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He did not often feel the pain of his assorted bodies; the curse that disguised him in ever-shifting forms did not truly affect him. He still felt as he'd felt the instant before the curse had claimed him. Except - except rarely when in mocking answer to a yearning he could not quite repress, he was himself again: Enas Yorl, a man twice, three times the age of any other man. A shambling, rotted-out wreck who could not die; whose bones would never be scoured clean in the earth. He hid the radiant, unliving, and therefore uncursed, hair.
The ulcer was congealing with a faintly blue, scaly iridescence. Yorl prayed, as much as he ever prayed and to gods no mortal would dare worship, that sometime it would end for him as it had ended for the woman on his table. He no longer wished that the curse be removed.
The blueness was begi
Go. or send someone you trust, to the Beysib wharf where their ships still lie at anchor. Whisper 'Harka Bey' to the waters; then leave quickly, without looking back -
The transformation sped through him, blurring his vision, softening his bones. He folded the paper with a gross, awkward gesture and left it on the shroud. Paralysis had claimed his feet by the time he'd fumbled the door open and he retreated back to his private quarters, crawling on his hands and knees.
There was much more he could have told Lythande about the powerful, legendary beynit venom and the equally powerful and legendary Harka Bey. A few months ago even he had thought that the assassin's guild was only another Ilsigi myth; but then the fish-eyed folk had come from beyond the horizon and it now seemed some of the other myths might be true as well. Someone had gone to considerable trouble, using distilled venom and a knife point to make the wound, to make it seem as if the Harka Bey had slain the courtesan. He did not personally believe the Harka Bey would trouble themselves over a Red Lanterns woman - and he did not truly care why she had been killed or who had killed her. His thoughts surrounded the knowledge that the methods of the Harka Bey, at least, were real and might be turned towards ending his own misery.
2
Of late life had been kinder to the woman known in the town simply as Cythen. Her high leather boots were not only new but had been made to fit her. Her warm, fur-lined cloak was new as well: made by an old Downwinds woman who had discovered that, since the arrival of the Beysib and their gold, there were more things to do with a stray cat than eat it. Yes, since the Beysib had come, life was better than it had been -
Cythen hesitated, repressed a wave of remembrance and, reminding herself that it was dangerous folly to remember the past, continued on her way. Perhaps life was better for the Downwinds woman; perhaps her own life was now better than it had been a year before, but it was not unconditionally better.
The young woman moved easily through the inky, twilight shadows of the Maze, avoiding the unfathomed pools of detritus that oozed up between the ancient cobblestones. Tiny pairs of eyes focused on her at the sound other approach and scampered noisily away. The larger, more feral creatures of the hell-hole watched in utter silence from the deeper shadows of doorways and blind alleys. She strode past them all, looking neither right nor left, but missing no flicker of motion.
She paused by an alley apparently no different from any of the dozens she had already passed by and, after assuring herself that no intelligent eyes marked her, entered it. There was no light now; she guided herself with her fingertips brushing the grimy walls, counting the doorways: one, two, three, four. The door was locked, as promised, but she quickly found the handholds that had been chipped into the outer walls. Her cloak fell back as she climbed and, had there been light enough to reveal anything, it would have shown a man's trousers under a woman's tunic and a mid length sword slung low on her left hip. She swung herself over the cornice and dropped into the littered courtyard of a long-abandoned shrine.
A single patch of moonlight, brilliant and unwelcome here in the Maze, shone amid the rubble of what had been an altar. Holding her cloak as if it were the source of all bravery and courage itself, Cythen knelt among the stones and whispered: 'My life for Harka Bey!' Then, as no one had forbidden it, she drew her sword and laid it across her thighs.
Lythande had said - or rather implied, for magicians and their ilk seldom actually said anything - that the Harka Bey would test her before they would listen to her questions. For Bekin's sake and her own need for vengeance, Cythen vowed that they would not find her wanting. The slowly shifting moonlight fed her terror, but she sat still and silent.
The darkness, which had been a comfort while she had been a part of it, now lurked at the edge of her vision, as her memories of better times always lurked at the edge of her thoughts. For a heartbeat she was the young girl she had once been and the darkness lunged at her. A yelp of pure terror nearly escaped her lips before she pushed both memory and old feats aside.
Bekin had been her elder sister. She had been betrothed when disaster had struck. She had witnessed her lover's bloody death and then had been made the victim of the bandits' lust in the aftermath of their victory. None of the brigands had noticed Cythen: slight, wiry Cythen, dressed in a youth's clothes. The younger sister had escaped from the carnage into the darkness. Waiting until the efforts of drinking, killing, and raping had overcome each outlaw and she could bundle her senseless sister away to the relative safety of the brush.
Under Cythen's protection, Bekin's bruises had healed, but her mind was lost. She lived in her own world, believing that the bulge in her belly was the legitimate child of her betrothed, oblivious to their squalor and misery. The birthing, coming on an early spring night, much like this, with only the moonlight for a midwife, had been a long and terrifying process for both of them. Though Cythen had seen midwives start a baby's life with a spanking, she held this one still, watching Bekin's exhausted sleep, until there was no chance it would live. Remembering only the half-naked outlaws in the firelight, she laid the little corpse on the rocks for scavengers to find.
Again Bekin recovered her strength, but not her wits. She never learned the cruel lessons that hardened Cythen and never lost the delusion that each strange man was actually her betrothed returning to her. At first Cythen fought with Bekin's desires and agonized with guilt whenever she failed. But she could find no work to get them food, while the men often left Bekin a trinket or two that could be pawned or sold in the next village - and Bekin was willing to go with any man. So, after a time, Bekin earned their shelter while Cythen, who had always preferred swordplay to needlework. learned the art of the garrote and dressed herself in dead men's clothes. .
When the pair reached Sanctuary, it was only natural that Cythen found a place with Jubal's hawkmasked mercenaries. Bekin slept safely in the slaver's bed whenever he desired her and Cythen knew a measure of peace. When the hell-sent Whoresons had raided Jubal's Downwinds estate, the younger sister again came to the aid of the elder. This time, she took her to the Street of Red Lanterns, to the Aphrodisia House itself, where Myrtis promised that only a select, discriminating clientele would encounter the ever-i