The Rose and the Azalea - Chapter Two

• Posted by The Sunflower Manual March 24, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Short Story - #Harrow  #Sabina  #Rose/Azalea  - 1,315 views

  

   

   

   

  

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Roses flowers do not survive long after being separated from the main bush. Expect a blossoming rose to last a maximum of one week after being cut... without additional processing. Certain Altmeri techniques exist that can extend a rose's lifespan to up to several months.
  

   

   

  

   

   

   

                  Danton Flavana died on the Seventh of Hearthfire, 4E 197, a Fredas. His servants found him slumped in the chair of his study, still in full armour, helmet still fixed on his head, a half-empty bottle of wine and a drained glass in front of him.

   

                  To his financier Denholm, he left an exquisite cane of ebonywood, encrusted with jewels. It was at once a signature of goodwill and a subtle reminder that he was growing too fat to support his own weight.

   

                  To his aide Rhansan, he left his armour and helm. I could think of no greater honour.

   

                  To his… human resources director S’hni, he left a new bullhide whip and a dozen jars of the finest Rimmen skooma, along with a letter. No doubt telling her not to take all of it at once.

   

                  To me, he left his empire.

   

                  I’ll do right by you, Father, I vowed as they lowered his casket into the earth. When I’m done, Titus Mede himself will bend before our family.

   

                  Mourners walked up to the open ground and, one by one, spilled roses onto the coffin. I knew only a third or so of the men and women gathered there, and most were under my command as Flavana enforcers. The others were family members under the three underbosses – my underbosses now. Of the six hundred Flavana members in Anvil, more than three hundred had come for my father’s funeral. I saw Khajiit and Redguard overseers and slavers working for S’hni. I saw Nords and Imperials and Bretons, both Rhansan’s mercenaries and smugglers as well as my own men. The rest I didn’t know. Some were without a doubt part of Denholm’s army of accountants. Some were affiliates, perhaps – members in name only, connections, even rival gang members.

   

                  Some were only here to see a legend fall.

   

                  An old crone barely better-dressed than a beggar was glaring at the proceedings. I didn’t know her face, but I recognised the resentment in her eyes, the hate. Even as the priest of Arkay piled dirt into the grave and performed the last rites for Father, she tottered out into the cemetery and shook her fist at his tombstone.

   

                  ‘“Salt and earth of Nirn”, pah! “Beloved child”, pah! “Peace in-”’ The old woman stopped as coughs racked her body. ‘Peace,’ she spat as soon as she recovered her breath. ‘Pah, pah, pah! The only thing this dog, this gutter mongrel deserved was his early grave.’

   

                  I nodded to Edwin, who was standing beside me, also in full armour. ‘Shut her up,’ I told him, feeling my breath bounce off the inside of my helmet, bringing a fresh flow of sweat to my upper lip. We were still in the midst of the summer months, and the morning warmth was giving way to noonday heat. I grimaced, then gave Edwin a hard stare. ‘Now.’

   

                  Edwin turned to one of his men, gesturing. On the other side of the cemetery, the old woman was still ranting, her face contorting as she raised her arms to the sky. ‘O gods, what justice is this? To give a man such as he peace in his final moments, when he has denied so many the same right- No! No! Unhand me! I will not be silenced-’

   

                  Edwin’s lieutenant had reached her and begun pulling her out of the cemetery. The crone beat her legs and wailed and generally made a huge, pathetic spectacle out of herself, so the enforcer simply knocked her once on the head with his gauntleted fist. I heard a titter of disapproval pass through the crowd as he dragged her limp body out of sight. My underbosses stirred. I couldn’t see S’hni and Rhansan’s expressions from underneath their helmets, but Denholm raised a fat flipper and mopped his brow.

   

                  ‘Continue,’ I said to the priest, making sure my voice was loud and clear and calm. I mustn’t waver. Do that, and I would appear weak. Appear weak… and the wolves would descend, tearing the family apart.

   

                  The priest swallowed – good, even holy men were afraid of me – and finished the funeral rites. After that, the mourners began to disperse. The more important figures lingered, declining invitations to meals and soirees. One such figure was an impressively built Nord with a braided, orange beard. He nodded at me.

