We step through the battered door of The Smoking Kipma and the world shifts, outside is the filth, the pit, the exhausted sprawl of working men and blood-soaked sand, but in here, it’s all velvet deception and opulent decay. Smoke curls along the ceiling in thick, perfumed ribbons, sweet and rotten, heavy with the stink of exotic herbs, pipe-weed, and something sharper, almost chemical, lurking beneath. Every surface drips with gold leaf, the shine dulled by fingerprints and time, gilded mouldings climbing the walls, ornate mirrors reflecting back eyes that are too tired, too hungry, too dangerous to belong in a place like this.
The floor is a patchwork of cracked, painted tile, the kind that was laid by men who’d never set foot in a mine, now hidden under a threadbare carpet, the pattern faded by a thousand muddy boots. A grand staircase sweeps upward, banisters thick with dust, wood carved into lions and laurels that have lost their shine. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, heavy with cobwebs, their candlelight refracted through stained glass baubles that send fractured colours spinning across faces lined with worry and secrets.
The patrons are a study in ruin, fine silk sleeves frayed at the wrists, jewel-studded shoes splitting at the seams, necks adorned with chains and pendants, none of it enough to disguise the gaunt cheeks, the trembling hands. Some huddle over polished tables, playing cards for scraps, eyes darting at every newcomer, others lounge on red velvet settees, blowing smoke into the air, laughter brittle and sharp. On a dais, a woman in a tattered ballgown pours brandy with practised disdain, the crystal decanter catching the light, the drink itself the colour of rust.
The air thrums with low music, harp strings and something plucked and ancient, barely covering the quiet, desperate bargains struck in the shadows. Gold and powder change hands, whispers traded like threats, every smile edged with warning. Waiters in faded livery drift between the tables, balancing trays of half-eaten delicacies on trembling fingers, their eyes fixed on the floor, as if knowing that beauty and rot are only ever separated by a single, bloody line.
It’s all theatre, all illusion
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
Master’s gaze cuts through the haze and gold like a knife, his thoughts flickering to me with that sharp, sadistic delight he tries to hide behind the noir mask. He’s always taken a twisted joy in my presence, my volatility, a kind of private, unspoken glee that I can taste now with every pulse of the Bond. The place is a pit of faded grandeur and desperation, but I can sense the corners of his mind curling with satisfaction. Perfect hunting ground. Let them rot in velvet while we take what we need. Cat on a leash, always draws the right kind of attention. Broken people are the easiest to squeeze dry.
My thoughts run colder, more detached, a flat, cynical calculation layered over every gesture. No illusions, no softness, just the old, exhausted clarity, If we’re going to dig up the Crimson Swarm, it’ll be here. No one in the pit cares what’s coming, only what can be bought, sold, or stolen before morning. Every soul in this den has something to hide, something to lose. It’s just a matter of asking the right way, or being the thing they’re most afraid of. Let Master do the talking. I’ll do the watching.
We move to the counter, the hush of silk and gold barely ruffled by our presence. Master’s hand moves with that same deliberate, intimidating grace, paying for Embercrack tea for the both of us, no questions, no hesitation. The coins vanish in the innkeeper’s palm like a ritual, not even a glance as he pours the dark, viscous brew into fine porcelain cups, sets them on a silver tray, and slides it across without ceremony. Even here, the ritual of money speaks louder than threats.
We drift to an empty table, sinking into dining chairs that are as out of place as a corpse in a king’s bedchamber, velvet crushed flat by years of weight, gold leaf chipped by nervous fingers, yet still finer than anything you’d find outside the Kipma. The crowd doesn’t look up. Nobody dares. Half of them look like they’ve crawled straight out of a grave and are just killing time until someone notices. Hollow eyes, haunted faces, a thousand quiet tragedies clothed in silk.
Master sits across from me, lips curled in the ghost of a smile, eyes scanning the room for weaknesses, listening for a whisper of the Crimson Swarm. I grip my teacup, tail curled around the chair leg, every sense on edge, letting the Bond run hot and tight between us. We don’t need words, just intent. In a palace built on ruin, sometimes the only way to survive is to look hungrier than the wolves.
We sip the bitter, mushroom tea, and wait for the right moment to pounce.
