Steven Erikson - Dust of Dreams

‘Exactly. Our very own treasure chest, our pleasure box, the gift most women lock up and swallow the key to, and then call themselves virtuous. What value in denying the gift and all it offers? Madness! What’s the value of a virtue that makes you miserable and wretched?’

‘There are other kinds of pleasure, Shurq-’

‘But none so readily at hand for each and every one of us. You don’t need coin. Errant fend, you don’t even need a partner! I tell you, excess is the path to contentment.’

‘And have you found it? Contentment, I mean, since your excesses are not in question.’

‘I have indeed.’

‘What if you could live again?’

‘I’ve thought about it. A lot, lately, in fact, since there’s a necromancer among the Malazans who says he can attempt a ritual that might return me to life.’

‘And?’

‘I’m undecided. Vanity.’

‘Your ageless countenance.’

‘The prospect of unending pleasure, actually.’

‘Don’t you think you might tire of it someday?’

‘I doubt it.’

Queen Janath pursed her lips. ‘Interesting,’ she murmured.

Tehol plucked a globe of pinkfruit from the tree beside the fountain. He studied it. ‘That was harsh,’ he said.

‘They wanted to make it convincing,’ said Bugg. ‘Are you going to eat that?’

‘What? Well, I thought it made a nice gesture, holding it just so, peering at it so thoughtfully.’

‘I figured as much.’

Tehol handed him the fruit. ‘Go ahead, ruin the prosaic beauty of the scene.’

Squishy, wet sounds competed with the fountain’s modest trickle.

‘Spies and secret handshakes,’ said Tehol. ‘They’re worse than the Rat Catchers’ Guild.’

Bugg swallowed, licked his lips. ‘Who?’

‘Women? Lovers and ex-lovers? Old acquaintances, I don’t know. Them. They.’

‘This is a court, sire. The court plots and schemes with the same need that we-uh, you-breathe. A necessity. It’s healthy, in fact.’

‘Oh now, really.’

‘All right, not healthy, unless of course one can achieve a perfect equilibrium, each faction played off against the others. The true measure of success for a king’s Intelligence Wing.’

Tehol frowned. ‘Who’s flapping that, by the way?’

‘Your Intelligence Wing?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I am.’

‘Oh. How goes it?’

‘I fly in circles, sire.’

‘Lame, Bugg.’

‘As it must be.’

‘We need to invent another wing, I think.’

‘Do we now?’

Tehol nodded, plucking another fruit and studying it contemplatively. ‘To fly true, yes. A counter-balance. We could call it the King’s Stupidity Wing.’

Bugg took the fruit and regarded it. ‘No need, we already have it.’

‘We do?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Hah hah.’

Bugg bit into the globe and then spat it out. ‘Unripe! You did that on purpose!’

‘How stupid of me.’

Bugg glared.

The two women who followed the spotty handmaiden back into the dining room were an odd study in contrast. The short, curvy one dripped and dangled an astonishing assortment of gaudy jewellery. The clothing she wore stretched the definition of the word. Shurq suspected it had taken half the night to squeeze into the studded leggings, and the upper garment seemed to consist of little more than a mass of thin straps that turned her torso into a symmetrical display of dimples and pouts. Her plumpness was, perhaps, a sign of her youth as much as of soft living, although there was plenty of indolence in her rump-swaying, overly affected manner of walking-as if through a crowd of invisible but audibly gasping admirers-perched so perfectly atop high spike-heeled shoes, with one hand delicately raised. Her petite features reminded Shurq of the painted exaggeration employed by stage actors and weeping orators, with ferociously dark eye liner flaring to glittering purple below the plucked line of her eyebrows; white dust and false bloom to the rounded plump cheeks; pink and amber gloss on the full lips in diagonal barbs converging on the corners of her faintly downturned mouth. Her hair, silky black, was bound up in a frenzied array of braided knots speared with dozens of porcupine quills, each one tipped with pearls.

It was likely Shurq gaped for a moment, sufficient to earn an indulgent smile from the haughty little creature as she flounced closer.

A step behind this two-legged tome of fashion travesty walked the handmaiden-at least, that’s what the captain assumed she was. A head taller than most men, burly as a stevedore, the woman was dressed in an embroidered pink gown of some sort, shrieking femininity with a desperate air, and utterly failing to render the wearer any sort of elegance whatsoever. Diamond studs glinted high on her cheeks-and Shurq frowned, realizing with a start that the handmaiden’s face was surprisingly attractive: even features, the eyes deep, the lips full and naturally sultry. Her hair was cut close to the scalp, so blonde as to be very nearly white.

The curtsy the highborn girl presented before Queen Janath was elaborate and perfectly executed. ‘Highness, at your service.’

Janath cleared her throat. ‘Princess Felash, welcome. May I present Shurq Elalle, captain of Undying Gratitude , a seaworthy vessel engaged in independent trade. Captain, Princess Felash is the fourteenth daughter to King Tarkulf of Bolkando.’

Shurq rose and then curtsied. ‘Princess, may I compliment you on your attire. I cannot think of many women who could so exquisitely present such a vast assembly of styles.’

The handmaiden’s dark eyes flicked to Shurq and then away.

Felash preened, one hand returning to hover an artful distance to one side of her head. ‘Most kind, Captain. Few, even among my father’s court, possess the necessary sophistication to appreciate my unique tastes.’

‘I have no doubt of that, Highness.’

Another quick regard from the handmaiden.

Janath spoke hastily, ‘Forgive me, please, do sit with us, Princess. Share some wine, some dainties.’

‘Thank you, Queen Janath. You are most kind. Wine sounds wonderful, although I must regretfully decline partaking of any sweets. Must watch my weight, you know.’

Well, that’s good, since everyone else has to.

‘Oh,’ Felash then amended as soon her veiled eyes fixed upon the nearest plate heaped with desserts, ‘since this is a most special occasion, why not indulge?’ And she reached for a honey-drenched cake that mocked the notion of dainty, veritably exuding its invitation to obesity. Devouring such a trifle challenged the princess’s command of decorum, but she was quick, and in moments was carefully licking her fingertips. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Your handmaiden is welcome-’

‘Oh no, Highness! She is on the strictest diet-why, just look at the poor child!’

‘Princess Felash,’ cut in Shurq Elalle-although the handmaiden’s unchanged expression suggested she was well inured to her mistress’s callous rudeness-‘I must admit I have heard nothing of your visit to Lether-’

‘Ah, but that is because I’m not here at all, Captain. Officially, that is.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Do you?’ And the painted brat had the audacity to send her a sly wink. Felash then nodded towards Janath, even as she collected another sweetcake. ‘Your Malazan allies are about to march into a viper’s nest, you see. There is, in fact, the very real risk of a war. The more reasonable servants of the crown in Bolkando, of course, do not wish such a thing to come to pass. After all, should such conflict erupt, there is the chance that Lether will become embroiled, and then no one will be happy!’

‘So your father has sent you here on a secret mission, with appropriate assurances.’