Tales from Hyboria (Tara’s Tale) 2

“Good lords, ladies, and worthy friends, I crave your heed!”

The hall was small, though with enough room to hold escore-odd guests who strolled while sipping wine goblets. Burghers robed and turbaned strode beside nobles and knights clad in silk jupons. On their arms hung perfumed noblewomen of faces both dark and fair, though hair dark despite the jewels sparkling therein. Painted silks of blue and rose clung to their curves but did not hide where they plunged between breasts and clung low on hips, revealing taut, pouting bellies.

On a stand at the hall’s head, shared with musicians who had paused play, Theophobus spread arms welcomingly: “It is my great honor to return to Yaralet after many years abroad, and again in your excellent company I look forward to providing you such enchantments for your pleasure as I once did, and advising in matters sorcerous.

“For your diversion tonight,” he added: “I provide a small challenge.” He waved, and a short, nymph like figure stepped forth from a side hall. She wore a wispy, sleeveless gown that opened her sides and thighs, girdled at waist. A black scarf whelmed her brow, eyes, and nose. “Let me propose a simple test,” explained Theophobus: “My apprentice stands before you blindfolded.” He waved at the nymph. “Yet thanks to her powers, I claim she can still witness all that undergoes within this room. I offer this good company the chance to prove so, right or wrong, to your satisfaction!”

“Nay. This is a cunning trick!” cried a silken youth from the fore. “I have seen mummers so perform in the great market of Korshemish!”

“Indeed! Likely the blindfold is holed or sheer enough to let the wench see through,” sneered another.

Theophobus bowed to the twain. “You may think so, young masters, but what proof would you need to convince otherwise, that her powers are true?”

While the first youth gawked, his friend doffed cloak from his shoulder. “Here,” he bade, grinning: “Drape her head with this. Let’s see her see through thick wool!”

At the young man’s offer, Theophobus set the cloak over the nymph, hiding not only her head, but most of her body, down to her waist. He settled the folds until the cloak-owner grunted satisfaction, and stepped back.. “Now she is ready,” he exclaimed. “Make your tests!”

“What am I wearing?” asked the first youth.

“A red tunic with gold trim, and gold cuffs on your wrists,” answered the blind girl beneath the cloak.

“What do I hold in hand?” asked the cloak’s owner, who had drawn a glinting poignard from his belt.

“A dagger with crimson gem, which I guess a garnet, she answered.

“Who stands behind me?” asked a third, who had just come up.

“A man wearing black silk, rings on his hand, and black mask,” she said.

All gasped and looked at the man who had come up with the speaker, who was indeed arailed just as she told. A small cheer started through the hall.

For the next half-turn of the glass, guests posed their own tests and tricks. Some wadded scarves and threw at her from afar, which she deftly dodged. Some tried to trip her feet, though she sidestepped. Others reset dishes on a table, and whereof she warily told the order.

Last came a man who held a sheet of vellum folded. “What is written hereon?” he demanded.

“Unfold it, that you may read it yourself,” she answered. The man did so, though held the written side close to his chest.

“The side toward me is blank,” she told; “the side toward you tells a lie.”

“And what lie is that?” asked the man, chortling.

“It reads thus: ‘She is a fraud.'”

Under the crowd’s jeers the man withdrew. Another came up behind her, with hand stretched low. He made to pinch her ripe haunch, when suddenly she whirled. Her hand caught his wrist. “That is not part of the entertainment, good master,” she chided sharply.

“I am surprised,” the man laughed back. “Such street performers as you can generally be had for a silver.” Then his other hand dove at her breast.

The nymph’s other hand likewise caught it. “Neither is that, good master. Now if you will be kindly, withdraw.”

The man stepped back. He bowed under the party’s cheers.

Theophobus stepped forth. He took the nymph like figure’s hand, led her back to the stand, and flourishingly pulled the cloak off her head, and then the scarf from her eyes. There stood Tara; kohl making her gray eyes glitter, and cheeks roughed against creamy skin. She bowed to the throng, who roared approval.

The party broke into chattering knots who laughed and refilled their goblets. Tara strolled through the hall, accompanied by a herd of swains vying for her favor. A dance tune started, and she took turns with each, skipping and whirling over the floor.

Theophobus came to the floor’s side and clutched her arm. “Come with me.”

