Commandment (22 page)

Of course, the Acaanan had heard of the place’s seedy reputation. But she had only expected to find a few stray demimondes pimping themselves. She was certainly not prepared for the vast turnout that greeted them.

A legion of svelte divas sashayed around the shattered avenue as if perfectly at home. No two, however, stood together. Instead, they beckoned to their customers from within darkened arches and behind broken pillars. Here, décolletage dresses, hair extensions, sable stockings, and high heels were the order of the day.

Most of the whores wore simple wreaths on their heads. Each garland was woven from a single type of plant. Fortunately, from her recent forays into the world of herbs, Lakif was in a position to appreciate the ornaments better. Popular opinion held that the whores chose wreaths designed to advertise an unusual aspect of their character or personal service. Some chose plants associated with magical effects. As such, wreaths impregnated with dill, jasmine, or ginseng abounded. According to popular belief, these plants were the active ingredients in aphrodisiacs. Some bore wreaths that suggested more platonic pleasures. One such woman wore the spiny leaves of the chicory, the plant of friendship. Apparently, she was advertising her innocence and simple character. Others bore wreaths directed at medicinal properties, hoping to snare the business of the infirm. One of Grimpkin’s deeply rooted folk customs held that the cure for many ailments rested in the open thighs of a prostitute, and many a sick man sought out their nectar. One woman wore the spidery white anemone, widely touted as a cure for visual problems whereas another wreath was studded with the seed-like fruit coriander, a panacea for general maladies.

Despite her recent research, she found that most of the headdresses contained unknown plants. But the wreaths of three women were truly unique, eliciting a reaction from the Acaanan. One woman was adorned with the shrub of absinthe. While a potent liquor, it also caused memory loss. Such a woman was obviously targeting the unsatisfied husband. The message was clear enough. The adulterer could enjoy a fine hour of bliss and then return home to his boring spouse with his mind wiped free of the memory of infidelity, thus leaving his conscience intact. The second wore the yellow flowers of agrimony, which many advocated as a balm for blood-borne diseases. In light of the venereal disease epidemic that washed through the Fornix from time to time, Lakif accredited this woman with keen insight. Her customers would be assured that their moment of fun didn’t turn into a month of urinating fire or hiding embarrassing lesions. The last to arouse her eye was a vixen who donned the purple flower hellebore. Lakif paid her special heed as this very herb was of interest to Lucretia. This plant was the essential ingredient in potions to reverse lovesickness, an
anti
-aphrodisiac. This woman obviously suggested that a roll with her would wretch Cupid’s golden arrow from any man, no matter how deeply another woman had embedded it. This was no vain boast, however. The vixen was absolutely gorgeous. She was of such raw sexual appeal as to turn any monk’s vows of celibacy into gambler’s oaths and reduce any faithful man to a mound of gibbering jelly sucking at her heels. Lakif imagined that the mere sight of the woman would tent a man’s pants.

Overall, Lakif was impressed with the caliber of the whores. She had imagined that the best prostitutes, at least from a physical standpoint, would be employed at the various inns of Grimpkin. At such places they were supplied with rooms, pampered, and interacted with higher society types. Conversely, she had assumed that the filthy, seedy flotsam was relegated to peddling their porn in the Fornix. But having seen what treasures the place offered, Lakif was forced to reconsider this generalization. Some of these women boasted beauty to shame any she had seen in the Goblin Knight. She could only speculate as to what these few rogue beauties earned in a day’s wage.

The Acaanan now appreciated that the lascivious reputation of the trench was well earned. She also suspected that there was serious word play in the place’s name. Most knew that the word
fornix
derived from the Istani word for
arch
. This was sensible enough, considering the abandoned waterworks. But the word arch inspired the arousing image of a lithe body bent over backwards, writhing in the feverish pulse of sex. She also was well aware of the close association with the word
fornication
.

The prostitution was not limited to callipygian buttocks and bursting bras. The Fornix pandered to all tastes. Boys, many who hadn’t yet reached puberty, sauntered with their female competition. This niche was targeting men with special needs. To the Acaanan, such boys resembled girls, making her wonder about the orientation of their customers. After seeing some of these lads, Lakif strongly suspected she would run into certain toga-clad scholars lewdly milling around. Interestingly, many of the customers loitering about wore fur pelts draped around their shoulders.

