Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 09

He sat once more, flirting with cardiac arrest, heavy breathing with sweat on his brow. "You three!" he growled at his terrified seers. "I order you... Contrive for me, a scholarly, beautiful, legally binding holy marriage rite! Conjure the thing, divine it, channel it, I don't give a flying horse." He looked at Ahmad, still ringing her hands under the voluminous black robes. "ARE YOU STILL HERE? FETCH LADY REBEKAH!"

The doctor bowed, turning as she did in one smooth motion, then swept away like a shadow. Fat Cleric had broken into a sweat. He cleared his throat. "My Liege..."

"If you are about to issue some sort of disclaimer." the king snarled.

"No, no, My Liege, I would not dare. It's just that... my brother mystic..." he gestured at Short Round, about to drop him in it, "has already prepared. But he must use an ancient tongue. From the Agara. A wedding ritual so beautiful, so lyrical, so... so... so poetic and so touching, it was said to make the very heavens weep."

"And it will it be legally binding?"

Fat Cleric dipped his head. "On Earth as it is in heaven."

"Then so be it!"

The crowd reorganised according to some arcane choreography, the lower ranks receding into obscurity near the walls, courtiers and aristocrats taking the middle ground, government officials- propagandists from the Information Ministry foremost among them- front and centre to witness the ritual. No film crew this time, they would turn up later. For the re-enactment, once the deed had been done and the marriage was a fait accompli. The rest of the rent-a-crowd consisted mainly of security... ceremonial guards, resplendent in their stiff white kilts and heavy leather plastrons, sandals, shin guards and blue-striped headdress. And black-clad tacticals to give it a modern twist. The chambers fell silent, the lamp-lit atmosphere gravid with portent.

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Next door in her chambers, Beck sat at her brightly-lit dresser in singlet and knickers, wincing as a stylist, robed in black from head to foot, fussed with her platinum hair. One eye closed, Beck curled her lip. "Jesus, Sister, you're meant to be plaiting it, not pulling it out. Maybe if you lost those stupid gloves."

Corralled behind the bed by Inayat's hefty nurses, Hope and Floraliza, still in their civvies, stood wringing their hands. When Floraliza stepped forward to go to her mistress's aid, a fat hand shoved her backwards and the nurse shook her head.

The door burst open with Inayat's usual fanfare, and the menacing black creature flew into the room. Crossing the room without breaking stride, she barged the stylist aside and seized Beck by the wrist. "Get up, whore!" she hissed, dragging Beck to her feet.

"HEY!" Beck scowled, struggling to break her grip.

Beck's hair went flying as Inayat gave her a resounding smack to the side of the head. Hope and Floraliza cried out, and while the two fat nurses held them back, Inayat levelled a finger in Beck's face. "His Majesty awaits, and if I have to serve you up half-cooked then so be it. But I'm warning you. If you don't cooperate... I swear... we'll be holding a funeral instead of a wedding." Looking over her shoulder, she jerked her head at the nurses. "Come! Quickly! Let's get this trollop dressed."

The two hefty young women hurried to Inayat's side, while Inayat pulled back and the stylist hovered nervously nearby. "What of her hair, Madam Doctor?"

"Who cares? Tie it up in a bun. Just make sure the nape of the neck is exposed, for His Majesty's pleasure. Right where I'd love to lay my sword. You two. Undress her."

The nurses closed-in, unsure what to do. Garnishing the meal was the hand-maidens' job. When one went for the hem of her vest Beck fended her off. "You just keep those paws to yourself, Jasmina."

Shouldering the nurses aside, Inayat grabbed Beck's briefs by the crotch and reefed them down, then wrenched them away under her feet. Standing, she tore Beck's pink silk singlet off over her head and flung it aside. Hands over her face, Floraliza dropped to her knees, wailing, while Hope crouched down and put an arm around her. Beck stepped back, stark naked and shaking, arms crossed, hands flat on her scant little breasts. "Enjoy that did you, you old pervert? 'I'm Doctor Inayat, and I love watching girls have sex."

