KES CHANGED FROM her white robe to loose indigo workout trousers and tunic. Then she left her room and walked the two flights of stairs to the roof of Tryst.
Outside of client areas, the shigasue built along simple, traditional lines; there was no lift shaft or bounce tube to speed her ascent. Speed was not of the essence, anyway, at this leisurely late-morning hour. After a short trek, she approached the top landing, where pithpaper window squares glowed with sun-bright luminescence. She rested her hand on the doorplate until she heard the latch click open with palm recognition.
Kes pushed the faie-wood frame open and stepped out into the roof garden complex. She stood there a moment, breathing in the fragrance of flowering lavender tersia vines trailing along the street-side balustrade. For a moment she was transported back to the penthouse garden of her youth, her childhood refuge and playground. This was far grander, though, than anything Hinano Bren had envisioned outside his doors.
Here were sprawling city blocks interconnected through an elevated urban wilderness: countless nooks and crannies hosting exotic plants and strange small creatures that kept the ecology in balance—an adult-sized playground and arboretum to enjoy and explore.
Tryst was located in the Shelieno, the river garden district, the oldest of the three licensed quarters of Port Oswin. Collectively they were called the Gantori-Das, the Enclave—an administrative designation for regulation and tax purposes. But each of the entertainers’ wards was a discrete unit located within gated neighborhoods scattered throughout the interlocking domes of the city sprawl.
The Shelieno was located four lazy bends of the river upstream from the delta flats where Port Oswin’s earliest structures rose. The sandbar-studded waters of the Dryx cut through the white chalk riverbanks of the garden district. The gentle slopes above were once covered with native growth that had expired when climate-controlled domes cooled and dehumidified the native Lyndir air. The Shelieno took its name from a type of imported groundcover planted there in rambling parklands. The district was a once-exclusive residential area that had given way to riverside entertainments and the encroachment of new housing as population swelled in the city.
During Lyndir’s independent existence, the Shelieno had been an unlicensed freewheeling center of nighttime amusement. After annexation by the Empire 150 years ago, the area had become an official part of the Between-World of the shigasue, with ceremonial gates erected to mark the entrances, and non-shigasu business owners compelled to sell out or subcontract to the controlling Houses. But even under new management, the basic nature and appeal of the district remained the same. The Shelieno was still renowned for its gardens and parklands. It was a favorite place for tourists to visit during the day, and lovers to stroll in the evening on the river walk above the warm steaming waters of the Dryx.
The pleasure gardens were echoed above the city streets in the rooftop realm of the shigasue. The buildings of the licensed quarter abutted one against another, forming a terrain of neon façades and rooftop greenery in a vast network two or three stories above the ground. Arching walkways and overpasses linked roof arbors and flowerbeds, reflection ponds and rivulets, in a continuing maze that nearly spanned the length of the district. Even trees were supported, planted atop specially constructed earth-berm retaining walls, their hybrid root systems trained to grow inside the structures themselves.
If she wanted, Kes could walk the entire district via its rooftops, visiting other shigasue establishments through roof access and leaving again, without ever passing clients on the streets.
That was, in fact, one reason for the interconnectedness of the garden complex. Shigasu did not need to leave their closed world to walk, to exercise, to enjoy the outdoors—or as outdoors as one got in Port Oswin without a coolsuit. The entertainers did not risk losing their glamour by mingling too closely with ordinary folk on the public streets or parkways.
Kes had discovered the roof gardens on her second day at the Salon. She did not have free run of them, then; she was no shigasa, and as an indentured sex worker on Icechromer debt contract, there was a sharp limit to where she was permitted to wander. She had access to the orchid gardens atop the brothel, to the reflection ponds above the chai house next door, and to the grassy meditation square above the dance hall behind the Salon. Other gates and walkways were barred to her palmprint, as was the case for all the Icechromers’ indentured staff.
Her move to Tryst had opened up the rooftop wildlands to her, a realm she delighted to lose herself in. This was so much larger than the place where she had spent her childhood leisure—and here there was no house AI to track her every move. It was a feeling of liberation she’d never had as a child.
She smiled to herself, and set off in the direction of the Salon.
IT WAS EARLY, yet, for the joyboys and -girls of the Salon to be up and out of bed. Morya roused herself with difficulty. She’d much rather sleep until mid-afternoon, as the others would—but this was the day of her weekly rendezvous with Kes.
