A Tour of the Alhambra

Pt 1: Asfar, Iblis, Kirgiz and Zuby

Mahabali conveys Sorashi to her prime piece of unreal estate – the Alhambra seems to have stabilised but it’s still looking dilapidated. It’s very odd how it seems to be melting into the landscape from a distance but takes on a more solid appearance as she nears the walls. However, as she reaches the doors Sorashi is certain in herself that Margrath’s ministrations have at least halted the decline.

Without even knocking (or whatever the equivalent would be) Asfar is at the door to greet his mistress. He bows low in sincere deference. “My lady, welcome!”

Sorashi acknowledges his greeting with a smile and “Thank you, Asfar”. Turning to Mahabali, she directs him (?) to the demon waiting room and Mahabali duly slinks off into the antechamber reserved for visiting demons.

She continues, “I need to make a full inventory of what my property contains. Please could you show me, after Mahabali has been made comfortable.”

“It will be this one’s privilege, lady.” Asfar’s lack of a mouth, or indeed any facial features at all, somehow does not prevent him/her/it from speaking. Sorashi also gets the impression that he is a lot more graceful than the vast majority of demonkind. “Where would my lady wish to start?”

“Does the property have an inventory? If not, then the treasure room I saw when I first came here.”

“An… inventory?” The pause suggests Asfar has some trouble recalling the meaning of the word. “Alas no, my lady. Though if you wish one can be compiled. In the meantime this one will be happy to convey you straight to the Treasury.”

And he does just that. He leads Sorashi through several archways and chambers, all of which are beginning to become familiar to her by now, winding up in the long picture gallery with twelve portraits of the previous caliphs hung down one wall. Sorashi notes that there is space at the end where they come in for another portrait. She doesn’t recall that space being there before.

“Most portals can be induced to take any supplicant with the requisite talent to most major rooms in the palace, my lady.” Sorashi suspects that she doesn’t have the talent but Asfar’s tone conveys no approbation or disrespect. “However certain crucial chambers may only be accessed from specific apertures: the Treasury may only be entered from this door in the Chamber of Ancestors.”

The door he refers to is surprisingly unobtrusive, resembling one of the concealed doors by which servile demons move through the Alhambra without disturbing the important people.

Sorashi looks around the Chamber, to fix in her mind exactly where the door is within it. She then tries the door but finds it won’t open. Asfar steps forward apologetically, “Forgive this one, lady!” He hands her a brass key. “This door does not open the same way as all the others. It has an arcane, mystical locking device that can only be opened with this instrument, called a ‘key’. This is yours now.”

Sorashi finds the key works just like any other key she’s come across before and the lock feels like any other lock. Evidently mundane mechanism is rare in the Courts.

Sorashi recalls how this room looked the first time she saw it and nothing has changed. The walls and ceiling are decorated sumptuously in gold and something akin to lapis lazuli. The floor is of blue-veined marble. It is not overly large but it is filled with chests and barrels themselves filled with gems, gold, silver and plate. A couple of the barrels have been deliberately burst to spill their contents artistically over the floor.

Reaching into her pouch, she draws out a notebook and pencil. For a goodish length of time she and Asfar wander through the Treasury, Sorashi making notes of items of interest and magical power.

The bullion is obviously just for show and Sorashi realises that the intent is artistic rather than to impress with wealth – indeed, now she comes to think of it, all trade within the Courts seems to be in kind, she’s seen no evidence of currency, no coins with Augustus’ face on them, or without for that matter.

But Asfar draws attention to the more esoteric items mentioned at her last visit. Indeed there are six items of especial worth. Asfar indicates the first, a coronet of silver with tall tines, each topped by a diamond; a surprisingly tasteful ornament compared with the gaudy and killingly heavy crowns most monarchs wear.

“This, Lady, is the Coronet of Nasr, worn by the Caliphs and Caliphas since the Time of Legends. It is said to have many virtues. Would you care to try it now?”

Sorashi makes no move to do so. “Does it have any powers or properties associated with it?” she asks.

“As steward, this one was privileged to be the confidant of our last five Caliphs. As such this one understands that the Coronet of Nasr is symbolic of the Caliphate, it enhances the wearer’s air of command, particularly toward the demons of the house and over the Alhambra itself. This one also believes that it may heighten perception and understanding in certain directions. However this one suspects the coronet may have other virtues not vouchsafed to the steward of the Alhambra.”

Sorashi nods slightly, makes a note in her book and replies, “I don’t think I will try it on now, but thank you for the information. Shall we move on to the next?”

Asfar bows acquiescence and moves to a niche in a wall wherein resides an iridescent glove. “This is the Gauntlet of Glory, won by Caliph Yusuf in a duel with Lomar of Ku’urkil, it has the virtue of enhancing manipulations of the Logrus.” The glove has two thumbs and the fingers seem longer, with more joints than the human norm.

Sorashi looks at the item, experiencing a faint feeling of unease – remembering the odd feeling of digestion at the last Order dinner. Manipulating the Logrus would be a bad idea, she tells herself, hoping that the Order’s dabblings had no disastrous consequences. Perhaps missing a meal or two would be a good idea, she thinks to herself, as she carefully notes the glove and then says “What do we have next, Asfar?”

“A weapon, lady,” the demon moves across to the opposite wall and takes down a flail composed of three spiked balls on separate lengths of chain. “It is the Caliph’s Flail and this one retrieved it from the battlefield oneself when Caliph Boabdil fell.”