Tara shook free of his grasp, but fell in beside him. Together they left by the sidehall, through the kitchens, to a rear door.

There in a small court lane waited the masked man in black silks. Theophobus halted before and bowed. “My lord,” greeted.

“An impressive performance,” commended the masked lord, who crossed his feet and nodded. “Yet I must agree with the others. I too have seen this trick in the market of Korshemish.”

“If mummers have shown a trick, my lord, it is indeed just a trick,” answered Theophobus. “Tonight we have seen true power of extra-perception.”

“So you say,” begrudged the mask-wearer, “and of anyone else I would swiftly yell fraud. Yet your name is known to me, Theophobus, once of mighty Korshemish and lately of Ianthe in Ophir, for I heard it whispered from my own father’s lips ere he died. He imparted you did him certain service, though he withheld any details.”

Theophobus bowed head, and then looked around, lest anyone was overhearing. “Your father was wise in many things, oh Prince, and singularly in withholding these secrets, for they touch o fell matters, which only princes truly understand, and lesser men may ignorantly mistake. It was my honor to serve him. His death was untimely, though I am glad you are come of age to succeed him.”

“Yes. my uncle King Strabonus has appointed me governor of Yaralet as reward for securing the city’s surrender,” said the masked lord. “It’s a curious price: power and glory set in the city that lies farthest from Koth’s heart. I could think of no better place to put a kinsman I forwished. Furthermore, it is rebellion if I set one foot beyond my province without leave.” He scowled. “Yet when I heard of your return, good Theophobus, I was intrigued. Tell me: would you serve me as you served my father?”

“Gladly will I offer my service, good Prince,” answered the old man, “And not only my own, but also my apprentice and daughter’s.”

“Your daughter?” he eyed Tara again. “I am more used to sorcerers as men shriveled under their studies’ years, such as yourself. Tell me,” he licked his lips and eyed her: “what have you to offer, other than comeliness?”

“Many things,” answered Tara, “but among them I shall lay open your enemies’ secrets and teach them true terror, Prince Thanocles.”

“You speak my name!” hissed the nobleman, and wildly looked about. “On your lives, be silent! I dare not let be known that I am here!”

“Peace, my lord,” soothed Theophobus. “My daughter is indeed young, and not above showing off her powers. We are well alone, and your secrecy safe. I have seen to it. You shall have her talent, which someday will outshine my own, and my years’ knowledge as well. Now how may we serve?”

The prince resettled his mask and glared between them. “I heard word of laying open my enemies’ secrets,” he replied. “Let us start with that.”

“What enemies, my Prince?”

“I have a spy within my court, for the king would not send me here without wise to watch my every word and deed. Find out who it is, and what they have been telling my uncle.”

“It shall be so, oh prince.” Theophobus bowed. “Yet outfinding such were much easier if we could do so from within your court.”

“Vey well,” said Prince Thanocles. “You shall be invited to the Librarium. Now I must go, lest I be missed.” He turned and swept out while the two sorcerers bowed.

After he left, Theophobus turned: “You upstarted to call him out by name,” he chided, beard wagging.

“Just so,” said Tara. “Now he will not forget me.

* * *

Tara stepped unseen among the courtiers. Under fluted columns and arching, sky-painted ceilings, full threescore revelers and more danced and laughed within the Palace of Yaralet. Zithers, flutes, and drum played a rolling, hypnotic tune while dancing girls, nude but for scarves clung to round hips and bangles on wrist and breast, who writhed and whirled bonelessly. Slaves oiled and shaven bore silver platters full of sweetmeats, or ewers of thick ruby wine among the guests: silken-draped ministers and barons, chiseled knights with hard arms in sleeveless tunics, and noble ladies in gossamer gowns that hinted wickedness half-concealed.

Tara studied the panorama, of bodies strutting amid the candles and blazes, figures flitting among the shadows, pairs twisting on each other, and those seeking solace among the hall’s nooks or benighted spaces, where the portico opened unto the palace gardens. She watched their stirrings away from the light, from the broad banquet tables strewn with half eaten viands, bread crusts, and fat fish-eggs brought from the far Vilayet. She stepped through a knot upmade of a matronly noblewoman who let two knights lick and suckle on her naked breasts while she laughed and cooed, then among grinning, wolflike youths who hounded and slapped the flanks of a cowering slavegirl. She halted by a wall, wherealong a brace of gowned and gold-chained ministers spoke in voices low. She stood by one’s elbow, whereof he took no heed.

