The Legend of El Shashi by Marc Secchia

slice of good fortune, in a few anna he might rise through the ranks and be picked for the Matabond to a woman of substance. And thence he might eschew the daily draught called uliktak, the close-guarded secret of these brothels, which keeps his seed unfruitful.
    And be Matabound? I spat upon the thought. Money was my goal. That meant I had to become sought after without attracting the jealous plotting of the other men. A handsome escort might make a handsome living. What better life could a man desire?
    A chill of grephe tainted my quoph every time I honed this line of reasoning in my mind. But I ignored it like a wicked father ignoring his children’s petitions. Are not quathly avarice, and ambition moreover, qualities most virtuous and masculine? Who would employ a laggard, who eats up more profit than he ever makes? I convinced myself that Jyla was gone. Buried. Hundreds of leagues removed. That she had no hold on me, nor upon my life. But even so my attitude stank of cowardice, of a brand of desperation, of lies hiding lies.
    Perhaps it was s afest not to dwell on the past.
    This thought unexpectedly brought a proverb of Janos’ to my mind. Well I remember it, for every time I complained at another history lesson, he would say, ‘Arlak, to forget the past is to forget who we are.’
    Sometimes I wish ed for less wisdom and more ignorance.
    And what good fort une had ever smiled upon me? Had Mata not stolen all I loved in the world? And cast me destitute into the Fiefdoms with a curse upon my head? A fine reward I had reaped for following Her ways!
    Two seasons of meticulous work and faultless grooming won me from the scullery to the bathhouse. Here my task was to tend the fires beneath the great brass tubs where the women bathed. I had to keep my eyes downcast at all times–one glance above the knee earned me six strokes of the lash and three weeks scrubbing every floor in the place.
    But the day after I returned to the bathhouse, the housemaster picked me out.
    “Torri is the name,” he whispered, pushing me through the corridors. “Her mother paid twenty ukals to the mistress.” The housemaster shoved me into a room. “Get changed. Here’s your rumik. Put it on. Careful, or I’ll have your hide striped till I see bone and you’ll be shovelling dung for the rest of your miserable life. Slippers–I’ll get those. And perfume.”
    He banged the door shut as I fell to changing into the short rumi k. It was similar to the Roymerian rumik, only the fine, creamy linen was cut shorter to mid-thigh and revealed more of the chest between the broad double lapels. Making for a more toothsome display, I reflected sourly. Always remember the customer.
    “You will do the house honour. Never breathe a word to anyone.”
    I glanced at him.
    “Not like that. Tie the belt like this.” The housemaster corrected my knot impatiently, then lowered his voice. “She’s ugly as a porker, understand? But that fool Lurak burned all the costumes. Hajik Hounds! This season’s been hard on us all.” He sighed. “None of the other houses would have her, nor our consorts.”
    Lucky me, s o I earned the short end? I made a face in the mirror.
    “Guard your thoughts !” he snapped.
    I lowered my head, smarting. Right he was.
    “You don’t have a reputation to consider,” he continued, yanking the broad collar of my rumik straight, “but you’ve shown ability and you kept your own counsel over the Gaerlak affair. I’ve been watching. Mark my words, this Honoria would become our patroness–she has wealth enough. But if word were to spread? Disaster.”
    That an unwritten prejudice against ugliness kept many women from the gates of these pleasure houses, I had no doubt. One had but to hear the way the consorts talked –empty-headed, preening cockatoos to a man. Money smoothed many a path. But how ancient was the belief that ugliness in a woman is mark of a curse, which could just as readily be conveyed to others? What ulule