The
view from the great tower has always been splendid.
Rising high
above the great city of Eyros, it overlooks the main plaza, all
decorated with greenery, water fountains and trees arranged in
circles connected by paths.
Beyond the
plaza there stands the city’s centrepiece: A vast building, like a
cone with the top tapered back and rounded out by a great metal dome.
From its balconies and windows cascade green vines and flowering
plants. Fresh water runs perpetually down gullies built into the
outside, sparing the plants from thirst.
It is the
Grand Diet of Adena, the supreme hegemon on the continent of Prille.
Senator Ro
Danest looks down at the sun glittering off of shallow pools around
the fountains, at young couples splashing each other, old men soaking
their sore feet in the cool water, and clasps his hands behind his
back. They almost look like insects from up here, he thinks.
He loves this
city, and all the people in it. He loves Adena, and all the nations
beyond her, who rely on her trade and military strength to keep the
peace.
In a short
time, he hopes, he will be elected Consul, and become Adena’s
spokesperson, her guardian, her guide. He will be the final authority
on all matters of state, standing above the House of Citizens, the
Learned and Respected House of Philosophers, and lastly, the Senate.
He will shape Adena anew.
There comes a
knock at the wooden door on the other side of the room.
“Enter,”
Danest replies.
Danest turns.
The door
opens, and through it steps a young guardsman, clutching a spear in
hand. His expression is neutral. As is customary, he rotates the
spear such that its tip points at the ground, then bows his head,
avoiding eye contact with Danest as a sign of respect.
“Senator
Danest, my superior,” the guardsman says. “She has arrived, sir.”
“Excellent,”
he says. “Send her in.”
“Senator
Danest,” the guardsman says, hesitantly. “Forgive me, my
superior, but are you sure this is safe? She has powers of Changing—”
“Your
concern is appreciated, guardsman. But I assure you, we have spoken
many times prior to this meeting, in ink and paper. All has been
arranged. All will be quite safe.” He waves his hand dismissively.
“Now, send her in.”
“Yes, sir,
my superior, sir.”
The guardsman
gives the traditional Adeni salute – the index and middle fingers
on the non-dominant hand, placed against the forehead – and turns
away, returning the spear to its upright position, and leaves the
room. Danest stares after him.
By rights, he
is one of the most influential men in all Adena. Their insistence on
mollycoddling him so is a constant source of irritation.
The room at
the top of the great tower of Danest’s senatorial residence
contains a wooden bed with enough room for three people, a table
placed off to the side of the bed with a mirror, and a set of
cabinets beneath a small table at the bed’s foot.
He walks to
the mirror, and ensures he is presentable for the lady.
He is tall,
swarthy-skinned and slender, dressed in the smart red-and-green
patterned tunic of the National faction of the Diet, with formal
linen trousers and wooden-soled sandals. His long, whitish-blond hair
is kept from hanging loosely about his shoulders by a set of wooden
pins. His lips, on either side of the philtrum, are marked with black
vertical stripes of charcoal, signifying his Senatorial prestige.
Danest
concludes that his appearance meets all standards of Adeni decorum,
and turns back to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. It
is considered polite in Adena to meet someone for the first time with
one’s back turned, with an understanding that this indicates trust
and good faith.
A moment
later, there comes a knock at the wooden door.
“Enter,”
Danest says.
The door
opens, and he hears the sound of wooden soles clapping against the
stone floor, coming to rest behind him.
“Senator
Danest, my superior,” says a woman’s voice. “I have arrived,
sir.”
Danest turns.
She stands
with her hands clasped in front of her, her gaze drawn down to the
floor. Long, reddish curls fall about her shoulders, like magma from
the great volcanoes of Flodico. One of her shoulders is bare, and her
light copper skin is freckled like an astronomical map on her flesh.
She is
dressed in a beige tunic down to her knees, with a red-gold mantle
about her body – most likely the most expensive item of clothing
that she owns.
“Cytalis
Trelen,” Danest says, as though exhaling a fine perfume. “So kind
of you to join me.” He smiles. “You may regard me.”
She looks up,
her hazel eyes meeting his blue.
“Thank you,
my superior,” she says.
He has
corresponded her for some time, this forbidden woman. She has come
here to sell him an experience like no other. He has awaited this
meeting for months.
Of course, it
would be politically disastrous if anyone in the Industrial or
Forward factions were to learn what is happening in this moment.