“…So what know we of this new Theophobus, who is whispered as a sorcerer is granted a chair in the Librarium?” asked one.

“Twas rumored he was a sorcerer when he served the Prince’s father,” said the other. “Yet all I ever saw of him was flash-powder and petty charms. As I heard, he has promised a batch of yellow lotus for the Prince’s birthday feast, which will foretell a quiet eve, without this bawdiness we now witness.”

“Were that he had the wretched stuff brewed tonight! My daughter is here among these overlusty jackals. We could not refuse the Prince’s invitation. Yet I’d not have her heavy with some captain’s misbegotten brat!…”

Tara half-listened while she watched the hall. A shout from the head table drew her ears. There she beheld Prince Thanocles, maskless. She witted a young man swarthy with well-groomed curls, of middle height but stout and with thick thews. He laughed among a ring of like-clothed men, who looked as knights, petty lords, and others who stood among the army’s officers. He laughed and lifted a goblet, while his other arm twined about a young lady with hair rare like spun gold, and whose gown peaked from her nipples. The prince rose from his seat and joined his fellows in toast. Tara started across the hall, toward him, while he whispered in the golden lass’s ear. He left the table, drawing her after him. With cheers from his minions, Thanocles and his companion passed through a door, which kilted porters shut afterward.

Tara neared the door. Briefly she halted, without the porters’ mind. Then she strode forward, and ghosted through the shut door, with no more effort than one would brush aside a shroud.

A marble hallway led to many doorways. Tara paused at each and peered within. She caught giggles from a room near the hallway’s midst and went inside.

There she found Prince Thanocles, who was kissing the golden-haired lass, both sitting upon a curtained couch. “I must tell you how grateful I am, Lady Titiana, that you agreed to speak with me,” he spoke, smiling.

“My Prince, it is my greatest pleasure,” she fawned. “The honor you have done me and my family I know not how to repay.”

“You are kind, my lady.” Thanocles grinned. “Yet I must confide in you: much as I rejoice in your company, and even in your eyes’ light, I must speak on a grimweighty matter.”

“But what is it, my Prince?” she asked, eyes wide.

“You have heard that power dwells in noble blood?” he asked. When blithely she nodded, he continued: “It is that power in your blood I need.”

Titiana swallowed. “How can I help?”

“I need your power to combat that which stirs in my own,” he explained with soft urgency. “You see, my lady, I am afflicted with a condition, which unfortunately falls too often on those like me descended from royalty. Have you heard of such?”

She shook her head.

“It stems from an overabundance of manly humor. These humors and their development have caused me a deformity!”

“My Prince, I could never believe!” declared Titiana, eyes glistening. “I would never call you so! You are too perfect. Too beautiful!”

“If only your words were true,” he answered ruefully. “Yet I bear a dreadful secret. Tell me, Lady Titiana, will you keep my secret?”

“Of course, on my life!”

“You honor me more than you know,” declared Thanocles. “I have no choice but to show you,” whereat he raised his jupon’s hem and bared his manhood to her eyes, whereat Lady Titiana stared, gasped, and set hands to mouth.

Thanocles gazed on her. “You see my cruel curse, my lady?” he asked. “You see this frightful swelling, which grows and lengthens without uplet? Its angry red choler and the stiffness it engenders? Can you guess the pain I’m in?”

Titiana’s hands quivered. “What horror, my Prince!”

“Yes. I live in horror, and fear it will be my death,” he agreed. “Yet the gods are kind. There is a cure.”

“What cure?”

“Earlier, I mentioned the power that dwells in the purity of your noble blood,” he told the golden-haired lass, taking her hand: “Will you help to cure me?”

“Anything, my Prince!”

“Words fail my gratitude,” said Thnocles. “Moreover, you hold a rare mightiness, for not only are you noble, but also virgin, which greatens any magic tenfold. Now you must milk me, dear lady, and draw off the foul humor that hurts me so.”

Titiana gaped. “But would it not be better tended by a leech, who may lend his fleam’s edge?” she asked.

“Impossible,” he swiftly answered. “The infection is too far along. One wrong nick of my turgid flesh, and it would burst. Even if I survive, I could never have children. Now quickly, lass, as my life hangs, take me in your hands!”

