Chapter 4

The scent of exotic fragrances hung in the air like another guest; present in the background, reminding everyone that they ought to be dressing and behaving in a way that merits that amount of money being burnt in the censers. It was a strange request for a brothel, where it was expected that lust and greed colluded in the nastiest ways, yet its prosperity was owed in part to that meticulousness. No guest or servant could enter without offering back a sight of taste and refinement: you had to look good, smell nice and behave even better.

Brothels are the type of place where the invisible workers, those who are not being advertised for sale, are normally of a specific kind. They're paid low wages and there's a certain stigma associated with their profession, regardless of how fancy the brothel is; as such, only those from outside the city walls or the transient travellers down on their luck could afford to venture into their employment. The lockdown of the port had cut off those who resided outside of the city; as a result, all brothels were in dire need of help. They offered daily wages to anyone who could spare a hand; it didn't matter to them if one were to jump from place to place, or fail to appear the next day. As long as the day's duties were done, they were perfectly content to leave tomorrow's worries to the next day.

Aristides had done some homework of his own when he appeared on the second afternoon after the Magistrate's interrogation with a plan to propose to his lord: they could perhaps approach the Chaldean merchant, their only way out of the city, by finding him in one of the brothels he frequented. They wouldn't be able to simply request an audience: Aristides had asked around to find the merchant's address, had walked up to the large residence in the city's opulent upper states, and was told that only through invitation he would be allowed in. He then remembered Felicia's words, and asked some more; he was told the Chaldean frequented three brothels in the city, and actually conducted most of his business from the comfortable rooms of the high-end pleasure houses, served by beauties skilled in poetry and music. He used one in the morning, another in the afternoon, and the third one in the evening, with no particular rhyme or reason to the specific brothel of the three he would choose at each time. This made his schedule difficult to trace; an intended move from someone who didn't want to be disturbed by those he didn't want to associate himself with.

Aristides then proposed that, should one want to approach him, using just enough patience and a little bit of artifice, one could pose as a worker in one of the pleasure houses. "Since they're short-staffed, and they want cleaners, they won't be too fastidious in their search for references; they'll take anything," the old warrior had said to Phobos as Ophelia brought them lunch. "We can sneak in that way; you can work in one brothel, I'll take another, and take turns to switch from one to the other until we come across him. Once we find him, we can simply make our request."

"I doubt he'll be pleased with our trickery," Phobos replied.

"I'll yield if you have any other good ideas, my lord," Aristides pointed out. "But the port is open only to him, and although we've succeeded in tricking the Magistrate for now we shouldn't trust our luck too much. The moment that the Phrygian envoys arrive it'll take them no time to find out the truth. We need to find a way out as soon as possible."

The exiled prince pursued his lips, but offered no counter-argument. Ophelia held up her hand. "If there's three brothels and two of you, let me help. We can find him in one day rather than relying on luck."

Phobos turned his face towards her so quickly that the woman almost jumped. "No, no, we shouldn't involve you like this. It's not proper for a reputable woman to be seen in such places."

"We'll be gone soon anyway, why does it matter?"

"I would never tarnish your honour for the sake of my own gain. I'd rather be captured and executed. I've done enough harm to you as it is."

"As commendable as that thought is, my lord," Aristides said, "she'll be captured and executed alongside us. There'll be no honour for someone who helped a murderer."

Phobos nodded silently, but the tortured look in his face said volumes about how he felt about the situation. It was clear to Ophelia the man had a very strict code of honour, one he felt he'd breached when he'd let her vouch for him. His apology the night before had surprised her, and his compromise to look after her had warmed her heart; she thought that for a man who had to shoulder a lot of burdens at such a young age, he was very admirable in how he conducted himself. The fact that he was able to place her before his own safety surprised her: she hadn't known many people who would do that for a stranger. It almost felt unreal, like a character from a story. Back in her own world, she thought, no one would act like that anymore.

The next day the three of them ventured out towards the upper districts. Ophelia had been worried that stares would follow them as they had some days prior; it seemed, though, that the rise and fall of the sun and the rumour mill that had kept on turning its wheels had conjured a fog in the citizens' minds. With their torsos and arms completely covered in simple hand-me-down tunics, the men were no Phrygians in people's eyes, and thus were unrecognisable to those who had seen them in their parade with the city watchmen. Ophelia herself wore a headscarf and a significantly more modest attire, and this was enough to hide her identity. They were back to being anonymous peasants, of the type that looked for work where they could find it.

The three separated early in the day to their chosen brothel. Ophelia, who was slightly nervous thinking of the crazy plan she'd agreed to help with, immediately found a relieved and stressed head maid in the little entrance that the help used.

"Yes, yes, come in," the woman had said when Ophelia timidly asked if they were looking for a hired hand for the day. "If you could stay the whole week it would be fantastic. And if you have any friends looking for some work, send them here. This damn blockade has left us at the verge of collapse. None of our regulars can come in to help with the laundry and the cleaning, and it keeps piling up."

