The Ritual by H. Anthe Davis, Erica Dakin Page A

the servant step at the back, already getting into his role as our slave. The ride was pleasant, and I saw that he had been right about this side of town looking and smelling much better. The streets were wider and less steep, and the houses looked more opulent, with ornate gable decorations and immaculate plasterwork.
    And then we arrived at the duke’s estate, and Zashter took my hand to help me alight from the carriage. “Back straight, chin up,” he murmured to me. “Remember, you’re an elf. Arrogance is the word.”
    I looked at Shani, unrecognisable in her glamour and finery until I met her eyes, which were still her own dark brown. We nodded to each other, then lifted our heads high and strode to the front door, ready to begin the deception.
    Once inside, the first thing I noticed were the people. There were elves everywhere, parading, laughing, chatting, relaxing on big chaise-longues and eyeing each other with veiled expressions. Their attire dazzled me – I had thought my dress was opulent, but the first elven lady to sweep past me nearly knocked me over, so thick were her petticoats. The colours ran the full gamut from deepest crimson to bri ghtest cerulean, and they were thick with gems, feathers and ribbons. I felt plain in comparison, though it suited my disguise as a relatively poor elven lady. Bits of conversation drifted past me as I slowly made my way into the first reception room, and the elvish voices were all so musical, their words so polished, that I feared that my own plain voice and roughened speech pattern might give me away.
    The sight of so many elves at once threatened to overwhelm me, so I tried to concentrate on the inside of the residence instead. It was as lavish as the exterior – thick carpets, silk wallpaper, priceless vases and statues on marble pedestals and gigantic flower arrangements decorating every table. The air was sweet, almost cloying – a mixture of flowers and exotic fruit, and for several long heartbeats I couldn’t figure out where the latter smell was coming from. Then I noticed that some of the flower arrangements weren’t actually flow ers, but fruit carved to look like flowers, and I approached one in curiosity, startling when I was immediately addressed by the half-elf slave who stood next to it.
    “Would mylady like a piece of fruit? Pineapple perhaps, or maybe a morsel of mango?” He picked up a tiny silver knife and a small silver bowl, ready to slice off a piece, and looked at me expectantly.
    I stared at the fruit arrangement in uncertainty. Everything was yellow, and I did not know one from the other. “Uh, pineapple please,” I ventured, and the man’s eyes widened before he turned and sliced off a few chunks with the knife. I wondered at his reaction, but when he handed over the bowl with a bow it came to me: I had said ‘please’.
    I turned away, chagrined, suppressing the urge to thank the man and forcing myself to remember that he was a slave ; that all the half-elves here were slaves who required neither politeness nor thanks. In the initial dazzle of the elves I hadn’t noticed them, but there were many, all in uniform and with gold slave-chokers, carrying trays of sparkling wine, tiny pastries, stuffed quail eggs and other appetisers. I felt sickened at not having noticed them before, at being so taken in by the elves flaunting their perceived superiority, and it dawned on me that I was further out of my depth than I had ever been before. I tried to compose myself, hiding my feelings behind a vacuous smile, and distractedly ate a piece of the pineapple.
    One bite was all it took. The juice flowed into my mouth, much sweeter than I had expected, and I was lost. “Gods, Shani, try this stuff, it’s fantastic,” I moaned, stuffing another piece in my mouth, but when I lifted my head I found her pursing her lips at me with her arms crossed.
    “Who’s Shani?” she asked, and I remembered myself, chewing and swallowing the pineapple