Sorashi quickly recognises that it’s designed to offer maximum danger to the victim and the wielder. She has no idea how it could be used to parry.

“As with all weapons of similar ilk, it is best wielded by a master of the Logrus but it lends considerable prowess to anyone with the courage to wield it in battle.”

Courage or immunity to damage? Sorashi mentally amends his last sentence (or ‘no consideration for one’s survival’ comes a somewhat catty thought in her head) – not a weapon she would ever consider using anywhere, let alone on a battlefield. It is duly noted, however, in the book.

“And next, Asfar?”

Showing no reaction to his mistress’ lack of reaction, Asfar replaces the flail on the wall and glides smoothly across to where another weapon is coiled on another wall – well it’s probably a weapon, it might just be an instrument of torture. It’s a particularly nasty-looking thing, a cat o’ nine tails made apparently out of fishhooks.

“The Whip of Flensing: another item won in a duel, this time with Bushyasta of House Sheol.” Sorashi notices that this time Asfar does not lift it down from its place on the wall. Either he’s assumed that his mistress is little interested in the trinkets in the Treasury or, more likely, the thing is difficult to handle and Asfar doesn’t fancy the task of untangling it. “This one understands that the tines are impregnated with a strong irritant poison. But again it requires a master of the Logrus to wield the instrument with true aplomb.”

Sorashi, having started to reach out to touch the tines, smoothly reverses the action. “A very martial house indeed,” she comments as she makes a note in her book.

“Beyond a doubt,” agrees Asfar, “almost to the very end. Though this item was really for… other purposes… chastisement, if you will, Lady.”

Her mother’s training in Amberite politics had schooled her enough to keep her reactions neutral, and restrained only to a slight lift of the eyebrow, but Sorashi cannot help feeling slightly ill for whichever demon had been chastised, who may or may not be showing her the treasures of the Alhambra at this moment. Cruelty had never sat well with her.

As she turns her attention away, one thought occurs to her – would the caliphs of Abal have wasted such an instrument on mere demons?

Obviously feeling that his mistress has had enough of weapons and instruments of torture, he once again crosses the room to a pair of niches about a yard apart. They each contain one old Aladdin-style lamp, one black, the other gold. Asfar picks up the black one.

“This, Lady, is the Lamp of Ismail. It has the virtue that, once lit, it casts a light seen only by the bearer.”

This Sorashi does pick up and scrutinise. “How does one activate it, Asfar?”

“The bearer need but to apply flame.”

Sorashi has seen this style of lamp before, it looks kind of like a flattish gravy-boat. A wick is inserted in the ‘spout’ to drop down into the oil within. The wick protruding from the spout is lit once the oil has soaked up. It’s currently about half-full. She would guess the metal to be bronze with a matt-black finish. Sorashi can see writing in some arcane script in a band around the top.

“Would my lady care for a demonstration?”

“Please.” Sorashi extends the lamp a little – sufficiently for Asfar to either take it or merely light it.

Asfar has no eyes yet he finds no difficulty in producing a flame from the tip of a finger and touching it to the exposed wick. The smell of burning incense wafts up to Sorashi’s nostrils. Then the demon steps back and slowly turns on his heel, arms upraised. As he does so the light in this windowless chamber slowly darkens and by the time he’s facing Sorashi again it is utterly dark. Sorashi finds the lamp she holds allows a dim flickering illumination of the room.

“My lady?” Asfar holds his hand out for the lamp. Sorashi can tell from his posture that while he knows where she must be standing, he is not absolutely sure of her precise position. Interesting, thinks Sorashi, Asfar needs illumination to see. Either that or he’s a really good actor – and Sorashi guesses that demons seem generally inept at such subterfuge. Possibly trivial, possibly not.

She raises the lamp above her head then around her body, to see the range of the light emitted: brighter than a candle but not as effective as a good lantern, about 2-3 candlepower. Of course the smell of the burning oil is a giveaway, even if it weren’t scented with incense, but in the right environment that needn’t be a problem – she recalls temples in her youth that smelt permanently of incense and in her village all artificial light came from burning something. Probably the most annoying thing would be having it take up one hand and having to move carefully to avoid spillage – but then, if the whole point is to pass unnoticed, presumably the bearer would be moving with care anyway.

“It works well, Asfar. Very interesting.”

She blows out the lamp and, first feeling it to ensure it is not hot, she passes it back to him. She’s holding for a long count of ten during which she and Asfar are completely in the dark. The light slowly returns to reveal the demon completing another slow revolution, this time slowly lowering the hand not holding the lamp. Asfar returns the black lamp to its niche and removes the gold lamp from that next to it.

“This is the Lamp of Az-Zaghal. It is the most recent of House Abal’s acquisitions.” He hands it to Sorashi who can see it is beautifully crafted with jewels applied tastefully rather than in the crass encrustation typical of most other cultures. Instead of script this lamp bears arcane glyphs and sigils of little meaning to Sorashi save that they scream ‘magical artefact’ at her.

“And what does this do?” she asks – vague memories stir of childhood stories, spirits bound into lamps who could grant wishes and the bad ends coming to those who were greedy or less than careful with such undertakings. Sorashi gives herself a mental shake, focusing on the present, and waits for Asfar’s answer.

“This one understands that a demon is bound within, indentured to respond to the rightful heir of Abal when called by name.” Asfar pauses to let this sink in. “This one understands that the name is… ‘Iblis’.”

