Chapter 10 - Sephara

Ten

Sephara

Empyria, the Imperium

7th of Tournus

Even before her uncle had steered her here, Sephara knew of the Heaven’s Paramours. She knew of the princely price tag attached to each paramour, knew they were selective about who they deigned to entertain, knew obtaining a lover within their ranks was a mark of the highest esteem. She’d heard plentiful rumours of the ethereal beauty of the First Mistress, Kesa Hult, who had, by virtue of her legendary position, only ever personally entertained a handful of clients, the Iron Wolf most famous among these.

Sephara stood before the main gates to their brothel on a clear spring morning, admiring a palatial spread twice the size of her father’s estate. Its white stone—a standard of all original Empyrian architecture—had been painted blinding hues of evocative scarlet and early-evening blue. The typically bland buildings of the Myriad District surrounded it on all sides, making the brothel look like an ostentatious monarch among a line-up of stooped beggars.

Sephara confronted the two guards standing silent and looming at the guardhouse.

“Name?” the larger of the two brutes asked.

“Silvia Barum,” she replied steadily.

“Appointment?”

She shook her head. “The Iron Wolf sent me to speak with the First Mistress.”

Cowed by the name, the guards permitted her entry. A second pair of guards met her on the other side; they flanked her as they guided her through the expansive front garden. The domineering level of security didn’t alarm her; it was a sensible paranoia Sephara, as a Boratorren, knew intimately.

The heels of her boots struck the slick polished floor as her escorts herded her through the first branching corridor. They moved through what appeared to be a communal hall where several elegant men and women reclined on padded seats spread across the room, likely making the most of the quiet daytime hours.

They didn’t tarry long and passed through so many corridors and stairways Sephara soon lost her bearings. The deeper into the maze they paced, the darker the lighting became, the richer the colours of the walls, the more lustrous the quality of the doors. The silence unnerved her; she’d expected the lewd, loud noises she’d often found in cheaper brothels, but supposed the rooms were soundproofed.

When she was finally deposited at a magnificent oaken door at the end of the final hallway, Sephara’s sense of direction had completely skewed, and she felt more intimidated to be meeting The First Mistress than she had facing her father and uncle together.

The room within was jarringly unembellished, boasting only a simple red strip of carpet leading from the doorway to the desk at the opposite end. Behind the desk, a floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the city’s chaotic sprawl. Covering both walls on either side towered bookshelves, broken only by a small archway Sephara guessed led into Kesa’s private quarters.

Most of the shelves overflowed with books, prompting a frown: reading wasn’t something she associated with prostitution.

“Can a woman not enjoy intellectual stimulation as well as physical?” came a powerfully sonorous voice, thick and soft as velvet. A woman sat at the desk, assessing her.

“You don’t often find evidence of both in the same place,” Sephara said.

A young man, about eighteen, stood behind Kesa, an arming sword in obvious view at his hip. His black hair, stern brows, and light brown skin of mixed Castrian-Imperial gave him away.

Bekker, Kesa’s son by Endarion. Her cousin.

Kesa herself was every bit as beautiful as Sephara had heard; she was sculpted, every minute aspect plotted out in an artist’s studio and crafted with the care granted a masterpiece. Though she must’ve been in her early forties, age had yet to make a dent in her flawless visage, to unsettle the perfect symmetry of her delicate countenance, to crease her smooth, sun-darkened skin. The kohl applied artfully around her eyes deepened the rich sapphire of them, and the violent redness of her lipstick evoked a blade’s slash, granting the woman a certain sharpness. Sephara wondered if the classical deities of old resembled this woman.

“Then I’m pleased to provide evidence to the contrary,” Kesa said as she rose and moved towards Sephara. Draped in an elegant gown of red and gold that accentuated by didn’t overtly cling to her slim-waisted, broad-hipped figure, she appeared spectral.

The First Mistress lifted a delicate hand and set soft knuckles against Sephara’s cheek. Calling to mind her uncle’s warning about being seduced, she didn’t flinch from the touch.

