Free A Painted Goddess by Victor Gischler

those who served the ancient sorcerer.”
    “You mean their descendants still live here?”
    “No.” Kristos smiled enigmatically. “Not descendants , no.”
    Now she stopped walking altogether. “Okay, you need to explain what you’re talking about before I take another step.”
    “Do you want the Prime or not?” Kristos asked.
    Maurizan’s eyes widened. The directness of the question startled her. “Who says I do?”
    “Do not be foolish. The Moogari hold the secret.” Kristos turned so she could see his back. “Like me. They inked the Prime on my back many years ago. They served the old wizard and know his secrets. Your mother had the Prime and your grandmother. You wish it also.”
    She didn’t deny it. Why should she? Rina had robbed Maurizan of her chance for the Prime. Okay, that wasn’t quite true or fair, but it was how Maurizan felt about it. Weylan’s dying act had been to ink the Prime on Rina before Maurizan could make the trip up the mountain to the reclusive wizard’s cave. Rina herself might not have robbed her, but fate had.
    “I want the Prime,” Maurizan said. “Tell me what to do.”
    The Fish Man grinned. “Come with me and meet the Moogari.”
    He motioned for her to follow, and she did. When they rounded the corner, Maurizan stifled a gasp. She had been expecting to see some reclusive tribe of people.
    They weren’t quite people.
    The Moogari had arms and legs and eyes and moved around as people, but they were clearly not human. Their skin was a strange rubbery pink, hair a pale blue, straight and fine. They didn’t have proper noses, just nostril slits, and they were strangely thin, like they’d been stretched. Maurizan couldn’t tell male from female. They all wore the same loose gray robes. Or maybe there wasn’t a male or a female at all. Did they mate?
    But Kristos said they weren’t descendants. Dumo, could he mean these were the originals, that they were as old as the place itself?
    It didn’t seem possible.
    “They were a slave race,” Kristos said as if reading her thoughts. “Created by the master wizard of this place to carry out his whims. I have learned their language, and they have told me their stories.”
    She watched them a moment. They went about apparently normal business, mending clothes, tending a cookpot over a small fire in an enormous fireplace big enough for Maurizan to stand in. About a dozen of them.
    “Do they have children?”
    “No,” Kristos said. “There are only these you see here and a few more off tending errands. I don’t think it has ever occurred to them to have lives of their own or to leave this place. They were created to serve. They know nothing else.”
    One of them looked up and saw Maurizan and Kristos. He immediately began to jabber to his fellows in a language she’d never heard before, although it was now apparent where Kristos had picked up the odd accent.
    One of them broke off from the others and scurried to stand in front of the Fish Man, offering him a crisp bow and rattling off more syllables in his strange tongue.
    Kristos answered in the same language, then turned to Maurizan and said, “They ask if you have come for the tattoos. What shall I tell them?”
    “How did they know?”
    “It is what they do,” he said. “They would ask the same of anyone.”
    Maurizan hesitated, swallowed hard, then said, “Tell them yes. I’ve come for the tattoos.”
    Kristos translated, and there was a sudden, excited exchange of talk among the Moogari. In seconds they surrounded the gypsy girl, attempting to gently take off her clothing.
    “Hey!” She pulled back from them, alarmed.
    “It is the way,” Kristos said. “You must be bathed. Your skin must be clean and perfect. Trust them. They have no designs on your virtue. They are not capable.”
    Maurizan frowned at the Fish Man. “And what about you?”
    A wan smile. “I have no interest in such things, but if it makes you feel better, I shall