Sorashi permits herself a wry smile, and successfully restrains the instinct to repeat the lamp-demon’s name. Just in case. Children’s stories are apparently not just for children. She notes the gold lamp in her rapidly filling notebook, and says “Thank you. Is that everything of note in the Treasure room, Asfar?”

“That is all the items of note, to my knowledge, though it possible some small items may be hidden in the general strew…” He gestures to the gold and gems on the floor. Then he hesitates, and Sorashi is sure there is something on his mind. She waits for him to continue, doing her best look of friendly interest. When he resumes Sorashi gets the feeling that the pause was to allow him a moment to find the most diplomatic turn of phrase…

“My lady, are you sure you do not wish to establish your formal relationship with the Demon of the Lamp more presently?” His words convey no censure, just a desire to ensure the new Calipha is aware of the politic.

Sorashi nods in agreement, aware of how much she is winging it in her new-found role. “Iblis, appear to us!” she commands the gold lamp.

The sigils on the lamp glow and for a second Sorashi feels it shift in her hand, almost as if it were iron passing near a magnet. Then a dark, sulphurous vapour pours out of the ‘spout’. If Sorashi was expecting it to coalesce into something more definite she is disappointed… or perhaps just mildly surprised. However an indeterminate number of glowing sparks that she can’t help consider as eyes form somewhere at eye-level to her and from within the cloud comes a basso profundo voice.

“Oh-ho! A new mistress! Greetin’s, lady, from yer new slave. What form would you wish me to assume in your presence?”

There is something a touch annoying about the demon’s tone, perhaps just a contrast with the deference of others, which grates on Sorashi’s ears just a tad. “I wish you to appear in Barimen form, Iblis.” Her voice is even and calm, with no hint of the annoyance she feels.

The smoke duly coalesces into a fat man wearing a loincloth and some strange tattoos that Sorashi recognises from the outside of the lamp. Aside from a scalp-lock he is utterly hairless. He grins delightedly. “Does this suit my mistress?”

“Yes, Iblis, that is satisfactory.” Sorashi pauses for a second, feeling that more is needed. “What are your skills?” She adds.

“Well I can take almost any form, nuffin incorporeal or legendary but I can cope wiv just about any environment you can imagine and quite few you probably can’t. <sniff> And I can impersonate anyone I’ve met, well enough that their own procreators wouldn’t know the difference, like as not.

“I wouldn’t say I’m a warrior and course I don’t look it right now, but I’m pretty tough and can dish out or take punishment… though naturally I prefer the dishin’ out.

“And I have a welf of minor skills: I can make me own way fru shadow, for example, but I do take pride in my facility wiv magic. Course I don’t exactly cast spells, not your actual spell, I mean, but I know magic when I see it (nice earrings, by the way Mistress) and I can muck around wiv most artefacts, spells already in place and maybe interfere wiv a spell bein’ cast by someone else… maybe… wiv a bit a luck…

“You ‘ave anyfing specific in mind, Mistress?”

“Not at the moment, Iblis but that is useful to know. You may return to the lamp now.”

He seems a tad disappointed and for a moment he looks like he may say something but instead he turns back into gaseous brimstone and siphons back into the lamp, which again shifts in her hand.

“This one must apologise, my lady, for the lack of deference shown by Iblis; like most demons, he is lacking in certain qualities of Grace.”

Iblis’ lack of deference does not bother Sorashi overmuch, she merely considers what he was about to say and hopes it wasn’t important. Sorashi suspects he was about to voice dissent at being dismissed back to his lamp, which must be cramped, but obviously thought better of it. Of course Iblis is a demon but Sorashi detected no sense of urgency in his expression, merely personal disappointment. Not as easy as it looks, being Head of Chaos House, she thinks.

“Of course one can never know when another minor artefact may be uncovered in the general strew but this one believes we have exhausted the possibilities of the Treasury. Would you care to inspect those salient parts of the rest of this edifice that is your new home?”

“Yes please, Asfar.”

Asfar nods acquiescence and leads Sorashi out of the Treasury. He waits while she locks it behind them and does not ask for the key back. Clearly it is hers now. Then he leads her on through another arch.

“It is this one’s duty to ensure the security of your person, lady. Therefore our next destination is your personal suite.”

He leads her out of the Chamber of the Ancestors, with the portraits of dead caliphs and caliphas glaring down as she passes, through an arch that morphs even as she steps through it from a portal to the main courtyard into a peculiar space feeling slightly claustrophobic despite its size, due to the dense pillars filling the room, but stunningly decorated in the Abalic style.

“For reasons of security, access to your personal chambers is only through this, the Pillar Chamber.”

Sorashi nods, then raises her hand in a waiting gesture to Asfar. She closes her eyes for a few seconds, retracing her steps mentally to ensure she has a chance of remembering the route (well, as good a chance as one can have in Chaos).

The problem isn’t remembering a particular route, it’s that most doors and archways have multiple destinations – the last, for example, showed the main courtyard, the one Asfar took Sorashi through to get to the Chamber of the Ancestors, but just as Asfar reached it the image on the other side changed to the Pillar Chamber. No amount of memorising can help that, unfortunately.