In the Diet,
his faction stands for tradition, for the maintenance of Adeni
customs, for Adena. The National faction stands for a powerful and
influential Adeni state, a strong military that will defend Adeni
interests, and for the betterment and moral enrichment of the Adeni
people.
Of particular
importance is maintaining the traditional marriage of three – two
women to one man; one child borne by each woman; then the raising of
those children to be good citizens of Adena. The men are the workers
and breadwinners, the women are the homemakers and child-rearers.
That is Adeni culture.
In that
light, what he is doing right now is anathema. It flies in the face
of all his outward moral and political values.
Yet, that is
precisely what makes it so exhilarating.
Danest treads
over to the table at the end of the room, opening a small cabinet and
retrieving a bottle, a decanter, and two decoratively-cut glasses.
“So nice to
finally meet you,” Danest says. “I’m very excited.”
“It’s an
honour to serve you, my superior.”
“Enough of
that fuss,” Danest says. “Call me Ro. Wine?”
Cytalis
swallows.
“Yes,
please, my...Ro.”
Danest
stifles a laugh.
“Your
Ro,” he says.
“I’m
sorry, my superior—!”
“No, no,”
Danest says, waving his hand. “I just thought it was funny.”
He grips one
of the glasses and passes it to Cytalis, who accepts it gingerly.
“A very good
year,” he says, idly. “I don’t suppose you find much wine like
this in the New Village.”
The New
Village is a relatively recent area of the city, built to accommodate
foreign labour in the factories, dockyards and other industrial
areas. Cytalis is an Adeni, but he can tell from her dress that she
is not a wealthy Eyrosi.
“No,”
Cytalis says. “It’s mainly ales down there, and some spirits.”
“Then drink
as a queen,” Danest chortles. The word is still close to a
profanity, even a century after the establishment of the Republic.
Cytalis looks
down at the reddish liquid in her glass, brings it to her lips and
sips. Such full lips, Danest thinks.
“It’s
good wine,” Cytalis says.
“As I say,”
Danest replies. “A good year.”
Cytalis
smiles politely.
“So, is it
true?” Danest asks. “Are you gifted with the Changing?”
Cytalis’s
eyes flit to the wall, then back to Danest, as she takes another long
sip of the wine.
“Yes,” she
replies, succinctly. “I wouldn’t lie to you about such a thing.”
“Only about
one in thirty people can do it, if I recall my studies correctly.”
“I wouldn’t
know,” Cytalis says. “I only know that I’ve been able to do it
for many years.”
Danest
chuckles lightly and tries to regard Cytalis in a way that doesn’t
seem to be leering.
“But not
many use your gift for the same purpose as you. You’re special.”
Meeting
Danest’s gaze once more, Cytalis brings the glass away from her
lips.
Turning away
from him, she sets the glass down on the table at the foot of the
bed. Running her fingers through her hair, she unclasps a small,
unembellished, functional brooch at her right shoulder and removes
the mantle, folding it neatly and laying it on the bed.
“There are
some things I can and cannot do for you, Ro,” she says, firmly.
“Of
course,” Danest says. “I would not ask you to go beyond your
limits, Cytalis.”
“I will not
make you so small that I lose track of you,” Cytalis says, removing
her sandals. “I will not do anything that will cause you to die,
even if you ask me for it.”
“Of
course,” Danest says. “I have ambitions that go beyond this room,
you know.”
“The
Changing will last no longer than an hour,” Cytalis continues. “In
that time, you will not address me as Cytalis, but with any name you
see fit. In turn, I will do the same for you. If at any point in the
next hour you need to stop, use one of the words we agreed in our
correspondence, or strike my skin three times. I will stop at once. Is
all that clear?”
“Yes,”
Danest says, taking another sip of the wine. “I see you are quite
thorough about safety.”
“The last
thing I’d want to do is put you in danger, Ro. In here, you are not
a Senator of the Grand Diet of Adena. You are my client, and I have a
basic duty of care to my clients.”
“Much
appreciated,” Danest says. “Should I undress?”
“If you
like,” Cytalis says, smiling coquettishly. “Though, I can make
the Changing affect you alone, and not your attire.”
Danest grins,
feeling blood rise to his cheeks.
“Then do it
that way.”
“As you
wish, Ro Danest.”
Her irises
begin to glow faintly from behind, as if lit by candlelight.