Inayat looked around in a rage, then stormed over to Beck's distraught maids. Kicking Hope out of the way, she seized Floraliza by a fistful of her bountiful hair and dragged her to her feet. Beck's jaw sagged and her eyes went wide at the sight of the six-inch dagger, probing Floraliza's jugular. No souvenir-shop knock off, but the real deal, double-edged Damascus steel, serrated like a Great White's tooth. Inayat shot Beck a glare that could have moonlighted as paint-stripper. "I could kill this little sewer-rat right here and no one would raise an eyelash. You have two minutes. You morons..." she jerked her chin at the nurses, "the silk slip. Then the golden cape... god preserve me from seeing it sullied by this whore. You..." she gestured at the stylist, "get this harlot's hair done up, I don't care how, and His Majesty's eyes will never stray that high in any event. Then the golden hood over her head. Then the burqa. And don't forget the slippers."

While Beck submitted dumbly, the attendants got to work. Floraliza, her hair in Inayat's fist, the point of the blade pinking her neck, locked eyes with Hope. They could rush this bitch, for the price of a few cuts, then gut her where she stood. Which would only mean leaving their mistress to face the music alone, an unthinkable sin.

"Right!" Inayat snapped, shoving Floraliza away and sheathing her dagger. While the nurses scurried off to dress in their own robes, she stalked around Beck, now shrouded in black from head to toe, making final adjustments. "Just like we practiced." Inayat said amiably, flicking a speck of dust from Beck's shoulder, "I lead you into His Majesty's chambers. You stop on the mark, and not an inch further. Then I move behind you. Once the rites are complete and His Majesty acknowledges possession, Fatima and Imaan will take your outer robes and raise them over your head. Understand?"

Beck nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality setting-in. It was happening. A life-sentence without parole unless some sort of miracle intervened.

"Good. And once you are revealed, you may approach your husband. You are NOT utter a word. Move to the spot, go down on your knees and prostrate yourself in front of him. Once he indicates his acceptance, rise, move backwards to the mark, and I will escort you to the bed-chamber. Understand?"

Beck nodded mutely in reply. Oh, she understood. She was back in the middle of the Pacific. Only now there was no Damon, no Aurora. And no trailing lifeline.

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Heads turned, and a vocalist broke into a convoluted warble, as the black-robed Doctor Inayat rustled into the chambers, leading a similarly stygian figure, swathed in black from top to bottom, big blue eyes peering out of a letterbox slot. Flanked by black-clad attendants, the party took up position just meters in front of the king, whereupon the nurses knelt, one a side, black-gloved hands gripping the hem of the black niqab. The instant the last words of the ceremony left the celebrant's lips, they would sweep the bride's robes off, revealing the king's new wife in her dazzling golden mantle.

Beck stood, shaking, on the verge of an out-of-body experience, heart pounding, sweat running over her torso under the triple-canopy- burqa; diamond-studded, golden spider-silk cape; and gold silk slip. No underwear of course, she wouldn't be needing any. Now the bride had arrived, the three mystics jostled into position to the right of the king, from whence the pronouncements would be made. Short Round shot his brother mystic a scolding glare, beaming a telepathic, 'thanks a bunch', then shuffled to the fore, summoning his inner resources. His innate talent for torrential, seamless, bullshit... mellifluous gobbledegook masquerading as spooky glossolalia.

Hands raised as if about to read the text from his palms, he let his head fall back. His eyes rolled back in their sockets until only the whites were showing, and his jaw fell slack as he tapped into some parallel dimension, far, far away in the galaxy Vaudeville. Sole source of colour and vitality in the cavernous space, the king leant forward, elbows on knees, rapt, as the first unintelligible words tumbled from Short Round's mouth. His eyes bored into the quaking figure in front of him, his new wife, his new toy, his new companion and plaything. The old monarch felt a stirring in his loins, the first in years, a miracle endowed by the un-aging elixir. There'd be no proxy cock for this little filly tonight. He'd do her himself, just like the days of old, in the short but unforgettable reign of Lady Niqiya, most beloved of the most beloved, reincarnated here for his unbridled pleasure. Verily, a gift from heaven, and the chance to relive the love of a lifetime.

There was a rumble underfoot like a distant peal of thunder. Short Round hesitated and the king jerked upright. "Why is he stopping?"

Nervous glances here and there, the sound of muffled gunfire. The banquet, no doubt, getting underway. Though it wasn't meant to start until the ceremony was done, when His Majesty made his entrance. With his new wife.

"CONTINUE, GOD STRIKE YOU!" the king bellowed and Short Round jumped, then took up where he'd just left off, his eyes no longer rolled back, but darting furtively around the chambers. Wondering, was that an explosion he'd just heard?

