23. The Demonstration
The Demonstration
I t wasn’t the long trip inside the bouncing carriage that was causing Mila to feel sick. It was the way the landscape began to look hauntingly familiar, like something remembered from a waking dream. They were heading to Traders Bay.
She’d been fourteen when her family had cast her out, and during the following year of aimless wandering, she’d spent some time in the sprawling, notorious city that was Traders Bay. When she’d finally turned her back on it and headed for the Highlands, she’d hoped never to lay eyes on the port city again. Yet, as Jeralusah’s thick, luscious, green fields began to turn into coastal cacti and tiny whitewashed cottages, it became increasingly obvious that this was their destination.
“Traders Bay?” she asked quietly.
Culis looked up from his book. “Yes. Have you been there before?”
“Unfortunately.”
“What does that mean?”
She wished she hadn’t spoken. Flashes of the life she’d endured there rose in her mind – the poverty, the squalid sharehouse, the killer who had stalked and butchered random women in her block of units, the blatant disregard of the City Watch. It’d been hell. She’d left as soon as she had been able to afford to do so.
“I’ve lived there before. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.”
“There’s clearly more to that story,” he said with a raised brow.
“There is.”
He paused expectantly, but when Mila made it apparent that there was no further story forthcoming, he continued on. “I see, well, I hope you overcome your aversion. We’ll be spending a lot of time there. It’s a second home to me, and it’s where I conduct almost all of my business.”
“Is that what we’re doing today? A business meeting?”
“No.” Culis couldn’t hide the smile from his face. “We’re doing something far more important. That’s why I had the maids attend to you this morning. You look beautiful, by the way.”
The maids had indeed attended to Mila that morning, overcoming their fear of her and washing, plucking, styling and shaping her within an inch of her life. Her short hair had been parted to the side and elegantly slicked back into a modern style that somehow brought her femininity to the forefront and highlighted her cheekbones. She still wore the simple blue dress, but the finishing touches had been a pretty pink stain across her lips and a dark shadow dusted across her eyes. Mila had never experienced anything like it, and when she’d looked in the mirror again, she’d felt, for the first time in a long time, like she actually looked beautiful.
But that all came crashing down with his next words.
“I’m showing you at Central today.”
Traders Bay was a merchant city at its core. Its many roads led like veins towards three large markets that were the beating hearts of the region. Buxton-Canal Market lay by the docks and was run by farmers and fishermen. It provided the main trade in daily essentials, fresh food and livestock. The stalls of the Porters Lane Market were stocked full of knickknacks, furniture, jewellery and decorations. Central Market, the smallest yet most notorious market, only ran once a week and was for the trade of exotic and rare goods.
“You’re showing me at Central,” she repeated slowly, in horror. “Like an exotic animal.”
“You’re not an animal, Mila,” he corrected. “But you are exotic, and it’s essential to display you and announce our venture to the world. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“So, this is your idea of an advertisement?” she said incredulously. “Whatever happened to pinning a notice on the town message board?”
“It’s going to be a demonstration that will elicit envy and desire from the nobility and form the foundation of our future demon trade. You don’t have to like it, but you’re going to have to trust me,” Culis replied. “I didn’t get where I am by pinning notices to town message boards.”
Mila swallowed her indignation. Whatever Culis had planned today was evidently very important to him, and if it didn’t go the way he intended, then there was every chance he would simply sell her back to Jezebel, recoup his losses and turn his attention to other things.
He was right. She probably wouldn’t like what was going to happen to her today. She simply had to endure it.
When they reached the city outskirts, Mila was accosted by all manner of smells, sounds and energies, as humanity in its most pungent form eked through the carriage windows. In comparison to the droll and demure population of Jeralusah, the folk of Traders Bay were an eclectic mix and far less conservative. The Heretical Behaviours were still avoided, but other, less serious vices abounded in broad daylight. Mila saw brothels, casinos and smoking houses as their carriage wound its way through the increasingly dense and serpent-like streets. Eventually, they came to a section where the street was so narrow they could go no further.