“Who is the Iron Wolf to you?” Kesa asked, tracing the outline of Sephara’s lips with the pad of her thumb.

Her breath hitched unbidden, and Kesa surely noticed.

“A patron, of sorts,” she replied, using the words to stifle her nerves. “I guard Kaeso Boratorren.”

“A difficult role,” Kesa said, letting her hand fall to Sephara’s hip, where it remained. “Considering there are many who want the Boratorrens dead.”

Sephara forced her mouth to split into smile. “Precisely why the Iron Wolf sent me here.”

“The Warmaster?” Kesa said. “And Mallian’s director.”

“You’re well informed,” Sephara replied, posing it as a question.

The First Mistress smiled, oozing seductive power as potent as any magic. “Fucking loosens the tongue in more ways than one.”

“I was warned about that.”

Kesa withdrew and gestured to the chair opposite hers at her desk. After a brief hesitation, Sephara accepted the seat. She spared a glance for Bekker, stoic and silent but fixing her with a stare so intense she felt he methodically unpeeled her mind. Did he recognise her? Did he see in her any of the same features he’d inherited from his father?

But that was hardly possible, because she’d taken much of her physical appearance from her mother. Rather than the black hair, heavy brows, and strong jaw of the Boratorrens, her hair was a medium brown, her brows soft and unimposing, her chin sharp and thin. Though she’d often felt out of place alongside her father and brother, today her differences worked in her favour.

“What secret did the Iron Wolf share with you to convince you to bed him?” she found herself asking.

It was mostly out of curiosity, but there was a small and challenging part of her that wanted to see if she could coax Kesa into talking. She knew how to build connections and establish networks, how to separate reliable sources from the tight-lipped. If Kesa proved unwilling to share old information to a mutual ally, Sephara could walk away knowing she’d get nothing for her efforts regardless of how hard she tried.

One of Kesa’s perfectly manicured brows hitched up. “Usually I insist on an exchange,” she said. “But I acted on Endarion’s secret more than a decade ago and you likely already know it.” She shifted in her seat, taking on a casual posture. “Our newly elected Warmaster? Khian Tyrannus, son of Dobran and Nazhira? Or not, as Nazhira isn’t his mother; she’s barren. According to Endarion, Dobran bedded a Castrian lover and Nazhira adopted the boy. The new Warmaster is a bastard.”

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Sephara knew this, it being the Imperium’s worst-kept secret. Because the Caetoran ruled the nation, because Dobran was a ruthless bastard, because Nazhira was the Castrian ambassador, Khian’s true parentage went ignored, a bastard accepted as second in line for the throne, behind only Dobran. No one in the Imperium’s upper echelons dared say anything. No one in the lower echelons cared. Still, she imagined it was a sore wound for the Tyrannuses, and she’d never guessed her uncle had been the source of its revelation.

“How did he find out?”

“The same way I did. He seduced it from someone.” She rubbed her chin as if in thought. “Nazhira herself, he told me.”

She raised her brows at this, then reconsidered. Why was she surprised, given her uncle’s reputation, unfairly exaggerated as it may be? He’d claimed to Valerian his conquests numbered less than the fingers of both hands; Nazhira had obviously been one of them.

“Now, onto the matter at hand. The Paramours deal in two commodities: information and sex. You’re not here for sex, otherwise you would have made an offer already. So, what calibre of information has the Iron Wolf sent you here to collect?”

“He wants me to discover who killed Novissa Boratorren.”

Kesa considered. “I have delicate information that relates to that. Endarion might have heard it from me himself if he ever bothered to visit, and if he hadn’t already been dragged off to war. Perhaps I might even have deigned to speak with his imperious brother did I not already know how Valerian Boratorren views me,” she said.

Sephara almost hummed her agreement, recalling the argument her father and uncle had engaged in about Kesa. Valerian had called her ‘everyone’s whore’, an insult the woman herself would no doubt consider a compliment. Perhaps, had her father not been so disproving of his brother’s choice of companions, they might’ve been privy to Kesa’s network without the need for Sephara to come here.

Kesa added, “But I would demand a secret in return.”