Sorashi by now gets the distinct impression that, unlike architecture in Amber and shadows of Order, what she’s in is almost certainly not a single coherent building – each room may in fact be completely independent of all the others and only gives the illusion of a single building – except that it looked like one building from outside…

She opens her eyes again and looks around the Pillar Chamber. It seems an uncomfortable place, like a frozen, long-dead forest. She pauses to look at the decoration on the nearest one then drops her hand and turns.

“Please continue, Asfar.”

Asfar nods curtly and turns to face a small, nondescript door, again similar to those used by the servants. Again he produces a key, this time of what looks like iron, and unlocks a conventional lock. Evidently this was the preferred form of security in House Abal.

He turns back and hands over the key, gesturing to the dark passage within, “This way, my lady.”

Sorashi fleetingly wishes she had the black lamp before chiding herself for inflexible assumptions. She changes her eyes to those more suitable for low lighting, and steps forward, half-expecting the light to change to bright as soon as she steps into the passage.

The passage remains dark but it’s only a few feet long. It opens into a suite of three rooms: a day room, a dressing room, the smallest of the three, and the master bedroom. The rooms are surprisingly plain but well-lit with large glassless windows opening on to a lesser garden. Sorashi’s enhanced night vision is momentarily dazzled by the light but they transform back within a second or two.

The rooms seem in slightly better condition than some other places – no crumbling plaster here, or those annoying cobwebs left by Margrath. Still, Sorashi thinks, annoying or not, Margrath’s cobwebs seemed to be doing a reasonable job of stopping the Alhambra from melting into oblivion. Just a pity it made it look like no-one ever did any housework here.

She explores the rooms and then the garden, wishing nostalgically for the smell of hot earth and vibrant flowers.

The rooms are somewhat spartan, but that means it would be a simple matter to alter the décor to suite her tastes. The windows are a little odd, how can three windows in adjacent walls all look out over the same small garden? But each view seems to be valid, and Sorashi can scent the plants – there’s the delicate aromas of the flowers, each one different in nuance; the earthy smell of the soil… and a faint underlying stench of rot.

Sorashi sighs inwardly – presumably a side-effect of the neglect of the Alhambra. It would be useful to be able to maintain it herself, she thinks, but no use sighing over what never would be. There definitely needs to be a conversation with House Indra, she decides.

But the room is too bare to really feel comfortable. She composes several phrases in her head, before deciding on one. “The décor is a little bare, Asfar. How can we remedy this?”

“As mistress of the Alhambra my lady is at liberty to alter anything as she sees fit.” He gestures about, taking in the room. “These are your personal chambers and your wishes are absolute.”

“I cannot conjure things as other rulers of Alhambra may have done. Are there other furnishings already here I could use in my chambers?”

There’s a momentary hesitation and Sorashi guesses that Asfar is more than a little surprised at this admission. “This one craves forgiveness, Lady. This one knew my lady might be different but was unaware how different.” He thinks deeply before continuing. “Obviously my lady will not be seeing to the décor herself. If my lady sees anything about the palace that pleases her, this one will see it is moved to my lady’s quarters with all despatch.”

Then another thought occurs to him, “And this one trusts my lady also lacks facility with the internal portals and conduits within the Alhambra?”

“Yes, that is correct,” she replies.

The faceless demon cogitates for a few moments. “No matter, my lady, this one will ensure the portals are set to defaults that will allow access for you to all chambers of the Alhambra. Of course, my lady will need to familiarise herself with the internal routes.

“Now, unless my lady has any further questions, would my lady care to survey the Harem, or shall we go straight to the central focus of the Alhambra?”

A harem? Nobody mentioned a harem, thinks Sorashi, nonplussed, her eyes widening slightly for a second. The concept of a Chaos harem is rather more than she is prepared to deal with at the moment.

“The focus, I think, Asfar,” she replies.

“Immediately, Lady!”

Asfar leads Sorashi back to the Pillar Hall and thence into the main courtyard from the main gate.

“There are several entities within the Alhambra, my lady. Obviously this one is your devoted servant; you have met Iblis and have subjugated Todaformas, the Chimaera in the arena; but the power of the Alhambra comes from the fourth entity, bound into this, the Third Courtyard.”

Asfar gestures to what looks like a bronze plate set in the floor, octagonal with a central boss, almost like a shield six feet across. Sorashi has noticed it before but knew nothing of its significance, save that it is significant. She remembers Margrath mentioning something about a being in the Alhambra with whom he had conversed. Could this be that entity?

“Tell me about this entity, Asfar,” she replies.

“The entity is known as Kirgiz, Lady, though that appellation is only an approximation to its true name, which, as will become clear, cannot be understood, let alone pronounced, by we more limited beings.

“It is an entity with highly unusual qualities. Technically it is bound to yon bronze plate but Kirgiz exists in more dimensions than this one, or even such an august personage as yourself, Lady. As such it is freer than most demons as those parts attached to other dimensions can roam widely and perceive more deeply than others.

“This one must warn my lady that converse with Kirgiz can be difficult, for its perceptions are not as ours. But nonetheless Kirgiz is the wellspring of the Alhambra’s power and my lady needs to formalise her relationship with the entity to secure the Alhambra against adverse forces, which must surely be gathering.”

“What is the best way to do that?” she asks.

Asfar seems curiously slow to respond; Sorashi suspects that he is uncertain of the process enough to doubt that there is a ‘best’ way. But after a minute’s cogitation…

“In the past it has been customary for the Caliph to venture onto the plate, but for a first contact this one might suggest merely touching it… Then it will be necessary for my lady to call Kirgiz by name.”