   

                  ‘Lady Flavana,’ he said, his thick Skyrim accent mangling the second syllable of my name. ‘My deepest condolences. Your father and I may have had our differences, but he was a man who always had… great presence.’

   

                  ‘Thank you, Mister Fjorn, but are we not still at war?’

   

                  Fjorn waved a hand flippantly. ‘The fighting can be suspended for the day. It would not be appropriate to start anything at a funeral. I assume you agree, seeing as you’ve allowed me and my underbosses to attend.’

   

                  ‘I believe you are a man of honour, Mister Fjorn, and would not desecrate my father’s memory while all of Anvil still grieves,’ I said carefully. Father’s passing was a tragedy, but it was also an opportunity for the Flavanas to build new alliances. ‘Perhaps one day we might arrange a more… permanent truce.’

   

                  The thickset Nord looked at me with some surprise. ‘We cannot simply shove our conflict aside like so much unwanted baggage. Blood has been spilled on both sides.’

   

                  ‘That is so, but I’m sure you can see that continued bloodshed would benefit neither of-’

   

                  ‘Behold, the new head of the Flavanas!’ A jaunty voice came from the west, where the cemetery’s back entrance was. ‘Daddy still fresh in the ground and already whoring herself out to the Northerners.’

   

                  I saw S’hni and Rhansan ready their men, and Edwin motioned for my enforcers to do the same. No weapons were drawn yet.

   

                  Not that it could end any other way. I’d been called a whore.

   

                  Fjorn frowned at the Imperial – no, Imperials – marching into the graveyard. ‘Call your men off, Eburio. This is a funeral.’

   

                  A thin smile stretched across my lips. This was to be the first test of my leadership? The Lion Street Legion? Pitiful.

   

                  ‘Oh?’ Eburio raised an eyebrow, his repurposed Centurion armour glinting in the sunlight. I kept my eyes trained on him. He was the only person in his little gang who had ever completed his Legionnaire training, and thus the only person who was any kind of a threat. ‘In bed with her already, are you, Fjorn? Lucky man. I’ve heard stories of Danton’s pretty daughter.’

   

                  I ground my teeth, understanding then more than ever why Father had insisted that I cover my face. The helmet was a far better symbol than beauty. Beauty was soft… and in our world, soft meant weak. The few good-looking women who made it in this business had to make up for it with excessive brutality. And it looked as if I was going to have to do the same.

   

                  ‘That’s enough,’ I growled, at the exact same moment Eburio took one of his gauntlets off and threw it to the ground between his men and mine. A hush fell over the cemetery, and the last of the common smallfolk fled.

   

                  Fjorn motioned, and his gang of Nords withdrew along with him. He wasn’t taking sides today. ‘Come visit us at Little Whiterun when you are done, Lady Flavana. I would hear more of your proposal.’ And he left the graveyard.

   

                  Eburio spat. ‘Nord barbarian.’

   

                  I narrowed my eyes under my heaume. ‘The only barbarian here is you, Eburio,’ I sneered, walking up to the gauntlet he’d thrown at me and stepping on it with a boot. ‘Do you really consider yourself anywhere so important that I’d actually pick that up?’

   

                  The Imperial’s face flashed hot and cold as he stiffened, struck dumb with outrage. S’hni laughed first, sounding for all the world like a young girl crossed with a daedra. Her Khajiit underlings started laughing too. It’s always the cats who laugh first. Denholm followed suit, adding his deep, sonorous voice to the chorus, and soon every Flavana in the graveyard was hooting with mirth. Even Rhansan began to chuckle.

   

                  Eburio clenched his jaw. ‘Get the bitch.’

   

                  The fighting was short and bloody. The Lion Street Legion was a joke, made up of deserters and boys who didn’t make the cut in the Imperial Legion. They were loose, disorganised, and had been declining steadily for the last few years. No doubt Eburio had hoped to regain some amount of dignity by going out this way.

   

                  As I’d said, pitiful.

