Page 16 of Shroud of Eternity (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles 2)

“So, what exactly is a silk yaxen?” he asked. “You haven’t told me.” He wanted to sound bright and inquisitive, but his words came out slowly, and he had more trouble forming them than he expected.

Jed and Brock laughed at him, their lips curved in broad grins. Amos said, “You’ll find out soon enough. There are many dachas in the silk yaxen district, and I have my favorite.”

“We have a standing account,” Jed said.

Amos regarded Bannon coolly. “I’ll even pay for you. This first time will be my treat for our guest from afar.” He reached into a pocket of his pantaloons, pulled out a small sack, and opened it, taking out five gold coins and handing them casually to Bannon. “Here, take these just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“In case you want special services,” Amos chuckled.

“Thank you,” Bannon muttered. “My mother always said to say thank you. I appreciate it. And I appreciate you showing me the city.” He realized he might be babbling, but his companions seemed not to notice.

His boots were sturdy and they held his ankles upright, but his steps were uncertain. The back of his head was packed with warm fuzz.

Once, as boys on Chiriya Island, Bannon and his friend Ian had watched a trading ship come into port with goods from Serrimundi. Bannon’s father went down to the docks while sailors unloaded crates of imported medicines, bolts of cloth, iron carpentry tools, new farming implements for the cabbage harvest. For their own part, the island farmers sold pickled cabbage in sealed clay urns as well as a rough ale brewed from kelp that grew not far from the Chiriya coastline.

Bannon’s father had met with the first mate of the ship, paid him coins, and walked away with three bottles of brandy from a distillery in Larrikan Shores. Bannon and Ian had followed him as he went back home and stashed two of the three bottles in the woodpile behind their house; then he had gone off by himself to get thoroughly drunk with the remaining bottle.

Curious, young Bannon and Ian had moved the stacked wood and retrieved one of the brown glass bottles. They hurried with their prize to a sheltered little cove and sat there, daring each other to drink the rare and expensive brandy. It burned on the way down, and Bannon coughed. He had to force himself not to vomit. Ian took a larger swig, so Bannon felt he had to outdo him. After the third swallow, he realized it didn’t taste all that bad, and by the time the two had finished half the bottle he felt both queasy and euphoric. His skin tingled, his head felt like a bubble, and the world was spinning.

As the brandy affected him, some calling of the liquor made him want to drink more, to maintain this sense of warm and displaced contentment, or even to increase the feeling. By the time he and Ian finished the bottle, they were sick and in a stupor. Completely unschooled in the ways of drunkenness, they had realized it was nearly dark, but when they tried to get back up from the shore, they blundered and slipped and fell back down.

By then, the tide was coming in, the water eating away at their sheltered beach. They were soaked, but too disoriented to climb up the crumbly cliffs. Somehow, after several tries, the two of them did manage to pull their way up. It was a miracle they hadn’t drowned or fallen to their deaths.

Bannon had doubled over and vomited up most of what he’d drunk. Ian found it uproariously funny. They went their separate ways, and when Bannon returned home, his father was outraged. The boy tried to pretend nothing was different, but he could barely speak, barely walk. His father snarled at him for being a lout, a drunk, and a disappointment. He had beaten Bannon, who collapsed into unconsciousness, more from the brandy than from the repeated blows. Bannon woke up a day later, bruised and in pain, his skull splitting with a roaring headache that drowned out all thoughts of his swollen eyes and cheeks.

The things his father had shouted at him were just a hateful blur of words, and he eventually realized the man wasn’t so angry because his son had gotten himself inebriated, but because Bannon had stolen the expensive brandy he intended to drink for himself.

Bannon’s mother tended him, dabbing his face with a wet cloth, singing quietly while she wept. She had leaned over his bedside, whispering urgently, “Don’t turn out like him. He’s a bad man. It’s not all the liquor’s fault, but the liquor certainly unleashes the demons.”

Bannon thought of this now while staggering uncertainly behind the three Ildakaran youths. His stomach was whirling. He hadn’t really wanted the wine in the first place, but now he didn’t dare vomit in front of Amos, Jed, and Brock. He clamped his teeth together and distracted himself with other thoughts until the queasiness died down.…

The streets of Ildakar were lit with glowing white spheres on top of iron posts, illumination that pulsed up from arcane symbols. The nobles’ district was well lit, as if hundreds of night wisps had settled along the boulevards, but down here in the lower levels, the streets twisted and turned into a labyrinth packed with low candlelit buildings. Dark-leaved oleander hedges blocked the view from the street.

