A/N: Uh, so. This is random. Very much so. All serious thought will be scalped, polished, and displayed on the chimneypiece. I blame you all. You shouldn't have told me you wanted me to write it.
Warnings–Well, for oriental dancers. And slavery-which-isn't-really.
Disclaimer: Je ne suis qu'une jeune française. Nothing Japanese in me, so far as I know.
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Sands And Sands-
"The Sultan sends his official greetings," the blue-eyed counsellor said, sitting on the marble steps to the dais in the great throne room. "He is sending presents. Gold and incense and slaves to ornate and perfume and amuse." He rolled up the missive and rose, neatly meeting the monarch's pale eyes. "It is very polite of him."
"I do not like this slavery business," the King said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He was ill-at-ease in the wide, embroidered clothes of the country, the counsellor noted with amusement. Himself had gotten the knack of wearing them quickly enough. They fell in thin, tidy layers of cloth over his bust and legs.
"I do not visit this county to endorse slavery trade," the King said impatiently, empathetically, tapping his ring around the ivory-crusted armrest.
"If I might allowed to speak–"
"I do not recall anytime when you awaited permission to speak, Kuroba," the King said, not unkindly, levelling him with a dark-gold glare.
The counsellor smiled, quickly. "Too true. I... do not think it advisable, Ou-sama, to refuse the offers of our host. Returning the Sultan's greeting gifts back to him comes down to rebuffing his hospitality. It would be–wiser–to abide the country's traditions for the time being."
The King fingered the scarf draped around his neck with calm, golden deliberation. "… so your point is?"
"There would be nothing so easy than freeing the slaves once we are no longer within the Sultan's reach," the counsellor said quietly.
"Are you getting anything out of this, Kuroba?" the King asked. The corners of his mouth twitched. "A bet, perhaps? Or just kicks?"
This time the counsellor laughed outright, speaking sheer amusement and delight in the unwavering blue eyes. He looked younger when he did so, and the laughter lines around at the corners of his lips indicated that he did so often. "No, Ou-sama, I am not. I am merely keeping a business eye on the matter."
"Of course," the King said, now outwardly entertained. "Tell the Sultan I give my thankyous–you will manage it to sound as flattering as possible. Make sure the slaves are taken care of when they arrive. They might be wretched and famished. Clothe them. Feed them."
The counsellor grinned, bowed once, and bowed again at the door, this time with the great flourishes of hands and smiles that were custom to the county.
"Just go," the King sighed, waving a nonchalant hand in his direction. He went quickly.
-o-
The reception occurred at nightfall. It was a country of sand, blazing hot at day, chilly at night; a country of dunes and sky, bright and mismatched, until when the sun had set they were shadowed to a dark, swaying blue.
The main city stood a few miles away, shining gold and platinum and the subtle shiver of ivory on the bombed domes and turrets. Here, bathed in the cool greens of watered gardens, was the guests' palace, where they had been lodged in upon their arrival. None of them were used to the heat. The delicate touch of trickling water and the large, lazy sliced leaves were as much a comfort than the iciest of drinks.
The convoy must have left the city early in the morning. The messenger carrying the Sultan's greetings, travelling light and fast on a fresh horse, had arrived by noon; it took the carriages another afternoon to reach them. Servants gathered ant-wise around them, blabbering as they unloaded the lush chests and jewellery sets.
Kaito watched them from under the arcades. The light was falling rapidly, and already the yard was swathed in blue hues, not yet dark enough to blur out the details. He saw Jii-chan direct the menservants toward the storage rooms, order the carts round to the stables–only when they were cleared away did he catch sight of about half a dozen men and women standing helpless among the servants.
A tenth of tall men dressed in the Sultan's guard uniform were keeping them to a small group. Kaito sidetracked Jii-chan toward them with a glance and a nod, then interested himself in the thin line.
There were seven of them, three men, four women, all of them black-haired, the skin a dark honey tan. There hardly seemed to be anything peculiar or worth attention in their dirty feet and arms, their sackcloth-clad bodies; he was, however, puzzled by what they carried.