   

                  My enforcers cut down fifty of the Lion Street Boys in the first twenty minutes. I didn’t even have to draw my own sword. The other failed soldiers soon scattered and fled.

   

                  Not Eburio, though. The Imperial had apparently made up his mind to die in battle. Unlike the rest of his gang, he was a fully-trained military man, and his experience showed. Two swords glanced off his shield, and he used the lull in my enforcers’ opening to jab his gladius into the chinks of their armour. I frowned. When this was through, I was going to need to look into getting chainmail for more of our foot soldiers.

   

                  But that could wait. Eburio was working his way steadily to the other end of the graveyard, seeming determined to tear a path straight through my men to me. I nodded at Rhansan. ‘Have someone take care of him before we lose more people.’

   

                  Rhansan, in turn, nodded at a nearby rooftop.

   

                  An arrow streaked towards Eburio, who raised his shield and let it lodge in the banded wood. Then there was a strange, bright purple glow.

   

                  Longinus stepped out of thin air onto the shield, bearing his fellow Imperial to the ground by his arm.

   

                  I blinked. What?

   

                  Before I could even begin to process what just happened, Longinus moved his left knee to Eburio’s right shoulder, trapping both his shield arm and his sword arm with his legs. Then the mercenary dropped his bow, reached casually into his pocket, and slipped a large, cast-iron knuckleduster onto his fingers.

   

                  S’hni cackled with anticipation, and Denholm averted his gaze. Longinus started punching.

   

                  It was the singularly most brutal kill I had ever witnessed in my life, and I had witnessed many. Eburio’s face cracked and crunched, his skull collapsing inch by inch as Longinus battered it with rapid, explosive blows. His eyes ruptured, becoming two sockets of mushy pink and red. His nose disappeared into a crumpled mass of flesh. His groans turned into gurgling whimpers as his teeth burst from his mouth. Silence soon followed, and all we could hear in the graveyard were the wet crashes of the knuckleduster pounding through bone.

   

                  At long last, Longinus stood. Fragments of brain covered his fist. Flecks of blood stained his face. What little remained of Eburio’s head was dripping into the ground.

   

                  ‘Sweet Mara have mercy,’ one of my enforcers said, nausea in his voice. Longinus walked up to him and he flinched.

   

                  The Imperial bounty hunter grinned, showing a mouthful of crooked, yellow teeth. He raised his gory right hand. ‘Can I have a hanky?’

   

                  S’hni sashayed towards him, her tail dancing. ‘Here,’ she purred, whipping out a cotton handkerchief. ‘Let S'hni take care of you.’

   

                  ‘Laces? Cute,’ the mercenary smirked as S’hni mopped the knuckleduster.

   

                  ‘Good work, Mister Longinus,’ I said, clapping for attention. ‘No doubt Rhansan has a reward waiting for you.’

   

                  Rhansan crossed his arms. ‘What we’ve discussed?’

   

                  Longinus’ voice took on a more serious tone. ‘Yes. No better time than now.’

   

                  ‘Fine,’ Rhansan said, and I could almost hear the sigh. ‘I release you from my service.’

   

                  ‘Much appreciated, sir,’ Longinus grinned again, picking up his bow and slinging it over his back. ‘It’s been fun, but… greener pastures await.’

   

                  I watched the archer strut out of the cemetery. Not entirely unexpected, of course, and truth be told, I was glad to see him gone. Rhansan relied too much on outside contractors. Mercenaries couldn’t be trusted.

   

                  And besides, I understood why Longinus left. If even upstarts like the Lion Street Legion were willing to come barking up a Flavana funeral…

   

                  ‘We have work to do,’ I said to my family as we gathered around Eburio’s corpse. ‘It’s time we reminded Anvil who the top dogs are.’

   

  

   

  

  The 'Mad Honey' produced from the process of bees pollinating an azalea is a well-known favourite of Imperial poisoners, but is also quite often imbibed in low amounts with alcohol for recreational purposes.
  

   

   

   

   

   

   

                  The Bouquet was founded in 3E 207 by the Shadeclaw Ame, who would later go on to become Tsukikage’s Twenty-Seventh Grandmaster.