She'd been then brusquely shown to an inner courtyard without any pomp; she could help with the laundry first, and then whatever else was needed of her. The head maid promised a hefty sum of money by the end of the day, or at least hefty by her own standards; Ophelia had very little clue as to how much things cost in Caudiceum. She was also given a very peculiar uniform and was told to wear it while working inside the brothel. That, and the look of the building inside and outside explained why Felicia had called them 'oriental'. It seemed like the east in this world and the east in hers were very similar in some aspects.

Back in her world, movies had concocted a very elaborate picture of how Japanese pleasure houses were meant to be; whether they were true or not, Ophelia could not tell, as her only idea of them came from different sorts of media, none of which pretended to be historically accurate. The final result was very similar, she felt, to what she was experiencing now: a vaguely Japanese building with wooden floors and delicate linen screens for doors, where women in white makeup would offer food and drink while entertaining guests with songs and poetry, and given enough money, sex. They wore brightly patterned silk hakama pants covered in layers and layers of loose kimono robes, held together by a thin obi. The fabrics were luxurious, threaded in gold and silk; their hair was worn mostly in elaborate braids wrapped in different styles around their head, and pinned together with fresh flowers and gold pins.

Her own robes, and the ones of the other workers, were obviously not as luxurious as those of the prime commodities in the brothel: the outer kimono was made of sombre dark brown linen, the pants and the inner juban were the natural grey of untreated thread. If she had thought she'd stick out wearing that clothing that belonged to some other country, she was soon corrected: none of the workers, or the entertainers she saw, looked to be from anywhere in particular. It seemed that somehow, the east had been transformed into some sort of cultural reference in that city, one that presumed certain aesthetics and customs, rather than as a sign of true cultural exchange. Or perhaps easterners in that world looked nothing like the ones from hers.

Once in her uniform, she was left alone in the courtyard to go through some of the washing that had piled up in the days before. She'd been given a bucket full of ready-to-use soapwort, which she'd learnt at Felicia's tavern was the equivalent of wash up liquid in that world. It had a pleasant scent, as it'd been made with aromatic herbs, and was meant to be used with the bedding that customers would sleep in, and the final wash of the underclothes of the entertainers. She sat on the floor next to one of the huge vats that had been placed in the courtyard and, as instructed, carefully let the clothes soak in the water.

The bedding was more complicated, and she had to stomp on it once it had been thoroughly drenched. Over and over again, she felt like a wine maker as she worked the fabrics, thankful that the weather in that port was warm. She could imagine how hellish the task would be if one were to do it in the middle of winter, outside, with freezing water.

Some little shortcuts allowed her to finish after two hours; she had, after all, to find an excuse to wander about in search of the mysterious Chaldean merchant they wanted to meet. Her strange and newly-discovered powers came in handy, as she figured she could perhaps skip the hard manual labour required to rinse and repeat. Invisible hands twisted the fabrics after some ten minutes of testing and trying; they dropped things into the vat, rinsed them, beat them, and squeezed them again. Finally she was done, and as she was hanging up the bedding and the clothes, the head maid opened the screen door to the courtyard and exclaimed in a disbelieving tone:

"Oh? You're done? I came in to check how you were doing… Well, that is good news. We could use someone right now in the kitchen. Come with me!"

It seemed to Ophelia as the woman kept chatting to her that she wouldn't bat an eye to any strange occurrences as long as it meant the work would be done. She could perhaps show her the extent of her abilities and rather than be met with awe or shock, she'd probably be told to work on something else. It was a comforting thought, it occurred to her, that an agitated work schedule could work in her favour.

She was brought to the kitchen, which followed more the likes of the old style of the tavern than any eastern fancy. It was, as one would expect, controlled chaos, with the cooks and the assistants moving from place to place chopping and stirring and seasoning multitudes of dishes, with a large chimney stuffed with a mixture of skillets, pans, pots and cauldrons, seven in total and all holding something to cook.

"Good, good!" shouted a man when he saw the head maid and her come in. "You got me someone. Tell her to come here, she can put together the dishes and send them to the guest rooms."

The head maid nodded and turned to her. "You'll need to serve breakfast and send them to the guest rooms."

Ophelia was confused at the repeated command, and couldn't help but say, "Yes, I heard him."

It earned her a surprised stare from the other woman. "Oh? So you speak Faroese? Well, this is good. I'll let you be then, you can let Oischar sort you out."

The head maid spared no more time in moving on to her next task. Ophelia was then warmly welcomed by the head chef, Oischar, who was surprised to see someone from his motherland. As Ophelia made some excuses as to her perfect accent ('my mother was Faroese, I learnt it from her'), she realised that once again her ability had played in her favour. Faroese people like the head maid and the chef were fiercely attached to their own language and customs, and gave those from their own tribe an incredible amount of preferential treatment. Oischar was more than happy to chat away to her in his native language, and thus, he served as a perfect source of information.

