Convergence

Author's Notes: This story concludes the While the Gods Slumber series, my first series ever! To those that have been patiently following...Thank you! I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments!

Going forward, demons, as inherently intersex beings, will be identified with the quasi-neopronouns xhe, xhim, xhis. This usage will be explained and formally introduced in future editions of Descent and the stories that follow.

City of Morore, Kingdom of Morore. Year 3125, Month of Sowing

Whisper sipped from her bowl of spicy dika nut soup. She gazed out from the roof terrace, only half listening while her enforcer gave his report. The month of Sowing, just after the seasonal rains, was her favorite time of year. Cool air and the sun's glow played upon her skin like a pair of jealous lovers.

Her house was only three stories high, just one among several mud-brick homes huddled together within the Upper City walls of Morore. Squat, drum-shaped towers of the noble clans and the royal palace dominated the northern sky. South, east, and west, she could see the Lower City, and clear to the horizon.

The mesa that the Upper City occupied was both pedestal and prison. It raised wealthy traders and noble clansmen that lived upon it over the Lower City below. But its walls and height prevented easy access to the people, the river, and the granaries below. At least, access for most. Whisper and her informants crossed that barrier at will.

In the shadow of the Upper City lay the two great arteries of the kingdom. The Brassbelt Road rolled along from east to west, lined with rows of baobabs - stout pillars with stunted green crowns. That road gave birth to the lesser streets that ran south through the city. Along the west side of the mesa, the ribbon of the Big Mongoose River gleamed in the midday sun, crossing the Brassbelt and winding its way into the southern hills.

Life teemed upon these arteries. Markets for every item under the sun thrived on the patches of bare red earth along the Brassbelt. Sandal makers, tailors and trading houses opened their shops on the road and streets, shaded by stubby date palms. South of the Brassbelt, clusters of granaries stood like sun-soaked soldiers under their thatched straw roofs. The complex of the powerful Casters' Guild, a veritable castle and the home of the brass-crafters, hugged the river just south of the bridge where the road and river met. Barges and ferries floated on the river, piled high with passengers and goods from the forested north.

In the distance, a perimeter of pale, rune-marked obelisks marked the edge of the city - the ancestral wards that kept demons away.

Well, most of the demons.

From this height, Whisper could just make out the people in the Lower City, those tiny dabs of color, the unknowing subjects of her Court of Secrets. They told a thousand thousand stories to each other. One day, she would know them all.

"The kids say Stick has been picking pockets again," Miko went on, ever dutiful with Court business. "Almost got grabbed by the city wardens."

"Let him sleep in the gutters for a few days," Whisper said.

She could hear some of the children on the first floor below taunting each other. They were her drongos, little birds with eyes and ears who told her everything that happened in the narrow lanes of the Upper City. The wardens couldn't keep them outside of the walls. But if the kids were caught sleeping in the streets they'd be thrown out. If they were caught stealing, they'd be hanged.

Whisper fed the waifs, housed them, and put them to work. They begged, they lied, they spied, and they reported back. But they did not steal. This was her home. She was respectable now.

"If Stick wants to thieve, he can do it outside the walls," Whisper said, taking another sip. The peppery soup was thick with ground nuts, greens, okra and goat meat. She nodded praise to the girl, Marble, who tended the pot. The girl waited politely out of earshot, in case Whisper asked for more. "If he does it again," she said softly to Miko, "have Adder take care of it."

She trusted Adder to show more restraint than Miko. Whisper had few limits, but hurting children was among them.

Miko nodded with a grim expression. "As you say."

"No word on Kuya?"

The enforcer shook his head. "We haven't found a body, at least."

Just like Mother, Kuya was an intulo, one of that scaly demonic species that lived in Morore's underworld. Kuya lurked among the whores and entertainers who plied their trades along the Brassbelt.

People seemed to be disappearing all over the city these days.

Whisper downed the rest of the soup. "What's going on in the palace?"

"No more news. No one seems to know where the prince is. If they do, it's a closely held secret."

And I do love a closely held secret.

Whisper signaled to Marble to take the empty bowl.

The heir to King Yende's throne was a notorious philanderer. His conquests had already made him quite a few enemies. Had he gotten himself into trouble with one of them, or run off with a new lover? It had been two days now since Prince Kandu had been seen.

