Tamza was told to wait outside the dining hall and to get ready. She had been frisked by a leering soldier, and left. Two soldiers waited in the hallway with her, and watched with great eagerness as she pulled off her headscarf and then cloak.
One licked his lips and said in his tongue to the soldier next to him, not aware Tamza could understand, “Wouldn’t mind fucking that from the front. That’s a face I could look at, not like those scraggy whores we brought from Fertilian.”
The hollow dread from earlier that day built up again in her belly. Her palms prickled. Here she was, about to perform, but no longer with her bears, no longer with Sumear stood nearby, and no longer in front of her people, with Yaseena waving from the audience. Anger flared, searing a bright light through the fear. I need to channel that hatred.
Tamza turned and deliberately bent to show the men her bottom. Her entire body fought against the decision, and she thought she might vomit. Instead she folded her cloak and headscarf carefully in a pile on the floor, taking advantage of the soldiers’ distraction to hide something there, a doorway, under the headscarf.
She stood again and turned to them. In their language she said, “You should watch my performance. I think you’ll like it.” Her voice was small, barely audible, but they heard.
The two men gaped at each other, surprised that she knew their language, and guffawed. One opened his mouth to speak, displaying blackened teeth that made Tamza grimace inwardly, but before he could reply, the door to the hallway opened and a female servant ushered Tamza into the hall.
King Edgar was sat on floor cushions, at the head of two lines of his men, also sat on cushions. In the middle were low tables, covered with plates of food. The Fertilian men sat awkwardly on the cushions. Dabecki lounged comfortably, used to sitting to eat food on the floor. He was sat to the left of the King, and next to him was Burrington, back rigid, his fingers tapping rapidly on the table.
To the right of the King was the Xayan captain, Zhaz. He looked smug and sat easily, crossed legged. He had removed his tusk headdress and Tamza was surprised to see his head was completely bald. Zhaz was using his short sword to eat with, the same that had killed thousands earlier that day. He had stabbed a hunk of meat and was licking and nibbling at it, just like her nephews eating sweetmeats on sticks in the marketplace. A pang of longing for what was, gnawed at Tamza’s insides. I’ll never see that again, Lil Araf and Baby are dead. The anger bolstered her.
There was raucous laughter and chatter, numerous Fertilian servants, both male and female, flitted about serving a red liquid from huge jugs to the seated men from behind, keeping their cups topped up. Dabecki had a jug of beer next to him. No one heard her jingle into the room, or noticed when she stood at the bottom of the two lines, at the opposite end to the king.
“Ah,” said Dabecki. “Our entertainment has arrived.” He pointed at Tamza and slowly down the line, all heads swivelled towards her. She felt eyes on her face and body. It repulsed her. Her mother had taught her to take on a different persona when she danced. Become who you think a dancer should be, Hayat had told her. Be brave, confident, self-assured. You know what you are doing, what is there to be afraid of?
Tamza took a long inhale, filling her lungs with her mother’s words.
Holding her head high, Tamza gazed haughtily back at each of the men in turn, held her gaze a moment longer on Dabecki, and then locked onto the King’s eyes.
The men were cheering and raising cups to her, but she simply surveyed them all with pursed lips and a look of contempt. Head slightly cocked, hands on hips, one slightly higher than the other as she raised the toes of her left foot and tucked the heel against her ankle. She would stand there until they were silent, until they respected her presence. ‘Stand in this pose as long as it takes for the men to understand that they are beneath you, Tamza, that they are privileged to see your body and see how you are about to move it.’
Silence quickly fell. The King stared at her.
“We should move the food off these tables. Give her space,” said Dabecki, in hushed tones, leaning into the King but not taking his eyes off Tamza.
The King clicked his fingers and the servants hurried to take away the dishes and platters, leaving the tables as a platform down the centre of the men for Tamza. Good, they can all see me and will all fall under my spell. But only one will be enchanted. And I have selected my target.
Most of the men grabbed their drinks off the table, leaving a clear run. But the two men closest to Tamza, gawped up at her in awe, unable to move.
When all was still, and the servants stood by the walls, Tamza begun. She shimmied her waist, the shells there jangling. She sped up until the rest of her body joined in, until it vibrated. She raised her arms, her hands flicked at the top and she trailed one hand slowly down the other arm and bent her knees. She snapped her legs to standing hip width apart, arms wide. She turned, her back facing the men and started to jerk her hips, her bottom shaking at them, and looked over one shoulder.
She was expecting some jeers or lewd comments as she showed them her rear, but the men were silent, mesmerised. Good. Arching her back she placed both hands on the edge of the first low table and picked up one foot, then the next, toes pointed and brought her legs up, until she was standing on her hands. Gracefully she brought her legs over and stood upright again. She crouched low, her back to the King, and picked up the two cups. She stood, and swaying her body she held out her arms and tipped them, the red liquid spilling. As expected, the owners of both leant forward and lapped at the trickle. Pathetic, she thought, as she blessed them with a closed mouth smile. She threw their cups with such force at the floor that both men recoiled, eyes wide.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
She back flipped down the tables in quick succession until she reached the centre, turned to face one line of men and banged her feet, contorting her body, and turned to the other banging her feet. Swiftly up and down the tables she jumped, spun, flipped and tumbled. Scissoring her legs flat on the table. She ensured she never got too close to the King and his important men. She needed them to be begging for her.