He told her that one of their regular patrons was staying there during the morning, a Chaldean merchant he thought was rather eccentric. "They normally travel with a large retinue, but he seldom comes with more than a few people. He never asks for the entertainer's services for himself; it's mostly for the men who do business with him. I think he's a wily one, he is. He softens them with food, alcohol and women, and that's how every one of his ships sails to strong winds."

And then the strong wind came for her, when she was told to deliver food to his room. She prepared the tray; Oischar overlooked the process as it wasn't meant to be a simple delivery—the dishes had to be carefully decorated, and the whole presentation had to be immaculate. Two more maids were required for the full menu.

They all set in line to walk around the hallways of the brothel, and up the first floor. She heard one of the maids say they were approaching the room, and as they stopped outside the screen doors, she asked her, "do we simply leave the trays here, do we knock, or what…?"

The maid was taken aback by her question, but whatever it was she thought, she didn't voice it out loud. "Someone will open the door from the other side, and we'll hand each tray to her. You just need to announce us; neither Aneesha nor I can speak Iberian fluently, so it'll be better for you to do it."

Something about the slight rhythm of her words told Ophelia that once again she'd slipped into a different language without thinking. She tried to clear her mind for a second before speaking in Iberian out loud, "We've brought breakfast."

Two sets of steps were heard approaching, and then the screen doors were opened. A man dressed in silk tunics and a woman were waiting for them. "Just in time," said the woman with a lazy grin. "I was famished."

"Here it is, madam," Ophelia offered the tray to her without thinking much about the gesture. The man's reaction, however, made it clear that it was not appreciated.

"It seems like the blockade is leaving a shortage of skilled labour in this city," he said with a sneer in his face. He moved to take the tray from Ophelia's hands. "I have never seen her here, is she new?"

"Oh, yes," Ophelia was a bit intimidated at the gesture, but decided to play the innocent card. "Have I done something to displease you, sir?"

"Hmm," he looked over at her, eyes going up and down her face. "You don't look Chaldean. How is it that you speak Drusi so well?"

"And Farreeq as well, if my ears didn't deceive me," the woman said, looking over to the two maids. Ophelia figured that was the name of the language they both had spoken earlier. "And a very clean Iberian. Do you speak any other languages?"

Ophelia crossed her arms in a nervous gesture; she felt a bit timid about giving an honest answer, but she supposed perhaps she could earn some forgiveness from her perceived trespassing by satiating their curiosity. "Faroese and Phrygian. I pick them up easily."

"Fascinating," the woman said and looked over to her companion. She made a little gesture with her head, and the man nodded. He took the tray to a small table in the centre of the room, and motioned the other two maids to come in after him. Even through the language barrier, the two girls noticed something had displeased the occupants of the room, and dutifully did as they were told, in silence. They bowed twice before leaving, closing the screen door behind them.

"Why don't you sit down and eat with us?" the woman invited Ophelia, motioning towards the table. "I'm rather curious about how you came to know such disparate languages."

Ophelia figured the man must be the famous Chaldean merchant they were looking for, and the woman some sort of assistant, perhaps a favoured entertainer at the brothel. She nodded, sitting down with them to eat some of the delicacies Oischar had prepared. Gone the initial nervousness, she took a second look at both characters: the man looked imposing, with square shoulders and a large build. The woman was in comparison more willowy, yet tall: she had blond hair so bright it almost looked silver, and yellowy, hazel eyes. Her skin looked silky smooth, and her delicate features made her seem almost otherworldly; if elves were a thing in this world, she probably was one.

"My name is Hyperion," she said, "and my companion here is Eon. We're regular guests at this brothel; Eon was a bit surprised at your actions as the custom here is very different."

"Oh, sorry about that," Ophelia said, "what was I supposed to do, bring the trays to the table myself?"

Hyperion nodded. Ophelia shrugged. "I asked the girls and they said that an entertainer would greet us and take the tray from us. I thought that was you?"

The suggestion seemed to annoy Eon, who seemed ready to go into a tirade, before he was stopped by a gesture from Hyperion. "Oh, we don't always have entertainers in this room. Only when we bring other guests. Today it was just the two of us."

Ophelia decided to try her luck then.

"Oh, so you're both the Chaldean merchants I've been told about?"

"Yes, that's us," Eon answered cautiously. "Although you should be careful not to speak of us outside of this place. We don't take kindly to those who spread gossip."

"Isn't this fish to die for?" Hyperion exclaimed, shooting her partner warning glances. "Try some, please. Help yourself!"

The woman offered her some pieces of fried fish, which Ophelia took hesitantly. She was clearly trying to change the subject.

"So, were you a merchant perhaps? Or the daughter of one? How come you speak so many languages so fluently?"