Immediately,
Danest feels something shift. A slight tingle in his feet, a
restlessness in his legs and arms, a strange quivering in his chest
and shoulders, an itch in his head. It is as though his body is
resisting the Changing. He has been assured many times that this is
perfectly natural.
He steadies
himself against a bedpost, feeling his clothes loosening, and gazes
at Cytalis, who has begun to undress herself, slipping her
constellation-covered skin out from the off-white flaxen fabric.
Gripping her
tunic in both hands, she removes it, leaving her bare skin open to
the golden sunlight that pours in through the window. She places her
hand on her hip and gazes back at Danest.
“The
Changing has begun,” she says. “This should be fun.”
Danest is now
at waist height to Cytalis, and is staring up at her, admiring her.
Her bare legs are strong and well-worked, like many of the legs in
the New Village, where the workers are on their feet most of the
time, lifting and carrying heavy crates and operating machinery.
Her feet are
veined, long-toed, unadorned. They are not like the feet of Senators’
wives, patterned with pigments, the toenails long and varnished, with
rings on every other toe. Yet, Danest finds them beautiful in their
simplicity. The feet of a working woman, on display for him.
Determined to
drink in the sight of her, he stares up at her face, which looks back
at him coyly, curiously. She walks around him just as he reaches the
height of her knees, giving him a view of her buttocks, before
seating herself on the bed, placing her chin in her upturned palms,
allowing her breasts to hang freely over her belly.
The feeling
fades, and as he extricates himself from a mass of heavy fabric that
mere minutes ago clothed him, Danest finds himself merely ankle-high
to a giantess.
“Well?”
Cytalis says, curling her lip. “What name do you think fits me?”
He is in awe
of her. He has never undergone Changing like this before, and the
words cannot seem to find their way to his mouth.
The pins that
held his hair in place now lie beside him, two-thirds the length of
his body, and his light hair hangs down around his waist. In Adeni
culture, this is a considerable transgression; it betrays a kind of
slovenliness and carelessness about appearance that reads as
low-class. It is, in a word, degrading.
A long,
powerful leg stretches out towards him, and to his amazement, a toe
about as thick as his torso prods him lightly on the belly.
“I asked
you a question, little Ro. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Danest
swallows.
“Goddess,”
he says.
Cytalis
smiles. And in that moment, he is truly staring at the visage of a
goddess.
“Insect,”
she responds.
Danest finds
himself falling to his knees. He hadn’t quite expected the Changing
to feel like this.
He, a
high-ranking Senator, now an insect to a woman of the New Village, a
woman who, in other circumstances, would not even be allowed to make
eye contact with him, let alone refer to him in such a manner.
He likes it.
He feels his
penis begin to stiffen between his legs, and almost unconsciously
passes a hand in front of it, trying to hide it from the omniscient
gaze of this goddess that looks down upon him. But she sees him, and
her lip curls once again.
“Someone’s
excited,” she says. “I can’t say I blame you. At this size, I
tend to have that effect on people.”
Danest’s
face is hot, so hot that he begins perspiring, beads of sweat pouring
from his scalp and down his face. She is so powerful, so much greater
than he, she could destroy him with a moment’s impulse. Part of him
is screaming to abandon his political ambitions, accept his new place
beneath her. The other is telling him that this is his penis doing
the thinking for him.
In either
case, his penis rises, twitching, and from it drips thick, clear
pre-ejaculate, which splashes on the ground in tiny spots.
“You’re
making a mess of the floor,” the goddess teases. “Well, you would
be, if you were bigger.”
“Please,
Goddess,” Danest says, abruptly. “I can’t stand it any more. Do
what you want with me.”
She looks
away a moment, as though in thought, then back at him.
“You’re
going to regret saying that, insect.”
And before
Danest can say another word, a hand, her
hand, is reaching for him. These fingers, unbejewelled,
these nails, unpolished. And as the fingers coil around his tiny,
naked form, he feels her pulse in her palm. Is she as excited as he
is? Her pulse would seem to betray this fact, but the deft movement
of her hand, as she brings him up level with her eyes, pretends a
kind of aloofness.
“You’re
all so very sweet when you’re like this,” she remarks, adoringly,
as though holding an infant animal.
Her thumb
brushes gently along his chest and belly, stopping just short of his
erect penis, which pokes out from between her middle and ring fingers
like an obscenity in an otherwise chaste tableau.