   

                  In the beginning, the brothel was staffed exclusively by Po’ Tun masquerading as Khajiit prostitutes, but over time the operatives in charge of running the establishment began to hire boys and girls from the races of men and mer in order to suit a wider range of customers, thus attracting more clients from a greater variety of backgrounds. Today, it is one of our top intel-gathering outposts… and also generates a great deal of revenue on the side, offering not only commercial sex, but also rooms for rent, two high-class restaurants, and a gambling salon. The current administrator of the Bouquet was a shinobi by the name of Haruka, though most in Cyrodiil knew her as ‘Madam Nightshade’.

   

                  All this I knew from my books, but I had never been to the brothel in person. It was a large and extravagant building, two storeys high and spanning an area of sixty thousand square feet. Each floor had thirty bedrooms of assorted size. In line with its flower motif, the colour scheme of the brothel was a vivid one, with the passionate colours of red, violet and purple stroking at a guest’s senses even before they entered.

   

                  I was greeted in the counter by an attractive, light-skinned Redguard in pigtails. ‘Hello, and welcome to the Bouquet! We don’t usually get pretty girls like you as visitors. You’re not here looking for a job, are you? You’d be too much competition!’ she said cheerfully, with a smile that was either genuine or extremely well-faked. I found the first more likely.

   

                  ‘Hello,’ I said shyly, keeping my hands in my coat. ‘Actually, yes, I’m here to see Madam Nightshade…’

   

                  The Redguard studied my face more closely, then rose from her seat with an exclamation of delight. ‘You’re the new boy! The Ma’am did mention that you’d be arriving tonight. Wow, I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell at all. Welcome, welcome! Ma’am is out running errands right now, but I’m sure she’ll be back in an hour or two. Why don’t I help you get settled in the meantime?’

   

                  ‘I’d like that, thank you,’ I smiled, and the girl beamed back at me.

   

                  ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked, taking my arm and leading me into the brothel. ‘You came here all the way from Chorrol, right? You have that northern, highland paleness about you. How do you like the coast?’

   

                  ‘I ate before I arrived, but thank you all the same. The coast is lovely,’ I said, letting a gush slip into my voice. ‘It’s so warm down here!’

   

                  ‘I know!’ the girl replied enthusiastically. ‘And the air is nice and moist, not like in Hammerfell.’ She made a face. ‘By the way, you can call me Daisy. You’ll get your own flower name after the Ma’am gets a look at you.’

   

                  Daisy gave me a little tour of the brothel’s first floor, introducing me to some of the girls as we went. They waved at me as we passed, laughing. Master Haruka, it would seem, kept her prostitutes happier than most others in the Meat Street.

   

                  ‘Here’s where you’ll be bunking.’ Daisy stopped outside a large dormitory. ‘Ma’am will probably give you a bed number, but we usually just pick whichever mattress we feel like. Night, Dandy, Orchid! Good work today!’ she called to a couple of boys as they opened the door and went inside.

   

                  ‘So… before I take you to Ma’am’s office, listen,’ she said as the door closed, grabbing my hands earnestly. ‘This work we do… I know better than anyone how much of a toll it takes on you. We’re all a family here, okay? Whatever you need – a shoulder to cry on, a day or two off to get away from it all, some help with a troublesome customer – don’t hesitate to share. We’re all here for you. That’s how Madam Nightshade runs this house, and I can’t tell you how lucky we are to have her.’

   

                  ‘Thank you,’ I said again, giving her fingers a squeeze. ‘I won’t forget it.’

   

                  Daisy smiled warmly, then led me upstairs to a large square room with a neatly organised table, an enormous wardrobe at least twelve feet wide, and two bookshelves. ‘I’ll send Ma’am up as soon as I see her,’ she said, patting me on the back before she left me there. ‘Good luck.’

   

                  I sat down in front of the table and waited, listening to the sounds of pleasure and merrymaking wafting around the walls of the brothel. Thirty-five minutes passed rather uneventfully. Then the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up as I felt a very subtle shift in the air currents to my rear.