It seemed best to keep their meetings to once a week, at a time when she could easily avoid watchful eyes. The Salon stayed active until the last clients were seen out the doors at the crack of dawn; only then did the house staff seek their own beds. The housemother, Dosan Kiyo, was asleep now, so this was the best time to head off to the dance hall garden. Not that the excursion would be forbidden, but Morya would just as soon not invite questions about her regular visits to the meditation square.
She yawned, brushed long black curls out of her face, tugged on workout clothes, and fumbled with the drawstring of the baggy indigo trousers before the fit was snug enough. Into sandals, out the door, as if she had every right to go practice laufre exercises so early in the brothel day.
She shook her head to herself. Of course, she did have every right. Icechromers owned her body-service, but she wasn’t a slave, and she still had a right to spend her free time how she wanted, within certain limits. Davin guarded the front door and palmlocks and gate sensors secured the rooftop egresses, so she wouldn’t be leaving the premises without permission. Reassured by that knowledge, Icechromers and their managing Dosan let the joygirls and -boys have free run of the House and its immediate environs.
Sometimes she encountered one or two others from the House doing laufre in the garden as well: the androgynous hermaphrodite Liesa, or nervous Varl, who seemed more collected after he’d worked energy for an hour. This sort of coming and going was routine.
Morya had to remind herself of that when she saw Franc’s blocky form sitting on a stool at the foot of the stairs in a half doze. He was a lieutenant of Gistano’s, the Icechromer boss, and ran part of their debt-service business. Yet, like all street-ready ’Chromers, he occasionally did stints of house duty. He must have been puttering about all morning. A cup of kaf sat cold on the table beside him. He looked like he’d plunked down to rest for a moment and fallen into a doze right there.
Morya’s footsteps slowed. To get to the roof she had to walk right by him, and Franc was the worst of the derevin crew. He’d hand-picked half the joyhouse workers, angling to get their debt-contracts picked up by the House. It left him with a peculiar sense of entitlement in his dealings with staff.
She braced herself and strode ahead, eyes on the stairs, ignoring the dozing Icechromer.
His beefy hand shot out and gripped her arm as her foot touched the first step.
“Up awful early, aren’t ya, pretty thing?”
Pretty thing. Ugh. Franc knew her name; he’d bought her contract, when this had all started. His speech was affectation, and he sounded like all the other ’Chromers. A real name for a sex worker would be too personal, now wouldn’t it?
She turned her head, her blue eyes catching his appraising look squarely. “Good morning, Franc.” She let her gaze move purposefully down his arm, to his pale hand on her naturally tan skin, then back up to his face. She raised one eyebrow. His hand did not loosen its grip.
Well. That tactic used to work for Kes. It had been worth a try.
“What?” she demanded.
His eyes remained half-lidded beneath heavy dark brows. “I got in too late for any fun last night. Glad to see you’re up and about.”
Morya got his meaning instantly. “What can I do for you this morning?” she asked, at once the compliant joygirl.
It was a well-practiced role, easy enough to slip into, for free service to derevin members was in her indenturement contract as barter for room and board. She was obligated to sexual service; they, to material support. If Icechromers defaulted or abused her, her contract was void and her debt considered paid.
She fantasized briefly about telling him to go fuck himself, but that would trigger the thorny part of that contract: if she refused service, she made herself liable for sentencing as a slave. Imperial justice was very clear about little details like that: you worked off a defaulted debt with a service contract, or as a debt-slave. At least with her contract she had security. Slaves could end up anywhere, doing anything. Both paths offered reparation in the government’s eyes, but it made a big difference to the person serving the debt sentence.
So it was not unhappily that she followed Franc’s smiling gesture and knelt before him. The first thing most newly contracted joyboys and -girls experienced in the Salon was sexual training directed by Dosan Kiyo. Morya had been surprised to learn that one could be eroticized to literally anything. She had come to find many aspects of her compulsory work palatable, and some downright enjoyable.
She was irritated by the delay Franc caused her plans, but not at the activity he asked her to do. Not at all.
When she was done, she asked permission to go.
“Yeah. Leave,” he told her. He looked more ready for bed than ever, but didn’t miss the chance to pat her on the ass as she walked by.
Three years, two months, five days left on her contract. If someone touched her uninvited after that, she’d break fingers. Until then …
It was easy to forget about debt-work in the meditation garden. It was a small grassy square half-hidden behind a border of red-flowering stavis and spiky green-white leander fronds. A broad-canopied faie tree stood on the eastern side of the square; beneath its shade stood a shoulder-high jumble of butter-yellow brae stone, native to Lyndir. Water pooled in an artificial basin atop the rock, cascading in a burbling watercourse to the catchpond below. Brae stone spread out from that pond, trailing in a way that seemed natural and eventually became artifice, as flagstones were placed to ring the entire grassy court.
