A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [99]
Then one of the minstrels of the House ran his hands down the strings of his maraun in a plunging, liquid fall of notes-and everyone moved again.
Tray wenches strode out of the pantries, folk started talking, and men around the tables sat back and murmured their wincing approval as the bleeding women broke apart and knelt hand in hand to receive applause, tears of pain streaming down their faces.
Amid a chorus of lewdly encouraging comments, a man who'd paid a tableful of gold for the privilege was brought forward to pull the skewers slowly out-while ringed with the swordpoints of other wenches in scanty armor, who were there to prevent him excitedly driving home a skewer or two himself.
Red Dream and Blue Passion pressed themselves against him for more kisses, but could not stifle their screams when the traditional dousing of wine was done to wash their blood off the pleased-and visibly aroused-guest. As the stinging lessened and they could control their spasms once more, they caressed him skillfully but regretfully, for he'd not paid the proprietor of Dragonrose House that extra small fortune that would entitle him to kiss away their hurts in private for a night.
He, too, looked forlorn as the two dancers took the waiting handfuls of skewers from the armored wenches who'd just collected them from his eager hands. Red Dream and Blue Passion looked at each other, and then swiftly undid the cords that held their hair and laid them in his trembling grasp.
There was a fresh roar of approval, and they smiled back at the tables of watching men, spun around once so their unbound hair swirled about their shoulders-tresses long enough to brush the upper swell of their behinds-and left the stage, to a small fanfare that sounded somehow mocking, and a last smattering of applause.
The armored wenches quickly barred the way behind them. With weary smiles the two dancers proceeded along a dim passage to where a portcullis slammed down behind them, leaving them facing a row of nine identical heavy ironbound doors. They went to the unmarked one that was theirs, slipped through it and shot the bolts, and mounted a short flight of steps to where they could relax at last.
Shuddering amid the warmth of many candles, they padded barefoot to the full and waiting bath and slipped into it with grateful sighs, letting the warm, petal-scented waters carry away ribbons of blood as they let their voluptuous forms slide into quite different shapes, and shared a chilled decanter of waiting saransor.
"Dragonrose dancers certainly lead luxurious lives," the younger Koglaur commented, holding his goblet up to gaze through its amber-hued depths.
"Short ones, mind, even with ready healing magic-if they don't happen to be of our kind," the older Koglaur replied.
"Humans did this, before-?"
"Of course. Who do you think I learned the dance of the skewers from, all those years ago?"
"You've done this before now? I thought no one stayed at this long, except as punishment or when they had long-running Sirl business!"
"Raegrel," the older Koglaur said feelingly, "only gravediggers and poisoners have long-running Sirl business. When you're sent to make me wiser, you'll often find yourself here. Now let's have your report."
Raegrel put his glass down with a sigh. "So my punishment begins, eh?"
"This won't hurt as much as the skewers did. Just answer my questions, sit through my occasional boring musings, drink as much saransor as you like, and we'll be done. Then you, too, can pay overmuch gold to plunge into the fleshpots of Sirlptar."
The younger Koglaur made a face. "And how will I know any lusty wench I take to bed won't be you or one of the other elders, keeping watch over me?"
"We'll wink, to warn you," was the dry response. "Now: the Serpent actually rose?"
"As high as a