Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (89 page)

“And you say Ishi
herself
is the origin of this?” he asked, struggling to focus as he passed a middle-aged matron taking on all comers at a pie stall a block from the palace.  He tried to avert his eyes, in vain.  Pentandra closed hers and pushed his back until they were past the spectacle.

“Damn, right, the misbehaving bitch!” she snarled, trying to stare at the flags on the street.  “This is her idea of some sacred joke, or divine retribution, or some twisted scheme she alone is aware of!”

“And she’s this . . . Lady Pleasure?” he asked, the words sounding comically foreign from his mouth.  She tried to stifle a giggle.

“You are
adorable!
” she cooed.  “Yes, she’s that whoremonger, Baroness Amandice!  The one from the masque, who organized the festival.  We’ve . . . had words.”

“Where . . . where does she live?” Arborn asked, as an utterly naked lad strutted by, justifiably proud of what Trygg had blessed him with on his birth.

“The House of Flowers, on the Street of Perfume,” she supplied, automatically.  
Good
brain, she praised.  Eyes
front!

“Let’s stop and get a horse,” he decided, as if struggling through a haze, and headed for the stables.  Pentandra watched him intently as he walked away from her.  She
really
liked his leather riding trousers, she decided.  And his muscular back.  And--

“Let’s walk,” Arborn said, suddenly, after peering inside the dark stable for a moment.

“What?” Pentandra demanded.  “It’s two miles, at least!  Why?”

“Let’s walk,” he repeated, more firmly.  Then softened.  “You really . . .
really
don’t want to get a horse right now,” he said, with the intensity of prophecy.  “Trust me.”

“Why not?” she asked, confused.

“They’re . . .
occupied
,” he said, his face blushing hotly under his stubble.

“They’re . . .
what?
” she asked.  It took her a few moments to understand what he was trying, in his bashful Kasari way, to tell her.  When she did realize what he was implying, her eyes went from shock to intrigue to horror to fascination.  “Oh,
Ishi’s rotten twat
, you
must
let me see!” she said, eagerly.  “In the interests of
science!”

“We’re
walking
,” Arborn insisted, grabbing her arm firmly and directing her away from the obscene stable.  

“Were they standing on stools, or . . . ?”

“
Pentandra!
” Arborn said, sternly.  “This is
not
the time!”

“Professional interest!” she protested.

“
Not
the time,” he repeated, dragging her away.  

They made poor time moving through the city’s cobbled streets, partially because Pentandra had neglected to grab a pair of shoes and partially because most of the town seemed infected with the powerful spell.  Along the way they saw all manner of acts of love and pleasure being performed openly, without regard to modesty, some of which had devolved into the most extreme pursuits.  

At one point they stopped to assist a poor woman who had somehow had a glass bottle lodged in a place it was not designed to go.  The desperation in the woman’s eyes was enough to allow Pentandra to concentrate just enough to magically melt a hole in the bottom of the bottle, releasing the accumulated vacuum that held it in place.  The woman gratefully thanked her afterwards, and promised to be more careful in the future.

“I . . . never thought I would witness . . .
that
,” Arborn confessed, as they continued toward the Street of Perfume.  

“Under the circumstances, I’m surprised we’re not seeing more of that sort of thing,” Pentandra said, as they avoided a small orgy in progress in the doorway of a chandler’s shop.  “When sexual desperation hits, fueled by the force of divine magic, I’m actually surprised that the Voroni are being this restrained.  Of course,
he
looks fairly restrained,” she added, as they passed a young man who had been tied to a post, naked, save for the bull’s mask he wore.  Two girls and an older man were doing wicked things to his exposed parts, but the young man, for his part, seemed entirely at peace with his predicament.

They found themselves on the proper street by mid-morning, stopping only once to rest Pentandra’s sore feet.  The dreamy quality of the spell still enveloped them, and was even stronger the closer they came to the House of Flowers, but through Arborn’s strength of will and Pentandra’s understanding of the situation they were able to maintain their focus . . . mostly.

At one point Pentandra had to grab his thick arm and drag him away from a stall where two girls in their teens were attempting to persuade handsome passers-by to join them.  She could see the allure – both girls were very pretty, though not as well-groomed as the Flower Maidens.  The fact that both nubile young women were completely naked and making what sounded like
completely reasonable
suggestions was so enticing that it challenged even the ranger captain’s iron willpower.

The Street of Perfume was a riotous orgy, the erotic epicenter of the ongoing spell.  Pentandra could feel it, even without Everkeen in hand.  Men and women ran naked or half-dressed through the street in pursuit of their passions, and once they found a willing participant they indulged in their whimsies on the spot.  The closer they came to the House of Flowers, the thicker and more extreme the activity became.

“This is the place,” Pentandra said, unnecessarily, as they approached the brightly-colored hall.  The yard was littered with discarded flowers and cast-off clothes, as well as the passed-out human remnants of the previous few days’ activities.  They moved carefully around the clusters of lovers still actively engaged, more in fear of being enchanted to join them than for fear of disturbing them, and made their way inside.

There were no guards, and Pentandra did not expect to see any servants, but the young woman with the unfortunate features she remembered accompanying Baroness Amandine at court was there - Elspeth, she recalled -  and was surprisingly unaffected by the spell.

“It’s the Court Wizard,” she announced, lazily, as she recognized them both.  “And this is the Master of Wood.  And oh, what a master of that wood he is, I’m guessing.  Come to pay a call on our lady, I expect?” she added, knowingly.