“This is us,” Culis said.
He opened the door and stepped down from the carriage, holding out his hand for hers in an unexpected gesture of chivalry.
She took it – to read him – and was rewarded as his excitement and anticipation pounded through her. And thus, she descended into the cacophony of Central.
As its name implied, Central was located in the heart of the Traders Bay sprawl, which reached from the sparkling blue port on the western coast and ran for miles inland, dominating the entire southwest region of the country. While Jeralusah was the moral and religious centre of Artor, Traders Bay was its purse. By bringing Mila to Central, Culis was ensuring the announcement of his new business venture would be made on the biggest stage in the nation.
Mila was immediately assaulted by the energies of the many lives around her, and she raised her handkerchief, which was stuffed with the dried rubane, up to her nose, and inhaled deeply.
God, it was good.
She’d decided to bring it with her today, and as the nutty aroma filled her nostrils, and the numbing haze drifted over her brain, she sighed in relief and delight. Culis turned sharply, following the unusually loud sound of inhalation, and gave her a curious look, but said nothing and was quickly distracted elsewhere. This was the first time since she’d been captured that she’d used the weed, and the relief it brought her in such a human-dense environment was palpable. Today was a day where managing her own energy would be enough of a task, let alone receiving everyone else’s.
Central was massive .
It was an oval arena filled with sand and ringed on all sides with tiered wooden seating. The ruthless sun beat down onto it, and while there were some shade sails provided for the elite boxes, most of the populace simply bore the brunt of the mid-summer ferocity.
Every few minutes, a new number would punctuate the din through a human loudspeaker system of twelve people that were rigged above the seating area. They would call out the next number, and this would prompt the next seller to take up his place on the sand and commence displaying and auctioning his wares.
Mila felt her stomach clench as she watched this routine unfold and realisation dawned on her. Culis expected her to be in the centre of that ring with him at some point today, to be displayed as property, as an anomaly, as something to be both reviled and desired.
She sniffed the rubane handkerchief again, willing it to be some kind of opiate instead.
Culis didn’t appear to be in any rush. He still held her hand to ensure they did not get separated by the sweaty and fevered crowd of spectators, and she could sense his enjoyment of the spectacle around them. He navigated their way slowly through the crush until, eventually, they arrived at their allotted box, one specifically carved with the crest of the Artor Trading Company on the front panel.
Once seated, shaded and with a sweet, iced beverage in hand, Mila was able to turn her attention to the centre of the ring, and despite her apprehension, she was impressed by what she saw.
Only the most notable traders were invited to present their wares at Central, and everything Mila saw displayed made her jaw drop. Not only were the goods utterly decadent, but the way the traders each chose to use the gigantic space to showcase their wares was a spectacle in itself. Smaller and more delicate objects were not well suited to such a vast viewing platform, so traders had to get creative. One perfumer had a number of slaves, each adorned with a giant, purple, feather fan. The slaves scurried about the boundaries of the arena and wildly waved their fans as he strode by, puffing samples of the perfume into the generated breeze. It was very effective, and Mila was able to easily smell the enticing scent.
Another man had hired a number of devastatingly beautiful and exotic models from across the continent to walk the length of the arena, allowing glossy new fabrics, obtained from across the sea, to glide and shimmer across their immaculate bodies. The fabric reminded Mila of the scales of a freshwater fish that lived in the waterfalls near her home, sleek and everchanging in the sun’s angles.
Other wares were far more easily showcased. A particularly beautiful and angry battle horse took her breath away as it galloped wildly around the arena, showing off its strength and prowess, before coming to a complete standstill at the snap of the trader’s fingertips.
The entire scene felt more like a spectacle, a performance, rather than a market. She wondered again, with deepening apprehension, what Culis would expect her to do. She turned to ask him, but he was deep in conversation with someone to his left, so she settled instead for a scan of the crowd.
It had been a long time since she’d seen such a diverse population. In the Highlands, the villagers dressed simply and tended to hold themselves quietly. In such an isolated region of the world, everyone knew everyone, so it was always best to err on the side of politeness and caution, lest you accidentally offend someone important.
