Gorel and the Pot Bellied God by Lavie Tidhar Read Free Book Online

bowed, his moving feelers signifying excitement. In another, a huddle of species, each figure on its own, each with a mat and a dim brazier by its side, lying motionless, staring at the ceiling. He longed to join them. But not yet.
    Other rooms: a group of naked women, laughing, two equally-naked falang boys moving between them like toys; in another a group of human males standing in a circle around two falang girls; in another a free-for-all, men, women, Ebong, a sleepy Diurnal being ridden by two Merlangai, one male and one female; more rooms where the stench of burning gods’ dust was overpowering, and Gorel breathed it in and shuddered, and almost stopped. But not yet.
    In the long corridor those who wished a respite from the neverending orgy (or who found themselves coming short on the expense required) reclined on cushions, singly or in small groups. Servants passed with drinks. In the half-way point of the long house a long bar ran along the wall. Gorel saw behind it a cauldron of bubbling liquid. The bartender, a short, fat falang, looked up at him knowingly. ‘Falang-Et’s finest brew,’ he said. ‘Sorcerer’s Head’s Special Punch.’
    ‘What’s in it?’
    ‘What isn’t –’ the bartender smiled. His teeth looked like algae-covered, dying coral. ‘Alcohol. Sugar. Fruits of the season. And dust.’
    Gods’ dust. He could taste it on his tongue, it burned his nostrils, and want of it, desire of it, clouded his mind. He found himself saying, ‘Give me a shot,’ and the bartender smiled wider and handed him a smoking glass. Gorel downed it in one. The feeling of it spread through him at once. The black kiss, the death-gift of the goddess Shar to her murderer. Her curse. But how good it felt. Better than sex, better than breathing. He would have stopped then, gone into one of the rooms, found a mat and a smoking brazier, and hooked himself up to one of the needles, surrendering to the black kiss’ oblivion, but for one thing: the thought of his lost home, the thought of Goliris, which brought him this far and would take him on yet, take him all the way back, until he returned, until he –
    ‘Hello, gunslinger,’ a husky voice murmured close to his ear. He turned and saw an uncertain shape, a figure clad in shadows: the Nocturne he had seen in the room, and she was still holding her flaming whip. ‘Looking for a good time?’
    He looked at her curiously. Nocturnes kept mostly to themselves. He tried to guess at what shape lay beyond the darkness, catching glimpses here and there, a naked thigh, the hint of a breast, parts displayed and disappearing like a full bright moon behind an eclipse. He didn’t know what made him tell her the truth, so that when it came he surprised himself. ‘I’m looking for home,’ he said.
    For a moment the shadows seemed to drop, and he caught the hint of a face, older than he supposed, and eyes deep and weary that matched his own. ‘Aren’t we all,’ she said, and abruptly she turned away, and the whip cracked and bled light; then she was gone.
    ‘You have a way with the ladies,’ the bartender said.
    Gorel reached across the counter and grabbed his throat in one hand. The bartender gargled. ‘Keep your ears to yourself in future,’ Gorel said, squeezing, ‘if you don’t want to lose them.’ He released the choking falang, threw some money on the counter, and walked away. He had to admit it was a good punch they served here.
    He stalked down the long corridor and was not disturbed. The door of the second room from the end was closed. He opened it and went in. Kettle and Sereli were standing by a window, looking out. They turned when they heard him come in.
    ‘Any problems?’ Kettle asked. Gorel shrugged. He did not bother to mention the funeral procession. ‘None so far.’
    ‘Good.’ The Avian turned back to the window, signalling for Gorel to come nearer. He moved towards them. Sereli smiled and squeezed his arm. ‘Out there,’ Kettle said,