Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

I wonder what you’d think if you saw me now, my dear Irmina. After all, I’m doing what you asked. What a life I’m living. This time, he took a long gulp. Warmth coursed down his gullet, and the buzz increased.

Sweet kinai wine could have such an effect on anyone. The drink crept up a little bit at a time until it kicked you in the head like a wild stallion. The kicking had not started yet, but he intended to get to that point soon enough. He swilled the red liquid around in his glass. It did not taste as refined as what his family made back home in Eldanhill, but it would do.

He should have left for home days ago in order to make it in time for this year’s big Soltide Festival. Or to resume his training. He shrugged both ideas off, the buzz from the liquor feeling better by the moment. He might regret drinking himself into a stupor in the morning, but he would worry about that in the godsforsaken morning. First things first was to find himself a woman.

Mirza and Danvir sat opposite him at the round table, both nursing their own drinks. Unlike him, they were garbed in eye-catching silk shirts and trousers. Tonight, he wore black. They’d chided him for it all the way to the Dancing Lady. Their attempts to convince him to return to their inn and change into something more celebratory for his nineteenth naming day went ignored.

Tonight, Danvir’s hair, so blond it appeared almost white, was oiled and brushed until it hung above his wide shoulders. Mirza had cut his hair short and used some scented plant from Torandil to make it spiky. He claimed it was a new style among the Dosteri. His hair drew many an ill look from Sendethi along the streets, and almost caused a few fights. Ancel kept his dark hair in a simple ponytail tied with a leather cord.

They ended up picking this place for a few reasons. The first, his father had suggested The Dancing Lady, second, its famed dancing girls, third, it was one of the few establishments in Randane where they could still find a decent seat.

Patrons filled all the other more reputable places to the brim. A usual occurrence whenever Ancel delivered his family’s kinai wine to the other taverns. Not that he couldn’t have forced the issue at any one of the numerous inns to find him accommodations, but he’d promised his father not to ruin the Dorn name. Another reason they had agreed on this place. The Dorns earned a pretty penny off their drink, and he intended to spend his portion with glee.

The Dancing Lady, however, did not buy the Dorns’ kinai wine. The owner preferred to try copy the product. Ancel did not mind one bit. The more who failed to find that special taste, the more fame the Dorns’ winery earned. Ancel smiled. This seedy place with its windows painted with dancing girls and dim, smoky interior would do just fine.

Ancel’s favorite serving girl swayed across floors sticky with mud and spilled drink. He figured the ability to move that way on such a surface required great skill and practice. Her pretty face soon hovered before him as she delivered another round. A smack rang out as Mirza slapped her on her rump when she turned to leave. An upturned nose and a headshake greeted Mirza’s wayward touch quickly followed by the smile she shot Ancel’s way. Yes, he was definitely going to bed her tonight. Ancel held up his glass toward her in appreciation of her slim figure and dark curls. The gesture earned him an almost sinuous sway of her hips.

The jumbled conversations and laughter subsided when the music started again. Oil lamps around the small stage flared until their light highlighted a seated, grizzled man playing a takuatin. The instrument always reminded Ancel of a long, skinny lute, but instead of fifteen strings, the takuatin had thirty-two, said to represent the thirty-two winds. Stories had it that like people caught in the fateful winds, the most brilliant players could get lost in their instrument’s rhythms, eventually going insane, lost to the world forever.

The musician kept his head down and eyes closed as he played, his head nodding to the timing. He strummed the instrument in a slow tune, his finger work sure and steady. The tune’s speed gradually increased into a wonderful takuatin rhythm, and he began to sing.

Now, Ancel was always one for a fine piece of music, after all, it tended to lighten the mood and often made it easier for him when he was on the prowl. But someone needed to tell the player he croaked. Every time the man hit a high note, Ancel looked to his glass to see if it cracked. Nevertheless, the patrons clapped and sang along to The Peasant Thread the Needle: a vulgar little number about a peasant who has his way with a nobleman’s wife and lives to tell the tale.

Both his friends clapped right along and sung. Danvir’s deep rumble and Mirza’s girlish tone made for quite a contrast. Ancel soon joined in.

He pounced when she bounced,

He bang when she rang,

When the peasant thread the needle.

He slipped and he slid,

In and out he sure did,

When the peasant thread the needle!

On and on the song went, with men and women laughing and clapping. Drinks flowed like water, and the music lowered as one of the dancing girls strutted onto the small stage next to the takuatin player. The music changed to a soft, flowing tune like clear water trickling down a spring.

Ancel recognized the song-Damal’s Sacrifice-but he pushed it to the back of his mind, and it was quickly forgotten as he drank in the sight of the performer. He’d seen dancing girls before but none to match her. Mirza sucked in a breath. Danvir whooped.

The musician kept his rhythm going, and she began to sway. No, that didn’t properly describe what she did. Her hips, waist, and buttocks moved in circular motions as if they were separate from the rest of her body like some sinuous creature that was half woman, half snake. The movement accentuated her curves and the shine of her coppery skin. Her waist-length, honey-colored hair hung behind her and her sheer, lace garb teased with the promises her body offered.

Ancel stared, his mouth agape. It wasn’t just her exquisite beauty that held him enraptured, nor her movements. Color her hair black, lighten her skin tone, and she would be Irmina. The fact Irmina had danced in a similar fashion for him did little to help.

The music sped up, and her gyrations increased to match. The rhythm slowed again, and she coiled with mesmerizing seductiveness. Ancel couldn’t tear his eyes from her even if he wanted to. Then, the music stopped, and she retreated behind the curtains.

A deafening roar exploded from the patrons. Smokers set down their giana pipes and yelled, some coughing as they did so. Men and women whooped and hollered. Everyone clapped. People cried for more. Glasses tinkled. Bottles broke. Knives flashing, two men fought, and the big guards dragged them out by their ears.

“Close your mouth, Ancel.” Mirza guffawed, placing a hand ungraciously under Ancel’s chin and pushing.

“You should see the look on your face,” Danvir roared, his voice carrying a slight slur. He did not hold his liquor well.

Ancel shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what you two are on about. I’ve seen women dance like that before.”

“Yeah, sure.” Mirza laughed again. “Where?”

Danvir leaned forward, his glassy eyes shining. “Do tell.”

Ancel opened his mouth and shut it again. He’d seen Irmina move that way a few times. Well, not quite like that, but close. Something she said her mother showed her as a child. Once, when his father saw her do it, he scolded her. However, his father did brag another day when filled with drink, that Irmina couldn’t dance as well as Ancel’s mother. Ancel’s face flushed with the memory. However, he did not intend to tell his friends about Irmina’s skill. Besides, she was part of the reason he avoided leaving with Valdeen. No matter how hard he tried to forget, he still missed her soft touch. His hand strayed to his breast pocket where he kept her letter. Having to answer what he intended with Alys wouldn’t have made for good conversation.