When she left the upper room, Iris made straight away to carry out her last orders. Showered, perfumed, and in all ways made ready for her expensive client, she did everything she was supposed to.

Everything that was, but a smile. When she returned to the upper floor, her owner was waiting. “Iris,” Lyrica said with a sparkle in her eye.

“Yes… my Lady?” Iris knew that sparkle. It meant only dread to her. Still, she approached and held the box in front of her waist, she bowed her head and waited.

“I’m sending you with an escort, a bodyguard, and in a carriage. Something to advertise the greatness of the White Stag. Other than your little box, everything you’ll need is waiting for you. Get going, and I will see you in a week. Make sure you linger at the front entrance by the fountain for a little while before you go to the service entry. Let them get a good look at my wares.”

“As you command, Lady Lyrica.” Iris replied, the sense of humiliation she felt was nowhere to be found, the vessel that held it had been rendered empty.

There was only one thing to do. ‘Tell her, ask to speak privately… warn her…’ Iris told herself, but she said nothing. ‘Somebody will be watching… they’ll just abandon using me… if I’m lucky… more likely I’ll be killed, then try again with someone else.’

Iris took a look around, it was early evening, but already silver was flowing to her owner’s pocket, Abacleonians were running hands over skin, laughing at jokes they didn’t think were funny, and teasing wealth from those who had too much of it. ‘Finding a replacement for me would be easy.’ Iris recognized it nearly instantly, and so she bobbed her knees with her head bowed in deference.

She said nothing of the plot, nothing of the poison hidden again within her sleeve. As soon as she straightened up again after the bending of her knees she left immediately. Not but a half a second of pause passed between her acknowledgement of Lyrica Tyren’s orders and her stepping away.

A mere minute or two later, Iris held the pine box on her lap while she rode in the carriage, her sheer clothing would have been the same as nudity if she were not wrapped in enough of it to turn it into far more decorative, flowing garment. As it was, her belly was exposed and the fabric hung down in strips around her waist to dance whenever she moved.

Across from her sat one of her own, Kemel. He wore only a cloth that was almost ‘skirt-like’ strips of leather like light armor, which covered a subligaria, worn over his manhood. His chest was waxed smooth and completely bare.

His face was also kept clean of hair, keeping his baby face looking as innocent as the day he was taken. They rode in the carriage of the White Stag in silence.

Iris looked out of the window and watched the people and scenery pass by. Strong buildings, straight backs, running children and the busy noise of everyday life. She huffed and snatched the blue curtain closed in a single sharp gesture.

“You’re being quiet.” Kemel commented.

Iris folded her hands over the lid of the box, the little red baked clay bottles within, rattled against each other while she spoke. “I’m always quiet.”

“I know, but even for you.” He said. He leaned back, his arms spread over the thick cushioned seat.

Iris turned her eyes away and looked at the still shut curtain. The blue fabric didn’t completely keep the light out, but it made the carriage dim, almost as much as the hold of a ship. “Do you hate them?”

He didn’t need clarification. “Of course I do.”

“So why do you keep going?” Iris asked, finally looking in the direction of the beardless youth.

“Stubbornness, I guess, I don’t know. I just don’t want to die, and as long as I keep people happy, I keep living.” Kemel replied.

Iris nodded along, it seemed sensible, she propped her chin up by the palm of her hand and rested her elbow on the low window sill. “What about happiness? Do you think we can still have that? Or are we just… done?”

Kemel frowned, “Happiness? That came in smaller doses than those little vials in your lap, even back home. My parents hated each other, married for convenience. If it hadn’t been a family requirement to reproduce… well ‘I’ never saw them touch each other. I never saw either one of them laugh or smile or anything. I occasionally get a real laugh here… even...” He trailed off and shrugged.

Iris’ hands tensed over the cheap little pine chest. “Why bring that up?” He asked, his soft, youthful face cocked a little to one side.

“No reason. Just… thinking.” Iris replied and fell quiet again.

“That’s a dangerous habit, you’re better off just doing what you’re told, follow orders, snatch what happiness you can until you can’t anymore. Anything else is a risk. Stay safe.” Kemel said with confidence, “Everything is easier that way.”

Iris nodded along as he spoke, “I understand… thank you for the advice.” She gave him her professional smile and they rode in silence the rest of the way.

When they reached the hotel, Iris and Kemel did as they were bade, stepping out of the carriage with its painted White Stag symbol on the side, they stood by it as if chatting, clad as enticingly as they could be, the leather and muslin wafting in the breeze to tease about the skin beneath. Iris felt the eyes of patrons on them both. In truth neither she nor Kemel said much of anything.

They were simply there, on display, identifying the wares with the logo, and then Kemel, seemingly at ease with the attention he was drawing from some watchful eyes, put a hand on Iris’ shoulder to show that their little display was over. “Good enough.” He said, then reached in, took her pine box and a little leather bag containing some changes of clothing, and handed them to her. She accepted both, holding them under one arm so as to not obscure her bare midriff, and sauntered over the road and briefly stopped to scrunch her toes over the grass before making her way to the service entrance.

Such was her distraction in her display that Iris never saw the royal carriage pulled away ahead of her own, nor Gottfried as he made his way within with some minor assistance from his bodyguards.

The stairs leading up to the sixth floor seemed altogether different, every step echoed, and her heart pounded. The poison held within her sleeve for him, and within the little pine box for her, seemed like crushing weights.

The way the strips of black and white fabric caressed her thighs and calves, every caress was the lash of a whip which drove her inexorably forward. ‘The last pride I have is with people who are all but dead… can I really rot my womb to please the one who conquered us… can I actually be stupid enough, mad enough… to be happy doing that. A cohort… can he really be a cohort if he’d sicken me so he could feel good?’

The poison in the little pouch couldn’t pass through the fabric folds to touch her skin, but nonetheless its presence burned like fire. The voices of the dead Abacleon screamed at her from the other side of life. ‘Kill him! Avenge us! Take from them!’

The cruel reminder of her previous patron, what he’d told her of Gottfried’s mother and her machinations, Iris wasn’t sure if it was the truth or a lie to further entice her. ‘It sounds true, though. It sounds just like something someone like her would do.’

And that stung too.

Iris reached the service door to the suite and knocked three times in slow succession. The slat came down and through it Iris saw the orcish face of Xagen, green and wide, big protruding tusks and deep set yellow eyes. “I’m here, is Master Gottfried ready?”

To her surprise, Xagen didn’t answer right away, not even to grunt, she saw his hard, thick fingers come up and scratch his head. “Had some honey… he’s a little sleepy.”

“Oh… ah, well he’s booked me for quite some time, should I just stay out here until he’s ready?” Iris looked around the little space before the thick door, sleeping in the little alcove to one side did not appeal to her. Without thinking, she rubbed her butt where she’d rested on the stone for far too long.

Xagen shook his head. He then shut the slat with a quick snap and opened the door to admit her.

“His room.” Xagen pointed to the door, his brother sat on a chair staring silently at the main door, but nodded in her direction when she passed. He returned the nod and approached the door to the bedroom.

She knocked lightly, “Master Gottfried… I’ve come…”

“Come in…” The voice was low, long, drawn out, and deep.

Iris reached for the handle, ‘Honey… oh, the opium cakes… he’s been to a Xanadu…’ She realized as she cracked it open just enough to slip inside with her things. She then closed it behind her, and latched it, leaving her alone with the destroyer’s son.