Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [64]
Assuming his sincerest mien, Surplus said, “What male would not be, given such images as you urged me to reflect upon? You conjure up an Arabian Nights fantasy of female flesh, an Aladdin’s cave of erotic treasure. Of course I lust after them—in my imagination. So too do I enjoy the original tales, as translated in classical times by Sir Richard Burton. Yet I have never gone to Deserta Arabia in search of the riches described in them.”
“Only because you knew those riches to be fictional. Otherwise, I am quite certain you would possess the fabled lamp today. You are most damnably ingenious in getting what you want.” As she spoke, Zoësophia peeled off her gloves. She took Surplus’s paws in her strong bare hands. When Surplus tried to draw free of her, he found he could not. Her grip was implacable.
Zoësophia favored Surplus with a ruefully amused smile, such as a woman gives a scoundrel who, while he may or may not have necessarily intended to do so, has given her great physical and emotional pleasure. It mingled scorn and fondness in equal measure. “Sweet, sweet ’Sieur Plus,” she murmured, “I am so sorry to have to do this. But I have sworn to protect the Pearls, and so I must.”
“Wh-what do you intend to do?”
“I am going to kiss you, long and hard and so delightfully that, whether you wish it or not, it will first take your breath away, then starve your brain of oxygen, and finally leave you in a state of mindless euphoria. Then, at the moment of greatest bliss, I will snap your neck.”
“Madam! This is not the act of a friend.”
“When the carriage door is opened, your corpse will be found and with it me—hysterical and clearly traumatized by whatever outré events have transpired within. By the time I have recovered well enough to narrate those events, I shall have concocted something convincing, I am sure.”
Without releasing her grip, Zoësophia leaned forward. Her lips parted. The pink tip of her tongue licked them moist. Her eyes were tender and merciless. Surplus had looked death in the face many a time. Yet never before had it looked so desirable. Nor had beauty ever seemed so terrifying.
“Wait!” Surplus cried. “This is not necessary! I know your secret!”
Zoësophia paused. “Oh?”
“You alone of all the Pearls were not a dedicated virgin. The reasoning I gave you was, as we both know, mere sophistry—the others would blister at my touch and die from my caress, for the mental commands they were given cannot be undone by logic-chopping. You, knowing the true situation, could pretend to be convinced by me, and so you did.”
Zoësophia released her grip and leaned back against the cushions. After a very long silence, she said, “How did you know?”
Rubbing his aching paws together to restore their circulation, Surplus said, “It was the simplest thing in the world. I asked myself whether, in a contingent of seven women who could be expected to have intimate contact with the Duke of Muscovy, the Caliph was likely to have neglected to include a spy. ‘Unthinkable!’ was my reply. Further, I reasoned, that spy was unlikely to be bound by the same mental commands and restrictions as the others, lest it hinder her information-gathering activities. Finally, I asked myself which of the seven brides was the most likely to be the spy—and one stood out like a lamp in the darkness for her shrewdness, intellect, and self-control.”
“But to take such a risk with one who was supposed to be a dedicated virgin! Had your reasoning proved incorrect…” Zoësophia’s expression was complicated, but Surplus, who had some experience with women, could read it like a book. She was waiting to see if he was simpleton enough to tell her that it had been obvious to him that she was no virgin. At which point, she would doubtless rip off his head, or other parts. It was true that she was far from a virgin. Far, far indeed, to judge by the last several nights. Still, young