CHAPTER FOUR - THE WISDOM OF DACOI

Sorcha was in a daze as the returned to the halls of the Winter Palace. She could not imagine why the mistress of the Orcini Clan might want to talk to her and found herself again facing the prospect of searching the sprawling Palace. She did not consider that Vari was also looking for her until she ran into one of the handful of female servants still remaining despite the siege.

What would happen to these girls should the enemy finally attack, Sorcha did not need to imagine; she had been captured at New Edlis in Daricia when the Naril rebels staged a coup, storming the fortress from within. The memory cast phantom images of rival warriors fighting in the Palace halls, fine décor destroyed while spilt blood soaked into the carpets.

Sorcha could not help but see the serving girl before her carried off, screaming and struggling. Or maybe she would not struggle. Sorcha imagined what she would do, should DeSilva and his family be defeated in the coming battle: She would allow herself to be taken alive, she would put up no resistance. She would be grateful to her new master for relieving her of the duty to return to Loth Kavnor.

The serving girl was pale and nervous; it occurred only belatedly that she was also uncertain in how to approach a Silvan woman. Sorcha almost laughed at the thought; she remained Silvan only by blood, her culture shriven from her in captivity. She, likewise, had no idea how to speak to a servant; she was far too uncertain of her own social standing to be confident dealing with anyone. Sorcha's shyness was exacerbated by the fact that the girl wore a revealing harem outfit strikingly similar to the one Sorcha had worn briefly the previous night.

There was a moment of awkwardness before the girl said in a deferential tone, “My mistress is looking for you.”

“Do you know why?” Sorcha asked, but the girl only shrugged, clearly very uncomfortable not knowing the appropriate form of address.

Sorcha followed the girl through the Palace to Vari's chambers, a vast suite dominating the upper floor of the main wing. Beyond the main doors, a hall punctuated by many archways let into the various rooms of the apartment. The servant showed Sorcha to a door to one side, knocked, then opened the portal upon a large room lined end to end along both walls with racks of clothes. At the far end of the room were several full-length mirrors and a dressing-table like a ziggurat of drawers and looking-glasses.

Sorcha was at a momentary loss to see Charn, Vashta and Fethne already in the room, picking over a pile of dresses strewn about the furniture. Vari herself stood in the centre of the chaos, the eye of the storm, cheerfully bossing the other three women in their task.

“Ah, Sorcha, there you! Goodness' sake girl, you're like a Dacoit, almost invisible! Where have you been hiding yourself? Never mind, don't linger there by the door, we have so much to do and mere hours to do it.”

The shock to discover that this entire room was Vari's wardrobe was lessened dramatically by the noblewoman's manner; she might have been the consort of a harem organising the girls for their master's pleasure. That Vashta and Fethne were also there eased the situation; Sorcha did not like either of them, but the social protocols were clear. Only Charn presented an anomaly, standing in the centre of the room in her boots and uniform, sheathed sword at her side in one hand and her masked eyes surveying the scene as if she suspected live snakes to inhabit the clothes festooning the chamber.

Sorcha realised too late that she was not wearing her mask; Charn's gaze locked on her, the Diva's grey eyes narrowing coldly.

“Oh, don't glare so!” Vari scolded Charn. “The poor girl's nervous enough, without you helping. Honestly, what joy you get out of terrifying her I will never know. Is it the mask? Don't be so silly, she'll be taking all her clothes off in a minute. Come here, Sorcha, I promise I won't bite.”

Sorcha sidled around Charn to approach Vari.

In the background, Vashta went on blithely helping Fethne in and out of costumes, assessing each one critically. Blind, the girl could only trust in her mother's taste, denied from seeing her reflection in the mirror. Sorcha found the sight very distracting, having known and feared Fethne in the harem, and morbidly curious about the ménage between Vashta, Fethne, and the warlord Odacon.

Vari permitted her no chance for speculation now, however; as soon as Sorcha was in reach, the older woman spun her to face the nearest mirror.