Aside from the prostitution, or perhaps as a result of it, the Fornix was a haven for underworld activity. There was no doubt that the divide was a separate district in Grimpkin’s underbelly, where all the stale rules that governed above were forbidden entry. Illicit activity was rampant. Drug trafficking prospered, as did the ever popular black market. Beside visiting johns, a hodgepodge of colorful types zeroed in on the red-light district. Most of the traffic was raffish sorts—as likely to rob as to beg for coin. Others were equally undesirable—the lame, the unemployed, and the drug-addicted. The Fornix didn’t discriminate; it magnetically called to all degenerates with equal flirtation.

At one point weeks back, Lakif had briefly entertained the idea of soliciting the Fornix in her search for a Rare Earth Stone. If anywhere in Grimpkin such contraband would be traded or sold, it would be here. But the sordid reputation of the place had forced her to reconsider. It would have been an absolute last resort when she had exhausted all other possibilities.

Apart from scouting for leads on the Bard, Lakif had an ulterior motive to visit the Fornix. As a mecca for drug trafficking, the Fornix was a wellspring for cryptide. Lakif surmised that all the powder she had abused in Grimpkin had funneled through these trenches. The Acaanan had periodically bought her stash from peddlers who canvassed the upper district. They were ideal for the lily-livered citizen who shrank from brushing too close to Grimpkin’s illicit drug underworld, or the foreigner who wasn’t familiar with the local networks. Lakif belonged to the latter category; therefore, she had always bought from these questionable agents. They were convenient, but their markup was in the order of fifty percent! Lakif soon tired of this extortion and was itching to buy directly. Nevertheless, she would never have wandered down here on her own accord. But seeing as she was under the aegis of two formidable companions, she decided to capitalize on the opportunity and get some of the precious powder.

A slaking lime statue teetered on a cracked square of flagging. Vermillion paint adorned his cheeks and lips. All doubt about the figure’s identity was erased when Lakif noted the winged sandals. This was Hermes, an obsolete deity commonly known to be revered in the Fornix, and with just cause. He was the patron saint of thieves and the god of lucky finds, honored qualifications in the trench. Furthermore, with his winged sandals, he was commonly associated with messengers and by extension, commerce. Thus, it was apropos that he should lord here where trafficking of flesh and drugs ran rampant. The statue had been doctored in another lewd way. Hermes’ magical wand, the caduceus, was not held in hand. Instead, the snake-wrapped rod had been broken free and lodged into a crack at his groin, showcasing his erection.

The trio attracted no small amount of attention with their arrival. Lakif imagined that few johns visit the place in groups. Every diva surveyed her companions as prospective clients; flirtatious eyes darted in their direction. Lakif could only imagine what they were thinking of her. Perhaps, like the scholars in the tabernacle, they viewed her as a male. But even if she was viewed as a woman, endless options were imaginable. Lakif knew she wasn’t the center of the spectacle; Bael would claim that honor. But the interest wasn’t limited to the working girls. Bent faces appeared in the shadows, murderously ogling them all.

F
ROM THE DARK RECESSES ISSUED SOUNDS OF CANOODLING COUPLES
. F
AINT
panting trilled in the darkness, mingled with lecherous cooing. The air over the shattered lane was rife with the saccadic movements of bats darting back and forth. That storm of black lightning drove the paramours farther into shelter. In the distance, a frog belched. Lakif wondered if it was about to turn into a prince at the tender kiss of a purring nymph.

It wasn’t long before she spied an Istani leaning idly in the bower under two collapsed supports. She instantly pegged the miscreant as a cryptide merchant, a trade proverbially reserved for that race. Three years of recreational use had honed a sharp eye to spot those surreptitious traffickers. The fellow wore a worn tan overcoat. Thin gray hair sprouted from his head at unruly angles. Lakif imagined he appeared much older than his actual age.