"Now," Whisper said, watching the girl, with a pair of mitts, take the pot down the stairs to share a morning meal with the other kids. "Why is Ranthaman San here?"

Miko shrugged broad shoulders. Whisper's enforcer was quite enticing in that loose, sleeveless tunic that bared python-like arms. He was the outwardly intimidating one of her pair of guards, like a giant muscled hyrax. When he climaxed, his eyes would flutter like moth's wings, and he tended to seize her head in a grip like a vise. Somehow, it made him that much more enticing.

Whisper's carnal hunger was like an old friend. Sometimes it betrayed her, and sometimes she hated it. But it was always present. Without it, she would not be her.

"I think he's here about something to do with the Thandi," said Miko.

Whisper scowled. They were almost enough to kill her mood. "Bring him up," she said.

He left her alone on the terrace. When he returned, he led the House San trader.

Whisper had never met the man in person, but she knew of him. Ranthaman wore light robes of cinnabar over flowing pants. His hair and his goatee were perfectly sculpted; not a hair out of place.

The enforcer stepped away to give them privacy, leaning against the parapet wall to take in the morning city streets. The merchant joined her where she reclined under her pergola.

"Ancestors bless," he said. His Nubic was quite smooth. An unpracticed ear might have mistaken it for his first tongue. He spent many months out of the year in the Kingdoms. "Whisper?"

She nodded and gestured. "Sit."

The trader took the reclining chair across from hers, the one Miko had occupied. Like the enforcer, he remained sitting upright. "This is more public than I expected."

Whisper toyed with a curly twist of her hair, enjoying the slight tug on her scalp. She stretched out long, slender legs, like a snake uncoiling its length. Her legs were mostly unencumbered by the spare, dun-colored gown that was her only garment.

She was too skinny, by her own tastes. As a girl, she had lusted after the curvy, painted whores that flaunted themselves along the Brassbelt. But no matter how much palm butter sauce she scarfed down, she couldn't seem to lose her slim appearance.

Mother's fault.

"I am not a thief, Ranthaman. I am a trader, just as you are, and I work in the daylight. But I trade in well-told tales, not bolts of linen."

The Ikanjan merchant smiled. "A secret is less weighty than gold, and far more precious," he recited.

"...To the right buyer," Whisper finished. "My favorite Nubic proverb. You have heard of the Courts of Morore?"

"Gangs of thieves, you mean?"

"Just so. This is my Court. The Court of Secrets. What do you want to know?"

Ranthaman San lowered his voice. "It is rumored there is a coven of Thandi witches in Morore," he said. "I wish to meet with them."

Whisper's eyebrow perked in interest. "Information is costly when there is great risk involved," she said. "Tell me why you seek them, perhaps we can more easily settle upon a price."

"I cannot say why. But I am prepared to offer a reasonable amount of coin, as well as the goodwill of the Great House San of Ikanje."

That goodwill was no small matter. Like whores, traders made ideal informants. And yet...

Whisper grinned. "Let's discuss 'reasonable amounts of coin'."

Once they had agreed upon a price, Ranthaman left. Miko turned around, his back to the parapet wall, pursing his lips in thought.

Whisper slid off of her chair and joined him at the wall, tasting the sweet breeze that wafted above the city stink. In the narrow street below, a kola nut peddler hawked his wares, rolling a pushcart. He shooed away two barefoot boys who begged him for a taste.

A few moments later, Ranthaman walked out the door below, accompanied by a woman in a long tunic and trousers, as tall as he was.

"Who is that?" Whisper asked.

"She arrived with him. A maid, probably."

Whisper watched as the two spoke to each other, walking side by side.

"A maid? With a back so straight she could be one of Yende's palace guards?" Whisper snorted. "You need to hone your skills of observation."

"She's got one too many scars to be the wife of a man like Ranthaman," Miko said. "Or a lover."

"Interesting."

After the Ikanjan pair had passed, the two boys peered up at Whisper. She gave a sharp nod. The boys drifted along after the merchant and his companion. Her drongos were resourceful, highly skilled shadows. They knew how to work as a team, and they had networks of beggars and other informants in both the Upper and Lower City.

Finding the Thandi and arranging a meeting would not be difficult. Getting involved with the coven without becoming entangled in their latest plot... that would be more difficult. Mother feared the Scarred Women, as other demons did. For good reason.