“Were you not wearing something else yesterday?” she enquired, critically assessing Sorcha's plain-cut military outfit. “You didn't even have a pack, where did you hide that get up?”

“I found it,” Sorcha confessed. “In my room.”

Vari's eyebrows rose. “Oh, I see. There was a time, not so very long ago, when this house was the hub of Society. Noblemen and their concubines by the score used to come here, there was a ball every night...” her gaze had shifted into memory. She came back to the present and smiled at Sorcha. “I'm sure I wouldn't know who might have left Silvan clothes lying around, but the fact that you found them proves one thing for sure; we absolutely will find the perfect attire for everyone before nightfall.”

Charn muttered something about feeling quite comfortable as she was. Vari rolled her eyes theatrically.

“My dear Meridian, I naturally will not try and force you into a dress at swordpoint, but really! Surely Divas are not exempt from good manners?”

Charn deflated marginally and condescended to hold a dress up against herself, considering it in the mirror. “I'm not wearing that,” she said.

“Have you never worn a dress?” Vashta asked. “It's no great thing, stop complaining.”

"It's degrading." Charn tossed the feathery confection aside and picked up another. “Everyone will see my legs."

“Silvans wear kilts in Utryce Province,” Vashta replied. “How if Vari found something in plaid?”

“I don't take fashion advice from illiterate haggis-molesters who enjoy the kiss of the wind on their nethers,” Charn quipped, but she spoke in Silvan and much of the racist nuance was lost on Lady Vari.

“You're still standing there,” she said to Sorcha. “Come on, pick something to wear and get that silly uniform off.” She plucked the grey cape of Sorcha's shoulders and briskly helped her out of her tunic. Topless, her tattoos revealed, Sorcha blushed. Vari had already glimpsed Sorcha's tattoos the previous evening and took the time now to admire them.

“The line-work is so detailed, did Odacon himself do these?”

“Only one,” Sorcha said, indicating the briar-roses that curled around her breasts and ribs. “Fethne did some of them.”

Vari glanced in surprise at the blind girl, smiling vacantly into her private darkness.

“She was not always blind,” Vashta said, quixotically proud of her daughter's skill and yet not quite hiding the bitterness in her voice.

Vari diplomatically did not press the matter. All three former harem-girls were heavily tattooed, a practice unique to the harems of the Naril Darians who had settled in Kellia after being exiled from their homeland.

Vari proceeded to jovially bully Sorcha out of her boots and leggins, and from there into a succession of dresses. Until now the only Kellion clothes Sorcha had worn were the brief silks of the harem; she had rarely even seen the lavish outfits of the nobility, and certainly never worn one. Although more conservative than harem attire, every dress was still scandalously revealing by Silvan standards. They also necessitated complicated underwear utterly alien to Silvan experience; Sorcha found herself grappling with stockings, suspenders, and corset before she could even begin to put on the dress she had finally settled on.

“Can someone help me with this?”

Vari helped her into the corset and drew on the strings. “Breathe out... goodness, what do they make you Silvans out of?”

Sorcha rarely considered that Silvan women, raised to swordplay and archery, were generally much stronger than Kellion girls. Vari gave up and stepped back. Sorcha inhaled again gratefully as the pressure on her ribs was relaxed. Then Vari waved Charn over.

“I think I need your help here; pull those strings tight.”

Charn, still in her uniform and watching the whole scene with eloquently silent disdain, volunteered her strength with a show of reluctance. As soon as she had the strings in her hands, however, she drew them sadistically tight, then put her knee in Sorcha's back to hold the corset while she secured the ties. If Sorcha was strong by Kellion standards, Charn's muscles seemed woven of steel wire. Sorcha gasped and fought for breath, nearly passing out before she learned to draw in air to the upper part of her lungs.

Charn stepped back and studied her handiwork, her attitude marginally thawed now that she had vented her ire against Sorcha's corset.