On the brink of wetting herself, Beck fought the urge to cross her legs, Inayat's threat still ringing in her ears. Then it all began to unfold like some action replay. For the second time in his presence, Beck watched the king look around in dismay, as a squad of black-uniformed troops burst into the room. The king's arm shot out and he pointed at Beck. "I DO! NOW GET HER BACK TO HER CHAMBERS! HURRY!"

Inayat grabbed her arm as pandemonium erupted all around, the distant, ritual gunfire no longer distant or ritual.

The king shook a finger at Short Round. "SAY IT!" he roared. "I NOW DECLARE YOU MAN AND WIFE! SAY IT! I COMMAND YOU!"

Kilt-clad security, now brandishing assault rifles, rose up behind him. Falling on the king, they dragged him backwards onto the floor, toppling the throne, as guests and minions stampeded for the exits.

"Here we go again!" Beck huffed, partly indignant, partly afraid, as Inayat dragged her full tilt down towards her chambers. "Dat dat dadalaladaladat laa dat laa daa... Is that circus music I can hear?"

Inayat gave Beck's skinny arm a vicious wrench. "Silence, harlot! You think this is a joke?"

Security saw them coming and barged open the chambers' heavy doors. Hurled inside, Beck took two huge, lunging steps then tripped on her robes, hitting the floor in an undignified sprawl. Jumping to her side, Hope and Floraliza lifted her back onto her feet, while Inayat stood with her back to the door. Beck tugged her head-cover off. "What the FUCK?" she railed, "What's going on?"

Inayat swept her own hood off and raked back her hair. Unable to stifle a huge, triumphant grin, she stood, quivering with excitement. "Well, well, well..," she breathed, "it looks like we're gonna have a Blood Moon wedding."

Beck straightened her robes. "I thought we just had one. Or was that just for practice?"

"A proper Blood Moon wedding. On the Blood Moon. Then your new husband will take you away..." she pointed a finger, "just you, to his mountain palace. There to enjoy you for as long as it takes to get sick of you. Then trade you." Inayat said, while in her mind's eye she saw the little blonde whore plummeting down the screaming wall, feet pedalling, arms windmilling, the scream, powered by her very last breath, echoing through the mountains. "Or maybe, please god, he might give you some flying lessons."

Hope bit her knuckles, her worst nightmare come to life. That monster at the door could only be referring to one thing.

"Now," Inayat said, still slightly breathless, "I must to attend His Majesty." She pulled on her headcover and her dark eyes narrowed in the slot. "You three wait here. And I'll be back shortly to settle the bill."

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Cowering in the shadows behind a long silk drapery, the king's three seers listened to a short, pitched battle, between several members of the household guard and the black-uniformed wedding crashers. The king's personal security were quickly cut down, and the king himself dragged, raging, from the scene. Briefly alone in the chambers, the dim space aswirl with gunsmoke and testosterone, Fat Cleric peeked out from behind the crimson curtain. "They've gone."

"Who were they?" Short Round gasped, his hammering heart about to go 'pop!'.

Fat Cleric shot him a glare. "You're the mystic. You tell me."

"Rashiid's men." Reverend Rake said in a low voice.

Fat Cleric shot him a glare. "So now you're the clairvoyant?"

Reverend rake curled his lip. "I don't have to be. Rashiid's been after that little blonde boy-girl from day one. Everyone knows. It's finder's-keepers as they say."

Fat Cleric chewed a knuckle. If the old king and the ruthless young thruster were fighting for the prize, and the Grand Scholar's job was up for grabs. "Brothers..." he said, "do we remain loyal to His Majesty?"

Short Round and Reverend Rake swapped a glance. "Well..." Reverend Rake said warily, "that depends."

"On?"

"Well... whether he prevails."

"But until it is decided. We still serve him, yes?"

Reverend Rake and Short Round nodded. Yes. Pending the outcome of the coup.

Fat Cleric snapped his fingers then pointed. "In the name of His Majesty. Get down to the docks straight away. Take the Western stairs, the quickest way. Get on the gunboat and wait for me there. Order the crew, make ready for immediate departure."

Fat Cleric went to take his leave and Reverend Rake caught his sleeve. "Where are you going?"

"I foresee great danger for His Majesty."

"No shit?" Reverend Rake whispered angrily. "Are you a fortune-teller or something?"

"I'm serious, Bilal, our futures depend on it. I will bring His Majesty to safety."

Short Round and Reverend Rake reared back in surprise. "You'll what?"

"I will seek out His Majesty and bring him to safety."

"But... but... that's insane."

Fat Cleric knitted his brows. "You know, you're right! It might be best if we all go."