If one wasn’t born in the village they lived in, then they had usually moved from the next one over to marry. Variation was found in the colourful clothes they wore, dyed with the abundance of berries and flowers from the rainforests, but the fabric was all the same, a simple fabric woven of local fibrous plants. Women generally wore loose- fitting, thin dresses, and men mostly went shirtless due to the extreme heat. The constant nudity of small children, right up until their years of blossoming, was not uncommon.
Traders Bay was different. It was located closer to the middle of the continent where the summer heat was not quite as oppressive. As it was closer to the sea and trading ports, the citizens of this region had access to a multitude of unusual fabrics and styles. As a result, their fashion still followed the typical summer traditional style, but was different somehow, more inventive and creative. Closer, Mila realised, to the extravagant style Jezebel favoured and probably inspired by her.
Almost every woman sported a fan of some sort, and some were fluttering them wildly in a vain attempt to generate a cool breeze. Others used theirs with more finesse to communicate with their envoy, directing them on when to bid and when to hold.
Culis finally finished his conversation with the man to his left and turned to her. At that moment, the number seventy-eight was called out over the loudspeaker.
He smiled and stood. “That’s us. Hide your horns for the moment, if you can.”
With that, he walked into the ring without so much as a glance rearward, clearly expecting her to follow him obediently.
Her stomach dropped, but she followed.
It was this or return to Jezebel.
She took a deep breath and tried to steady her raging nerves as she reached the bottom step of the tiered seating and made her way across the sandy arena to stand beside Culis in the centre.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Culis bellowed, throwing up his hands, demanding the attention of the space. He was the first after a long list of traders to have prepared no elaborate fanfare for his entrance, and it worked in his favour. The simplicity of his presentation, and probably his reputation, drew the curiosity of the crowd. For the first time all day, the constant background ruckus died down to a low hum.
“Today, I bring you a true rare gem. Something that has never before graced the floors of Central, and very few of which – I assure you – will ever grace it again.”
Mila felt more than heard the murmur of curiosity ripple through the crowd. They wondered what the famed adventurer, the merchant lord, Christopher Culis of the notorious Artor Trading Company, had brought to Central today. She also knew that they were looking at her and trying to puzzle out what he meant by her being rare. Very few human slaves ever made it onto the floor of Central. Only the most exotic-looking or talented ones had ever been brought forward, and while Mila’s hair had been fixed, and she was attractive, she was certainly not unique enough in her appearance to warrant the flourished herald that Culis was giving her.
“I present to you – ” he paused for effect, “ – my demon.”
A rush of silence hit the stadium like a hammer, followed almost instantly by a burst of frenzied chatter.
“A demon?!”
“What does he mean by my demon?”
“This is heresy.”
“She serves me under a binding contract as my servant. And her power,” Culis continued, “is the ability to manipulate the age of anyone she touches.”
Mila shot him a sharp glare, confused. But there was no way to confront him, especially not as a collective gasp of shock and intrigue rumbled through the crowd.
It was broken by a sharp cry. “Bullshit!”
The call came from somewhere within the stands and was loud enough for Mila to hear over the crowd .
It drew Culis’s attention also. “Who was that?” he called in a deep voice, like a circus ringmaster announcing his next act. “A doubter? One who would publicly question my honour? Sounds to me like a perfect opportunity for a demonstration! Come on then, come down here. Don’t be shy!”
“What are you doing?” Mila whispered frantically out of the corner of her mouth as the man who had jeered approached the centre of the arena.
Culis didn’t deign to reply. Instead, he watched with a smug smile as the man from the crowd came near. He was tottering from side to side, evidently a little drunk from a morning of hot sun and heavy drink. He was also, Mila noticed, wearing the insignia of the Guild of Merchants. Even she, with her limited commercial knowledge, knew that this man worked for the rival of the Artor Trading Company, Culis’s greatest competitor.
“Go on then!” the drunk man roared loudly before pulling down his pants and presenting his cock to Mila, much to the crowd’s delight. “Lucky me to get touched by a pretty thing for free.”