Sorcha tried to sit down but found it a delicate manoeuvre in the corset. Putting on the boots Vari had chosen for her proved impossible without help; she simply could not bend forward enough to reach her feet while the corset held her spine rigid. At Vashta's direction, Fethne knelt and took Sorcha's stockinged foot in hand, easing the long boot up her leg and fastening the laces by touch. Sorcha had tensed momentarily when Fethne came near; she made herself relax, only for Fethne to slip one hand up her leg and stroke her inner thigh.

The girl's blindfold eyes saw nothing, but she quirked a lascivious half-mad smile up at Sorcha before reaching for the second boot. Sorcha shivered, remembering nights in the harem when Fethne had taught her things few Silvans could even imagine.

Sorcha stood up as soon as she could, swaying slightly in her new high-heeled boots, studying herself first by a downwards glance and then in the mirror.

“Fully dressed and somehow still half naked,” Charn observed.

"There's enough cloth here to dress six harem girls," Sorcha wheezed.

"I don't see anyone asking Hnasi to wear a dress," Charn grumbled.

“Don't be childish.” Vashta checked herself in the mirror again before taking up the make-up brush to attend to Fethne. “Hrin walk about naked most of the time anyway.”

“Furry sluts.” Charn folded her arms across her chest. “I'm not averse to a change of clothes, but you'll sooner see Kam in a dress than me.”

For no reason that Sorcha could discern, Vari burst out laughing. She mastered herself almost at once and held up a hand in apology.

“Forgive me, I meant no offence. Really, there must be something here, I have over three hundred outfits; I simply will not believe that there is nothing you might like. Will you honestly not be persuaded to wear a dress?"

"I'd rather die," Charn said.

"Very well, you come with me, Charn, and we'll see what Khyle Tarn has in his wardrobe. You'll find he's equally precious about his appearance."

Sorcha did not linger in the wardrobe after Vari's departure. As much as she felt intimidated by Charn, Sorcha had no desire at all to be left alone with both Fethne and her mother. She knew, as none of the others in the group could, that Fethne was a sexual sadist. Vashta doted on her daughter, and her morals had been utterly warped by long years in captivity. Sorcha did not want to risk the danger that Vashta might seek an outlet for Fethne's libido. All three women were steeped in the hierarchy of the harem where dominance and submission were the common tongue; Sorcha could only comply if Vashta tried to put her to either her own or her daugher's pleasures.

Eager to escape, Sorcha did not even bother to make excuses, but slipped out the door as if to follow Vari, only to turn the opposite way and escape into the Palace halls.

As soon as she was alone, an odd sensation gripped her. Anxiety; her stomach knotted up and the blood rushed to her head. The tight corset restricted her breathing and she had to lean against the wall, groping for the ties at the back of the dress, but she could not get at the knot. Fighting down panic, she controlled her breathing until she could stand again. She would need help to loosen the corset, but Vari expected her to wear it all night.

Sorcha slumped against the wall again, wondering not for the first time what she had done to deserve these situations. The voice of her religious upbringing told her very clearly that she was suffering the just punishments of a wanton. Her rational mind offered only weak arguments; conflicting impulses left her guilt-ridden and confused.

She needed air, the tightness of the corset translating to the Palace halls around her. As quickly as she could manage, Sorcha found her way to the main gate of the Palace. Here she found a retainer on guard, but he detained her only to put a thick cloak around her shoulders before he let her outside.

“S'cold out there, miss.” His drawl reminded her of DeKellia, but she understood him well enough and nodded gratitude.

Outside, thick snow crusted the ground, burying the lawn almost a foot deep. Sorcha shivered, drawing the borrowed cloak about herself. It was fur-lined but still not quite sufficient to defeat the cold.