Tara unseen crept to the couch’s end while golden-haired Titiana knelt before the prince and began her ministration. “Easy, lass,” he bade. “You must not squeeze so, lest it burst open. Rather, stroke and stretch the skin until the humor runs freely.”

Titiana nodded, fingers shakily worky his veiny stiffness. “Does it pain you, my Prince?”

“It does,” he grunted, “though already your touch gives me relief I have not known in months since the affliction caught me. Now swiftly, and be sure to stroke the full length.”

“Yes, my Prince!”

Tara hovered near, leaned over the kneeling maiden, and watched her hands work up and down Prince Thannocles’ manliness. Under her touch he stiffened, shut eyes, and gritted his teeth. At last he clutched her shoulder: “It’s working, lass! It begins to seep forth! Now swiftly, and if you love me, lady, do not stop!” Tara watched his grimace while he shuddered, squeezed Titiana’s shoulder until they bruised, and moaned as if a man almost dying. Titiana openly wept while she kept soothing his erstwhile affliction, even as it slickly drooped within her palms. “Do you live, my Prince?” She quavered. “Have I done you ill and slain you?”

“Gods, Ishtar, and Bel bless you, lass. You have saved me! Such relief after so long a hurt! Now cease. You have done well.”

“My- my lord?” Titiana’s voice fluttered. “My gown! I am befouled!” She flailed at her gossamer dress, which plastered wetly and showed her hard pink nipples. “I dare not be seen!”

“Hush,” soothed Thanocles. “We shall set this aright. You shall have new, clean clothes.” He chuckled: “And in thanks for saving my life, I shall wash you myself.”

He led her to a nightstand in the room’s corner. There he unpinned her gown and stripped it to floor. Helplessly Titiana tried to hide her breasts and loins. Paying her no heed, Thanocles ungirded his belt and doffed his jupon, leaving him likewise naked. At his bareness Titiana’s face flushed. “My Prince, why are you…”

“I am befouled, too,” he answered simply. He took a washcloth and wet it from the nightstand’s ewer. He stood behind her, circled her in arms, and began to wipe her pert breasts. paying particular heed to her craggy nipples.

Tara again crept near, stepping through the nightstand to better watch. Keenly she observed the golden lass’s reaction to Thanocles’ washcraft, how his fingers touched, brushed, and then kneaded her breasts. First he did so through the washcloth, but then dropped it from his greedy hands. The sorceress paid close mind to Titiana’s face, her blush heightening on cheeks and lips, her strengthening sighs, and her eyes widening in wonder at these sensations, heretofore unknown, that the prince woke within her.

“My Prince,” she breathed, “such love you make me- Oh!” She squealed when his hand drifted down her soft belly and dove between her legs. Her whole body tightened. Her hand clutched his, but did not shove him away. “My Prince, what are you…”

“Might so well make sure all of you is clean while we are here.” He chuckled and nuzzled her neck.

“But, my Prince, please! This is not… I know not…” Her babble continued, lost somewhere between protest and love declaration while undeterredly Thanocles explored her body, and Tara watched, licking her teeth.

“My Prince,” whimpered Titiana: “what do you feel for me? Do you- oh!”

Suddenly her breath died, and she went wholly still. Thanocles, too, felt her change and halted his ministration. “What is it?” he asked.

Titiana did not answer, but shuddered. She craned her head down and backward, where a newly inflated member grew against her hip. “My Prince,” she whimpered, “your affliction has returned.”

“So it has,” grunted Thanocles. He set a hand on her belly, and his other upon her shoulder. “So much humor has built up within me that the swelling has regrown. It looks you have failed, Titiana.”

The golden-haired maiden burst into tears. “I am so sorry!” she bawled. “What must I do? Let me milk you again!”

He spun her forward and loomed over her, eyes glaring inches from hers. “It’s far too gone for that,” he spoke tastingly. He studies her as if weighing a decision. “There is a thing more we may try,” he wondered, and then held her gaze hard: “Are you willing to do what must be done? Whatever it takes?”

“Anything, my Prince,” she whispered. “Just let me prove my love to you. What must I do? What do you need?”

“Your maidenhead,” he answered. “Your virginal blood, and the sweet essence of your womb.”