Something about the combination of events didn't sit well with Whisper. Royal heirs didn't normally go missing, and respectable merchants didn't seek out Thandi covens.

Her fingers snaked idly into the waistband of Miko's trousers as she watched Ranthaman and his female companion go. She licked her lips as she felt Miko's length swell, warm in her hand.

The House San trader's price had been a good one. Secrets were more precious than gold, and much more intriguing.

She turned back to Miko, fingers deftly working at his drawstring. "Set something up with the Thandi." Whisper sank down before him, her back against the brick of the parapet. His trousers dropped, pooled at his feet.

"...Later," she added.

**

On a bright morning two days later, Miko brought the Thandi emissary to the terrace while Whisper played vu'ela with the girl, Marble.

Marble reminded Whisper of herself as a child. The boyish waif was observant and quick to learn, so Whisper taught her a game of strategy.

If one believed the storytellers, vu'ela was nearly as old as the First Woman, played in every land in the known world. The simple game required only a double row of cups, a sack full of pebbles, the ability to think many steps ahead and seize opportunities when they came.

When Whisper saw who Miko led up to the roof terrace, she nearly dropped her pebbles.

She glared at the enforcer. The open-faced innocence he showed her might have even been genuine.

You and I shall have to have a talk, Miko.

The Thandi woman lacked the tattooed scars that many of her heritage had, and for good reason. Bayati was an agent. She was the public-facing front for an arcane and powerful clan of women.

Prominent cheekbones graced a leaner and harsher face than Bayati had had two years before, but one just as beautiful. Her shoulders and arms were sculpted as well, laid bare by the wrap dress she wore. Her pouty, down-turned lips still seemed to invite kisses. Whisper pushed the game board towards Marble, and gestured for the waif to leave. The same for Miko. Bayati was dangerous. Of that there could be no doubt.

But there was an art to dealing with dangerous people, and it started by knowing what they desired.

Bayati waited until they were alone on the roof. She ducked under the pergola. "You've moved up in the world," she said, surveying the roof and the city beyond. "Living atop the mesa now. Last time I saw you, you were in a Brassbelt brothel. What is this place... an orphans' den?"

Whisper ignored the jab. "I thought you were dead. Where have you been the last two years? If you were in the city, I would have known."

Bayati shrugged. She sat down in the chair, her gaze like smoldering ash. "I was on a quest, to fetch something of value."

"Did you find it?"

"I did. What did you call me here for?"

Bayati's scent was a subtle mix of hibiscus tinged with fresh grass. It brought memories rushing back. Memories Whisper didn't want to let go of just yet. Her hunger was like an eager hound, but she reined it in. "Someone is looking for you, for your coven," she said.

"May the gods disappoint them."

"House San of Ikanje wants to meet with you," Whisper caught the flicker of surprise, the slight widening of the eyes. The calculation as Bayati's gaze slid away.

"Arrange the meeting," the Thandi woman said.

Whisper nodded, but Bayati made no move to leave.

Ah. There is more. Something she wants.

"Do you have any wine?" Bayati asked.

Whisper smiled and reached down beside her wicker chair to a clay jar. She pulled the wood stopper and handed it over.

Bayati glanced at her, tilted her head. She took a swig. She nodded her appreciation and passed it back. They'd shared quite a bit of marula wine together, when they were something resembling lovers. This jar was tart, with a hint of nuttiness.

Bayati peered up at the nearest drum-shaped tower, the immense dwelling of a Vong Clan trader. "Anyone could look down on us," she noted.

"There is nothing to see, except me having conversations."

"I know you better than that," Bayati countered. "There is much more to see." She laid back on the wicker recliner, closing her eyes for a moment. "I mocked your success before. But you do look more comfortable now, here in your Court of Secrets. You are no longer a thief pretending to be a whore. You have grown. I respect that."

"I am legitimate. I observe. I tell people what I observe. They pay me. There is no law against that." Whisper watched the other woman carefully.

Wherever Bayati had been, it had changed her. On the outside she was tough as leather, but on the inside...

"And that's what you want most, Whisper? To live in the Upper City, amongst the nobles? To be invited to the palace?"

"I enjoy not being chased by city wardens and rival Courts." And cabals of Scarred Women, Whisper might have added.