“So tell us more about this Cliffwall archive,” Amos asked. “Is it a library of some sort? A village with a collection of books?”

“It can’t be greater than the libraries of Ildakar,” Jed said.

“Oh, it is!” Bannon said. “Supposedly the greatest collection in the world, sealed away at the beginning of the wizard wars three thousand years ago.”

“I don’t believe it,” Amos said.

“Sweet Sea Mother, it’s true! It’s hidden in the winding canyons on the other side of Kol Adair west of here. It was covered by a camouflage shroud for thousands of years … just like your shroud.”

“Then how did you find it?” Brock’s voice had a clear challenge.

“The camouflage is down now, and we had a guide.” He thought of Thistle, how the spunky girl had given everything to take them there. “We needed to study the lore to find a way to destroy the Lifedrinker.”

The three young men looked pointedly at one another, and Bannon wondered if he had said too much.

With exaggerated good cheer, Amos clapped him on the back. “Bannon, my friend, you have such interesting stories.” He sauntered up a tiled path between the dark hedges to a doorway, where a man sat on a stool, guarding the entrance. “This is our favorite dacha. The silk yaxen here have the finest breeding.” Ahead, the interior of the building was lit with orange glows that provided enough illumination, yet also enough shadows.

The man at the door sat on a comfortable wooden seat. He had a well-trimmed beard and patchy hair. His clothes were of a fine cut, but they were cream-colored and tan, not the vibrant dyes of the gifted nobles. A small brass pot at the side of his stool was filled with coins. The man gave them a brittle smile, though his eyes were suspicious. “Welcome, Master Amos. Always glad for your business.” The tone of his voice said otherwise.

The young man dropped coins into the beaten-brass pot. “That’s for our new friend, Bannon Farmer. He may not know what to do with himself.”

“I can be taught,” Bannon said, still not sure of himself. “I learned to become an expert swordsman after Nathan showed me.”

“There’s no call for weapons here in the pleasure district.” The doorman looked dubiously at Sturdy hanging at Bannon’s hip. “You’ll be using a different sword tonight, young man.”

“Sturdy stays with me, to defend us if need be,” he said, but the words were beginning to sink in. Pleasure district? From what he could tell of the muted orange lighting, the soft laughter, and low conversation inside, he had thought it might be a gambling den. But once they stepped inside and he saw the lovely women lounging about on divans, he realized what he should have guessed from the beginning. “Silk yaxen are prostitutes?” Several women attended to noble male customers, while others stood beatific against the wall, just waiting. “This dacha is just a … whorehouse?”

“Keeper’s crotch, not just prostitutes!” Amos said. “Silk yaxen are courtesans, specially bred for this precise use.”

Still fe

eling the warm thrum of the wine inside his head, Bannon couldn’t put together an argument or an excuse. He let his three friends lead him inside. Incense burned in small braziers, adding a scent of cloves and honey in a strangely pungent smoke that wafted about the room.

Amos turned back to the doorman. “Melody is available for me?”

“She is for you, as always. For our new guest, I suggest Kayla. She is beautiful and ready.”

“Not that it makes much difference,” Jed muttered. He walked up to where five exceptionally beautiful young women stood against a wall near an incense brazier, where they were bathed in the orange glow. They had vacuous expressions, simply looking to some imaginary object in the middle of the room.

Brock said, “Which one of you is Kayla?”

A woman with long wavy locks of dark cinnamon hair looked at him. The smile didn’t reach the rest of her face. “I am Kayla.”

Brock yanked her away from the wall and nudged her toward Bannon. She allowed herself to be propelled in his direction. Brock selected the next woman in line, who had similar-colored hair and pale skin. “I like the looks of you tonight.” He took her arm like a fisherman hauling in a catch.

Jed chose a brunette. He didn’t even bother to speak to her, just took her wrist and pulled her toward one of the vacant divans.

Kayla stood in front of Bannon, making no conversation, not meeting his gaze. She looked like no more than a doll, but a perfectly formed female doll. She blinked her eyes slowly. She didn’t smile. He was reminded of a sheep grazing placidly in a pasture, neither comprehending threat, nor showing any interest.

Bannon’s cheeks burned, and he was glad for the uncertain lighting so no one else could see his embarrassment. He extended a hand politely to Kayla. “My name is Bannon. I’m pleased to meet you.”

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