She brings
him close to her face, and he stares into her dilated black pupil,
large enough now that he can see the individual muscle fibrils in her
iris, which seem to stir as he meets her vast, almost oppressive
gaze.
Her hot
breath is buffeting against his flesh. It smells of wine, spice, and
the other half, the world outside all these dusty corridors,
discussions, division bells and committees. It smells of a life of
labour, of a life lived where money is essential, not an abstract
ticket to luxury, recalls her strong legs and firm buttocks. It
smells of everything beyond that which he knows.
In that
moment, he succumbs, fully gives in to her, allows her to possess
him. He ceases to be Danest, and becomes a toy, an amusement, a thing
in her hand with no independent will.
Sensing this,
her lips part.
She wraps
them around the tip, and involuntarily, his back arches as he tries
to find purchase. Bolts explode through his nerves, earthquake
shocks. He becomes himself, then not-himself, subject, then object,
passive, then active. Somewhere in this oscillation is a unity that
can be called Ro Danest.
Then, with a
movement precise and practised, she pushes him into her, and her
tongue laps softly at the underside of his shaft, coaxing more pearls
on to her tongue.
Here he is,
somewhere between mortal terror and overwhelming pleasure. She has
made him hers, and he is aware now of where he is.
This, these
lips, these teeth, this tongue, is the entrance of her. This is where
she eats, this is where she breathes, this is where she speaks. If
the desire took her, could she not make him hers forever, take him
into her body, to nourish herself with the would-be Consul of Adena?
No, he
thinks, banishing the thought. She wouldn’t do that. A goddess she
may be, but only for a short time. The State is far, far greater than
she, and should she give into her temptation, the supreme violence of
every punitive power in Adena will be visited upon her, like a
marauding spirit of vengeance.
In this
moment, he belongs to her. But she cannot, will not devour him. For
this is a mortal goddess, flesh and blood entire.
But what
flesh and blood it is.
And her lips
draw back and forth, back and forth. He moans softly, bucking against
her hand, as though trying to wrest control, but she re-asserts
herself, tightening her grip just slightly, sucking on him like a
piece of confectionery. He tries half-heartedly to resist, to draw
out this moment into an eternity, but to no avail. She has defeated
him, conquered him.
At last, she
obtains her prize, and with a soft moan, he orgasms, giving her all
he can give, until, finally, he collapses against her thumb,
exhausted.
“Oh,
Goddess,” he is murmuring, so
quietly he is sure she can’t hear
him.
“Oh, fuck...”
She brings
him away from her mouth, wiping her lip, and swallows the meagre
offering softly.
His skin is
so sensitive that her grip around him feels like fire licking at him.
She draws him to her lips once more, and plants a kiss upon his
chest, then another on his back.
“That was
wonderful,” she whispers, in a way that makes all the hairs on his
arms and legs stand on edge. “You’re very good.”
Danest
shudders in her hand, then manages to get out the word: “Gidarin.”
She sets him
down on the ground, and he looks up at her, her eyes once again
glowing faintly.
The tingling
feeling returns, but this time, there is no resistance. It is the
difference between pulling a wagon uphill and rolling it downhill.
The Changing is restoring him, bringing him back home. In minutes, he
is Senator Ro Danest once more.
“Are you
alright?” Cytalis asks. “You used the stopping word.”
“Yes,”
Danest says, a little uncertainly. “I just...wasn’t expecting it
to be that intense. You were great, though.”
“First
times are always difficult,” Cytalis says. “I am Cytalis once
again. Do you need anything from me?”
“Was it
true, what you said?” Danest asks. “Was I good?”
“Of course,”
Cytalis replies. “I enjoyed myself. What about you?”
“Yes…”
Danest says, trailing off. “…I am just not used to being
so...vulnerable.”
Cytalis
heaves herself off the bed and on to the wooden floor with Danest,
placing her hands on his shoulders, pressing her thumbs into his
back. Minutes ago, one of those hands held the balance of his life.
Now it is pressing knots out of his muscles.
“It can be
a frightening and intense experience,” she says, soothingly. “Being
so small, in thrall to someone else. I understand. But we’re two
people once again. You, Senator Ro Danest, and I…”
“Cytalis,
of the New Village,” Danest says. “Thank you, Cytalis. You were
everything our correspondence promised. I look forward to seeing you
again.”
“You too,
Ro,” Cytalis replies.
Hastily, she
adds: “My superior.”
