Page 29 of Zel
The Thieves Guild had its own bathhouses beneath the city, but as Zel could not risk using them, his parents had given the excuse when he was young that they feared for his safety there, and once older, he had given the excuse that his hair would get in everyone’s way. Their home above the Pied Pipers music shophad always had its own washroom, but not so lavish or filled with minerals and oils as the one provided by the sorcerer with a quarter turn of the key.
There were two basins large enough to submerge in. One had a table beside it with all the accompaniments for cleansing. The other emitted more steam, clearly intended for soaking once cleansing was done. Zel took his time, and once he was clean, he lay back in the soaking basin with his hair hanging over its edge and spilling upon the damp floor.
The ceiling here was like the one in Zel’s bedchamber, translucent to show the night sky, without any real threat of the elements. If Zel had doubted so in his room, he knew for certain here, for tonight was overcast, and when it started to rain, the droplets fell upon the invisible ceiling as if Zel was in a bubble.
For as long as he soaked, the water in the basin did not cool, despite Zel seeing no method for heating it, and his skin never wrinkled. He could stay for as long as he wanted, and while he did, he watched the rain and drifted a hand down between his legs.
Zel trusted that Ulrich was not watching—he had to trust that or never bathe or change his clothes at all while here—but he also allowed himself the indulgence of imagining Ulrich might be watching.
Or that Ulrich was the one doing the touching.
“Ah!” A gasp left Zel as he dragged his thumb across his slit. Ulrich’s hands, even the shriveled one, were large and powerful in contrast to Zel’s, making him feel strangely secure whenever they touched him. Like on his shoulders. Or the small of his back.
Or how they might feel touching Zel’s shaft and circling his head.
The soaking basin was large enough that Zel could imagine leaning against a taller, broader body, encased by Ulrich whilesitting in his lap. Those strong arms would encircle Zel’s waist, powerful hands taking hold of him to fondle and stroke him, where none other than Zel’s own hands had ever touched before.
Zel didn’t mind that, without the contact of his hair, Ulrich’s blackened hand would remain shrunken. It wasn’t unpleasant to feel those fingertips. That hand was warmer too, maybe because of the pulse of magic in its cursed veins. Zel envisioned it doing the stroking, the blackened skin still soft, while Ulrich’s other hand held Zel’s sac, squeezing and gently pulling.
Zel’s breath began to quicken. The rain didn’t drown out the sound, for he couldn’t hear the storm at all. He could only see it and kept his eyes skyward to enjoy the dance of the raindrops while Ulrich stroked him faster and nuzzled into his hair, whispering:
“Come for me, little cabbage.”
Zel did, with a bitten off whine and a sag lower into the water—alone, with no firm body beneath or behind him.
While the rest of the night was Zel’s to do with as he wished, he couldn’t stay in the basin forever, and besides, the water was no longer clean.
As soon as Zel stepped out over the basin’s edge, the water swirled like it had in his laundry basket, and it was clean again as if wholly renewed. The same had been true of the other basin that had become milky with soap and other elements but was crystal clear now for its next use.
Magic was a wonder, but because it was tangible.
Fantasy could not replace truth.
Zel dried himself, dressed in his sleep chemise, and gathered up his damp hair into a bundle to carry it. There was a mirror in the washroom like in his bedchamber, and catching sight of himself, minimally covered though he was and devoid of any powders or paints on his face, even he could have believed he was a woman.
Would he have preferred dressing as a woman if he had not been forced by necessity? He had often wondered that but could never be certain. He liked to think he would have. It felt right to be a man, but it felt right to be a woman too. He simply wished he did not need to lie and could be both by his own choosing.
Couldsomeone be both? Be neither? Be themselves and be accepted whatever the answer? Zel hoped so. Somewhere. If he succeeded in his mission—not only in killing Ulrich but in keeping all the secrets and treasures of the tower for himself and his parents—he would no longer need to wonder, for he would be free to live as whatever and whoever he wished to be.
Even if he didn’t yet know who that was.
Zel retired to his room. When he got into bed, he continued to watch the rain pinprick the ceiling and let his mind wander to other dangerous thoughts. But so what if they were dangerous? If he had already been fantasizing, why not allow the indulgence of imagining that Ulrich’s reaction to discovering the truth beneath Zel’s skirts might be a happy one?
The next morn, Ulrich once again assisted Zel with his hair. Zel was already getting better at levitating and manipulating the sections even without hands-on assistance from Ulrich, but he still enjoyed the feeling of Ulrich brushing it out for him first. From there, they followed what was also becoming routine: breakfast in the main room with the sun streaming in through the window. Breakfast and lunch were always in the main area, while dinner was taken in the dining hall with the full turn of the key.
After breakfast, before Zel could ask what they might do that day, Ulrich bid Zel to use the key just so. Having already eaten, Zel knew it would not lead to the dining hall. He had a few guesses about where it might go instead, but when he turned the key and opened the door, he was still surprised.
Ulrich moved into the room past him.
“Do you wish to teach me how to defend myself, my lord?” Zel asked, stepping forward to join Ulrich and letting the door close behind them.
The space was as large as the dining hall but with weapons racks lining a central square like a fighting ring. Zel was familiar with such arenas in the Thieves Guild, mostly for training, but also, occasionally, for entertainment. He had learned hand-to-hand in such a space long ago, as well as how to wield a blade.
The very type of blade, a dagger, that Ulrich took from one of the racks.
“I do not believe teaching you is necessary,” Ulrich replied, and hurled the dagger at Zel’s head.
Zel caught it by instinct, expertly grasping the hilt and readjusting his grip to suit his style, while squaring his stance for a fight.