"Not really," Ophelia answered hesitantly. She decided to offer a vague enough response. "I've been travelling since I was small. It would take me very little time until I was able to understand the languages of the people in the markets. For some reason or another, I can learn them quickly."

"Interesting, very interesting…" Hyperion mused, eyes narrowing ever so slightly at her. "What did your family do? With so much travel, if it's not a merchant…"

"They were envoys."

"Oh? For who?"

"The Iceni," Ophelia answered, receiving a blank stare in response. "From Hibernia."

"I didn't know those savages knew the concept of diplomacy," Eon snorted, and Ophelia felt slightly worried that, in her ignorance of the way that world worked, she'd committed a faux pas.

"They are bound to learn, sooner or later," Hyperion acquiesced. "However, who would so readily believe that a maid from a brothel would be able to claim such illustrious heritage?"

Ophelia knew that either she could try and convince them of her claims by pulling together a list of imaginary evidence, which given her limited knowledge of the world could work against her, or that perhaps, she could come clean about some of her reasons for being there and try to appeal to them for the help they needed.

"Well, I'm actually not a maid," she said with a tentative smile. "I just came here for the day looking for the Chaldean merchant that's said to have a way out of the city."

Eon's shoulders tensed, and he seemed to be ready to jump at her. Hyperion held up her hand with an authoritative air; her manner was calm but her eyes had taken on a certain cold sharpness that made Ophelia want to find somewhere to hide.

"An Iceni woman looking for a way out of the city," she said slowly, "perhaps alongside two Phrygian men?"

Ophelia swallowed and nodded. Hyperion held her eyes for a second, clearly evaluating her. Finally, she made a gesture towards her companion, who immediately got up, walked to the desk on their right, and took a small silk pouch from one of its drawers. He passed it along to her, and sat back down.

"Take this to my residence," the woman said, extracting an ornately carved square wooden token from the pouch, "and you'll be able to have an audience with me."

Ophelia accepted it.

"Bring your companions; we can discuss your plight in a bit more detail then. Now, leave us. You've done what you've set out to do."

She smiled nervously at the both of them before taking her leave. She thought about leaving the brothel, but on the way back to the kitchen she found too many people requesting her help for her to actually make a run. It wasn't until mid afternoon that she saw a small opening, quickly changed into her clothes, and left the place.

She went up to the other two brothels, trying to ask for Phobos and Aristides, but none of the workers inside were too bothered with her questions. An hour after unsuccessfully coming back and forth between the two establishments, trying her luck, she caught sight of Phobos in one of the courtyards that led to the pleasure house he'd decided to work in.

His style of clothing was similar to what she'd been given, except he'd chosen to wear, on top of the kimono, a bigger, looser yukata-style robe. The shorter sleeves would reveal his tattoos, and with things as it were, it would draw unnecessary attention to him. Regardless, to her, he looked strange in the foreign clothes. He was tall, and his bronze skin shone under the sun; he couldn't be further away from any stereotypes she'd conjured in her mind. Still, she couldn't help but stare, fascinated at the beautiful picture.

She wasn't the only one. At the end of the courtyard, partly hidden by arrangements of jasmine bushes, a group of girls stole glances at him and giggled. They were all having snacks and tea, sitting in plump Ottomans that broke the illusion of orientalism; they probably were some of the entertainers having a break. Ophelia was able to catch glimpses of their conversation, which was centred around Phobos and his likeness; all of them sighed wistfully wishing that he'd be their next customer.

A nasty thought entered Ophelia's mind; unlucky you, he doesn't like that sort of thing. Even the tone in her mind was petty, and she wondered if she wasn't taking his earlier proposal a bit too seriously…

Nevertheless, she used her powers to draw his attention: a rock tumbled near his feet, big enough for him to notice but not enough that it'd be the talk of the giggling girls. He looked puzzled at first, trying to see what had caused the rock to move, and in his wild chase around the courtyard he ended up crossing gazes with her. His countenance immediately brightened, and he crossed the place in a few strides.

Ophelia cheered silently when she noticed the disappointed stares from the giggling women. "I have some news," she said to Phobos. "I found the Chaldean merchant, and I've got an invitation to his place."

She showed him the wooden token, and his eyes widened in surprise. "We shall go first thing tomorrow," he said.

The man didn't have the same qualms as her about giving back the uniform they'd been provided. He didn't bother changing. He just left. Perhaps that tendency he'd learnt from his teacher, because Aristides did exactly the same, save his little exclamation of "we ought to celebrate tonight!"

And celebrate they did back at the tavern; their pint glasses still wet just a few nights after their successful plea at the Magistrate.

"You seem to be like the goat that gives birth to calves," Phobos said, nudging her with his elbow. He was in an unusually playful mood; it was strange to see for Ophelia, who'd thought so far the other man was nothing but absolute business day in and out. Although there had been seven or eight beers on the road to reach that stage.

"What?" The turn of the phrase, however, was a little obscure for her to decipher.