*
The Grand Diet
is visible from most parts of the New Village.
It looms, a
great colossus. The New Village exists, quite literally, in its
shadow, particularly during the winter months, when the Sun never
gets higher than twenty degrees in the sky. The streets are always
shades of brown and orange, lit by the yellow flame of gas-lamps,
tingeing everything in earth-tones.
And yet, it’s
home.
Cytalis finds
her way back through the streets, hoping that the jingling of coins
in the small leather pouch she keeps concealed in her mantle doesn’t
attract undue attention. She kept her face hidden as far as Ubravit
Square, the main interstice between the Old City and the New Village.
Couldn’t let anyone see.
She passes
boarded-up shop windows. Former boutiques, grocers and emporia, now
closed down. Some still have the remnants of mannequins in their
windows, hastily-painted signs that read “CLOSING DOWN SALE –
EVERYTHING MUST GO”. The death rattle of commerce in dead and empty
streets.
The only
places where any significant patronage is to be seen are the bars and
taverns, where various working men drink tankards of ale, though even
that gets less and less cheap by the day.
As she passes
through the main square, she sees a small crowd gathered around the
district notice board, and goes to see what the hubbub is about.
“What’s
going on?” she asks another woman, standing on the outer edges of
the crowd.
“New rules
coming in from next week,” the woman says, gravely. “Sounds like
they’re going to ban unlicensed Changing within Adeni borders...”
“What?”
“Something
about keeping people safe...”
It’s
blatant discrimination,
Cytalis thinks. But
what can anyone
do? The High Court is held
5-3 by the Nationals, plus
they hold the Senate and the House of Philosophers.
No
real way of challenging it.
“Damn,”
she says.
“Anyway,”
the woman says, trying to sound cheerful.
“Lots to do. Best
be going.”
“Likewise.”
Cytalis
moves along, cutting down a side-road under
a brick archway, and sees a
man with a brush sticking a poster to a board.
A
man and two women dressed in traditional Adeni clothing, with two
smiling children on either woman’s lap. Above
and below, a caption in stark white lettering:
DECENCY AND
DECORUM IS ESSENTIAL TO OUR NATIONAL HEALTH
OBSERVE
RESPECTABLE DRESS AND PROPER SPEECH IN PUBLIC
FOR THE GOOD
OF ADENA
- A MESSAGE
FROM THE CULTURAL MINISTRY
She
scowls, turning the corner.
She
finds a man standing outside her house. His name is Teb Godost. He is
her landlord.
“Teb,”
she says. “I’ve got your money, so there’s no need to break the
door down and take my shit.”
“Twelve
frintac,” Teb says, gruffly.
“Twelve?”
“Aye,
twelve. Ten backdated for last month, plus two extra.”
“Shit,
Teb. I only just made twenty.”
“Then
you should pay your fucking rent on time. Twelve frintac.”
Cytalis
reaches into her mantle and retrieves the pouch, removing from it six
golden-coloured discs, and presses them into Teb’s hand.
“Keep
the change,” she says, glibly.
“I’ll
need four more next week,” Teb retorts, pocketing the coins.
“What?
Why?”
“Diet’s
making some changes to the tax system, and I’m getting screwed. I
have mortgages to pay off on places like this, y’know. So your
rent’s going up.”
“You
can’t do that.”
“Read
your contract, sweetheart.”
Teb
grins smugly and walks away.
Cytalis
angrily fumbles with the key in the lock, then enters her home, a
room in a very small two-storey townhouse. She climbs the stairs and,
entering her bedroom, practically falls into bed, burying her face in
her pillow.
Twenty
frintac, twenty frintac that was going to feed her for two weeks, and
now she has but eight left, four of which already belong to Teb
Godost. Four frintac. How is she meant to survive on four frintac?
How
is anyone in the New Village meant to survive on the shit they’re
paid?
She
thinks once again of Ro Danest. If anyone were to find out what
happened between her and the favourite for the Consulship, she’d be
pilloried for it. Nobody here likes the Nationals, but their votes
don’t count for anything.
Life
in the Village gets harder and harder, and the denizens of the Old
City just get richer and richer.
Some
goddess I am.
She
rolls over, gazing out of the window at the pink evening sky. There,
looming over the tops of the houses, is a tall tower, overlooking the
city.
As
her gaze meets that of the high window, she swears that she sees him
looking down at her.
End of
part one