He pushed her back to the couch, whereon she toppled when her calves struck. Thanocles climbed thereon and knelt over her. Heedless of her pleas, he grabbed her legs and set them upon his shoulders. Then he paused, staring down at her breasts, belly, and womanhood, and thighs splayed for his pleasure.

“This cure I will enjoy,” he growled.

His manhood stabbed into her outspread maidenfolds. Titiana cried piercingly. Tears wept down her cheeks, even while the golden-haired beauty clutched the prince’s arms.

Without disturbance, Tara crawled onto the couch’s head, unwitted by the writhing lovers. There she leaned and studied the golden lady’s shudders under the prince’s repeated invasion. She listened to every mewl from the lass’s lips while his assault continued, remarked the sweat beading on her brow and breasts, and also dripping from the prince’s shoulders, until it drenched them both, and heard them both gasp for breath. Tara watched as Titiana groaned and bit her lip.

The young sorceress’s teeth bit her own.

Thanocles’ assault continued on straining thighs. He leaned forward, bowing Titiana’s legs back to her shoulders, until he set his hands on the couch bed. His position put this head right below Tara while he hunched and strained. Tara bent lower to watch his face, his eyes when they squeezed shut, his lips twist back and bare his teeth while a groan started deep within his chest. It rose slowly and loudened while his manhood quickened its thrusts into her plundered maidenhead, and then became a roar when he froze, legs shuddering while his manhood squirted into her depths. Tara even reach a hand out until she remembered she had no body to touch him.

At last, Thanocles fell upon the beside Titiana and lay pantingly. She reached out to him, even as her sobs continued. “My Prince, my love,” she whispered.

Thanocles answered not. His eyes sagged shut as already slumber claimed him.

While Tara watched, the prince softly snoring, the erstwhile maiden lying forlornly, a spare woman in silken shawl entered the doorway. On silent feet she crossed to the couch. She brushed Titiana’s sodden brow. “Come, my lady,” she whispered.

“Who-” started Titiana. Witlessly she rose, though then halted fearfully, lest she disturb the slumbering prince.

“I will see you bathed, changed, and safely home,” explained the spare woman over her. “Also, I will give you a potion to drink. Now swiftly, my lady, but softly, lest you wake him. The Prince does not make kindly to those who break his sleep.”

Shiveringly Titiana stood, doing her best without waking the prince. She let the other woman lead her from the room, out to the hallways, hugging her breasts.

Tara followed the two women until a doorway at the hallway’s end. The spare woman led Titiana through. The sorceress went to follow, but then a deep, ringing voice spoke her name. Tara looked around. While she paused, the hallway lengthened uncannily and dimmed…

…Tara gasped awake, lying upon a bed, drenched chillingly. A small lamp burned, showing her room in the Librarium apartment she and Theophobus had moved into. Beside her sat the old man, who had called her name, and was also shaking her arm. On his sight she flinched to the bed’s edge. “Peace!” he hissed.

“I was about to learn something,” she snarled. “Why did you wake me?”

“Because you’ve lain under this astral spell for the whole night, since yestereve,” he reproved. “There is a cost for spending overlong away from one’s body. You look almost half-dead!”

She tried to swallow, failed, and licked dry lips. “What hour is it?’

“Within a glasstide of dawn,” he shook his head. “I should have woken you sooner, but myself dozed off.” He handed her a cupful of watered wine, which she thirstily drank. “What have you learned?”

“Some things,” she answered slowly. “Courtiers suspect you of sorcery, but wit not your true powers. I think they seek your use for their own ends. Of me they stand heedless, as merely your daughter.”

Theophobus nodded. “What else did you witness?”

“A tragic waste of virgin’s blood,” she muttered. “Elsewise, somewhat of the games our patron the Prince plays to disport himself.” She fingered her lip. “There is much more to the palace than merely the court, ministers, and petty lords vying for favor. There are servants, and also whatever secrets the Prince keeps in his seraglio. I need to get closer.”

Theophobus stroked his beard. “How?”

“Wake me at noon,” she answered. “I need to find an expert.”

“An expert at what?”

“At something only women know. Now leave.” She waited for him to go through the door and shut the curtain, and then lay back upon the bed.

xxxxx

Tara swiftly strode the winding street’s cobblestones; new sandals smartly tied around her ankles. A swath of blue silken shawl was drawn over her head, hiding her hair and drawing her face into shadow. If any burghers chanced to gaze within, they might see but her gray eyes shining.