   

                  Two shuriken whizzed towards me from behind, thrown more slowly than usual. I leant to a side and allowed the first star to fly past my head, then reached out with my left hand and caught the second one with two fingers, rolling off the chair as I did.

   

                  ‘Excellent!’ Three figures dropped from a hidden compartment in the ceiling, each clad in the same grey tunics I was wearing under my coat myself. Their leader was a tawny-furred Po’ Tun a head or so taller than me. She pulled the cowl from her face, revealing a grin much like the one I often saw on Master Unaka. ‘I see that a month or so in the Chapel hasn’t rusted your reflexes.’

   

                  ‘Master Haruka.’ I dropped the shuriken and bowed deep, hands to my sides. ‘It is an honour.’

   

                  ‘Oh, no need to bother with “Master”,’ Haruka laughed. ‘I’m not even twenty years older than you. “-ko” or even just a “-daro” will do.’

   

                  ‘If you insist, Haruka-ko.’

   

                  The two other shinobi behind Master Haruka looked extremely alike, except one had a pair of black spots above his eyes. They bowed as well. ‘This is the kit from Year 182? A pleasure to finally meet you,’ the spotted Po’ Tun said. ‘You’re even more beautiful than Master Torako had described.’

   

                  ‘These are my brothers, Shi and Sho. Shi’s the one on the left,’ Haruka introduced. ‘They’ve just finished their three-year journey.’ That made them seven years my senior. I bowed back hurriedly.

   

                  ‘You sweet-talker, you, already making him blush.’ Sho elbowed his brother in the ribs. ‘Ignore him.’

   

                  ‘Three siblings,’ I said, raising my eyebrows. ‘Your parents managed to win the Raffle more than once, Haruka-ko?’

   

                  Haruka chuckled. ‘Twice in less than a decade, and twins on the second try. Caused quite a stir in the village back then; I’m surprised you haven’t heard.’

   

                  ‘I think we used to finish each other’s sentences all the time when we were kits,’ Shi said. ‘Drove-’

   

                  ‘-Master Mokko-’ Sho continued.

   

                  ‘-mad-’ Shi grinned.

   

                  ‘Yes, and me along with it,’ Haruka said dryly, giving her little brothers each a rap on the head. ‘All right, back to your duties. I think they’re expecting you in the latrines.’

   

                  ‘Of course, sister.’ Shi and Sho went over to the wardrobe, opened the door, and disappeared inside. A few seconds later, they emerged in the white uniform usually associated with janitors. ‘Khajiit will see you later,’ Sho said, adopting a lilting Elsweyr accent as he left the office with his brother.

   

                  ‘If you see them while they’re cleaning, refer to them as A’dunn and A’zumm. Don’t worry if you mix them up, it’ll add to your authenticity,’ Haruka said, going over to one of the bookshelves. ‘Me, of course, you can call Madam Nightshade. Or just “the Madam”. Most of the girls do.’

   

                  She slid a finger over the books arrayed on the bookshelf and, in order, tilted the second book, the fifth book, the eleventh book, the sixth book, the third book and the fourth book forward.

   

                  I heard a click as she slid the last book back into place, and an entire wall of the office swung noiselessly out to reveal a fully-stocked Tsukikage armoury, with five complete sets of short and long blades on an assortment of racks, twenty shuriken belts, four whole baskets of smoke pellets, a selection of yumi hanging on the wall, and other shinobi tools tucked into drawers and shelves. A clean desk was propped up in the middle, no doubt to help operatives outfit their gear. To my delight, I saw a very familiar straight blade sheathed on top of the desk.

   

                  ‘Sasayaki!’ I said, going over to the chokuto. I’d become used to wielding the weapon, and having it in my hands again was a joy.

   

                  ‘Torako-jo brought your sword over yesterday, when he arrived in Anvil,’ Master Haruka smiled, taking the blade and placing it on one of the racks. ‘You may see some action these two months.’

   

                  I bowed at her lightly. ‘Thank you, Haruka-ko.’