“Culis,” she hissed.
Culis rolled his eyes a little at the man’s behaviour, then said, “His face will suffice. Touch him,” he ordered.
Mila couldn’t believe what was happening, but to disobey at this point made no sense either. There was nowhere to hide. She had no option but to reach out and do as Culis commanded.
Her hand was inches away from the man’s bare skin when she paused. Culis saw her moment of hesitation and pushed between her shoulder blades, forcing her hand abruptly onto the man’s cheek.
Instantly, the man grabbed it with his own so she could not let go. At the same moment, he also let out a scream, as though he were in incredible pain and he began to wither away before her. Shrinking, wrinkling, hunching.
Mila tried to pull away in horror, but the man held her in place. The deep tenor of his voice morphed in time with the gnarling of his body, turning into a paltry, rusty croak.
He was ageing before their eyes. Ageing into an old, old man.
Mila stood watching, frozen in horror.
“Stop!” he begged, and she was finally able to move, wrenching her hand away.
The ageing immediately stopped, and the arena was silent and still as ice.
“Well?” Culis said calmly, not even needing to project his voice now. “Anyone else like to test my demon?”
Mila stared at her hand incredulously, her stomach as small as a raisin. What had just happened?
The old man stared down at his still exposed, now-shrivelled cock, and he cried out in despair, pulling his pants up, and then turning his gnarled hands over in front of his face. He let out a despairing sob.
Slowly, horrifically, he turned back the way he had come, shuffling grimly back towards his seat. He held the attention of the entire crowd for each tortuous step.
“Someone! Fetch that man a cane!” Culis joked lightly, bringing his eyes briefly over to Mila and her aghast face. “Oh, go on, demon, put everyone out of their misery. Touch him again.”
Mila blinked at him in horror, but Culis just gave her a warning stare and offered no explanation. So, without any other option, she turned, easily catching up with the shuffling old man, and did as she was bid. She reached out to touch him between the shoulder blades. Something was afoot here, but now was certainly not the time for her to publicly question it .
The man screamed again at her touch and contorted, his hands ripping at his long hair in agony. But this time, it seemed as though time was moving backwards.
When Mila withdrew her hand, the ageing had reversed. In fact, now, the man looked slightly younger than he had been before the entire ordeal began.
She stared at him with wide, startled eyes as she suddenly sensed something in him that she hadn’t sensed before.
Meanwhile, pandemonium erupted in the stands, and Culis had to bellow his next words in order to be heard.
“This demon is mine!” Culis cried. “Her power is mine to command! Eternal youth for me, and a swift, surreptitious death for my enemies! What wouldn’t you give to have this in your possession, as I do? She serves me faithfully under an ironclad contract that binds her to me for the next ten years, and she uses her powers only under my express command, in accordance with my every whim.”
Mila stared in fascination at the young man, who was now prancing gleefully around the arena, and then she was utterly overwhelmed as a maelstrom of energy and noise from the crowd erupted around her.
They were going ballistic at this announcement and the show they’d just witnessed.
Using demon powers for human benefit, as servants? Unheard of. Was it even allowed? Did their God-King Midas know? Had he given his consent?
The questions buzzed throughout the arena. Mila watched Culis survey the utter chaos he’d caused with deep pleasure. Mila could see what this meant to him, the attention, the envy, the drama of the big reveal.
It had all been so very clever.
The weak hit of rubane she’d sniffed before entering Central had stopped her from sensing the man’s energy from afar, but as she’d touched him the second time, she’d been able catch a whiff of it. He had not been drunk or a gross fool.
In fact, the man was not a man at all.
He was an ikarei, and he’d been Culis’s plant to impress the crowd. The display of pain, the tearing at his hair, had all been an elaborate distraction to hide his horns as he’d aged himself at will, which was probably the limit of his abilities.
For a moment, Mila wondered why Culis had wanted to trick the crowd rather than have her show her actual powers, but the answer quickly became obvious. Her own power was not visibly impactful, nor did Culis want others knowing it. It was infinitely more useful to him for her power to remain a secret.