She kneels at the side of the disc, fingers touching the bronze metal. “Kirgiz”, she speaks the name with as much calm confidence as she can muster.

Just by touching the bronze plate she can feel the power dwelling within. As she calls the name she feels a shift in that power, a metaphysical jerk that seems somehow similar to that she felt through the lamp earlier, only much, much more powerful…

Then she becomes aware of something manifesting within the plate… or above it? Sorashi finds it difficult to focus on whatever it is. It’s coiled like a snake but the coils seem to twist off at impossible angles. The thing seems to be within touching distance and at the same time deep inside the plate. She feels her eyes squinting – it won’t take long to induce a migraine.

Then comes a distant, sibilant voice, “Who callssz…?”

Focusing on the plate rather than the tortuous vision, Sorashi replies, “I am Sorashi, daughter of Deirdre of Amber and I am mistress of House Alhambra”. She finds simply trying not to focus is better, it makes it impossible to get a clear impression of the demon but that’s probably for the best.

“Issz zo…? Change… Remarkable issz… <beat> Home… for you… a long way wassz?”

It takes a few seconds for Sorashi to translate Kirgiz’ words into some sort of conversational order – she wonders if the change mentioned is herself or Amber, but focuses on the last part which seemed to be a question.

“Yes, my home is a long way from here.”

“Yessz… a long way passzt wassz…. And road alsszo issz gone.”

The first part of that sentence takes a while to translate – the second sparks a faint memory of Margrath saying something similar not long ago.

“You have spoken to my cousin recently about this?” she remarks to Kirgiz.

“Kirgiz speakssz to maniessz… and allssz flat onessz lookssz alike to Kirgiz…”

Not exactly helpful, thinks Sorashi. She wonders if there was anything more she should do or say to cement the relationship – or if this is necessary. Various conversational gambits are formulated and rejected – she genuinely has no idea what to say, but has the strong feeling that a response is required.

Unable to think of anything useful about Chaos, she asks, “Why is the road to Amber gone?”

“How can road be when gone issz plaissz?”

The reply made a certain kind of sense, looked at in a certain way, Sorashi decides. She hesitates to ask for further details, not sure either of them would actually understand the conversation. She merely replies, “Yes, I understand”. Feeling the need to say something to conclude the conversation, she says, “I ask that you formally acknowledge me as Mistress of the Alhambra”. And mentally crosses her fingers that this is not the wrong thing to say.

Sorashi sees Kirgiz grow larger in her field of view and the intensity of her personal discomfort increases proportionately. However she thinks she can withstand the pain for another few minutes. She gets the feeling that Kirgiz is scrutinising her very closely.

“Missztressz… unusszual issz… krown… not wear…”

Sorashi wonders briefly if Kirgiz refers somehow to her position in Amber but it seems unlikely. All too conscious of the pressure building up behind her eyes, she tries to think – there was a coronet in the Treasure Room, wasn’t there? The one which gave authority over demons to the wearer – coronet of... Nassar? Something like that.

“I do not wear it at the moment,” she replies simply, adding “Thank you, Kirgiz. We will speak again.”

“Asszuredly… if Missztressz eaten not… by nasszty thingssz… coming…”

This takes Sorashi by surprise, adrenaline momentarily negating the fatigue in her system. Her voice is nevertheless fairly level as she says, “What is this thing and where is it coming from?”

“From…? Kirgiz knowssz not… But Kirgiz sszeessz… Nasszty Thing at threshzhhold…”

And at that moment comes a knock at the main door to the left, crashing on Sorashi’s ears: once… twice… thrice… the Knock of Doom!

Asfar seems unperturbed. “I shall answer the door, my lady.” He is already moving that way.

Sorashi stands up quickly from her kneeling position, suffering a spinning head in the process. “Wait!” she commands and shakes her head to clear it whilst her adrenaline surges and her heart races. As she rises, she feels the contact with Kirgiz is broken, much to the relief of her eyes. Then, as fight or flight reflexes rage within her, some small rational part of her mind remembers a deal with House Sheol. “I need to go to the Treasury before you answer the door.”

Suavely breaking his stride, Asfar nods acquiescence and waits by the door.

Sorashi briefly debates trying to find the Treasury on her own, but decides speed is more important than independence. “Please take me to the Treasury, Asfar.”

Just the barest delay in complying with his mistress’ order betrays that Asfar still has not quite come to terms with how ‘other’ she is compared to previous caliphs of the Alhambra. Nonetheless he quickly leads the way to the Chamber of the Ancestors and to the door to the Treasury. Once there Sorashi collects the coronet and Iblis’ golden lamp then she turns to Asfar.

“Did you say the way to my quarters was fixed?”

“Yes, my lady; there is but a single point of access. I have the only spare key but I will never use it without your permission save at express need.”

“Of course.” Sorashi replies, as she starts towards her quarters.

Now definitely confused, Asfar accompanies his mistress, changing an archway on the way so it goes straight from the Chamber of the Ancestors to the Pillar Chamber. Within no time Sorashi enters her personal chambers, Asfar waits for his mistress outside.

The lamp is stashed on a convenient shelf – the coronet is less straightforward. It is tempting to put it on, but on the other hand now is not the time to try and master something new. With a small sigh, Sorashi puts it in a drawer.

She exits the room. “Asfar, you may answer the door now.”