"You bring us good luck," he explained. "It seems like you are always at the right place at the right time. I'm a fortunate man that you're my wife!"

Ophelia blushed. "For now. I'm sure you'll want to stop this charade when you meet someone nice you want to settle down with…"

The serious look returned to Phobos' gaze. "I'd be a fool to run away from someone like you."

Ophelia turned away, embarrassed. "You're joking. We haven't known each other that long for you to be saying things like that."

"I don't have the luxury of time on my side," his voice was bitter, but none of it was directed at her. "But even if I did, I don't think it'd make you appear any different. You're brave; you persevere. I don't know how things were in your world, but I see your hands are soft and you're wide-eyed when you see blood. You're not used to the things we're used to, and yet you've never complained. You never shouted to the skies that your lot was miscast, never ran away, even in front of my blade. How could I not find that admirable?"

Throughout the years, none of the neglect she'd suffered, the cold shoulders she'd been given or the constant wear and tear of people who simply thought her an eyesore had made her cry. It had bothered her, sure; it had sent her mind into dark places, conjured sad fantasies of better places and quick solutions, but her body had not reacted to it. No one gives a smile to the sky when the sun is out; we assume it'll be there every morning, even if it's hidden by clouds. It was a similar situation for her; that was the way things were meant to be, and there was no meaning in offering any response other than apathy.

The reality is that a void had been created; she hadn't noticed it until that very moment, when something had come to fill it up. Phobos' words broke through a strange wall, announcing the existence of that emptiness, and finally, her eyes teared up. There was no real word to describe the emotion: she just felt overwhelmed at the praise, the appreciation.

Phobos immediately panicked; Ophelia tried to explain to him that it wasn't his fault but her words simply conjured sobs that had been hiding in her mouth for years, and the only thing she was able to do was fall forward into his chest, pressing her face into the comforting embrace of the exiled prince. He gave up trying to understand, holding her in a simple hug, his face resting on top of her head.

"I'm so-sorry," she sniffled, still hiding in his chest. "I meant to say thank you for that… I've never heard anyone say that about me before."

She put some distance between them, enough to face him but not enough that he'd need to drop his embrace. "I don't know if I'm brave. I just don't have anywhere to go back to. My world… Byzantium… it's not a nice place. At least for me. There, I'm invisible, less than dirt. Here, I have friends. I have Felicia, Aristides, you. I know this sounds strange, but I didn't talk to people that much in the other place…"

She tried to clear her face with her hands, "This is so much better than the life I had there."

"They're fools for casting you away," Phobos frowned. "Byzantium or not, they must be fools."

"Thanks," Ophelia laughed, still teary-eyed.

A moment of stillness settled between the two of them. His hands still lightly pressed against her arms, a sense of awkwardness bloomed. Ophelia stood up, making some excuses about her bedtime. "Goodnight," she whispered. Phobos, while he looked like he had more to say, sighed and let her go with a similar greeting. He stared at her retreating figure, finished the beer he'd been drinking, and headed upstairs.

-

The building was imposing: eight pillars crowned the entrance; big blocks of marble lined the wall against which an elaborately carved gate had been set. A guard stood watch, and his grave countenance didn't even change when Ophelia showed him the token, although he let them in. As they walked through she couldn't help but admire the figures painstakingly set in wood to guard their entry. Some tale was told in the panels that made up the gates themselves, one that she didn't recognise but that seemed to involve a warrior and some sort of mythological creature.

They were led through a patio tiled in red marble. Palm trees and exotic papyrus reed painted in green exuberance the place; the austere sandy cream of the walls had been partly engulfed by pink jasmine climbers, engulfing them all in a sweet, beautiful scent. It was all immaculate, a stark contrast to the rest of the city.

Around them servants buzzed around; they all seemed to be carrying something, going somewhere. It made Ophelia wonder how they managed to keep the tiles from warping under the weight of their feet. They looked like little white ants, going around in stark, simple white robes; their heads were all either shaven or tied back in a neat braided hairstyle.

The main hall was behind a triple row of pillars. Unlike the ones in the entrance, which were an austere white, these had been decorated in gold leaf and bright colours. No walls separated the outside from the interior; the only two distinctions lay in the single step they had to take before the first row of columns and the elaborate carpet that covered the entire floor of the hall. It was of an exotic red, patterned in leaves and more jasmine flowers.

In the middle of the hall a space had been put together for receiving guests. It was a circle of pillows and throws, all as elaborate as the carpet below them. Enormous wisterias hung from the pillars and had been arranged so as to hover the space, adding some whimsical enchantment to the grand decor of the place. Ophelia looked at them in wonder; it looked almost like a waterfall had been stopped in time, forever a deep blue over their heads.

"In my first time in the far east," a familiar voice said, "I lodged in a poet's house. He had a garden full of wisterias, and he would sit down under their shade every afternoon during the spring to compose his poetry. We would sit together, drink tea and talk about the different ways one could describe the flowers in his native language."