   

                  The Po’ Tun inclined her head. ‘All right, let’s get down to business. Anything you want to store here?’

   

                  I pulled a kunai out of my sleeve. ‘This is all the gear I have on me.’

   

                  Haruka took the dagger and tucked it into a drawer. ‘Travelling light, eh? I approve. Now!’ She clapped her hands together, and I saw a spark of excitement light up her eyes. ‘Time for a bit of dressing-up! Off with your clothes.’

   

                  ‘Um…’

   

                  The Bouquet’s madam tutted as she ushered me out of the armoury, pushing a button on the wall and hiding it back behind the fake panel as we exited. ‘Most people in this profession aren’t quite so hesitant to strip, you know. Don’t worry, I’m not going to see anything I haven’t seen before.’ she said as I slid out of my coat.

   

                  ‘Hmm. Missing nipple?’ Haruka narrowed her eyes at my chest as I took my tunic off. ‘I’ve read your file, and it’s not quite as bad as I imagined. No scar tissue at all thanks to Rendanshu, just… a dot that isn’t there. And nice legs,’ she added as I stepped out of my trousers and my boots. ‘Smooth, slender. Your arms, too. Show me your back?’ I brushed my hair over my shoulder to expose the skin there. ‘Mmm. Lovely curve. I don’t think we’ll need to work much on your body.’

   

                  She paused, then broke out into a smile. ‘Oh, it’s so refreshing to do this with another shinobi. Most of the time I have to worry about the girl’s – or boy’s – feelings and soothe her pride, talk her through the whole process, remind her once every few sentences how pretty she looks. But you understand, don’t you?’

   

                  ‘My body is just a tool. A shinobi does not have pride…’ I began.

   

                  ‘A shinobi does not need pride,’ Haruka finished, her smile widening. ‘Yes, we’ll get things done much more quickly this time around.’ She took my clothes and stuffed them into a laundry basket, then guided me towards the wardrobe. It opened into an entirely different room, almost as big as her office.

   

                  ‘Welcome to my studio,’ Haruka said. ‘I went and filled up a bath. It’s cold water – heat doesn’t go well with some of the potions I’m about to use – but I’m sure you don’t mind. Go on and take a soak.’

   

                  The bathtub was fired ceramic, a rare luxury in the Empire. I lowered myself inside, submerging my body up to the chin. The water was slightly above freezing, so I found it quite comfortable.

   

                  ‘How far are you into your scent-suppression curriculum?’

   

                  ‘Year 182’s started on olfactory camouflage in Rain’s Hand,’ I replied. ‘But I’ve done some research in odour neutralisation on my own.’

   

                  ‘Torako-jo did say you were a quick study,’ Haruka said, bringing out two bottles with a pleasant, floral aroma. She emptied them into the bath. A few minutes later, I felt a curious tingling in my skin.

   

                  ‘Your sweat glands and sebaceous glands became neutered after the Clear Flask, so you no longer produce a signature scent,’ my instructor explained. ‘Useful for tactical infiltrations, yes, but also very, very dull. These two potions are re-activating some of your sebaceous glands, but instead of secreting fat and wax, I’m giving you a chemical compound of my own.’

   

                  I took a few sniffs. ‘Lilac and… vanilla?’

   

                  ‘You have a better nose than most men or mer. Probably thanks to your training.’

   

                  ‘Is this change in my smell permanent?’

   

                  ‘It is, but with your current level of skill, you should be able to release and shut off your new scent voluntarily. I’d practice a few times before going out into the field, though.’

   

                  ‘If the potion is potent enough to affect our altered physiology, I’m assuming you don’t do this for every newcomer, Haruka-ko.’

   

                  ‘No,’ Haruka grinned. ‘Anyone other than a shinobi would be throwing their guts up right now as they start bleeding from the pores. I usually just give them perfume.’

   

                  Another few minutes passed, and Haruka brought out another bottle.

   

                  ‘Now for your hair,’ she said. ‘I do this for most of my girls in bursts, but given Rendanshu and your own training, holding your breath for fifteen minutes or so shouldn’t be a problem, so we can get it over with in one go.’ She poured the contents of the bottle into the bath. ‘Keep your head underwater until I tell you to stop.’

