His adopted son snored, still asleep on one of the cots crammed into the storeroom turned living space. The situation hadn’t been so bad when Kihrin was a pup, but as the lad had grown older he’d grown larger. Now there was barely room for the two of them.
Better than nothing though, Surdyeh thought. Better than being tossed out into the street.
If only he could make his ungrateful wretch of a son understand.
Sadly, he suspected his son understood too well. As much as Surdyeh pretended they walked the razor’s edge with the whorehouse madam’s good grace, the threat was idle. Madam Ola would never evict them. He would have preferred, though, if Ola didn’t sabotage his efforts at every turn. The boy needed to have a little respect shaken into him from time to time.
Surdyeh pulled himself out of his reverie for long enough to smack the end of his cane against his son’s backside.
“Kihrin, get up! You’ve overslept.”
His son groaned and turned over. “It’s not time yet!”
Surdyeh banged the stick against Kihrin’s bamboo cot this time. “Up, up! Have you forgotten already? We have a commission with Landril Attuleema tonight. And Madam Ola wants us to break in her new dancer. We’ve work to do and you’ve been up all night, haven’t you. Useless damn boy, what have I told you about stealing?”
His son sat up in bed. “Pappa.”
“If I wasn’t blind, I’d beat you until you couldn’t sit. My father never put up with such foolishness. You’re a musician, not a street thief.”
The cot creaked as Kihrin jumped out. “You’re the musician. I’m just a singing voice.” He sounded bitter.
Kihrin had been bitter about a lot of things lately, but he’d been such a sweet boy. What had Surdyeh done wrong?
“If you practiced your lessons…”
“I do practice. I’m just no good.”
Surdyeh scowled. “You call that practice? You spend more time helping yourself to Ola’s velvet girls and prowling rooftops than you do learning your chords. You could be good. You could be one of the best if you wanted it enough. When I was fifteen, I spent all night in the dark learning my fingerings. Practiced every day.”
Kihrin muttered under his breath, “When you were fifteen, you were already blind.”
“What did you just say?” Surdyeh’s hand tightened on his cane. “Damn it, boy. One of these days, you’re going to run afoul of the Watchmen, and that will be it, won’t it? They’ll take one of your hands if you’re lucky, sell you into slavery if you’re not. I won’t always be here to protect you.”
“Protect me?” Kihrin made a snorting sound. “Pappa, you know I love you, but you don’t protect me. You can’t.” More swishes of cloth: Kihrin grabbing loincloth, agolé, sallí cloak, and sandals to dress.
“I protect you more than you know, boy. More than you can imagine.” Surdyeh shook his head.
His son headed for the door. “Don’t we need to be somewhere?”
He wanted to say so much to the boy, but the words were either already spoken or could never be spoken. He knew better than to think his son would listen too. Ola was the only one Kihrin paid attention to anymore, and only because she told the boy what he wanted to hear. Surdyeh was tired of being the only one saying what the boy needed to hear. He was tired of arguing, tired of being the only whisper of conscience in this sea of sin.
Six more months. Six more months and Kihrin turned sixteen. And it would all be over; Surdyeh would find out just how good a job he’d done of raising him.
The whole Empire would find out.*
“Move your feet, son. We don’t want to be late.”
Surdyeh picked up his cane and poked his son in the ribs. “Quit daydreaming!”
* * *
Kihrin stammered through his verse. The crowd in the main room booed, although the audience had thinned out once they realized it was just a rehearsal session.
Most of the customers weren’t patrons of the arts, anyway.
“Start over,” Surdyeh said. “My apologies, Miss Morea. You’d think my son had never seen a pretty girl before.”
“Pappa!”
Surdyeh didn’t need to see to know his son was blushing, or that Morea was the cause. She was the newest dancer at the Shattered Veil Club, as well as being Ola’s newest slave. She would remain a slave until she earned enough extra metal from her service to pay back her bond price. To earn her freedom, she would need to be both an accomplished dancer and a successful whore.
Surdyeh didn’t much care, but from the way Kihrin carried on, he could only assume Morea was more beautiful than a goddess. At least, his son didn’t normally make quite this much of a fool of himself around the girls.
Morea grabbed a towel from the edge of the stage and wiped her face. “We’ve run through this twice. Once more and then a break?”
“Fine by me, Miss Morea,” Surdyeh said, readying his harp between his legs once more. “Assuming certain boys can keep their damn eyes in their damn heads and their damn minds on their damn work.”
He didn’t hear Kihrin’s response, but he could imagine it easily enough.
“Stop scowling,” Surdyeh said as he nudged Kihrin in the ribs again.
“How—?” Kihrin shook his head, gritted his teeth, and forced a smile onto his face.
Surdyeh started the dance over. Morea had asked him to play the Maevanos. If Morea had come from a wealthy house, the Maevanos was probably the best compromise she could manage. She’d have had no time to learn anything bawdier.
The story to the Maevanos was simple enough: A young woman is sold into slavery by her husband, who covets her younger sister. Mistreated by the slave master who buys her, she is purchased by a high lord of the Upper Circle. The high lord falls in love with her, but tragedy strikes when a rival house assassinates her new master. Loyal and true, the slave girl takes her own life to be with her lord beyond the Second Veil. Her devotion moves the death goddess Thaena to allow the couple to Return to the land of the living, taking the life of the philandering husband in their place. The high lord frees the girl, marries her, and everyone lives happily ever after who should.*
While the Maevanos was meant to be danced by a woman, the accompanying vocals were male. The story was told by the men the girl encountered rather than the girl herself. The scenes with the high lord and the slave trader were provocative, the whole reason Morea had suggested it as a compromise.
Surdyeh hated the dance for all the reasons it would probably do well at the brothel, but it hadn’t been his decision.
The crowd was larger than when the dance had begun; the first of the evening crowds had started to filter inside. Hoots and clapping greeted Morea as she gave a final bow. Kihrin trailed off his song. Surdyeh allowed the last notes to echo from his double-strung harp, holding his finger-taped picks just above the strings.