Asfar demonstrates his unusually high Grace (for a demon) by having recovered his sang-froid in the short time Sorashi spent within her quarters.

“Immediately my lady! And may this one observe that it has been the habit of previous caliphs and caliphas to formally receive guests in the Lion Courtyard. Or, it is not unheard of for truly honoured guests to be greeted at the gate. Of course if your wishes are otherwise…?”

“The Lion courtyard, I think,” replies Sorashi.

“Very good, my lady. If my lady would care to venture through yon archway…” he nods to an exit opposite to that they entered by, “…my lady will find the throne prepared in the Lion Courtyard in anticipation of our tour of the Alhambra. This one shall ensure my lady’s guest is not conveyed into my lady’s presence before my lady is ready. Does my lady require anything else before this one admits your guest?”

“No, thank you, Asfar.” Sorashi walks through the archway to the throne while Asfar bows respectfully and exits through the opposite arch.

Sorashi finds herself in a spacious chamber of unusual design which she recalls from her first visit with her cousins. At one end is a raised pool and fountain supported by stone lions which gives the room its name. At the opposite end an area raised eighteen inches above the rest of the floor is flanked by a nest of delicately wrought marble columns.

When last she saw it there was a high table on the raised area, laid for dining. This time there’s an impressive chair, apparently of green marble streaked with red and gold, marvellously decorated with abstract imagery. Sorashi is again struck by the taste of whoever designed the throne, though it looks rather uncomfortable to her eye. Moving swiftly she has time to purloin a cushion but is pleasantly surprised to find the throne a lot more comfortable than it appears – it looks like marble, but somehow the stone seems to mould itself to her proportions as she sits down.

Calling to mind her deportment lessons drummed into her by her mother, she sits up straight on the throne and tries to look regal and impassive to greet her visitor. Sorashi has time to settle herself and even some time to look around the room – she is taken with the ceiling, which she is sure appeared differently last time she was here; then it showed what looked like a brilliant night sky but which was probably a view of the Abyss, now it displays an artistic strew of clouds in a jade-green sky through which sunbeams strike down and shift elegantly around the chamber, though one just happens to light the throne, like a spotlight.

Then the doors at the far end of the room swing open, giving Sorashi easily enough time to appear regal before Asfar enters and steps to one side, announcing, “Lady Sorashi, Dame Gorgant of the Seasoned and Crapulous Order of the Undulating Thing, Calipha Slayer, Mistress of the Alhambra by right of conquest and daughter of Princess Deirdre of the most Pagan and Heretic cadet House of Barimen.

“May I present Sir Zuby, Knight Miseré of the Superannuated and Disingenuous Order of the Invidious Blade, Wielder of the Instruments of Chastisement, Retriever of Princes, Bearer of the Cup of Vitriol and Antepenultimate of the most Devilish and Vituperative House Sheol.”

The last time Sorashi met Zuby he was a mouth in the wall of House Sheol’s demesne. Now he enters in Barimen form, a tall patrician with red hair, dressed in emerald green in the style of Queen Anne. He bows formally, displaying a magnificent leg.

“Greetings, Lady! May I, on behalf of House Sheol, offer congratulations on your having achieved suzerainty.”

Sorashi inclines her head, graciously. “Thank you, Lord Zuby. A pleasure to meet you again.”

Zuby grins broadly, displaying shark-like teeth. “Allow me to present a gift from the Marquessa of House Sheol, to cement the relationship between our two houses.”

He half turns and clicks his fingers quickly twice, a clear signal, and a demon slouches through the door, past Asfar (who leaves his position to glide smoothly behind the demon without it apparently noticing), to stop three paces short of Zuby. To Sorashi’s eye the demon is archetypically demonic, it has insectoid limbs on a reptilian body with dark green scales on the back paling to yellow on the front. It has a monkey’s prehensile tail and the head of something wolfish with feral yellow eyes.

“It will respond to Jakabok – but feel free to rename it as you wish, it is bound to your service unto death.”

“Please thank the Marquessa for the thoughtful gift,” Sorashi replies.

Sir Zuby smiles sharkishly; Jakabok stands before him in a sullen slump, awaiting his first orders.

Sorashi’s instinct is to hasten the visit, get it over with and Zuby out of her House as rapidly possible, but this is not how the dance goes. Refreshments, small talk, carefully faked smiles – the mark of a courteous host or hostess (the easily accessible weapon is also important, if Mother’s lessons are to be one’s guide). She smiles politely and asks Asfar to bring a chair and refreshments for ‘our guest’. He is also instructed to take Jakabok with him.

Asfar curtly orders Jakabok to fetch a chair from the edge of the room. The demonic demon for a moment looks as if it is disinclined to obey but, caught between the frosty gazes of its past master and present mistress, a sharp word from Asfar instils the wisdom of obedience. With Sir Zuby seated comfortably Asfar takes Jakabok with him to bring refreshments, leaving Sorashi to entertain her guest on her own.

“So Lord Zuby, how fares yourself and House Sheol?”

“Ah! As with so many houses, ours has suffered during the recent war and we are sadly depleted.” Zuby’s tone seems to make light of Sheol’s vicissitudes. “But we have plans to expand again and I have a feeling Sheol may have turned a corner. As for myself, being one of the few survivors means my position can only improve as we recover and I am confident our business here will increase my stock further, dear lady.