The men's loads were tall and large, heavy-looking, wrapped in brown, rough fabric but distinctly music instruments. Three of the women held tightly onto a small bag each, striking in their lush, bright materials–the fourth woman's sack was slightly larger, and she'd wedged it between her legs, protectively shunning it from sight.
Musicians and dancers, he thought. Probably a troop. Jii-chan shepherded them all away, toward lodgings and perhaps baths, then hurried over to tell him rather uselessly so.
"The King demands they are well-treated," Kaito said slowly, thinking. "Give them clothes and something to eat and drink. Do not tell them yet they're to be freed–I will, when the time comes–not so long as those are here," he said, with a sharp nod at two of the guards who had lagged behind in the yard, surveying the last of the servants as they carried away caskets.
He made up his mind quickly. "Tell them they will perform before the King tonight."
It was the best way to convince those guards, and thereby the Sultan–that his gifts had been welcomed as they were worth. Besides, Hakuba needed entertainment–after over a week of sending out messengers to deal directly with the Sultan and getting but politenesses and flatteries in return, the King was bored out of his wits.
And so am I, he thought, looking onto the now-deserted courtyard and the blues on its cobbles. So am I.
-o-
Two of the guards turned out to be dignitaries send out by the Sultan to escort the convoy, and are rather pissed at being mistaken for mere soldiers. Kaito apologized profusely, nodded and smiled, introduced them into splendid apartments, invited them to dine with the King, and all in all was so charming and obsequious he had them twirling around his little finger by the time the servants brought in the first plates.
Hakuba did not speak this country's elaborate tongue. Kaito was therefore stuck as translator and with the heavy task of turning his King's sarcastic comments into flowery compliments to please the inviting ears. The sweets to end the meal came forward as sheer relief on silver plates–they meant entertainment, music, dancing, silence, and peace.
The musicians had been playing gently all evening. Their instruments were unknown to Kaito, with strings all three of them and drawing soft, light, airy, sighing sounds as their owners wished it–one of them looked vaguely like a koto, and sounded almost like one.
They were stronger now, rhythming a quick beat twice the speed of heartbeats, rising with each note to strike it high and fast in the air.
It brought silence around the throne room.
And then the dancers were among them, sprung from nowhere, feet slipping like quicksilver on the marble floor, each dressed in thin, flapping materials that were far too translucent and open for privacy. Their hair was down, swaying on their bare shoulders and threaded by the blinking beams of jewels and pearls that were strewn all the way down their bodies and which, with each move, with each swing, glistened and disappeared under the corner fires' copper glows.
It was difficult to believe these were the same, dirty women he had glimpsed in the courtyard. They were, though, and in the reds and golds the crackling flames shed, their faces were beautiful and fierce.
They danced surprisingly fast, feet stamping, hair swiping, on each note of the music and faster, faster still; they danced as a whole, as one, as each the flutter of a beat in a gigantic heart– They rarely paused. When they did, it was to twist round once more and over to one another, melting and moulding with their moves in long, elegant arcs as they came together and broke apart and their sleeves and veils tangled, twirled, and fell free, flying, until they became but one flame, off-spun and live, and ablaze with brightness.
Kaito glanced around after a few minutes. Hakuba had rested an elbow on one knee, a slight smile on his lips he probably wasn't even aware of. Both the Sultan's dignitaries wore the half-pleased, half-closed masks of those who have attended the same spectacle thousands of times before. Among the other guests in the throne room, most of them officers under the King's orders, some were outright staring, all were eagerly looking on the dance.
The rhythm changed suddenly.
He missed how it began. But the music was getting slower, deeper, and three of the dancers were revolving around the fourth, scarves snarling one last time until they soared away, a bright whirl, and with each scarf each dancer fell away, leaving the fourth alone and –nearly, nearly– still.
The music paused.
The fourth dancer had minute bells tied to her wrists and ankles. For one long moment they were all one could hear. The brittle peals fell like droplets onto clear water; each twist of the arm, of the hand, of the foot, nigh-imperceptible to the eye, but, to the ear, audible, and glass-like breakable.