About twenty yards across the snowy lawn, she spotted DeSilva's uncle, Noth Kalidor, sitting cross-legged on a stone toadstool, his eyes shut and his hands composed in a meditative posture. Facially similar to DeKellia and sporting the same Kraag fangs that DeSilva wore, still Kalidor was unmistakeable in the black uniform of a Dacoit Master.

Sorcha stayed where she was, wanting only her own company, and looked back at the view from the patio where she stood.

A wall ringed the Palace grounds, sufficient to prevent casual trespass but little use against serious assault. Sorcha could see, even at a range of several hundred yards, that there were no ramparts atop the wall, nowhere for defenders to stand. Kam Daishen's assessment had been correct; the Palace defences were too weak to hold off an assault.

As she watched, she saw a black speck appear on the wall, the shape of a man, drop down the inside face and vanish as if it had never been. Sorcha was certain she had seen it, but there was no further movement by the wall, and she began to doubt her eyes. She was not about to go and investigate herself; unarmed, clad in high heels, feathery skirt, and corset, she was in no position to face an intruder alone. Still, the vestiges of her Silvan self insisted that she must do something.

“What am I supposed to do about an enemy Dacoit?” she muttered to herself. “Seduce him and come loudly enough to raise the alarm? I'm not having sex with anyone in the snow, that's for damn sure...”

Reluctantly, she picked her way across the lawn towards Noth Kalidor, trying impossibly to tread silently on the snow. With every crunching step, she expected the Dacoit Master to notice her, but he remained utterly still. Even the fangs in his upper jaw could not dispel the placid tranquillity on his face.

Seeing him now, Sorcha would not have believed, had she not witnessed it with her own eyes more than once, that this man could kill with his bare hands. The thought made her hesitate, and at that moment Kalidor opened his eyes, his fanged lips twitching with a faint smile.

“Why approach at all,” he asked softly, “when you were afraid?”

Sorcha swallowed a stammer and said, “Master Kalidor, I saw someone come over the wall and...”

“That was me. I scouted the enemy camp last night.”

“But I was watching, I saw you right here before...”

Kalidor smiled again. “Nevertheless. The enemy too have Dacoits, and so I sat out here all night keeping watch for them. At the same time, I went to the enemy camp and killed their Dacoits' leader. What you saw was my double, returning over the wall.”

“Is it Dacoit magic?” Sorcha had experienced Naril magic in the harem, but their ritual pentagrams and arcane fire held no resemblance to the unseen powers of Dacoi. Her fear of Noth Kalidor redoubled, but she was oddly comforted that this man was among the perils awaiting any enemy to dare the Palace in arms. “Master Kalidor, while I was on the roof, I saw a third camp. Vari only mentioned two, and I thought...”

“Yes, I have seen it too. Do not be concerned. All will be resolved.” He blinked, then shook himself as if emerging from a trance. Glancing at Sorcha again, Kalidor unfolded from his meditative pose and stood up. “I understand my sister is throwing a party tonight.”

“Yes, but I don't know the details; I was so tired last night and I couldn't follow the talk. I know Lady Vari has these two suitors that she doesn't want to marry, and that they're coming for dinner. The Daishen said you meant to kill them.”

“Ah.” Kalidor gestured for her to walk with him, and they started back towards the Palace. “It is not quite so simple. Why did I not just kill my sister's suitors last night?”

“Their camps are too far apart?”

“But I can be in two places at once,” he reminded her. “And my brother DeKellia is no poor assassin. We could have taken Kern and Karvallion last night. But what of the men they lead? What would they do then? Currently, there is a stalemate. If two deaths could avert a battle, then two men would die.”

“But the Daishen said we couldn't win a battle!” Sorcha protested. “Please, I don't understand; is Vari just throwing a party before we all die?”

They had come to the patio before the Palace gates. Noth Kalidor stopped, turned Sorcha to face him with his hands on her arms.

“Child, when danger comes you should either stay close to young DeSilva or any of my kin, or fly as far from us as you can. We will protect you, but where we are will be the thick of the fighting. The choice is yours.”