The Avenue of Saints ended. At Skintree Road, Pol waited for a gilded carriage to pass before crossing the street, though he did not bow to the nobleman or woman inside as strict decorum dictated. An outbound mage, in whose veins elder blood flowed, bowing to an earthbound human? Ludicrous.
Once out of the manicured academy grounds, one could not help notice the change in atmosphere. It stank of human and animal waste, cooking fires, and cheap alchemy. Putrid, human smells, but they bothered Pol not at all. He had become used to the fragrances during his frequent trips out.
You take too many risks, Ebn had told him on more than one occasion. Typical of the outbound mages, she rarely traveled into the city, and never alone. Attacks on eldermen, even in the clear light of day, were not uncommon. But for ascensions into orbit, several of the senior mages had not left the academy in decades.
Pol refused to restrict himself so. Urban Tansot offered a range of products and services unavailable within the confines of institutionalized academia. Inevitably, many experiences had ceased to compel him—drugs, in particular, became superfluous as he grew into his magical talent—but sex had not. Partners were for the taking if an elderman knew where to look.
He reached the hospital, a clean, austere building that contrasted sharply with its dilapidated neighbors—a common sight in Apetia, the most culturally and economically diverse neighborhood in Tansot. Technically part of the academy, White Ministry benefited from its patronage as well as the city’s. Its grounds were immaculately maintained, to Pol’s eyes somewhat overdone. A stereotypical Stoli statue of Adrash, farcically epic and devoid of personality, stood in the front entrance courtyard.
Pol walked past it without a glance.
‡
Jarres had grown a thick beard that did not flatter him and acquired several pounds of muscle that did. His chest strained against the white medicines tunic, and despite his serious intentions Pol found himself mildly aroused. Nothing like an old lover to tempt a man from his course, he knew.
In his estimation of himself, Pol had one major weakness.
“Tanz?” Jarres asked, eyes moving down Pol’s body. “How long’s it been, mate? God, what, two years? You look good.”
Pol smiled. He had forgotten how raggedly the man spoke. Medicine, more than most magics, did not require a surplus of intelligence. The body was relatively simple, after all. During their affair, Pol had picked up more than a passing knowledge of medicines from Jarres—a fact that probably accounted for the relationship’s dissolution. Medical mages guarded their trade secrets every bit as jealously as other disciples of magic.
Pol clasped Jarres’s forearms and kissed his cheeks. “Almost three years, Eamon.” Thank Adrash the other man had spoken his name first. Pol had forgotten that in public Jarres preferred to use second names: the convention in Weas, the city of Jarres’s upbringing. “You look well yourself. You have certainly filled out.”
Jarres laughed, squeezing Pol’s forearms in return. His teeth flashed, straight and white, contrasting with the heavy darkness of his beard. Laugh lines had deepened alongside his nose, around his light blue eyes. Pol remembered why he had been so attracted to the man, and reconsidered his stance on the beard.
They disengaged somewhat awkwardly, and Jarres looked Pol up and down again, one eyebrow quirked.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
Blunt as well as ragged, Pol recalled. Yet it was oddly refreshing after his meeting with Ebn.
“I am here to ask a favor. Have you a place where we can talk? Somewhere private?”
A smile fought to reach Jarres’s mouth, and won. He closed his eyes for a moment and then said, “My shift is over in eighteen minutes.”
‡
Exhausted, they lay together on Jarres’s bed. Pol had thrown a leg over the man’s thigh, but felt otherwise content to dry alone. Unlike most eldermen, Pol enjoyed the feeling of fluid on his skin. Large bodies of water made him uncomfortable and he did not enjoy swimming, but the occasional bath was nice. Sweat was nicer. A uniquely human smell, sweat. He had come to appreciate it in the same way he had come to appreciate the smell of lake water.
Jarres blew a stream of pipe smoke at the ceiling. “Now that we’re relaxed, let’s have the truth. You’ve got a great many men to choose from in this city, which means you’re here for something other than a simple fuck.”
“True,” Pol conceded. “I am. Do you remember when you talked about the black market with me? You had a friend.”
Jarres turned his head away from Pol. “Yeah, I remember all right. They let Kolin go, Espe nearly went to jail, and I had to talk before the head surgeons—was forced to defend myself when I’d done nothing wrong. If you’re looking for that sort of thing, I think you better look someplace else. Thanks for the lay, but I can’t help.”
“I’m not asking you to start up a business, Eamon.” Pol laid a hand on Jarres’s lean stomach. “I need a few things only. Me. I need them. No one else will know what we are doing and no one knows how much alchemy the corpses have in their veins until you mark it down. You could do it. You said it yourself.” He inched his hand downward slowly. “Or were you just bragging?”
Jarres groaned—not in pleasure, but frustration. A bit more pushing and he would relent, Pol thought. He felt confident in his ability to reduce simple men to formulae, spells to be cast and then molded. His clawtips moved lightly through Jarres’s thatch of pubic hair. The man’s cock shifted, began to swell.
“I will be honest with you,” Pol said. “My research is at a standstill, and I have no friends at the academy. I cannot afford to pay you much, but you will have my gratitude.”
Jarres chuckled, and pushed Pol’s hands the final inch.
“Just your gratitude, huh?” he asked.
Pol smiled. “This is how I show my gratitude. But you need to do this per my instructions, Jarres. I need specific things.”
Jarres flexed his hips and sighed, this time with pleasure. “Yah, I can do that, I suppose. You have a list?”
“I will write it out for you afterwards. I know you must be careful not to arouse suspicion, but the faster you do this for me the more grateful I will be.”
“Understood,” Jarres said. He yawned and stretched out under Pol’s ministrations, clearly enjoying himself. “When you’re finished there, how about celebrating our new arrangement? Visit the docks, see a fight like old times?”
Pol considered. It had been some time since he had seen a fight, and even longer since he had seen a good one. The docksides attracted the best. Still, there was work to be done. Planning.
Before he could answer, Jarres spoke. “You’ve heard of Shav? No. He’s a quarterstock they’ve got fighting tonight. A close cousin of yours, maybe.”
Pol stopped considering instantly. He would go. He had never seen an elderman’s offspring, and knew no one who had. Though elder sperm fertilized any species’ egg, the product of the coupling was seldom fertile. On the rare occasion that it was, its offspring suffered extreme birth defects. This quarterstock Jarres spoke of was possibly such a one. Most likely, the whole thing was a hoax, but it could not be ignored on that basis alone.
Pol wondered why he had heard nothing of it. Academy biologists estimated the world population of eldermen to be less than one hundred thousand. They were expensive and risky to gestate, but highly valued for their magical facility. Surely the living child of one would be of interest.