“And for yourself? I confess myself surprised to find you without the Coronet of Nasr – it is famed throughout Chaos. You have won a superb piece of unreal estate and I notice you have already started renovations. Shall we yet be greeting you with the title of Calipha?”

“It is a most beautiful inheritance,” Sorashi replies, “and I feel that it, like House Sheol, can only improve in the future. And, to be Calipha of such a place? An honour indeed, though such a title will take a little getting used to.”

“It would be an honour richly deserved, I’m sure, but perhaps unlikely in the current political climate, alas.” Sir Zuby smiles archly. “Yet who knows what may come to pass? I assure you, my lady, that House Sheol will happily affirm your virtues to the Rimlords, should they deign to listen… And some may listen, if certain things come to pass…”

“Let us hope, then, that such things come to pass as benefits both Houses,” Sorashi inclines her head slightly.

“Might I be right, illustrious lady, in assuming that your pursuit of the title indicates your intention to reside…” Zuby seems to be groping for the nicest phrase, “…in the long term?”

Sorashi considers her response for a few seconds. “The future is always uncertain. It does no harm to be prepared for more than one eventuality.”

Zuby smiles while nodding graciously, “Of course, my lady.” Sorashi guesses that he was hoping for a little more specificity but he’s not surprised his host has opted to keep her cards close to her chest.

At that moment Asfar and Jakabok return, Asfar with a tray covered in a white muslin, Jakabok carrying a pitcher in one hand and a brace of crystal goblets in the other. With what Sorashi is sure is a flourish Asfar puts the tray down on a side table and deftly removes the muslin to reveal a platter of sweatmeats from which he swiftly charges two small plates which he conveys first to Zuby and then to Sorashi. Each gets one plate and a napkin.

As Asfar moves from Zuby to Sorashi he spies Jakabok standing idle, still with pitcher and goblets. He gives a quick nod at the side table and Jakabok places the pitcher with an ease that suggests he’s stronger than he looks to Sorashi’s eye. But as he serves his mistress Sorashi sees Asfar wince as Jakabok slams the crystal glasses on the table. Evidently Jakabok is not exactly suited to personal service but Sorashi can probably find an alternative role for him elsewhere. As soon as she’s served, Asfar whirls away to check the goblets for damage, motioning Jakabok to stand out of the way. He then fills each goblet and conveys it to guest and mistress.

“Mmm!” exclaims Zuby, “It has been too long since I last tasted sherbert, and of such excellent quality too.”

So this is sherbet, thinks Sorashi – there was a time I thought I would be high-status enough to taste this. A strange path, indeed, that my destiny travels. “Thank you, Lord Zuby. It is good sherbet.”

Zuby seems perfectly at his ease, sipping sherbet, nibbling sweatmeats and indulging in inconsequential tittle-tattle. Sorashi has little tittle-tattle to respond with, but endeavours to make up for it by being a receptive and appreciative audience, occasionally asking for clarification. After a while Zuby cleans his plate and hands his platter back to Asfar, though he accepts a recharge of his goblet. Sorashi can sense that his mind is turning to the business that brought him here so she’s possibly a little surprised when he smiles with a cunning glint in his eye as he observes…

“My dear lady, you will excuse my observing you so closely but am I mistaken that you come from a culture not unlike that which surrounds us? You seem at home, here.”

An innocent enough observation, but the glint gives Sorashi pause. “Yes, where I came from is not unlike here. The architecture is like that of the northern lands.”

“Northern?” It occurs to Sorashi that Zuby honestly has never heard the term before but he recovers well and the smile returns almost immediately. “Lady, I hope your presence will continue to grace this ancient edifice for aeons to come.” An infinitesimal pause hints at a possible hidden agenda. “Of course, lady, if you have plans to maintain the Alhambra as your principal residence, you will doubtless have some… dynastic concerns…? Without meaning to pry, have you cast any thoughts toward conjugation?”

“An interesting question,” Sorashi replies. She pauses, slightly longer than Zuby, and continues, “But it is a subject worth considering in discussion with House Amber.”

“Oh?” Sorashi is uncertain whether Zuby’s surprise is feigned or not, “Doesn’t all this…” he gestures around the hall, “…make you your own… woman?”, finally settling on the appropriate pronoun.

She smiles politely. “Why, Lord Zuby, do I detect a more than passing interest from House Sheol in my...” She pauses almost imperceptibly, “…dynastic concerns?”

“Oh we are incorrigible gossips here in the Courts and my house, like all the rest, drool avidly over all reports of Amber’s various liaisons: Lord William and the lady of Seraph; Lord Darig’s dual alliance with Petrus and not to mention Lady Dara’s various dalliances or those of her son with Vaal and Hendrake (the last more than a little incestuous, so rumour has it).

“But I confess this particular interest is more my own, and not necessarily ‘passing’. If you wish a long-term presence in the Courts you [and Sorashi is sure the pronoun means her and not her family] will need allies, perhaps even a consort…?

“For my part, as the junior-most member of a vanishingly minor house, advancement and promotion can only be governed by how quickly my own house expands – my lady will appreciate that in such circumstances as House Sheol finds itself, were we to indulge in the customary assassinations for the purpose of advancement, the winner might very well find himself master of himself and no one else. So, since we might both desire our houses to expand, particularly if you would wish to cut your ties with your house of origin, as might I, with suitable inducement, we might be able to help each other regarding… conjugation? On a basis which might be as temporary or permanent as my lady desires?”