As she studied Culis, she saw the look on his face and knew he was aware of the questions the crowd was now asking one another. He also knew that he’d lost all hope of being heard by the crowd in their current state of frenzy.
But he’d prepared for this. With a wave of his hand, a handful of servants ran out onto the arena holding white silk banners, which they unfurled and paraded around before the crowd.
Mila spun to read each of them.
Buy a demon from the Artor Trading Company, and improve all facets of your life: love, health, business, family…
How might your life change if you had a servant who could read minds?
Only ten available each year. Be one of the lucky few to buy and invest in our first procurement.
The Artor Trading Company holds exclusive rights to the demon trade. If you don’t get one from us, you’ll miss out.
Presumably it was this last one that caused the ripple of disturbance from the box that held the Guild of Merchants.
Mila’s eyes were drawn by the movement, and she glanced over to see a fellow in his mid-fifties, face red with anger, using a pole to poke a loudspeaker in his nest and impart a message.
The loudspeaker nodded and then held his funnel to his mouth and screamed into it. “This is heresy!”
The cry was echoed by all the other loudspeakers, and the words settled the crowd for a moment, as everyone turned to Culis to gauge his response.
“Oh hush, Featherstone. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” Culis dismissed him casually, and this approach worked on some of the crowd, who laughed, while others remained concerned that Featherstone had a point.
“The demons I will find for you will be remarkable ,” Culis continued to brag, “ and will bring you untold power and status.”
“I’m afraid not, Master Culis.”
The icy tone of a priest entering the arena, accompanied by at least ten jesu, cut through Culis’s moment of triumph. The crowd fell deathly silent when they appeared.
“As bothersome as it may seem to your commercial ambitions, Kurt Featherstone is correct. Your pronouncement is an act of heresy. Demons are not chattel, to be bought, sold or for us to negotiate contracts with. They are the living embodiment of heresy, condemned by the God-King for death alone."
It wasn’t unusual for jesu to supervise these markets and ensure that the behaviours were not being committed. Culis must have expected at least some kind of challenge of this nature. Mila watched curiously to see what he would do .
“Did you not hear me earlier?” Culis said calmly. “I have the permission of our Almighty God-King himself to conduct this endeavour.”
Mila blanched. This was his plan? She could not believe the baldfaced lie, and the ease with which it came from his mouth.
“Without consulting his Church? I think not.” The young priest tutted, unconvinced. “Christopher Culis, you are a shrewd businessman, and you are famous for being many things. But, unfortunately for you, being a deeply religious man is not one of them, and to put it simply,” he said with a raise of a thin eyebrow, “I do not believe you.”
A thrill of excitement ran through the crowd. They had been entertained before, but that was nothing compared to the prospect of witnessing the forcible arrest of the darling of the Artor Trading Company.
“Surrender the demon to me now, without a fight,” the priest snarled, “and I shall ask our God-King to be merciful with your punishment.”
“You’re the one who will make a fine pile of sand when the God-King loses patience with you for wasting his time with a matter he has already approved!” Culis bit back casually, refusing to be drawn into the increasing hostility of the situation.
It was an effective strategy. Mila saw the priest’s confidence falter just a little. Regardless of which way this ended, Mila learned something important about Culis in that moment. The man could lie seamlessly under pressure, as easily as water heading downhill. That was a lesson she knew she could never let herself forget, not if she wanted to live.
And just when Mila thought the situation couldn’t get any more convoluted, a sharp trumpet blast sounded at the entrance of Central, changing the atmosphere again .
Mila watched as, like a wave, the raucous crowd of observers became suddenly subdued. The tiered stands groaned as the collective weight of the audience suddenly dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. It happened so quickly, it felt more like instinct than obedience.
“Well, well.” Another voice cut through the silence with a feminine pitch and scolding tone, as if concerned that the abrupt response of the enormous crowd hadn’t been instantaneous enough for her liking.
Princess Jezebel was here.
They were doomed.