Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [155]
Home.
In a dreadful parody of courtesy, the Mahrkagir escorted me to his table, seating me beside him. I sat facing the dim-lit hall, the savage, cheering men. Already the women who had accompanied me were circulating among them—ostensibly, to refill their cups with beer or wine or rankly pungent kumis, the fermented mare's milk favored by the Tatars. In truth, they were entertainment, there to be groped and fondled by any man bold enough to dare. One unruly group had the little Menekhetan boy atop their table, performing agonized back-bends and somersaults amid a gauntlet of naked blades; he had trained as an acrobat, once.
I sat and watched it in a state of shock, unmoving. The Mahrkagir smiled, one hand at the nape of my neck, and the icy touch of his fingers against my flesh held me riveted. I could feel my heart beating like a drum within my breast, my pulse beating between my thighs. Blessed Elua, what have you done to me? The Menekhetan boy whimpered, his limbs trembling as he sought to hold his pose. The Drujani laughed, two of them tossing daggers back and forth under his arched back. Elsewhere, one of the men moved his cup teasingly as an Ephesian woman sought to pour, forcing her to lean further and further over him; he bit her, then, on the upper curve of her breast, hard enough to leave the impress of his teeth. She cried out and dropped the pitcher. When it shattered, the Drujani laughed uproariously and pushed her to her knees, forcing her to lap the spilled beer with her tongue.
My gorge rose until I thought I might vomit, but the awful pulse of desire did not abate.
And there, a mere table away, sat Joscelin, surrounded by companionable Drujani. I do not know how he endured it. Even when helooked me full in the eyes, his face was absolutely expressionless. I have seen dead men who showed more emotion.
And I, who sat throbbing under the Mahrkagir's touch, did not blame him for it.
An unearthly howl split the air, and a blazing trail of sparks; someone had tied a firebrand to a dog's tail. I raised one hand to my mouth, smothering an outcry as the poor beast raced around the hall, sparks igniting its fur.
"Dogs," a smooth voice said at my shoulder, "are sacred to the followers of Ahura Mazda, because they are loyal and do not lie."
I looked up to see the Skotophagotis, repressing a shudder as I realized his torch-cast shadow fell over me. "Daeva Gashtaham," I said, remembering what the Mahrkagir had called him.
The priest inclined his head, light gleaming redly from the polished boar's-skull helm. "You have a keen memory." He watched as the burning cur went into throes of agony. The noise was horrible. "Duzhmata," he said in an idle tone, "duzhûshta, duzhvarshta. Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds; the three-fold path of Angra Mainyu."
"Go away, Gashtaham." The Mahrkagir spoke for the first time; his fingers caressed my neck. He smiled at his priest. "You brought her to me, now she is mine, and she does not need your counsel." He turned his smile on me and I stared at him, helpless. "She has ill thoughts already. I hear them, licking at mine, begging. Is it not so?" he added, asking me.
Hypnotized by my twin reflections in the black moons of his eyes, I whispered, "Yes."
"You are the first." He watched the priest take his leave with a displeased bow. "I have sent my priests, the Âka-Magi of Angra Mainyu, abroad, far abroad, to see if any god dare stand against them. In mighty Khebbel-im-Akkad, in Menekhet, in Ephesus, even in Hellas, their servants quail with fear, and my zenana grows. The lords of Ch'in and Bodhistan send careless gifts, thinking I may one day prove an ally. They do not understand I am planting the seeds of death in my zenana. But you, ah!" The Mahrkagir took my chin in one hand, studying my face, his dilated gaze lingering on my moted left eye. "You," he said, caressing my cheek, "are different. I feel it, I feel how the blood leaps in your veins