Sighing quietly, Sephara laced her fingers together and contemplated. She had secrets, of course, but most concerned family and their insurrection. The First Mistress, as someone tied to her family, likely already knew them.

“My name isn’t Silvia Barum,” she said. “And the Iron Wolf isn’t my patron. He’s—”

“—your uncle,” Kesa finished. “Making your real name Sephara Boratorren.”

“How did you know?” she asked, quelling panic.

Kesa bit her lower lip in a girlish and innocent gesture. “It was a guess, actually. You just confirmed it for me,” she said. “The Iron Wolf trusts no one outside his family. He wouldn’t have sent you here unless you shared blood, and you look to be the same age as the niece I know he has.”

Sephara sighed. “I don’t have anything else to give.”

Kesa gestured to her son. “I would be lying to claim I wasn’t personally invested in this matter. If Novissa and the Mallians’ director are targets, Bekker and I might be targets. Therefore, I’ll accept your secret.

“Khian Tyrannus came to my fine establishment seeking distraction a little more than two weeks ago,” Kesa began. “Though I don’t usually entertain the clients myself, his presence was unusual enough that I personally saw to his needs.”

Sephara shot a pointed look in Bekker’s direction, finding the young man doing his best impression of a marble statue.

Kesa waved away her concerns. “Bekker knows everything that goes on here, by necessity. We’re hardly a prudish family.”

“Still, not many young men like to hear stories of their mother’s conquests.”

The First Mistress shrugged. “Not many young men find themselves in my son’s position,” she said. “In any case, recall that Warmaster Boratorren was killed on Risun, thirteenth day of Tabus. Khian visited me on the ninth.” She raked her alluring gaze over Sephara. “You should consider seduction as a means of progressing your investigation, child. When Khian arrived, he was tight-lipped as any arrogant noble. But after an hour of my attention, he would have told me anything I asked. He told me without being prompted, almost as a boast: he let slip the fact he would be promoted to the position of Warmaster, four days before Novissa died.”

For lack of a better response, Sephara opened her mouth and said, “Ah.”

“Yes, ‘ah’,” Kesa replied. “I doubt the young man has the tact the execute the entire scheme by himself, but he certainly knows something.”

“Meaning the Baltanos didn’t kill her.”

“Would you like proof of that as well?” Kesa asked.

“What will it cost me?”

The First Mistress rose to her feet, languid and sensual. She stood over Sephara, a queen gazing down at an adoring subject, and stroked her forefinger along Sephara’s cheek. Despite being forewarned, Sephara still felt a line of fire drawn along her flesh. Something sparked in the pit of her stomach.

“There are several methods of payment,” Kesa said. “It depends entirely on how good you are with your hands.”

She jolted but couldn’t respond before the First Mistress leant down and pressed the delicate whisper of a kiss to her lips. She’d been kissed before, of course, but the sensation of the older woman’s mouth stole the reply from hers.

She might try to seduce you. Her uncle’s words rang in her skull, giving her enough lucidity to lift a hand to her face and rub it as if to remove Kesa’s lingering presence.

“You’d trap me if I allowed it,” she said.

Kesa perched on the edge of her desk, carefully folding one leg over the other. Sephara imagined this was how the woman had greeted Khian and, before him, Endarion.

Stop it. She’s practically your aunt.

“How about another secret?” she asked.

“You have so many now?”

Sephara shrugged. “It’s not mine to tell, really. But I don’t suppose that matters,” she said. “When my uncle gave me this task, he mentioned you in my father’s presence. An argument erupted and, in defending you, Endarion got angry. Very angry. There was a moment when I thought he might actually attack my father. Valerian believes the Iron Wolf’s going mad again, and I think I agree with him.”

Kesa’s forehead crinkled into a frown. “I suppose that’s to be expected. Thank you for sharing.” She looked over to her son. “Bek, fetch Dove, would you?”

Bekker acknowledged her command with the nod of a soldier to his superior and paced from the room, footsteps as silent as the man himself. He left a charged atmosphere in his wake, and Sephara started picking at her jacket out of awkwardness.

