The Cursed Towers by Kate Forsyth Page A

with rich silks and furnished as richly as any merchant's house. A gilded candelabra hung from the ceiling, while bright tapestries covered every wall. The woman made her way forward, lifting her mud-stained skirts clear of the intricately woven carpet.
    "Look at ye, tracking mud and filth into my fine house," a high, petulant voice said. "Obh, obh! Could ye no' have left your boots at the door?"
    From a low chaise-longue pushed against the wall, a gaudily dressed dwarf hopped to his feet and came fussing around the whore, insisting she remove her caked boots and brush the mud from her skirts down the stairwell. He came no higher than her waist and wore a crimson doublet slashed with purple and green. His head was far too large for his body, the effect exaggerated by a huge round cap of purple velvet embellished with bha-nais feathers. With the matt white skin of his face dusted with no more than a few fine, fair hairs, he looked like an absurd child.
    He reclined back on the chaise-longue, his short legs taking up barely half of its velvet-upholstered length, and looked her over with a lewd glance. "So it be Majasma the Mysterious come to visit her auld friend, the Wizard Wilmot, master o' the magical mysteries. Wha' is it this time, my bonny?" The whore sat on the chair opposite, letting the shawl drop from her head. The light fell full on her face, revealing its alien cast—the flat nose with its flaring nostrils, the thin, almost lipless mouth. Her pale skin was moist and had a iridescent shimmer like mother-of-pearl. One cheek was marred with a fine spider's web of scars. She cast the dwarf a scornful glance from her pale eyes and lifted one webbed hand to her cheek.
    "Another spell o' glamourie to wrap your fair features in youthful charm, my bonny? To hide the cruel scars that mar your perfection?" He gave a high-pitched chuckle. "Do your lovers cringe at the sight o'
    ye, my bonny?"
    "No' as much as all who see ye, my wee manikin," she replied harshly. "Ye ken why I am here, let us cease these pleasantries and get down to business."
    "Aye," he answered with another shrill giggle. "Show me your gold and we will begin to spin ye the spell."
    "What do ye need gold for, Willie the Wee?" She waved one hand at the richness that surrounded them.
    "Ye have a house stuffed with every imaginable luxury, ye wear the finest silks and the rarest perfumes and drink only the best whiskey. What more could ye possibly want?" A look of petulant anger screwed up his hairless face and he cried shrilly, "Ye want my wizardry, ye must pay the price!"
    The whore pulled a small, jingling bag from her basket and tossed it to him with a scornful gesture. He caught it nimbly, and at once began to count it into his tiny hand. Twice he counted it, and then he snapped his fingers and the coins disappeared.
    "It is no' enough, my bonny," he said with a lewd sneer. "I find the price o' my expertise has risen. Times are hard in Lucescere, and the winter has been long."
    "We agreed on the price!" she cried, and he answered with another chuckle, "That was then, this is now, my bonny. Pay the price or find yourself another spell-monger er."
    Reluctantly she fished another small bag out of the basket, and he counted the coins with glee, tossing them between his pudgy little fingers and letting them disappear one by one. Only then did he swing his legs round and begin to rummage in a chest by his side. She leant forward and watched what he did intently, and he turned his gaudy body so she could not see.
    With another snap of his fingers he extinguished the candles so only the four-branched candelabra on the table between them was still alight. The light of the black and white candles danced over the paraphernalia arranged on the table's gilded surface. There was a three-dimensional circle and pentagram, a brazier of odd-smelling incense, bowls of water and sea salt, an urn of ashes, piles of crystals and colored stones, and bottles of dried dragon's blood,