She halted before a green-painted door and regarded its high face and thin arching windows high on the upper floors. She looked both ways along the street, and then knocked on the door. A moment later, it opened, and a porter stood within, who eyed her askingly.

“I seek the mistress,” she told him.

The porter bowed his neck, held the door aside, and let Tara enter.

He led her to an antechamber, and then up a spiral stairway. On the upper floor they followed a balcony overlooking an inner garden until they came to a room at the far end. There he showed her inside, bowed, and left.

A buxom woman with henna-red hair, arms heavy with jewels, and gown woven with gold thread, sat on a cushion. Her face, no longer young but still handsome, regarded the garden below through a carven rosewood screen. One hand idly waved a peacock-feather fan over her rouged bosom. “Who are you, and what do you want?” she asked brusquely.

“Tara, Mistress Dezira, daughter of Theophobus.” She bowed at the neck, doffing her scarf’s fold.

The matron’s head turned. “Whyfor should either name mean anything to me?”

“I will keep this brief, Mistress, since you run a business,” explained Tara: “I have come to learn.”

“Have you?” For the first time the Mistress Dezira’s gaze settled on the girl. Black eyes bored into her face. “Very well,” she begrudged. “Let me see what you have to work with.” Her peacock fan waved at Tara’s shawl.

Tara shrugged it off. She stood with shoulders bare but for her gray gown’s straps, a white sash, and a silver girdle tightened at her hips.

“Not bad,” commented Dezira while her eyes judged. “Men like Hyborian eyes, as they so call. Now the rest, too.” Her fan waved again.

Tar unhooked her girdle, pulled the sash’s knot, and unpinned her gown’s straps. Its gray silk flowed smoothly off her olive flesh. Nakedly she stood before the mistress, spread her arms, and cocked a round hip. At the fan’s twirl she slowly turned around.

After thorough study, Dezira nodded. “Are you virgin, girl?”

“No, Mistress.”

The buxom woman shrugged. “Too bad. Can you fake it?”

“If needs must.” Tara’s brow tightened: “Out of curiosity, what is men’s fascination with virginity?”

Dezira gave her another glance and cocked her head. “You’ve a brain in that head,” she acknowledged. “It’s the hunter’s instinct at its root, I reckon, to make us prey to their lust. Also, it’s a kind of ownership. Being a maiden’s first is believed to leave a spiritual mark, and bragging rights besides.” Her head tilted. “Your Kothic is fine, but you’ve spoken another tongue for long spell of your life. Whence come you?”

“My family hails from Koth, though as merchants we’ve dwelt many places,” answered the naked girl.

“Ophir, unless I miss my guess,” stated the mistress, and paused: “Whom again did you name your father?”

“Theophobus, once of Korshemish.”

“The alchemist? He used to sell me lotus. I remember you now. Those eyes!” She grinned narrowly. “Your mother died, and it was all he could do to keep breath in your frail body. Your were this tiny thing so weak you could barely cry. One of my girls nursed you.” She nodded. “You’ve grown well.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“Good. Now I expect you to work every night unless you moon-blood is running,” she dictated. “You shall bathe before noon, and after every man you take. I set the fees and take half. For that you get your own room, fresh sheets, and a maid who will change them. I also give out potions daily against childedness and bring in a physician monthly. I require you undergo both. If you get with child, it’s on you to hire a midwife and get rid. If you keep it, you shall get gone. If you get the pox, I’ll pay your sickhouse and will throw incense on your funeral pyre.”

Tara scoffed. “Respectfully, Mistress, I’ve not come here to work as one of your doxies. As I said, I’m here to learn.” She bent forward, scooped her girdle, and plucked a small pouch from its links. She straightened and tossed it at the mistress, who caught it to the clink of metal within. “Consider me a customer,” said the naked girl.

Dezira caught the coin purse. She scowled. Then she squeezed the purse and sat back. “What do you wish to learn? Speak.”

“Many things,” said Tara. “Yet chief among them shall be how best to lure a man and keep his interest.”

