may be so. But my women are here because they wish to be here; I do not own
them. Many leave for other lives after they’ve grown tired of a life of love and
earned a healthy portion of gold. But pleasure is not your talent, Cythen; you
wouldn’t understand. Men have nothing you desire and you have nothing to give
them in return.’
‘I have a talent for deceit, Myrtis, or neither Bekin nor I would have survived
at all. Honour your promise. Give him to me for one night.’
With a gesture of worried resignation, Myrtis consented to the arrangement. She
summoned Ambutta, who some said was her daughter, and had Cythen led into the
private sections of the house where, for a night and a day she was fussed over
and transformed. Before sundown of the next day she was ensconced in the plush
seraglio where Bekin had lived, and died. Her garrison clothes and knife had
been hidden in the dark panelled walls and she herself was now draped in lengths
of diaphanous rose-coloured silk – a gift to Bekin from the man who had slain
her.
Staring into the mirror as the sun set, Cythen saw a woman she had never known
before: the self she might have become if tragedy had not intervened. She was
beautiful, as Bekin had been, and she preferred the feel of silk to the chafing
of the linen and wools she normally wore. Ambutta had skilfully wound beads
through Cythen’s hair, binding it into a fanciful shape that left Cythen afraid
to turn quickly, lest the whole affair come tumbling down into her face.
‘There was a message for you earlier,’ Ambutta, a disturbingly wise woman no