Authors: Vera Nazarian
Human form was everywhere. Street lanterns mounted on ornate posts illuminated silhouettes of swaying drunks and cheap Guildless whores that beckoned from niches and alleyways. Such were invariably scantily attired, crudely displaying their wares from tight sequined bodices and short gaudily pleated and tasseled skirts, and yet too intimidated to come out into the corner lamplight. For the corners and bright pedestrian walkways were under the jurisdiction of professionals of higher caliber.
Expensive courtesans with beautiful subtle faces, attired in stylish clothing made from affluent fabrics, were found lounging along the corners and walkways, but more frequently near the storefronts of their own fine establishments, the Pleasure Galleries. Their manners were subdued, and they were almost invariably flanked by bodyguards. Yet even they stood back in obeisance before those who were the true gods of this district.
Not a glimmer of a pale breast or shapely leg did those show—they of the
Erotene
Guild. Instead, faultlessly haughty, they rarely strolled the walkways, wearing, on such occasions, their all-concealing Guild cloak of ebony velvet that was almost monastic in its severity, and yet hinted of high class Pleasures that only the Guild-trained could provide. All Tronaelend-Lis knew the meaning of that cloak—plain except for the tiny embroidered pattern of spiraling blossoms on the trim, formed of metallic thread.
The
Erotene
Guild had evolved from a sacred order that had once been devoted to Eroh, the goddess—hence the name—but in these modern days it was purely secular. The
erotene
were courtesans of the highest craft, both male and female. Their training commenced before puberty, and only the most beautiful children were admitted to the Guild. At first, the children were cultivated in the arts of personal appearance, presentation, vocal tone, and bearing. Later came instruction in music, poetry, literature, philosophy, culinary pleasures, discourse and other fine arts. And in the very end, upon sexual maturity, they were instructed in the science of the human body and all its senses.
By the age of sixteen, each knew how to sexually appease or provoke any type of desire, having been taught how to read the language of the body, the smallest gesture, sign, breath. An
erotene
knew instantly if the customer wanted a light piquant touch, gentleness, or if they preferred pain, dominance, and intensity. They knew if the customer was shy, or bored, or looking for the unusual or extreme. They sensed fear, anticipation, aggression, the need for fetish. They also knew when to accommodate without touch, only with sound and word and rustle of fabric—auditory erotic delicacies for the pseudo-celibates who could not abide physical contact.
The
erotene
were instructed in the One Thousand Pleasures, and from that foundation were taught to improvise. The
erotene
were masters of the physical response, and yet masters of understated elegance. And the price for their services rivaled that of the Light Guild.
On the walkways of the pleasure district, the
erotene
were in fact relatively few in number—like the prized rare blossom or two in a bouquet—and they condescended to give their services only to the most select and best-paying. Indeed, one had to make an appointment at the House of
Erotene
, often far in advance, and rarely did an
erotene
allow oneself to be solicited on the street. To ensure that none were harassed by force,
erotene
were declared untouchables, and all Guilds enforced this unspoken rule, doling out severe punishment to any ignorant that attempted seduction or rape. However, in the last several decades, apprentices to the House were also taught self-defense, to ensure the Guild’s self-reliance. Thus,
erotene
walked the streets without the need of bodyguards, for only the insane would make an attempt upon their persons.5
Tonight, even fewer
erotene
were seen in the
Red
Quarter, for many had been summoned by the Regent himself to participate in the night’s planned festivities. However, there were enough other courtesans on hand to satisfy those of less aristocratic needs.
The district was aflame with celebration. Crowds walked the streets, filled the Pleasure Galleries, teahouses, Domes of Sensation. The main street of the district was called the
Red
River, because of a famous row of antique street lanterns installed every twenty paces along the walkway, which created the illusion of flowing light, when observed from a distance. Tonight, the place more than lived up to its name.
Along the storefronts of the
Red
River milled crowds of pedestrians. The River storefronts were the most successful and famous in all of the City, and at the heart of it stood a building that appeared to be a miniature replica of the Regents’ Palace, including a small colonnade at the entrance. Above that colonnade hung a blazing orb-decorated sign of the House of
Erotene
.
Across the street from the House was another famous landmark, the Rose Teahouse—another venerable antique of the pleasure district. Here, the popular drink was served unlike any other in Tronaelend-Lis. Tea, flavored with rose and other flowers, unique spices, and various liquor, was savored from small cups and bowls, together with pastries of rare delicacy.
The building was a domed circle. The grand arch windows of the Rose Teahouse were hung with beads of faceted glass, and they danced beneath the blazing
crimson
of the street lanterns. From within the Teahouse came a soft
rose
glow, and the illumination was subdued. A single great orb of the palest
mauve
, like a soft eye of a giant fabled dragon-beast, was installed in a sculptured centerpiece of the room in a filigreed framework of metal, right in the middle of the floor. Thus, illumination came from the ground, and the dome ceiling of the room evolved into darkness. Tables were placed along the round perimeter of the room, so that the customers were each seated before some portion of the arched windows, and could look out on the street scene at the same time as they enjoyed the exquisite tea. Attentive servants came to refill the fragrant tea, and carried endless trays of new pastries.
At one of such tables, before a window that faced the
Red
River and was situated perfectly across from the entrance to the House of
Erotene
, sat Ranhé.
She was sipping her third cup of tea, and staring past the beaded curtain through the glass of the window, at the street outside. The tea she requested had been non-alcoholic, and yet her head felt heavy, while her pulse was erratic.