“Now here shows a riddle,” spoke the mistress. “‘Tis a little thing to sway one’s hips, bat one’s eyes, bounce your teats, and rouse his lust beyond reason. You can so easily work the room below and 4live well enough. Yet what you seek to learn is another thing entirely.” She chuckled, shut her fan, and picked her teeth. “You’re after bigger game.”

Tara matched the mistress’s stare. “So have we a deal?”

“Your mark,” asked Dezira: “Who is he?”

“My business, your money.” Her gray eyes did not flinch.

“Who is he?”

The nymphlike girl knelt, back straight, eyes never wavering. “May I get dressed now?”

“No! You may not. Who is he?”

Tara ignored the mistress and plucked her gown from the floor. “Let me put to you that my education is an investment,” she proposed evenly, and began dressing. “You teach what I need, and I shall direct my influence sent to your welfare. Now do we have a deal?”

Dezira smirked. “You’ve some steel under that soft flesh, I’ll grant. I’m unused to being withstood.” She nodded. “Get you dressed. Yet give a thought to trimming that thatch between your legs or even shaving bare. Men like to see what they’re getting into.”

After Tara redonned her clothes, Dezira led her out, down a stairway, and to the garden in the house’s midst. There, in the open rooms’ archways, lolled a half-dozen women, ebony locks thick with perfume, rings in their ears and noses, and embroidered shawls wrapped teasingly about their bare breasts. In one room a fat Shemite sprawled on a couch. A woman with curls bleached golden sat on his lap and fed him grapes. Further along, a zither whined.

The mistress brought Tara to where the women gathered. She waved her fan about them, the garden, and the room. “My girls,” she said simply. “Some were born of whores like ourselves. Some are merchants’ daughters sold off to settle debts. And some are rare finds from the slavemonger’s block.” She snapped her fingers: “Tara here would learn of the arts whereby the sisters of the House of Nightingales ply our trade,” she introduced, and then pointed to a girl sitting abench: “Time to dance!”

The woman, a sloe-eyed, strong cheeked beauty with skin dark as a Stygian’s, rose while a drum joined the zither. She pointed toe, cocked hip, and let her shawl fall open, baring heavy breasts with nipples wide as saucers. As her dance began, she did not merely sway, but rather her whole body bowed, shoulders and waist following her arms’ snakelike wave. She whirled, and her skirt flew and rose up to her moon like buttocks. On the couch the Shemite cheered. He threw a copper at her skipping feet while the gold-bleached beauty stroked his belly.

Tara watched the dance intently while the other women clapped in time. Dezira overlooked the scene, and then studied her young customer. “You seem vexed,” she observed.

“I have always found dance beautiful,” commented Tara. “Yet I had erenever witted the skill.”

“All my girls learn dance, and not merely for entertainment, for it also teaches grace,” she said, and then added: “Such hearkens to what you’ve asked of me.”

Tara nodded. “I can well see.” Then she glanced, gray eyes narrow, to the mistress: “Do you teach them?”

Dezira laughed. “Sometimes, but the basic steps. I have friends who have danced before kings in Korshemish, Koraja, and Khauran, who can make men beg without ever showing a hint of skin, and who can drive them wild beyond reason with but a swing of their hips. Sometimes as a favor they dance here and pack the floors with enough men to make the joists groan. I can meet you with them, though they will have their own fee.”

“Understood,” agreed Tara. “Give me a day, and I shall bring the fee. “Now what else can you tell me now, to start my lessons?”

“So swift, like a hawk already seeing its prey from afar,” joked Dezira. “What can I easily teach from a lifetime of emptying men’s purses along with their seed, and moreover by keeping them coming back? Men love newness, which also bespeaks your question earlier about virginity, and why they often stray from wives and sweethearts. Along with that thought, jealousy is our easiest flaw to fall into, as women, and also the worst. Nothing will drive men off more swiftly than green eyes and shrill voice. Mind that.”

Tara nodded and waited.

“You’ve youth to your welfare, which never hurts while you have it,” continued the mistress. “Yet you’ll need something else to make you shine, especially in a roomful of equally beautiful women such as a great man is likely to gather. You’ll need something else to make yourself outshine. You see me?” she asked. “Think I can have any man into bed if I wish?”

Tara’s eyes narrowed. “I reckon you can, at that.”

“Yes. And admit it has nothing to do with my looks,” said Dezira. “It’s a show of presence, how to walk into a room and command it merely by being there,” she explained, “even a thing of spirit. Do you understand?”