Hyperion had come to greet them, dressed in a set of loose silk robes. She looked even more radiant than the previous day, platinum hair contrasting beautifully against the silky blue of the flowers and the intense, deep reds of the floor. Despite wearing no shoes she was just as tall as Phobos, if not a bit more. With the two of them standing close Ophelia could not help but think of her as ephemeral, delicate: Phobos' muscled body dwarfed her, somehow.

"Are they difficult to grow, the wisterias?" Ophelia asked. Hyperion came to stand beside her and reached out to the vines to pluck a flower, which she then put behind the other woman's ear as an accessory.

"Perhaps; these ones I took from the poet's garden after he died from consumption," Hyperion motioned towards Phobos and Aristides, who had remained a step behind her. The former was eyeing them curiously, the latter seemed more guarded, waiting for introductions to happen. "These must be your companions, then."

Ophelia realised then that they were speaking in Drusi, the language of the Chaldeans. She gave their names, the fake ones, as an answer; that made the two men perk up.

"Pleased to meet you, Phrygians. My name is Hyperion; he's Eon, my assistant. Let's make ourselves comfortable and discuss your business over some chai."

They all settled under the hanging flowers. Eon made some gestures to some of the servants who had been hanging back, listening in to their conversation. Stillness turned into motion as the white-clad men and women descended on them with fine porcelain tea sets and trays full of delicacies. Exotic fruits were laid in front of them; figs, dates, oranges, mandarins and pomegranates were arranged like flowers around the copper trays, more an offering than a snack.

A servant left a pot of tea in front of Ophelia; out of habit, she opened the top to check how long the brew had before it would be ready. She leaned in when she noticed it was a green tea; she smiled pleasantly when she smelt the strong scent of jasmine.

"It seems like you're familiar with chai, my lady," Hyperion commented. Behind her, Eon's scowl deepened. Ophelia turned towards Phobos and Aristides, not aware that she'd committed a faux-pas. Both of them were shooting her surprised and wary glances as well; they hadn't touched the pots that had been left in front of them, or had even given indication they had noticed them at all.

"I missed it," she could've lied and feigned ignorance, but something in Hyperion's sharp eyes told her that she wouldn't have succeeded. "I haven't had this kind very often, or this fragrant, I don't think."

"Oh? And what kind are you used to?"

"Uhm… earl grey?" Ophelia said, reverting back to English. Her ears found it a bit shocking to hear that common language in that strange setting; it felt almost like she was breaking a spell.

"Er-grei," Hyperion repeated thoughtfully. "I don't think I've ever heard of such chai. What does it taste like?"

"Well, it's black chai but it tastes a bit like a bitter orange? It also has a nice scent."

"Fascinating. I hope the lady will brew it for me sometime," Hyperion smiled at her, but Ophelia felt like she was being made fun of. To ignore the awkwardness, she poured herself some tea. The cups had no handle, like Japanese or Chinese sets she'd seen before, so she grabbed them by the rim very carefully, and took some sips.

"What is this beverage?" Phobos asked her, intrigued by her smiling face. The taste was deep, rich; it had the strong accent of the jasmine flowers, without it overpowering the underlying sweetness of the green tea.

"Try it!" she said, and motioned for him to pour it. His first reaction was very mild; he took another sip, and then another, and started to warm up to it. Aristides followed; unlike Phobos, he seemed immediately taken by the taste.

"I'm glad it is to the liking of the Phrygian palate," Hyperion said pleasantly. "I find that sharing chai in pleasant company helps create pleasant discussions."

"Indeed," Aristides said with a nod. "You honour Chaldean hospitality with your actions, my lady."

Hyperion smiled. "This is the Chaldean way of doing business; we leave our gifts on the table, along with our truth. Have you ever heard of that expression?"

Aristides shook his head. "It is a very old saying," Hyperion repeated it in Drusi, hands lightly playing with the cup in her hands. "And it means that before two merchants strike a deal, they should be honest with each other. And so, I'd like to ask you, what do you want to leave on this table?"

The two Phrygian men shared a look between them. "It may be customary for Chaldeans to allow their women to discuss trade," Phobos said, "but I am curious, as in Phrygia such matters are left for men to resolve."

"And what are you curious about, Phrygian?" Eon spoke curtly.

"If we should wait for the master of this house to be present."

Hyperion left her cup on the tray and leveraged a single amused look at the prince. With an arched eyebrow, she seemed to be mocking him. She slowly slid one hand across her chest under the edge of the tunics, and then pulled it to the side. Underneath there were no curves; soft and delicate skin it may be, but it was undoubtedly the body of a man.

"Lucky are your stars, the master of the house is here," Hyperion said.

Phobos' face reddened and he abruptly left his unfinished cup on the floor with a brusque motion. It was as if the water had turned into poison; clearly, the gesture seemed to have disturbed him greatly. Aristides was not much better; although by temperament he was on the calmer side, he was still an old warrior, and such tricks, as he perceived them, were not easy for him to digest.