"We all?"

Fat Cleric drew a circle. "All three of us. To save the king."

His brother seers threw their hands up. "No! No... you go. Let's face it, you are the most feared and respected out of all of us."

Short Round nodded, thinking, like Reverend Rake, about the Grand Scholar's recently vacated position. "We will go to the boat and prepare suitable accommodations. For His Majesty the King, long may he reign."

Reverend Rake nodded. "God bless and preserve him."

"You sure?" Fat Cleric frowned.

Reverend Rake gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. "We would only slow you down, believe me. You see, I've got this bad knee..."

"And I've got that other thing... with my... my..."

"Adrenal glands." Reverend Rake suggested.

Short Round snapped his fingers. "With them."

Fat Cleric looked around, on the cusp of a double-take. "Do you think I should?"

"Yes! Yes!" his cronies replied. "Imagine the honour."

"Imagine the... the... what he just said."

Fat Cleric had already imagined. Grand Scholar, with all the perks that implied. International travel in the king's personal jet, mansions and villas all over the world. And as much totty of as many different genders as the unbelievers managed to dream up. "Alright, then, you two make haste. Have them start the engines and make ready to cast off. And my brothers... if I do not appear with His Majesty within the hour, then we must face it. I have met my fate and you must leave without me."

The seers clutched hands in a wholly counterfeit gesture of camaraderie, two thinking one an idiot, while one thought the same about two. Fat Cleric stood a better chance of teleporting to heaven than rescuing that doddering old king. If one of them was to be new Grand Scholar by the end of the day, it wouldn't be him.

Quietly thrilled at the prospect of getting the hell out of Dodge, Short Round and Reverend Rake ran stooped from the chambers, making for the long concrete stairway on the western flank of the palace. Fat Cleric watched them go, inwardly smirking, then scuttled to the entrance of a secret passageway, known only to the seers. Purchased at vast expense from the famous British architect- to the tune of a Ferrari, a luxury apartment in Monaco, a round-the-world trip and a bevy of beautiful hookers. The several main palaces were riddled with the things, allowing the three mystics to suddenly appear and abruptly dematerialise with supernatural ease.

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The banquet hall was in turmoil when Watson arrived. Led by the runner, he was taken as far as the entrance then abandoned to his own devices. The first thing he noticed was an almost total absence of stewards and servants, the uniformed staff who kept the crowd more or less under control. In the absence of responsible adults, the gathered VVIPs in their ceremonial robes, had fallen back on their natural behaviour, like naughty private schoolboys left alone by their teacher. Fights were breaking out between bitter business rivals, and political factions had gone to war, a sin of the highest order under the Blood Moon protocols. Staying well out of harm's way, Watson searched desperately for any sign of the ivory merchant, Zhang, hoping to find him in the midst of a brawl.

He could have been any one of them. Watson cringed at the sound of a distant explosion, followed by gunfire, standard prelude to a night's entertainment. He turned to leave, then stopped in his tracks and doubled back again, torn between competing impulses- stay and risk losing the chance to save Ally, leave and risk losing his head. He crept to the exit again, looking for his personal servant, Ali. He, like the other stewards, often hung out in a Spartan annex, adjoining the main hall, where they could kick back and grab a meal, maybe watch some TV. From what he could see the annex was empty, just one more oddity at the bottom of a growing list. Sucking up his courage, he flipped the cloak's black hood over his head, then backed out of the banquet hall, past the empty servants' room to the stairway beyond.

The Inner Circle apartments were two levels below. To reach them, Watson knew, he could either take an elevator down to his level, or go the long way, outside to the eastern stairway, then down several flights to the apartment landing. The chances of the elevator stopping at an intermediate level tipped the balance. Hurrying outside, Watson quick-stepped down the sandstone stairway, followed by another volley of gunfire, range and direction unknown. By the sounds of it though, the court was winding up for a real extravaganza tonight, as if the usual antics weren't theatrical enough.

Looking left and right for lurking stewards, Watson edged into the long, dim hallway leading to the inner circle apartments. 'Should have taken a beta-blocker' he thought, heart pounding at the bars of his ribcage. As he crept down the corridor, his nagging sense unease turned into a full-throated warning. Pausing at an open door, Watson peeked into the apartment of a fellow resident- the Russian if he recalled- now ransacked and strewn with the owner's possessions. Flipping back the hood, Watson mopped his brow, then scuttled like a big black beetle to the door of his room.