Slowly Tara nodded. “I almost think so.”

“Good. It’s a start. You’ve a look that draws eyes to you. It’s a little hard, but we can soften it and use to good outcome. Until then we shall start with simpler things. Let your Ophirean accent thicken to sound outlandish, especially out here in the East. As a rule, always find a way to stand out.”

“I will,” agreed Tara.

Dezira nodded. “Also, and this goes a length to both luring and keeping a man: give him a taste of the forbidden.”

Tara frowned. “How?”

“You can do more than merely let a man rut in you,” answered the mistress, “but we’ll start easily.” The dance was ending, to cheers from both the women and the Shemite. Dezira glanced at them, and back at Tara: “Have you ever kissed a woman?”

Tara paused. “Not in the way I’m guessing you mean?” she asked slowly.

Dezira grinned. “Swift wits will serve you well.” She beckoned to the dusky dancer, who sauntered over. The mistress hugged her shoulders and gently pushed her forward. “Kiss her like you mean it.”

Tara stared at the Stygian beauty, tall and strong-cheeked, who stood proudly, not bothering to cover her heavy breasts. Coolly she regarded the gray-eyed girl. Tara’s tongue licked her lips.

Hesitantly she stepped forward. She reached up and touched the dusky woman’s face. She stroked her cheek and traced a fingertip over full lips. They parted teasingly. Tara rose on tiptoe and softly brushed her lips against the darker woman’s. Orchid and dainty musk filled her nose. The dark woman’s mouth opened further, and her tongue slipped out, running across Tara’s. Her own lips opened and sought the other’s taste until they dueled ticklingly like two fish.

With a squeal Tara lost balance and wobbled back on her heels. The tall Sygian giggled and steadied the gray-eyed lass by her shoulders. Then the dusky woman bent low and answered by suckling Tara’s lower lip. Naked, heavy breasts pushed against Tara’s through her gown’s thin silk. Tara leaned back just enough to behold the Stygian’s face, who was smiling. The gray-eyed lass smiled back. She leaned forward to lay another kiss and tangled fingers among her myriad braids.

Throaty laughter floated from the room. Tara glanced upward and saw the Shemite, who avidly watched the two women’s embrace. His hand had found the bleach-golden woman’s teat, who still sat his thigh. He squeezed her softness until her nipple peeked through his fingers. She answered in kind as her hand dove under his robe. Yet he did not notice. “You two wenches,” he bade: “Come here!”

“I think you have the right idea,” said Dezira. “Make him long for what he can never have.”

The Stygian broke kiss and half-stepped toward the Shemite’s couch, though her sloe eyes lingered. Tara shook her head and stepped backward, letting the dusky woman alone join the Shemite and the bleach-gold doxy. Then Tara witted him staring at her, teeth bared, like a hound who had let slip a hare. Yet he relented when the Stygian knelt upon his belly and held a nipple to his lips. She and the wench kissed over his head, which he took as cue to lift the Stygian’s skirt and fondle her thighs.

Tara retreated to the garden’s pillar, where behind one she hid, but looked around at the threesome of bodies entwining on the couch. She watched while the Stygian dove between the bleach-gold’s loins and suckled her womanliness. The Stygian, robe stripped off and forgotten, knelt behind and laid his paunch atop her waist. He grabbed her hips and thrust sharply forward. She grunted and dove back into the other doxy’s spread folds, leaving Tara regarding the line of heaving flesh. She stayed behind the pillar, even when the gold wench’s cry peeled through the room, and the man groaned, bucked, and sagged with face darkened. Only then the Stygian’s head rose. She glanced about the room until her eyes met Tara’s at the gardens edge.

Dezira laid hand on Tara’s shoulder, making the gray-eyed woman jump. “Easy,” she soothed, and regarded her student: “Are you well?”

Tara nodded, eyes glittering widely. A light flush brightened her cheeks.

The mistress nodded grinningly. “You feel it, don’t you?” Tara reddened more from shame, whereat the older woman patted her back. “That’s good. Men will wit your arousal and will know it from fake. It will draw them. Now have you had enough?”

“For now,” said Tara. “You are right I have much to learn.” She bowed to the mistress. “I shall return.” Then she strode away.

THE END OF CHAPTER TWO