Hyperion seemed to be detachedly amused at the two men's reactions, but he showed more interest in Ophelia's expression. The woman, virtue of the society she'd come from, was more surprised than disgusted; she thought that his height should've perhaps sparked a question or two. "I can see you had a different idea of me as well, lady," he said.

"You make a very beautiful woman," Ophelia said with a timid smile. "I'm sure you're aware of it."

That seemed to stroke his ego. "I am; as I'm sure you know yourself, men do tend to be more forthcoming towards women when their beauty is something they want to take for themselves. One learns all sorts of interesting things this way."

"What a strange way for a merchant," Phobos commented with disgust. "Is it really worth sacrificing your pride as a man for it?"

"Is it worse than murdering your fellow countrymen in cold blood, mercenary?"

The sharp tone put Phobos' guard up. "Do you dare accuse me when the Magistrate saw no reason to?"

All niceties were dropped. The shrewd Chaldean merchant emerged from within the beautiful shell it was encased in; tension filled the air. "The Magistrate is no fool and neither am I, mercenary. He simply knows that there is no merit in a public accusation when there are so many unknowns. Regardless of what the records will write, we know you were behind the murders."

"But you know all this," he continued. "You came to seek from me safe passage, so you can leave this town before they decide to come for you."

"Name your price."

Hyperion chuckled, and his eyes wandered over to Ophelia. "I'll take the woman, then."

Phobos' shoulders tensed—Aristides put a hand over his arm to calm him down. "I'm afraid that's out of the question, my lord. We can't sell what we don't own."

The merchant shrugged then, and put his hands up in an innocent gesture. "How unlucky for you then; you have nothing I want."

"We can pay you handsomely."

Hyperion looked around, and up to the silky wisterias above them. "A river does not want for water, old man."

Phobos stood up abruptly. "It seems like there's no point in wasting your time any further," he said, cold fury simmering in his eyes. Aristides took a hesitant look at the merchant's placid face, saw that he had no intention of stopping the other man, and followed the lead of his prince. Ophelia figured out she may as well copy them.

"I see that I've upset you, mercenary; you have no patience for me," Hyperion mocked him. "But should lady Iceni allow me the grace of sharing a meal with me, it'll certainly put me in the mood to listen to your request once more tomorrow."

"No pride and no shame," Phobos spat, and this time Aristides had to restrain him. "What are you playing at, coveting someone else's wife?"

"Wait, wait," Ophelia decided to intervene to defuse the situation. "I'm sure he didn't mean it that way," she turned to Hyperion, who was snickering. "Or did you?"

"Oh, I meant a simple meal. I covet only lady Iceni's talents."

"What do you mean?"

"The gift of multiple tongues is golden for a merchant, but sadly I'm limited in my ability to learn new ones," Hyperion explained. "You would be an excellent mediator; I want to convince you to come work for me."

Phobos swore. "I don't believe you for a second, you degenerate."

"That's irrelevant; it's up to her to believe me or not."

Ophelia bit her lip. It was obvious that Hyperion was getting a kick out of provoking the exiled prince, how much of his offer was part of it she didn't know. She figured that perhaps, it would not hurt to go along with him; it'd earn Phobos and Aristides a second chance, and worse comes to worse, she could escape using her abilities.

It certainly made it easier to be so bold when one could command strange powers; back in her world, the situation would've crept her out.

"I'll stay for today, as long as you grant them another chance to speak tomorrow."

Hyperion bowed his head with a small smile. Phobos stepped towards her, grabbing her gently by her arms.

"Forget it, he's just playing games," he said. "You don't need to do this for us; we'll find some other way."

When he noticed she wouldn't heed his advice, he leaned in to whisper, "I don't know about your world, but in this one, a woman staying in a stranger's house is a call for disaster. Please don't do anything you'll regret tomorrow."

"In any world it's the same," she whispered back. "But in this one I am more than capable of fighting off anyone who wants to force me to do what I don't want to do."

"You don't know; it's not about power… there are all sorts of ways to get around people who can't easily be tamed."

Ophelia shook Phobos' hands off her with a pointed look. "I can take care of myself."

Aristides seemed to sense that his protege's stubbornness was starting to brew conflict, and he stepped in to separate the two. "Let's go; we'll come back tomorrow," he said, putting a hand on the prince's shoulder to draw him back. "It'll be fine."

Ophelia reassured both of them with a smile; after a few more protests, they were escorted back to the entrance. The two hosts and the woman watched them go; the servants around them rushed to clean up after them.

Hyperion turned towards her and, as if the previous conversation hadn't happened, offered her his arm. The woman took it cautiously, trying to ascertain what he was thinking; it proved to be a daunting task, as nothing escaped his pleasant, temperate mask.