She watched the passersby outside, hurrying or milling about, bathed by the glow from the lanterns. And often, her gaze returned to the entrance of the imposing building before her, above which hung the sign of the delicate spiraling blossom that was the symbol of
erotene
.
In all her life, Ranhé had never seriously considered purchasing the services of the
Erotene
Guild. Not even in her loneliest moments. And tonight was no different.
And yet, she watched the House across the street, watched the people entering the grand doors. And occasionally she saw hooded figures cloaked in black velvet emerge, alone or with a customer, and head out into the street.
When the cloaked beings of indeterminate sex descended the marble stairs, sometimes they would cross the street, and pass just before the windows of the Teahouse, inches away from her face. She saw the folds of velvet, the gloved hands upon which shone jewels—but hardly ever a glimpse of flesh.
Mesmerized, she tried to guess the nature of that hidden flesh. Once, a woman wearing the cloak of
erotene
passed right before the window, and for an instant turned her hooded head to glance inside. Ranhé saw a glimpse of delicate features, beautiful eyes, a light smile upon a rosebud mouth, and then the female
erotene
turned back to her companion with musical laughter, and they were on their way, disappearing around the corner.
The ephemeral image had passed, and yet Ranhé stared, with an inexplicable hunger, at the spot where the woman had been. It had not been the woman she wanted—rather, the warmth of intimacy, the sense of pairing, of being two with another being—two, not one, for one would be too much. . . . She remembered the face of the male customer, a young man with fine clothing, remembered the grin of pleasure that he displayed upon hearing the witty joke of his
erotene
. She remembered the obvious exchange of intimacy, of two looks slithering off each other like drops of honeyed rose water—never mind it was a purchased companionship, and that after today’s encounter these two would very likely never see each other again. The point was, for tonight, all cares had been thrown away, all concerns invalidated, and the two were ready to play out a game of pretense, that would culminate in careless abandon and pleasure.
She had never known that abandon. She had never been intimate. She had never allowed anyone’s touch. A complex set of reasons kept her locked in a personal isolation. And although there were many instances she longed to break out of the self-prison, she had never managed it. . . .
The night was getting along. Ranhé set down her empty cup upon the satin tablecloth, left three gold
dahr
upon an empty pastry-dish, which was more than generous for both payment and tip.
She would never consider hiring an
erotene
. Never.
And yet, her pulse was racing, her breathing short, and she was suddenly taken with an absolute cold, as she arose from her place and exited the establishment.
Outside, she paused before the door of the Rose Teahouse. Her cloak was drawn about her once again, and she found herself shivering with cold despite the mild night breeze.
In fact, with each heartbeat, her head was becoming like ice, and all seemed to have stilled, become slow-motion. People walked by her motionless form, as Ranhé stood frozen, across the street from the House of
Erotene
. She stood and stared at the empty entrance, watching one inebriated well-dressed customer exit and descend the steep stairs across the street.
People laughed, loud voices sounded from all around. Occasional slow carriages rolled by the paved street. From a block away, someone had begun to sing, and a female whore’s voice arose in high squeals of laughter.
Ranhé’s gaze was glued upon the colonnade entrance.
Count to three
. . .
An equipage stopped right before the House of
Erotene
, and an older woman customer in a pale silk wrap exited, accompanied by a tall male
erotene
, and then ascended the stairs to the House, holding his arm possessively.
One
. . .
Someone pushed by Ranhé, hitting her inadvertently on the shoulder, shaking her out of the daze. She turned, and the man, seeing her sudden blazing ice-anger, her intensity, quickly excused himself, and was again on his way.
She took a breath. And then, because the ice began to return, to coagulate in her mind, she again turned her eyes upon the building across the street.
Two
. . .
Three young men and two male courtesans passed before her, in a swaying crowd, like a single entity, supporting each other at the waists, at the elbows. She watched one of the young men stroke the buttocks of one of the male courtesans, and he was in turn pinched by his other drinking companion.
Three
. . .
The entrance doors opened and closed to allow several other forms to pass, going up and down the stairs.
Ranhé’s guts sank in a curdling terror of indecision, then again decision. She focused on extraneous detail, wildly, saw the metal trim of the street lantern across the street, watched the curve of the
scarlet
orb, the geometric shadow thrown by each of the columns, the swirl of silk and satin in the skirts of the woman passerby. She saw the small flying insects circle the glowing orbs, then land, and upon touching the surface of the orb, burn and go up in a faint milky smoke. The scent of their burning wafted on the night breeze, and then was again gone, to be replaced by the sweet perfume and tea and spice scents of the district.
The first one of them that is male, the first to pass those doors
. . .
Now
. . . .
The ornate doors of the House of
Erotene
opened, simultaneous with her thought. Two forms came out, both wearing the Guild cloak. The first was petite, a woman.
The second was a man.
Ranhé felt the world go still all around her, and a pang of sickness pierced her innards.
The man, tall and striking, wore no hood. He turned to speak privately to the woman before him, and his long pale hair spilled forward, like the sun. He wore his cloak carelessly, and his hands were without gloves.
A carriage rolled up to the curb, and the woman, turning to him for an instant—Ranhé could see her pale flash of face and a smile—proceeded to go down the stairs, and then entered the carriage.
The man did not go to assist her, only stood watching, and then nodded at her just before the carriage drove away. His arms were folded before him in a confident pose, and he swept the street with his bored gaze.
Ranhé stared at him, mesmerized. And for that reason, because she had been so incredibly focused, so still in the sea of moving people, his moving gaze stopped, and he saw her.