“Is she at home?” Pentandra inquired politely, as if she was making a simple social call on a goddess in disguise and not completely naked under a stolen nun’s habit while standing in a busy whorehouse.

“She is,” the girl conceded.  “She’s been expecting you.  
Two days
ago.”

“We were . . .
distracted
,” Pentandra said, lightly.  The girl looked from her to Arborn’s shirtless chest.  

“I
bet
you were!” she giggled.  “He’s
dreamy!
” she said with a critical eye, her eyes gleaming unnervingly.  “Goddess!  Did he come to you like this or did you have him carved out of redwood?” she asked with undisguised envy.  Arborn shifted his feet uncomfortably.

“Is the
Baroness
around?” Pentandra repeated, impatiently.  She did
not
like the way the girl was staring at her husband.  

“In her chambers, second floor,” the girl said, still staring unwaveringly at Arborn.  He started to shift even more uncomfortably at the attention.  It didn’t take much encouragement to pull him away from the girl’s frank inspection of his physique.  Pentandra, for her part, had to restrain the urge to slap her freckled face for her temerity.

Arborn was
hers
, damn it!

The journey up the stairs was eventful, as there was a steady stream of traffic going up to the rooms, and plenty of couples who were either waiting impatiently for their turn or who had decided against waiting and were acting their passions out on the stairs.  They were all but oblivious to a nun and a half-naked Kasari.  Indeed, she could tell that she was not the only “nun” in the brothel.  Pentandra followed the clerk’s directions until she found the right chamber.

Lady Pleasure was, in fact, taking luncheon on the balcony overlooking the garden, but she was not alone.  On the floor in front of her chair was a woman being robustly serviced by a pasty, potbellied middle-aged burgher . . . or at least that’s what he looked like to Pentandra.  

“Ah,
Pentandra,
so
lovely
to see you,” Lady Pleasure called to her from across the backs of the copulating couple.  “And this must be your
famous
husband . . .”

“Stop
,” Pentandra commanded, simply.

“He’s so much more . . .
more
, than I’d heard,” the disguised goddess said, admiringly.  She looked at Arborn as if he were on special in a market stall and sipped her wine.  “Yes, I can
see
why you’re enchanted by him.  He is a beautiful,
beautiful
man, inside and out.  I really did you a boon by arranging your pairing.  Though I quite wonder if you are
worthy
of him—?”

“Ishi,
stop!
” Pentandra repeated, a little more emphatically.

Instead the goddess rose and approached Arborn with obvious interest, ignoring the lovers in front of her as if they were a couple of dogs.  “His strength is obvious, of course, as is his beautiful face . . . but who would suspect it hides such an intellect?  Or that his strong breast hides a heart with such compassion?  Truly, my dear, you do
not
deserve a specimen as fine as this!”

“Ishi, damn it, STOP IT!” Pentandra nearly screamed.  That got the goddess’ attention.

“Stop
what
, my dear?” she asked, amused at the outburst.

“The spell that’s turning the entire town into a giant brothel!” she snarled.  “This is no party, this is a
plague!
”

“It’s more than even that,” Ishi countered, calmly.  “Nor is it any idle whim. “

“So this
is
your doing?”

“Of course?” she asked, laughing derisively.  “Who
else
could do this?  In truth the roots of this undertaking were planted at Yule,” she confessed, slyly.  “My Maidens’ first outing in my service.  We prepared for a week for that, and made some mis-steps.  But that’s when the initial spell was cast.  Everyone who took my blessing with the sprig of mistletoe and spruce was affected,” she said, supremely pleased with herself.  “It was the promise of a bountiful and fruitful year, and this is where that promise is
kept!
”

Part of Pentandra had to admit the elegance of that kind of spell.  Few human magi had the sophistication or the foresight to use magic that way, but Ishi had both the patience of a goddess and the divine capacity to produce it.  

Bitch.

“You . . .
purposefully
turned Vorone into one big orgy?” Arborn asked, skeptically.

“Well
of course!”
Ishi said, rolling her eyes.  “Spreading happy and indulging desire are what I
do!
 Don’t worry, virgins were not affected, nor were those of . . . deviant nature.  
Mostly,
” she smirked.  “Some of the strangest ones are my biggest devotees.  Not something I can help, poor dears.  But for the rest of you, you’re getting a good hearty dose of pure divinely-inspired pleasure.”

“But
why?
” Arborn asked, as if the goddess’ blessing was a punishment.

“Part whim, part whimsy, and part fulfillment on my promise to the Spellmonger to help,” Ishi answered, returning to her chair.  “I didn’t expect the effect to last this long, but then planning isn’t my strong suit,” she dismissed.  

“And how is this
helping?
” demanded Pentandra, staring at the woman on the floor in front of her, who seemed about to climax.  “Apart from pushing up the birth rate?”

“Isn’t that
enough?
 Well, if you need further justification, you may consider this little blessing a protective spell.”

“Protective of what?  
Indulgence?
” Pentandra snorted.  “Good taste?”

“No, my sweet,” the goddess said, patronizingly.  “This effect is a manifestation of the pure procreative, reproductive Life Force, through my auspices.  
Every
act of pleasure happening now acts like a pebble in the pond of Vorone, adding to the erotic turbulence of the Life Force.  That has mystical consequences, besides being one
hell
of a party.  One of which,” she reasoned, “is making the environment suddenly
terribly
inhospitable to those who find the overwhelming presence of the Life Force a challenge.”  She said it expectantly, as if she wanted the mage to figure something out.