"You may still find yourself unsafe," Bayati said, taking another swig. "Laws change. Rulers fall."

"All true, but things of real value will always be traded." Whisper drew up her legs to cross them on the chair, baring them to the thigh. "You know what I miss?" she asked. The fruity bite of the wine lingered on her tongue.

Bayati waited, her gaze dark and expectant.

In Bayati's expression, Whisper glimpsed a memory of who they'd once been. The emotion there couldn't pass for warmth or tenderness, but might be called desire. Bayati was an actor, one as fine as any entertainer on stage during the Festival of the Bursting Belt. She had mastered concealment of her true self. Beneath that façade, the woman was terrified that anyone should know her feelings.

"What was that song? The Ironsmith's Wife." Whisper remembered. "I loved when you sung it for me."

"It is call and response. It is made to be sung in a group."

"Not when you sing it."

Bayati smiled. "You want me to sing?"

"'Want' is such a feeble word. I crave it, Bayati."

The Thandi woman was silent for a while. Then she began to sing. Her voice was like a finely tuned harp. The notes soared like an eagle, hung there on the updrafts until they lifted your soul in their talons.

Listening to Bayati sing used to make Whisper cry.

The ballad was in Swaga, a language spoken far to the south, and in the coven. The Thandi woman had once explained that it told the story of an aging man whose wife journeyed to a neighboring town to visit family, but never returned. Every night he would watch stars wheel across the sky as he waited for her, wondering whether he would be with her again in life or in death.

But it didn't matter much to Whisper what the words meant.

As the song came to an end, Whisper rose fluidly from her chair and walked to the corner of the pergola. She drew a linen curtain that stretched around the north side of the structure, blocking off the view from the north-side towers.

Bayati watched her, with hooded eyes. "Now I understand the orphans. You always had a soft heart," she said.

Whisper dropped smoothly beside her, kneeling on the reclining chair. Bayati wasn't submissive, not at all. But she yielded before aggression, like a pack hunter. It explained her loyalty to the coven. She obeyed her betters to a fault. And if you could get past the woman's armor, she would crumble like un-mortared bricks.

Then she would truly sing.

"A soft heart helps understand others better. It helps to feel what they feel." Whisper ran a finger up the other woman's slender arm, feather-light. "Their pain. Their fear. Their desire."

"You don't know what I feel."

"I know that your quest changed you. I know that you long for me." She bent over Bayati, her face so close she could see the tiny flecks of distress in the woman's eyes. "No, it is not me you long for... It is the past. You regret something you've-"

"Don't," Bayati said, voice strained. "I didn't come for this."

"Who said this is about what you want?" Whisper dipped her head until her lips almost touched Bayati's skin. She could taste the heat rising from it. "I don't care if you don't want me. It's been years, and I hunger for you."

Bayati lunged upward, her mouth closing over Whisper's. Whisper savored the salt and wine taste. Bayati's lips were just as plump and soft as ever, her tongue as clever. As eager as Whisper was for more, she stretched atop Bayati slowly, and settled into the embrace.

As their tongues dueled and hands roamed, the city carried on without them. The murmur and cry of the markets, the distant roar of Casters' furnaces firing up to work iron and copper, and the bellows of elephants and buffalos carrying their burdens sounded below.

Whisper ran a hand between the bottom halves of Bayati's dress, up over a firm thigh, then to her waist, deft fingers undoing the linen tie of the garment. Part of her wanted to straddle the Thandi woman, to press her down under lips and tongue, and savor this feeling of knowing her.

But Bayati was right. This moment was not about the two of them, not about rekindling whatever it was that they had.

Whisper sat up. She opened the halves of the dress, baring Bayati's well-toned torso and upturned breasts. There was hardly any fat on the woman. Whatever she'd been doing on her quest, it had been active. Guessing from those shoulders and forearms, it had involved either hard labor, or weapons.

"I know what you are doing," Bayati said, huskily.

Whisper bent again, traced a line down the woman's throat, between her breasts. She nuzzled Bayati's flat belly, tasting her. Lower, to the scrap of a loincloth the woman wore. Whisper felt the heat of Bayati's yoni through the fabric, drank in the musk like the aroma of her next meal.

The bouquet was a heady one, of sweat and sweet hibiscus, and something decidedly not feminine. Whisper's keen senses recognized it right away.