hair, is upon the floor. Much of the remaining space in the room is taken by a large wooden wardrobe.

  Moving with more anger than grace, she strips off her robes to expose her lean, muscled arms and shoulders.

  "One opportunity gone! A week of devotion to this one night! Three hours of preparation tonight alone, wasted!" Orianna hisses as she scrabbles at the knot tying the dress and jewelled sandals about her belly before hurling the bundle at the wardrobe, not caring that it falls to the floor.

  Her light linen undershirt falls just to her waist, revealing light linen wrapped tightly around and about her groin. Her legs, the movements of which, glimpsed tantalisingly through the cashmere of her dress, had distracted many a man at the party, are as smooth-skinned as her arms. But where her arms might be described as wiry, her legs are strong without such qualifications, and would suit well the tumblers who flaunt their bodies at festivals.

  She pulls off her undershirt too before snatching a locked box from inside the cabinet.

  Around her chest and over her shoulders, she has wound another long strip of cashmere into a fitted top so cunningly arranged that it shapes and presents a most enticingly nubile pair of breasts, as though there were nothing at all between them and her shift.

  A thin rug hanging against the wall can be moved aside and restrained by a cord to expose a large and ornate mirror, hung just off the floor, the polished silver and ornately carved frame of which are worth more than everything else in the room together.

  She kneels before the mirror, the box in front of her, moving still with lightness and poise but now with less a sense of grace and more a sense of efficiency. She pulls thin wads of cloth from inside her cheeks, changing the shape of her face. She scrabbles impatiently at the wool about her chest, untying and unravelling it quickly. She stretches her shoulders and sighs with satisfaction when her bare torso reveals small nipples atop lean muscles. From the box she takes a bottle of spirits of wine and a scrap of cloth. The cloth, soaked, is rubbed vigorously over her arms, darkening them and exposing long, thin, white scars. She removes powders and oils from her cheeks, eyelids, and the line of her jaw, all of which darken to a much more native hue. As she works, her face seems to further change shape.

  "Years waiting for an opportunity this good, to have it snatched away!" she mutters as a swipe of the rag darkens, thins, and straightens one eyebrow. "And Sarvin is not going to be happy about this. If I can't repair this plan..."

  She scrubs her face vigorously until, when she next pulls the cloth away, the image in the mirror is unadulterated by skilful makeup or any other of the arts of disguise. Her eyes focus on their reflections. A deep breath settles her, and in an instant the set of her shoulders and neck, the carriage of her hands and the tension in her face all change. Instead of elegance hiding the threat of hauteur, there is supple relaxation. "Hello Tiglis," she whispers, her voice no less soft but not breathy, just as light but with the pure accent of one Molos-born.

  Tiglis snarls at her reflection, her composure gone in a fresh burst of anger. "I have never yet failed a contract, and I will not now! We will not be dishonoured while we still live in Molos!"

  She flings the cloth from her in a fit of pique, but her glare becomes thoughtful as she studies her own reflection. A hand rises and a finger trails along the natural line of her jaw. "But Orianna was a success. No woman of Molos will attract attention after tonight's work. Two days drinking with that merchant and listening to his insufferable opinions was not wasted. It will be a good voice to keep, in case I ever reach..." Her gaze slides to her open makeup box, where a small scrap of map is carefully fixed to the inside of the lid. The map does not show Molos, nor any desert. She flicks a glance at the bundle of the blue dress, and her expression becomes even more wistfully longing for a second.

  But her face soon hardens again. She looks up and down her body's reflection, her posture shifting briefly to become masculine. She strokes the outline of a beard on her now clenched jaw. "Will have to go as Zerris to see Sarvin in the morning. Find out if this Kalle has been making anyone else's life difficult." She grimaces. "And hope he cares more about getting the Egg than he does about such a setback. Demons above, if we had not been so occupied with planning tonight, we would already know Kalle's name for ourself!

  "We'll regain that key yet," she and her reflection reassure each other. "The key, the Egg, and enough gold to leave Molos before anyone is any the wiser."