And when the woman began to move, the dance was no longer fast and febrile, but slow, no longer fragile, but lingering and calculated. She hardly moved at all. When she did, her limbs extended long and somewhat feline, and the music started slowly behind her, rising gently with the same agonising slowness.
The three dancers were clapping their hands, quietly, and the rhythm accelerated –but oh so little– as the soloist's moves became more firmly marked, more accentuated, more profound also, until it were no longer her limbs only that eased into the gesture, but her whole body accompanying it.
A roll of the head –and the black hair fell like a curtain– a sway of the shoulder –and the scarf draped over it tumbled down the arms– a twist of the hips –and the pants flared wide and sliced on the side to show leg-skin– each time the angles perfect, fixed, measured.
And this was about when Kaito lost sight of them, lost sight of the, the–the when and where and how, and focused on the who.
He had seen dancers before. He had seen those beautiful solos before, the deep control over the supple, feminine body. But this –this woman whose body wasn't even much rounded, wasn't even as full-formed as others he had seen– this dance had the smooth sensuality of a lush invite. The music felt stronger now, beating like a heart again –but slow and steady, reaching deep, reaching down.
The woman took a breath, shaky and loud in the thick atmosphere. He wasn't breathing either, and his lungs were aching. One extended arm was trembling with strain, until it fell down to her side and flexed again. He inspired slowly, marvelling in the heat, in the airy heaviness that came after love, the subtle undertones of sex and lust in each move, in each look, in each–
The climax came in the scarf tumbling to the floor, and then the woman all but collapsed onto it.
Kaito half-rose, alarmed, but she was breathing, chest rising and falling heavily, roughly. Her eyes were wide open, and between the dark bangs and the curve of her arm, their blue was dilated almost to black.
There was but little applause. It was not the custom to acclaim slaves. The two dignitaries were lifting their glasses at the King, who returned the gesture with a slight smile. There, at least, was a language that needed no translation.
Let them. He needed air.
The night was cool under the arcades. There was little wind, but the palm leaves downward were rustling softly, a dark green against the greyed cobbles. A few servants were murmuring in the yard, in the rectangles of golden light outlined out from the inside.
You could see the stars. The dunes toppled away, in each direction similar, similar to not-quite still waves. After the heat of the dance, the outside cool was striking and pulsing against his sweat-damp skin.
He wondered what exactly had just happened, arms braced against the stone balcony. The woman had simply performed a dance like any other, a dance, nothing else, nothing more. And yet–
And yet it had–
The murmurs of the servants stirred to a close. There was soft rustling, a few words, a few hushed voices. Kaito leant his chin upon the back of his hand, waiting.
The troop of seven emerged from the under the pergola. The three men were holding tightly onto their instruments, carrying their heavy weights with the skill of those used to doing it for years; the woman were whispering quietly. Kaito's eyes sought out the fourth dancer and her blue garments; found her leaning against one of her companions, apparently exhausted. When they turned slightly under the advice of one man to look at the moon, just a little past full in the night sky, he saw her eyes were half-closed and her head limp.
"Young master," Jii-chan whispered at his elbow.
Kaito did not look away from the group of hunched women. "Jii-chan," he greeted in return. "That woman–the one who danced." A nod at the young face downward, in the moonlit courtyard. "Do you know her name?"
"No." The quiet admission was taken away by the night wind. "But I can find out."
Kaito nodded. The troop downstairs was heading towards their apartment, the lush, light-catching materials of their outfits escaping the bright glow of the fires to taint with darkness, their bodies melting into it. "How did you find the dance?"
There was a pause while Jii-chan seemed to collect his thoughts. "It was very beautiful," he said finally. "She is very skilled."
"Nothing else?"
"No."
"I see." He watched them until they had disappeared past the door. The King had to call him three times until he returned to the throne room.
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Aaaaand that's it for now. I have no idea when I'll continue this, if at all. I have several ideas for one or several sequels, but they might come up in weeks or months, which is mainly why I've posted this in Gems and not as another chaptered fic. Would you like to read more about this universe–or have cookies–or both?
Anyway, no updates in Gems for at least a month. February is planned for something else.