They began to walk through the hall; leaving behind the meeting space, they ventured into the complex, navigating the maze of hallways and rooms with servants running around them and Eon walking respectfully behind.

"I'm infinitely amused at your circumstances," Hyperion broke the silence after a while. "Yesterday, I believed that you were the wife of a strange Phrygian who was desperate enough to let his wife come to a brothel. As I'm sure you've noticed, they're quite prideful. Today, I see that he's not strange at all; he's like any other of his race, blessed with simplicity of mind. So it begs the question since a man like that would not be so lenient with his wife, are you his wife at all?"

Ophelia was surprised at his perceptiveness; it filled her with dread.

"Why does it matter?"

"I'm trying to understand why you would lie for him, in front of the Magistrate. Are you, perhaps, in love with him?"

"Again, why does it matter?"

Hyperion stopped. The smile on his face was one of slight irritation.

"You are more devious than what you appear at first, lady."

"Ophelia," she said. "My name is Ophelia."

He took her hand and kissed the back of it in a gallant gesture.

"A pleasure to meet you, Ophelia."

They walked through the estate; Hyperion showed her the sights. He had amassed an extensive collection of statues; most of them dedicated to heroes and politicians she'd never heard of. She asked some questions, incapable of containing her curiosity, but was careful not to seem too ignorant. He also seemed to be an avid horticulturist; he took great pride in the flowers and trees he'd collected from his travels and had planted around his property.

Finally they arrived at what Hyperion called 'the great chamber'. He explained to Ophelia that he held his evening meals there; when he had guests over, he entertained them there. The room's walls and ceilings were covered in oak panelling; above them, the wood had been carved into reliefs of interconnected five pointed stars. They formed an intricate, elaborate grid that recalled, briefly, the night sky. The floor was tiled in dark green marble; the whole ensemble made her think she was standing in an open field at night, somewhere back in England. It was sombre, yet strangely comforting.

The chamber was set up like the dining rooms she was used to; a single long table running along the length of the hall. As it only had one window, on the north wall at the end of it, the place was naturally very gloomy. The lighting was provided mostly by the enormous chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, and which looked more like iron flowers, with each hollow petal holding an oil lamp made of glass.

The table had already been set; decorated even with flowers. "We will dine with the rest of my retinue," Hyperion explained. "They should come in shortly. For now, let's take a seat."

"As I said before, trade is something that requires knowledge of multiple languages; I try, as much as I can, to speak some myself, but my talent in that area is limited. That's why I'm always in search of mediators; it's often the case that in one language a price is always below the price said in another language."

Ophelia felt like she was in a job interview; strangely, she didn't dislike the offer.

"What would this entail? Simply translating during a business deal?"

"Yes; very much like Eon, your presence would be more than welcome in my wanderings."

"You travel quite a lot, don't you?" Hyperion nodded. Ophelia wouldn't have minded a bit of wandering about, except that in that time and age it wasn't done through the convenience of a plane, but rather excruciatingly long sea and land journeys. The merchant sensed her hesitance.

"Name your price; I can pay it," he said. "I can tell you are not particularly tied to your companions; if so, come with me. You'll be paid handsomely."

Ophelia was about to reply when the door on their left opened, and Hyperion's retinue entered. Eight men led the group; they gave their greetings before taking their place on the right side of the table.

"These are my assistants; they keep a tally of my transactions, manage my letters for me. They oversee certains aspects of my businesses."

Next, ten women made their way into the room. Unlike the men, they were dressed lavishly; they all wore gold necklaces, earrings, head pieces and arm bands. The ones who sat closest to Hyperion and Ophelia, on the left, were also wearing body chains made of the precious metal, delicately shaping the sheer cotton dresses they wore. They were all exuberant women; the flimsy clothing did little to hide the shape of their breasts. If the lighting had been better, Ophelia knew she would've been able to make out very intimate details about them.

"These are my concubines; I have yet to find a spouse."

"Is it really needed?" Ophelia couldn't help but ask, not being able to tear her eyes from the dazzling image of all the women adorned so beautifully.

"A concubine warms the bed; a spouse warms the heart," Hyperion replied with a smile. "As you can see, they are my pride. Nadja over there sings like a nightingale; Lyre is very skilled with the harp and in poetry. Oriana and Ruby write very beautiful calligraphy, Hadwina decorates with her images. They're all very accomplished entertainers; I rather prefer them to the ones the brothels offer. Yet I'd rather make use of them than to offer mine. I feel slightly jealous when other men enjoy what's mine."

"Fret not; if you like any of them, I can lend them to you," he offered.

"That's fine…" Ophelia answered, tearing her gaze away. "If I agree to work with you, I'll want normal payment. Gold, silver, whatever you use. I don't need anything else. But I want one condition: take my two friends to Arqa."

Hyperion laughed, but something in his eyes told her that he'd expected her words. "Very well, seems like we're in agreement then. Let's toast to it!"