The Acaanan hesitated to approach the fellow in the company of her two companions. For one, they were presumably here to track down leads about the Bard. For another, she didn’t want to give the Half-man the impression that her pockets were deep enough to afford cryptide, seeing how she had hedged on paying his fee. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, she felt self-conscious about buying the narcotic in the Kulthean’s presence. Lakif wasn’t a hard-core addict, but she didn’t want to cast any false impressions.

Therefore, she devised a charade to separate herself from the others. She craftily pointed out that they were collectively drawing unwanted interest. A group of three sniffing around would frighten off many a possible informant. Instead, it would behoove them to split up and comb the area individually. It seemed a reasonable enough suggestion, which went over well with her companions.

Lakif waited for the others to wander sufficiently off and then made a beeline for the drug merchant. Near the Istani’s recess, a ratty figure lay in the rubble. He was wrapped in filthy clothes and armed with a wooden bowl. The bum held out the dish in supplication. Lakif sneered at the gesture. She was not about to give the destitute a single gerah. The cryptide merchant barely acknowledged her approach. She decided that she might as well cover her tracks and ask about the Bard as well as the drug.

“I’m looking for someone…” Lakif began.

“You’ve come to the right place,” the Istani replied with a perverse tone.

“No, he goes by the name Bard.”

The Istani flashed a look of understanding.

“You know him?” Lakif perked up at her instant success.

“I know of a poet who frequents this hole. He finds his inspiration on his back.”

Lakif suspected that they were speaking of different people altogether.

“Is this your usual post?” she asked. Lakif, ever curious, intended to mine the drug-dealer for information about the Fornix.

“Ever since my front tooth fell out!”

“Are all these divas freelancers?”

“No, they’re enrolled in a new corporation—Artemis.”

“Artemis Corporation?”

“A new upstart company. The three main fornix corporations are Hera, Aphrodite, and Athena. Each sells its girls as the prettiest, but each has its own twist. The Hera clan boasts each girl as a queen of the Olympians. They are more handsome and mature women who wear the colors of the peacock. So they attract men who are browsing for cougars, but also young brash upstarts who want a matron at the helm, because Hera is also the sponsor of heroes. The Aphrodite clan of course boasts that its girls are bar none. They target the grizzled warrior type, as Aphrodite herself favored to share her bed with Ares, god of war. The Athena vixens attract the tony sophisticated type, as she’s the goddess of craftsmanship and wisdom. The three collectively formed a sort of monopoly, driving prices as high as their hemlines. But the Artemis clan is a new wrinkle. At the tender age of three Artemis asked her father, the almighty Zeus, to grant her eternal virginity. As the paradigm of purity, this clan is selling virtue! Virgin whores! What a whopper! And Artemis’ followers are the nymphs, whom she also demands chastity from, so all the better!”

“So these johns are testing the new girls on the block?” Lakif chuckled.

“Not johns, Actaeons.”

“What do you mean
Actaeons
?”

“He was the one hunter that glimpsed Artemis nude, and was turned into a stag by this effrontery. So every man who had pounded one of these nymphs wears some sort of fur pelt to announce his dastardly deed.”

“I see.” Lakif nodded. She was impressed with the volume of mythology that impregnated the world of prostitution, delving deep into obscure deities of yore.

“Are you interested in something?” The Istani smirked.

“Oh, yes, I want some cryptide,” the Acaanan unashamedly demanded. Among this seedy crowd, she felt she could speak, and behave, with impunity.

“A popular choice. How much?” The Istani smiled with the prospect of a sale. He was missing every other tooth. A popular, yet to the Acaanan unproven, belief was that chronic use of the drug caused dental decay. Lakif ignored such warnings. She assumed that this Istani’s teeth had fallen out from longstanding poor hygiene or had been knocked out in fisticuffs.

“What does a scruple run?” That quantity should provide Lakif with several sessions of unmitigated rapture. Having received a windfall from the blacksmith, she felt that she could buy twice her normal dose.

“Twelve shekels.”

“Twelve!” Lakif balked, although inwardly she was pleased at the quote. That amount would have run a score of shekels in the plazas above.

The Istani nodded.

“Ten,” Lakif bargained.

The dealer spurned the offer.

The Acaanan pointed to another suspicious figure loitering in the offing. “That fellow over there is selling a scruple for ten!”