The men’s eyes tracked her wherever she went. The movements came back to her as if she had danced with her mother earlier that day. Her heart raced and a light sheen of sweat coated her brown skin, the glistening only serving to arouse the stupid men more. ‘You’ll know when you have them,’ her mother had said, ‘you’ll see it in their gormless faces, they won’t be able to move a muscle, scared they might miss a movement you make.’
Tamza finished one routine at the end of the tables where she had started, and then faster than a bird dancing in the sky she leapt, tumbled, back flipped her way up to the King, landing with her toes on the edge of the table in front of him. She dived, her hands landing on his shoulders, kicking up her legs so she went over the top of him, her long hair sweeping his face as she stood on her hands on his shoulders for a heartbeat before landing her feet on the floor behind his cushion. That will make his heart race. Tamza glided around the cushions skimming her hand along each man’s neck or touching their cheek until she came to the King once again.
Now, every man wanted her, every man was hers if she wanted him. She took a run up and leapt over the King’s head landing back on the table. She turned to the King and stopped, panting.
Edgar’s eyes were transfixed on hers, mouth slack, chest heaving almost as much as hers. Captain Zhaz stood up and grabbed his crotch and with the other hand went to grab her breast. Dabecki leaned forward and licked the sweat off her foot. She knew she should turn to that twisted fool, to perform the final enchantment on him, favour him so that she could kill him and revenge her family.
But in a blink, the King was standing, the point of his long sword on Dabecki’s neck and the point of his short sword almost touching Zhaz’s eye.
“Don’t touch her,” he growled. A rumble so menacing that even Captain Zhaz snapped back his hand as if bitten by a snake. Dabecki shrunk into his cushion.
In that moment, Tamza knew what she needed to do. She leapt onto King Edgar, her legs wrapped around his waist, the tip of her nose so close to his that the fine hairs tickled but the skin didn’t touch. He looked into her eyes and she blinked, before throwing her head down to his ankles, winding slowly around to the left. He stood firm as she blinked at him again then thrust her body around to the right, coming up to blink at him a third time. She cupped her hands against his red beard, tenderly, a sliver of air still between her flesh and his. Slowly she pressed each fingertip above his cheekbones. His eyes glazed.
She pulled her feet to his hips, anchored them there, took hold of his hands and stood, his face between her thighs. She jumped over him and clapped her hands.
A second doorway opened behind the King and she jumped through it and into the invisible portal.
Tamza travelled instantly from the second doorway to the first, that she had hidden under her headscarf whilst the guards were distracted by her bottom. She landed outside in the hallway. She clapped her hands and both doorways dissolved. Her headscarf fell on her. Her trick had worked. The hallway was empty, the two soldiers having taken her advice and crept into the hall to watch the show.
She could hear confused shouts from inside, the King bellowing, “Find her!”
She wrapped herself quickly in her cloak, tied the headscarf around her face, relieved to be covered up again. That was not the end to the dance that her mother had taught her. Tamza had a third ability, one which only her brother Naath knew about, one which she had kept secret, not wanting the interest it would bring. Every Vaasarian had one magic ability, some had two. It was a rare, celebrated occurrence when a child was born with three. Tamza was a Three.
She could open two doorways and transfer objects and sounds from one to the other through an invisible tunnel. Each doorway, as she called them, was circular, with swirling light around the outside, like wisps of smoke after a candle is blown out. These delicate wispy threads became more solid as they neared the centre of the circle. This distinct ring looked similar to cracked pottery, with harsh lines that ended in a jagged, serrated edge around a black hole in the very heart of the circle. It reminded her of a pupil inside an iris. Looking at the doorway front on, you saw the circle, but if you looked at it from the side, you saw a thin strand of twisting smoke. Both doorways were a striking bright blue, the same colour as her eyes.
Whatever was to be transported had to go through the black hole, avoiding the sharp edge, which cut like a thorn. And touch the whirling edges and it singed you like fire. She knew because she had tested it, many seasons before when Naath was alive. Naath’s ability was to perfectly mimic any sound or voice, and they had played many a prank on their two older brothers with his imitating their mother’s voice and Tamza’s portal delivering the sound to where her brothers were misbehaving. It never failed. A twang plucked in her chest and she stifled the tears that threatened to fall. That time felt so long ago now.
Until tonight, she had never transported herself, never having made the circular doorway big enough for her to fit through. She had cared too much about living for it to potentially go wrong and for the portal to swallow her up. But tonight, she had nothing to lose. She had focused hard to make her doorways big enough, had travelled through the portal and lived.
The big, wooden doors to the hall opened and soldiers spilled out, they gawped at her.
“Here!” one yelled. The King came storming through, pushing his men out of the way to see her. He relaxed as soon as he did.
“Tamza,” he said with relief, with love, with a deep emotion that she knew he had never experienced before, as if his entire life would end if she was not within his sight.
It worked. The King is mine.