Fine, reasonable words, thinks Sorashi. But in Chaos, the dance of politics often comes with a garnish of such and appearances are as disposable and changeable as posy flowers – not just in Chaos, she corrects herself, Amber seems little different if Mother is to be believed. She, however, rests her eyes on Zuby as she considers her response.

“It is an interesting proposition and, if I were to stay and expand my House, then I will give careful consideration to it. I cannot give you an answer now as I have not yet decided where my future lies, and futures have a habit of changing often and frequently.”

“Of course, I understand you perfectly – in a place where even the past is mutable (to a degree) the future is a mercurial thing indeed. Nonetheless, if at any future time you should consider that my proposal bears merit, pray communicate your wishes to me personally; my lady should know my words come from me, not my house.”

She nods sagely, “I will bear that in mind”. Despite herself, she finds Zuby easy and pleasant company, even with the memory of his ‘fanged mouth in a wall’ persona from House Sheol – but, at the back of her mind, is Kirgiz’ description of ‘something nasty’ at her door. Placing her goblet on the table, she asks, “Would you care to visit the Treasury Room?”

If Zuby is at all disappointed to have the conversation turned to other matters he gives no sign of it, in fact his face lights up as he places his goblet on the side table. “And so to business – pray lead on, Lady.”

Asfar curtly orders Jakabok to stay where he is before quietly gliding to a position two yards behind the guest, arms folded in Chinese mandarin style with his hands concealed within the folds of his sleeves.

Offering an inward prayer to whichever deity dealt with not getting lost in the Courts, Sorashi leads the little party to the Treasury. Sorashi finds navigation through the Alhambra an interesting exercise. Just a short while ago Asfar told her that he would set all portals to ‘defaults’ that would “allow access for you to all chambers of the Alhambra”. But she cannot imagine he has had the time to do that already, he’s hardly been out of her sight for more than a couple of minutes.

He also said Sorashi would need to familiarise herself with the layout and she certainly hasn’t had the time to do that. However she arrived in the Lion Courtyard from the Pillar Chamber (outside her quarters) and she recalls the route from there to the Chamber of the Ancestors, wherein is the door to the Treasury. So she leads Zuby on a slightly circuitous route through the Alhambra – from his pleasant compliments about the architecture, he seems to assume she’s deliberately showing off her new home.

As they arrive at the door to the Treasury in the Chamber of the Ancestors, Zuby surveys the serried portraits down the right-hand wall. “Ah! Such an ancient and noble lineage – sic transit!” He smiles sardonically as he turns back to his hostess.

As Sorashi produces her key, she notices that all the portraits are glaring at Zuby’s back , especially the one with his head on a plate who seems to bear Sorashi’s guest some serious animosity. Bodes well for any future dalliance, Sorashi thinks sarcastically as she unlocks the door. At least it makes a change from them glaring at her – though never with quite the hostility they’ve reserved for Zuby.

She tries to remember any mention of House Sheol in the depressing litany of murder and assassination intoned by the portraits, but nothing comes to mind – from the portraits, that is, but didn’t Asfar mention Sheol when showing her the Treasury? Apparently oblivious to the hostility of the Alhambra’s previous owners, Zuby follows her, smiling, into the Treasury, followed silently by Asfar, a respectful two yards behind.

Zuby gasps as he enters the chamber (it is pretty awesome), “Magnificent, lady!” or perhaps he means ‘Magnificent Lady!’ Either way, Sorashi is confident his reaction is genuine.

She smiles, slightly more warmly than mere politeness would occasion, and gestures towards the treasures. “Please, choose any item for House Sheol as agreed.”

“Thank you, Lady!” He looks around the room and it is quite clear to Sorashi that he knows what he’s looking for… and he quickly finds it – stepping around a burst barrel of gold coins, he reaches up and takes the Whip of Flensing from its place on the wall, handling it reverently. “At last, Bushyasta’s whip will return to its rightful home – and it shall be I who hands it to Marquessa Koebikaez.” He raises his gaze to Sorashi. “Thank you Lady! You know not what this means to me and my house.” He bows, again showing a magnificent leg.

Sorashi is only too pleased to be rid of the unpleasant item, and can only hope never to see it again. “You are welcome, Lord Zuby,” she responds.

Zuby gloats over the whip while simultaneously stealing covetous glances at the other artefacts on display. Sorashi feels Asfar raise a discrete eyebrow in her direction – which is odd since he doesn’t have eyebrows.

And, once again, Sorashi is reminded of Kirgiz’ words.

“You have chosen well, Lord Zuby, but I doubt the Marquessa would care to be kept waiting for the prize.” Sorashi smiles and steps aside, making a subtle gesture towards the door as she does so.

Zuby tears his eyes away from the treasures and blinks. “Choice had nothing to do with it, Lady.” He licks his lips. “But you are right, I must bring Bushyasta’s whip to Marquessa Koebikaez with all despatch.” He follows Sorashi’s understated gesture, and leaves the Treasury, passing Asfar who obviously feels it is his place to bring up the rear.

Sorashi moves to follow Zuby out but Asfar catches her eye, “My lady?” Asfar nods toward the far corner of the Treasury, where a strange apparition is manifesting as if seen through frosted glass. “Shall I show Sir Zuby to the door while you are… engaged?”

“Thank you, Asfar.” She tries to ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Maybe Zuby wasn’t the ‘nasty thing’ after all?