  Hunting the Interloper

  Molos rises before the sun, so errands may be run before the night's cool entirely burns away. Streets that are frantic in the morning become sluggish as midday approaches, when the wise retreat indoors, and are as still as death when the sun shines straight down between the buildings. In the cool season, Molos sleeps as much during the day as it does at night; in the hot season, more. The Molos day is divided into quarters, not halves, by periods of sleep and wakefulness.

  As the sun begins to drive people back indoors, the morning's frantic commerce now done, Zerris slips from shadow to shadow through back streets towards the edge of the Merchants' Quarter. His desert robes reveal his slight build but conceal his age. The long headdress wrapped around his face, to keep out sand and the sun, reveals only a strip of flesh around his blue-irised eyes.

  He is light and fleet of foot, and weaves through obstacles, whether stationary or ambulatory, like a cat. An opportunistic thief follows him, but is easily left behind at a crossroads.

  He is as agile as Orianna, and shares her build, but nothing else about the way he moves would provoke any memory in anyone who had seen them both.

  The shop he comes to is dark and cool on the inside, behind its thick stone walls. Anyone entering would relish the temperature but be nearly blinded by the gloom. At this hour, there are no longer any customers.

  He crosses from bright day to pleasant gloom but slows down little as he passes shelves, tall vases, and carefully balanced piles of sacks.

  At the back of the shop sits a man writing busily at a desk, his back to another door, who speaks without looking up.

  "Ah, Zerris. Aren't you a little old to still be running errands? Or is Melech really as desperate for reliable boys as he says he is?"

  Zerris uncovers his face to reveal a young man's beard trimmed neatly around his mouth and jaw. His features are fine with youth, his lashes long and feminine in the way of many men of the desert, his skin tinged tribesman olive, and his black hair uncut and held in a single long braid in the fashion of desert men—those who need to keep strands off their faces when hunting or fighting. There is a resemblance to Tiglis, but only that of a brother and sister. "Can't say for that, Sarvin sir, I just run the errands!" His voice is cheerful and pitched as a beardless youth, to match the boyish appearance he had made with his face covered.

  Sarvin grunts as he puts down his quill. "And well you do, at that. Does Melech afford you the means to support your sister?"

  Zerris bobs an obsequious bow. "Can't complain, Mr Sarvin sir, and Tiglis never has reason to, thank you for asking."

  Sarvin raises an eyebrow a tiny amount, but nods. "Well, out back with you." He waits for Zerris to pass, then closes the door to his office, the thick slab of cypress secure against their conversation being overheard. "I heard a rumour there was an interesting event at Gabrio's party last night."

  Ze
rris scowls. "So my associate told me, at length. Was there anyone else on the hunt, Sarvin? Anyone else contracted for the same target?" His voice is no longer pitched as a boy's, but as a mature man's tenor.

  Sarvin raises an eyebrow, the precise movement the only disturbance of his face, a face which is both stern and yet tranquil, and never repeats the same expression without another coming between. This eyebrow is not the one he raised in his shop. "Not on my order. I cannot say nobody else is planning an acquisition, but nobody did me the courtesy of letting me know. It is, you must understand, the Egg of Valmong, after all. Money makes alliances uneasy, as you know, Zerris, and the Egg represents enough money to break them."

  "Freelance?"

  Sarvin laughs gently, an action not reflected in his eyes. "How would they dispose of it? No, Zerris, if it were freelance, it would have to be someone new to the city, and I assure you, I know of no such freelancers."

  "New," Zerris snarls. "No new thieves this good have come to Molos for years; if they are successful enough to afford the caravan fees, they know about Melech, and Melech does not tolerate wetlanders who work without his leave. But I think I met one last night."

  "Oh?"

  "Young man, I think, slender and not too tall, but that's all my associate saw. Gave the name Kalle." He hesitates over the unfamiliar pronunciation, but makes a good approximation of it, having had time to replay the conversation in his head and focus on the percussive pronunciation Kalle had employed.

  "Gave the name?"

  "Yes, he held a knife to my associate's throat, introduced himself, then was off. Denied knowledge of the key and suggested he didn't even know about the Egg. But the key could not be found and Kalle's departure alerted the guards so there was no time for a full search." Zerris lies easily, letting a half-truth stand where a full omission might be easier, telling Sarvin only what Sarvin absolutely needs to know.