night. The smells of love-incense grew strong enough to make her head ache. She
stood on a pile of pillows to open the room’s only window and to look out on the
jumble of the Bazaar stalls and the dark roofs of the Maze beyond them. Absorbed
by the panorama of the town, she did not hear the latch lift nor the door open,
but she felt someone staring at her.
‘They told me that they had given you her room.’
She knew, before she turned, that he had finally come. He spoke the local
dialect well, but without any attempt to conceal his heavy accent. Her heart was
fluttering against her ribs as she turned to face him.
He had left his cloak downstairs and stood before her in fish-folk finery,
filling the doorway with his bulk. It was no wonder Bekin had adored him – she’d
had a child’s delight in colour and shine. His pantaloons were a deep turquoise,
embroidered with silver. His tunic was a lighter shade, slashed open to the
navel with sleeves that shone and rippled like the rose silk she wore. His fez
was encrusted with glittery stones; he removed it with a smile; his shaved scalp
glistened in the candlelight. Despite herself, Cythen flattened against the wall
and regarded him with a mixture of fear and awe. His eyes shone as he watched
her without blinking, and after a moment she looked away.
‘There is no need to be frightened. Little Flower.’
His arms circled the rose silk and drew her tightly against him. Strong blunt
fingers pressed around her neck, digging in behind her ears so she could not
resist as he forced her lips apart. She willed herself to numbness when he found