“Qoran Milligreest, the High General of the Great and Holy Empire of Quur,” Surdyeh began with a mocking, angry voice, “has just invited our pride and joy to come over to his house.” He inhaled deeply. “He wants to replace my harp the demon smashed up. At least, that’s the official story.” Surdyeh’s tone said he didn’t believe it for one minute, for one second. He expected his son would put one foot inside this General’s house and be set upon by a hundred guards with crossbows and pikes.
“General Milligreest?” Ola’s eyes were wide and shocked.
“Ola, would you knock some sense into him?” Kihrin hooked a thumb in his father’s direction. “The General saved my life. The demon would have killed me if he hadn’t stepped in. Then he orders his man to heal me and he even offers to replace Surdyeh’s harp with one of his own. He’ll probably want to commission a performance. How is that bad? Taja! Pappa’s been telling me for years how I should try to make influential contacts—‘never let an opportunity pass, boy’—and when I finally do, he doesn’t want me to go!”
“We don’t need his charity.”
“It’s not charity, damn it. It’s a reward. I helped fight off a demon. I put a knife in its eye! Come on. His man said he was an old friend of yours.”
Surdyeh looked confused, then frustrated, and finally angry. “What man? There wasn’t anyone there that I’d trust.”
Ola swallowed hard, and she looked from Kihrin to Surdyeh and back again. She was breathing through her nose—flat, shallow breaths—and her eyes were wide. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and behind her back, where no one could see it but Morea, the woman’s hand slowly bunched the fabric of her skirt into a tight knot, so hard that Morea could see the white of Ola’s knucklebones through her black skin. The hand shook.
At first, Morea thought the woman was scared, but she quickly revised her opinion. Morea had been a slave for most of her life, sold along with her sister by a mother who couldn’t support them when their father ran off. Like most people who grew up as slaves, she was adept at reading the emotions of her owners, a survival skill.
No, Ola Nathera wasn’t scared. She was angry.
Ola smiled as if trying to cheer a small child who’d banged his knee. “Sweetheart?”
Kihrin looked at her with suspicion in his blue eyes.
“Pay no mind to your pappa. He’s had a fright. How could he not, what with you almost getting killed out there today? I mean, Bright-Eyes, look at you. Is that your blood?”
The young man tugged at the cloth of his sallí cloak. “Most of it isn’t. They healed what was.”
“Well now, no wonder he’s upset.”
The old man shook his head. “Ola, don’t do—”
“Hush, honey,” she cautioned him. “You just let Momma Ola take care of everything.” Ola gestured toward Kihrin. “You gonna go see the General like that? Covered in blood and muck and dressed like a gutter rat under that ripped cloak? Your clothes all torn and looking like you just crawled out from under the garbage dump?”
“I—” Kihrin shifted uncomfortably.
“No, I didn’t think so.” Ola smiled. Morea watched her warm to the role of attentive mother. “You been through a lot, Bright-Eyes. A lot. You need to take care of yourself.” Ola turned to shout something, and stopped. “What are you still doing here, girl? And what was that business about a sister?”
“I thought—”
“Never mind. You take Kihrin here back to my private bath and clean him up.”
Morea chewed her lip, looking at Kihrin. He wouldn’t return her stare. “I have a customer…” She pointed back to her crib.
“Never you mind. I’ll take care of that. Don’t you worry about your customers for tonight. My angel could use a little cheering, so that’s what I want you to do. Cheer him.”
Kihrin glanced up. “Thanks, Ola, but I don’t need it. I know where the bath is. I don’t need any help taking one.”
“Who said you needed help? Sweet cheeks, when you need help taking a bath it stops being any fun. I never met nobody who didn’t like to have their back scrubbed by someone cute and willing.* Now you two scoot. I’m gonna tell your pappa he’s being a fool and then I’ll fetch you some dinner.” She was the definition of attentive, loving care.
Morea watched Kihrin stare at Ola for a moment, then he smiled a dazzling white grin that would have melted glaciers in the Dragonspires. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, Ola. Thanks.” He hopped to his feet and walked to the back. Halfway there, he turned and looked at Morea. “Coming?”
She looked from Kihrin to Ola. The brothel madam smiled at her, making shooing motions toward her apartment in the back of the courtyard.
Morea followed Kihrin, but he didn’t wait for her. He already had the door open and was holding it for her when she arrived.
The smile on his face vanished as soon as he closed the door. He leaned against the wood and shut his eyes as if he was tired or in pain.
“Is there something wrong?” Morea asked, then bit her lip. “Oh, how stupid of me. Of course, something’s wrong.”
He opened his eyes and smiled at her. At least the corners of his mouth turned up. She didn’t consider it a real smile; there was too much pain in his eyes.
“Yeah,” Kihrin agreed after a moment, then he straightened. “Do you think I oversold the ‘little boy who believes anything his mother tells him’ routine out there?”
“I’m not sure … Maybe a little at the end.”
“That’s what I thought too. Let’s hope she’s too distracted to notice.”
“Kihrin, what is going on? What happened?”
He held up his hand as if to ward off the question. “I’ll explain. I promise I’ll explain. Just give me a minute.” He crossed the room.
“As you say, but—” Her voice faltered as she tracked his movement. Her mouth fell open as she stared at the apartment interior.
Ola’s front room was large enough to fit six or seven brothel cribs. Bright murals of verdant jungle, birds, and sky painted the walls. There were animals Morea was familiar with and snake creatures Morea had only heard of in stories. Striped carpets of exotic patterns and lush colors lined the floors, woven from deep garnets and emeralds, amethysts and sapphires, rubies and bright glittering ribbons of gold. Sequins sewn into the weave made the rugs look jeweled in the light. Chests of carved dark woods served as tables to hold vases of peacock feathers. Lanterns of stained glass and thin mica hung from the ceiling, along with crystals and bells and little glass trinkets. Masks of every description hung from the ceiling: paper masks and clay masks, carved wooden masks and stone masks, cloth masks and metal masks.