   

                  I sank to the bottom of the bath and waited fifteen minutes. Then Haruka tapped me on the head and I rose.

   

                  ‘All right, out of the bath.’ Haruka handed me a towel and I dried myself off. I was about to wrap it around my hair when she held up a finger, took the towel, and tapped me again on the head. A wave of gentle heat passed over my skull, and my hair fell back down to hug my waist, fresh and dry.

   

                  ‘I don’t usually do that for the new girls either, but since we’re both shinobi…’ she shrugged.

   

                  ‘Was that a spell invented solely for drying hair?’

   

                  ‘Very popular in the Breton high court,’ Haruka said. ‘You’d think the mages would find more important things to occupy themselves with.’

   

                  ‘Wasn’t a King of Daggerfall assassinated over…’

   

                  ‘Yes, I suppose fashion is a matter of life and death in High Rock.’ Haruka moved to the back of the wardrobe and began sorting through racks of exquisite clothes.

   

                  I held up a handful of my hair as I waited. It was silkier and shinier than before, and there was a new hint of deep purple shade in the strands.

   

                  ‘Ah, here we go.’ Haruka stepped back in front of me, holding up a white robe with a magenta upper lining. The fabric was dyed with an intricate pattern of flowers and butterflies, which I recognised as a tsutsugaki arrangement.

   

                  ‘Wearing a furisode in Cyrodiil?’ I frowned. ‘Is that wise, Haruka-ko?’

   

                  ‘It’s a kimono, kit, not a katana,’ Haruka said. ‘Guards aren’t going to come kicking down our doors just because a few of our workers are dressed in Akaviri clothes. I even know a couple of them who like to use these for roleplaying.’

   

                  ‘I… see.’

   

                  I slipped into the robes, tying a silk obi around my waist into a bow. Haruka held up one of my hands as I tucked it through a sleeve.

   

                  ‘I was about to give you a manicure and polish, too, but you’ve looked after your nails so well there’s nothing else I need to do. Good job.’

   

                  ‘I’ve had to keep up appearances at the Chapel of Dibella.’

   

                  ‘Working here will be very different,’ Haruka warned, sitting me down in front of a mirror and taking out a hairbrush.

   

                  ‘The skills I’ve picked up in the Chapel should still be of some use,’ I said, keeping my head still as Haruka swept my hair into a single, flowing wave.

   

                  ‘Oh, most definitely.’ Haruka brushed my hair into cheek-length sidelocks and left my fringe as it was, hanging over my eyebrows. ‘But there is a fundamental difference between what a Priestess of Dibella does and what we do in a brothel. The Dibellan faith exalts pleasure for both parties, and there’s a certain… respect involved in the process.’

   

                  ‘A sense of reciprocity?’ I suggested, as Haruka bunched up the first ten inches of hair behind my ears and planted a comb on top of my head to hold my frontal hairstyle in place.

   

                  ‘There’s reciprocity here too, as prostitution involves money,’ Haruka replied. She tied a pink ribbon onto the back of my head and took the comb off, letting the rest of my hair cascade down behind my back. ‘But you won’t be dealing with the lucky hand-picked pilgrims the Priestesses chose themselves for their ceremonies. The people who take you…’

   

                  ‘They won’t care. I understand. I’m only there to please them.’ I closed my eyes as Haruka applied a dash of violet to my upper eyelids, drawing out my eyelashes.

   

                  ‘That’s what you’re here to study, kit,’ Haruka said as I stood and slid my toes into a pair of tasselled salon slippers. ‘How to find out what your targets want; how to give it to them. Much like hand-to-hand combat, you’ll make use of weaknesses. Holes in their psyche. Find them, use them as leverage, and they will be as putty in your hands.’

   

                  I nodded, smoothing out a crease in my furisode. ‘I’m ready to learn.’

   

                  ‘Good.’ Haruka led me out of her studio. ‘Ah, before you leave, you’ll need a name. Here in the Bouquet, everyone is a flower.’

