Free Riding the Serpent's Back by Keith Brooke Page A

spread with dishes from the length and breadth of the Rift which a steady stream of servants came to replenish and replace as the evening progressed. Accustomed to eating little and infrequently, Cotoche found that she could do little more than pick at a little turkey liver, a few sticky clumps of rice, some eggs no larger than her thumbnail. She drank more freely – a wine so dark it was almost black, some fragrant water, a creamy herbal cocktail steeped with the familiar, settling sweetness of hopi leaf – to soothe the burnt lining of her throat and mouth, she told herself, although as the evening lengthened she drank more to soothe the jangling of her nerves.
    She was made to sit at Melved’s side, taking the place, she noticed, of a bitter-faced young woman who she cruelly categorised as one of the street whores she herself had earlier been taken for. She didn’t feel guilty that she had supplanted another. She didn’t feel triumphant. She didn’t feel anything, as the alcohol and herbs began to do more than merely soothe her.
    At first, Melved tried to draw her into the conversation. “You’re an educated girl, I remember,” he said. “That is always one thing I have admired: even the lowest Habnathi educate their children.” He must have sensed her rush of resentment at his reference to her race – it hardly needed mentioning, after all, as her skin was darker than any of the guests other than one or two of the youngest, painted-up women – and added hurriedly, “I don’t refer to your parents, of course. He was a good man, your father. A sad loss.” In her confusion and fear she almost thought his rush to placate was sincere.
    Whenever he waited for her to speak she shook her head and pointed at her mouth.
    “Lost your tongue?” he said, when he finally understood.
    She nodded and looked away.
    Finally, she was led away. Another maid helped her out of her clothes and into another sheer silk gown, tied at the waist with a thick black sash. Then one of Esquellion’s men led her up a wide flight of stairs – unusual in themselves in such an earthquake-prone region where buildings of more than a single storey were rare – and along more sumptuously carpeted and decorated corridors.
    They came to a heavy wooden door and the guard knocked.
    “Yes,” came a voice from within.
    The guard opened the door, glanced inside and then stood back to allow Cotoche to enter. Melved was lying on his bed, a sickly smile on his face. Cotoche had time to see the raft of thick hair curling across his chest, its tangled mat plunging down below the line of the sheet pulled up across his midriff. Lower down, the linen was stretched tautly by the heavy bulge at his groin.
    The door swung softly shut behind Cotoche and she moved further into the room. Melved’s eyes followed her as she moved, the light from a lantern picking out beads of sweat on his face.
    A soft sound made Cotoche gasp and swivel.
    Leaning against the wall, where he had been hidden by the door when it opened, was the feather-haired stranger from the market hall. From behind a heavy curtain, his friend with the rat-tails in his hair stepped out, a long knife casually tucked into his belt.
    Cotoche, her head still befuddled by her intake at the dinner, looked from Chi to Jaryd to Melved and for a moment the whole room seemed to heave as if it was being rocked by a quake.
    Chi approached her and took one of her hands and held it between his own. He seemed to exude an air of calmness and authority, which Cotoche later ascribed to his healing Talent reaching out to calm her. “I’m sorry to intrude,” he said. “Say you’d rather stay with him, with all his riches and charm and power, and we’ll leave immediately.”
    Cotoche looked from Chi to Melved and back again. She hesitated, as if thinking, then could contain herself no longer and rushed into Chi’s arms. The three went to the door, but were stopped by Melved’s plaintive voice.
    “You