It was not until she stepped past the leander fronds that she saw Kes was already there. Her long white hair was tied back and she was sitting in the center of the lawn beginning the first series of laufre warm-up stretches. They had the square to themselves at this moment, though that was sure not to last for long. Morya took advantage of the temporary solitude and trotted over to the domina, plunked down on the bluegrass beside her. She sat with her trousered leg pressing against Kes’s in a pose imitative of her stretch.
“Need some help?” She grinned and pressed closer. “Need some room?”
Kes gave a low growl; she twisted sideways, put a hand to Morya’s throat and pressed her backwards until she overbalanced and fell back laughing into the grass. They kissed and lay there for a moment, Kes’s long leg thrown over her, pinning her to the ground.
“You’re sassy this morning,” Kes said, leaning on one elbow.
“Yeah.” Morya studied the violet eyes in the fine-lined face above her. “I can’t help it. I miss you.”
Kes’s brow furrowed. “I miss you too, kushla.” Her face dropped closer; they kissed again. “But you know I can’t visit.”
Morya gave a nod. She could not leave to visit Kes, and Kes was not welcome to return to the Salon. She’d been a disruptive influence, Dosan Kiyo had declared, and the housemother had been glad to be rid of her in a trade she claimed was beneficial to all concerned. Kes had been loved or hated by clients—telling them what to do, and how to do it. The contract trade had certainly benefited the striking woman, who was far better suited to being a domina at Tryst than a sex worker at the Salon. And if she was not allowed to return—well, it spared the Winter Goddess from being recognized as a former derevin joygirl. That could tarnish her mystique.
That it also cut her off from Morya, her devoted sometime-lover, was something no one seemed to consider. It didn’t seem to bother Kes much, anyway. Or maybe she just didn’t let on.
Morya wriggled away from her grasp. Don’t go there, she thought. That’s a mood that will bring you down all day.
“Hey. Let’s start, all right?” she prompted. “While it’s quiet here.”
It was always quiet in the meditation square, but Kes seemed to catch the undercurrent. Kes gave Morya an odd look that she could not decipher, seemed on the verge of saying something—and then did not. Instead, Kes simply nodded assent.
Morya suppressed a sigh. They were so close, and yet so far. The domina had offered more than once to stop these weekly visits. “If it’s too painful—”
“No,” the joygirl had insisted. “I would rather see you sometimes, know you’re all right, than never see you at all. That wouldn’t solve the problem.”
They had found no other solution to their dilemma, though.
Morya went through the motions of laufre, grounding, centering, running chi energy through her chakras in time with the ancient movements of the discipline. Her form mirrored Kes’s, the two pacing in slow harmony through the ritualized gestures of the exercise.
That’s how I want my life to be with hers, she thought. In harmony. Together.
Was it merely their circumstances that kept them apart? Couldn’t Tryst’s star shigasa exercise a little influence, see her more often, or more privately, if she wanted? Always they met in public, around other people. Never close, since Kes had been banned from the Salon. Never close enough to do more than tease, or flirt. They didn’t share a life, or intimacy anymore. Only moments. Fleeting moments.
I won’t push her, Morya thought. Juro take it: I can’t push her, even if I want to. Because of how she is. Because of our situations. Everything. Dammit.
She faltered in her motions, losing that quiet place of calm that usually came over her. She lost the rhythm with Kes, then caught it again.
Just be here now, she thought.
Small comfort, but it was the best way she’d found to cope. With her indenturement; with the absence of the woman who had won her heart. Her protector when she was new to the Salon; her seducer; her dominant lover. Now maybe only her friend, though she felt like so much more.
By time they finished the exercise, there were three other people in the square, one pacing the flagstones on the meditation path, the others warming up for laufre. As usual, Kes did not kiss her before the eyes of others. They parted ways with a hug, and a long touch of hands. Again that odd hesitation, and a lingering look from Kes. Then Morya watched her go through the north gate that remained off-limits to her, back to Tryst. Back to people who shared her company on a daily basis, as Morya once had.
When she could no longer see long white hair, she turned her back on the gate.
So much for keeping that mood away, she thought glumly, and turned her steps reluctantly homeward.