   

                  ‘Of course, Madam Nightshade.’

   

                  ‘Hmm, yes,’ my instructor mused, her eyes gliding over the dark purple tones of my hair and my eyeliner. ‘Azalea seems just perfect.’

   

                  ‘A flower growing in shadow,’ I smiled. ‘And the sweet Mad Honey of its nectar.’

   

                  ‘Jorra-dar was your childhood guardian, if I remember correctly. Is this his influence I sense?’ Haruka said, a nostalgic note entering her voice. ‘I used to study advanced botany with him.’ She stirred, shaking her head. ‘But the past is the past. I should have a client for you in an hour or two, but you have some free time for now. Go and mingle! I’m sure the girls are eager to see you.’

   

                  I tilted my head. ‘And the boys?’

   

                  Haruka snorted. ‘Try not to drive them too mad with desire. Some of them still have work.’

   

  

   

                  As it turned out, I didn’t get a client until the following afternoon.

   

                  ‘This some kind of joke, Madam?’ the Redguard in front of me snarled. ‘I asked for a boy.’

   

                  ‘Khajiit assures you,’ Haruka trilled in a flawless Senchal accent, draping her hands over my shoulders. ‘Our sweet Azalea is undisputedly male.’

   

                  ‘Well, I’m disputing that right now,’ the Redguard muttered.

   

                  Haruka laughed as she stepped out of the bedroom. ‘You are very funny, sir! Please, enjoy your evening.’ And she closed the door behind her, shutting us in.

   

                  The Redguard chewed on the inside of his jaw for a few seconds, then walked up to me and thrust his hand between my legs.

   

                  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he sneered. Then he gave me a shove.

   

                  Find out what your target wants, I reminded myself as I sprawled over in front of the bed, making the motion seem as natural as possible.

   

                  Start from square one. What do I know so far?

   

                  Redguard male. Height, six feet. Weight… two hundred, two hundred and twenty pounds? He had been muscular once, but now his body was running to fat. His right arm was thicker than his left. Swordsman? Warrior. Former warrior. He walked with a noticeable limp.

   

                  ‘You’re quite strong, aren’t you, sir?’ I crooned, sitting up. The Redguard raised a hand and casually backhanded me.

   

                  A world apart from the Chapel indeed.

   

                  ‘I’m not paying you to talk, slut,’ the Redguard grinned, reaching for his belt. It was of immaculate design, contrasting with his rough garb. The buckle was engraved in the sigil of the Imperial Arena.

   

                  Ah. A former Arena fighter?

   

                  The Redguard dropped his trousers, and I had the whole picture then. Bites and scratch marks stretched from the inside of his thigh to the back of his knee, running over his entire right leg. Imperial Arena gladiators often fought animals. One of them had mauled him, left him lame.

   

                  ‘What?’ he asked me harshly. There was a vulnerability in his expression that I couldn’t detect before.

   

                  I knew what he was now. And deducing what he wanted became a trivial matter.

   

                  Obviously, the Redguard was incapable of fighting any longer. But the fact that he was still wearing his Arena belt meant that he kept his old life close to his heart. He was standing on his own two feet, refusing the ignominy of a cane. And asking for a boy… this was a broken man, looking to inflate his self-esteem by proving his manhood – by proving he was still, at least, more of a man than me.

   

                  Tamriellians’ concepts of masculinity and feat of arms made them so easy to manipulate.

   

                  ‘I said, what?’ he roared, grabbing me by my cheeks and tilting my head upwards.

   

                  ‘Nothing!’ I cried, allowing my eyes to water. ‘Please, sir, you’re hurting me…’

   

                  The knowledge that he could still hurt someone was enough to bring satisfaction back to his eyes. The Redguard released me, leaving me there, down on my knees in front of him.

   

                  ‘You know what to do,’ he said, his voice low.

   

                  I leant forward.

   

                  A shinobi does not have pride…

   

                  I took his loincloth off with my teeth, ignoring the stink that assailed my nostrils.

   

                  A shinobi… does not need pride.

   

                  I opened my mouth.