“Tell me,” Kesa said, sliding off the desk and taking her seat with natural poise. “Was your refusal of me because Endarion cautioned you about me, or because you are not that way inclined?”

“I was cautioned,” Sephara said truthfully. She’d been with a few women before, during her years training, and found she liked them as much as men. “Also, I can’t help but think of you as almost an aunt.”

“You must have a lot of almost-aunts, then,” Kesa said with a sly smile.

“In truth, I think most members of my family aren’t named Boratorren. That speaks volumes about the value of a family name.”

“In that it has no value?”

“Exactly.”

A beat of silence in which Kesa’s scrutiny threatened to scald Sephara’s skin. She shifted in her seat. “Why didn’t you tell anyone about Khian’s visit before now? It would’ve proved the envoy’s innocence.”

The First Mistress rolled her shoulders in a languid shrug. “Who could I tell?” she said. “Share that snippet with the wrong person and the Tyrannuses have cause to remove me. So far, they have left my son and I alone, despite my tenuous connections to your family.”

“You could’ve told my family,” Sephara said.

Kesa blinked slowly. “How likely is it your father would heed the words of a whore?”

Sephara nodded her understanding. “And my uncle?”

“Has not crossed my threshold in years. I couldn’t risk sending such sensitive information to him lest it be intercepted. If he’d come here himself, I would have been happy to share. But he sent you in the end, and here we are.”

Meaning her father and uncle had sabotaged themselves in not thinking of Kesa before. If Endarion had thought to visit his old lover and their son, perhaps this mystery might’ve been resolved before he’d left for war. The fractured nature of their family—including those members who weren’t Boratorren—worked tirelessly against them.

Before Sephara could respond, the door swung open and admitted a graceful woman of about forty. She carried herself with pride, her blue waterfall of a dress clinging to her slender frame. Though Sephara would usually describe herself as plain, rather than unattractive, in this room with these two women she thought herself downright ugly.

The newcomer sketched a bow and regarded Sephara with curiosity.

“Dove, my dear, this is a friend of mine, Silvia Barum. She works for the Iron Wolf. Silvia, this is Dove, one of my more accomplished paramours.”

“Any friend of the Iron Wolf’s is a friend of ours,” Dove said with an indulgent smile. “How may I entertain you?”

Sephara flushed. Kesa cleared her throat. “We’ve already established Silvia’s stance regarding our services. She’s here for business alone. She’d like to know about the envoy you entertained.”

“Voracious but unimaginative,” Dove replied easily, as if commenting on the weather. “I wonder if all Kaldurani are like that?”

“When did you see to him?” Kesa pressed.

“Thirteenth of Tabus.”

“For how long?”

“All day. He didn’t tire easily and paid well.”

Sephara exchanged a glance with Kesa. “He was here all day?” she asked Dove.

The woman nodded. “Didn’t leave until evening.”

“And the Warmaster was killed in the afternoon,” Sephara said, more to herself. Then, to Dove: “The envoy never mentioned Novissa, or why he was here?”

“Peace, he said. He’d been meeting with the Caetoran but wasn’t hopeful.” Dove raised an eyebrow and looked to her mistress for clarification, but Kesa only thanked the woman for her time and dismissed her.

“This is proof enough for me, but not for anyone else,” Sephara said when the other woman left.

She lifted a hand to her mouth and absently chewed her thumbnail. Her trip had confirmed her uncle’s suspicions and given her a suspect in Khian Tyrannus. But knowing the envoy was innocent didn’t help the poor man, and accusing the Caetoran’s nephew of treason without airtight evidence was itself treason.

So, who else knew anything? Who could provide her with solid proof to support Kesa’s information?

As if divining her thoughts, the First Mistress said, “No one listens to whores. But clients talk enough when enjoying our company. Think on that.”

Sephara rubbed her chin. “I think you might be right.” She cast her mind back to the Path of Triumph, and the Captain-General she’d briefly spoken with, with his flirtatious smiles and lingering touches. “I think I know who I’ll be visiting next.”