When music begins playing, the patrons fall quiet. Çetžak, who has kept his gaze down, uninterested in those around him, other than to make conversation with his subordinates, finally raises his gaze once more.
He’s picked up from passing workers that some local young master who frequents these kinds of places has come by, and he’s considered more or less a local lord of the Emerald Silk District.
More out of habit than interest, he scans the open area and stage. Young people of all three genders file in at the rhythm of the music. He doesn’t expect much.
In the past few days, he’s seen his share of poor performances, as, although of humble birth, he’s spent many years as a young master of a military household. Dance and music may not be the typical life of the common soldier on the battlefield, nor for those of constant travel of the lands, but whenever he had been brought back to the Kharanlar estate in the capital, he had without doubt been exposed to much entertainment.
After a quick glance, he looks back down, listening to his subordinates’ comments about this or that beauty.
It’s a surprise when he suddenly feel not only Nür’s elbow, but also Židad’s sitting on his other side.
“Eldest Young Master, look!”
Çetžak does look.
A single dancer has at some point been added, dancing at the centre.
“This must be the famous ‘Butterfly’,” Nür whispers excitedly.
Židad nods. “Asking around, we found out they go bye many names. Aside from U’il, some called them Ellellaž, others call them Masellaž.”
They expected Division General Züčan to say it’s not bad, but they should use their skills for better things.
Yet, they get no response.
The two captains turn to look at the youngest in their division, expecting their young master to have lost interest.
Yet, instead he’s as if frozen in place, holding the cup halfway to his mouth as his eyes follow the locally famous dancer.
They look at each other in surprise.
Yes, they had brought the young master along because his life was all about the second division.
Yes, they had looked into who was the most famous entertainer, and found out it was a divine found in the local pleasure district.
And, yes, it was also true they had brought him here by force once they found where this entertainer was.
But neither could have expected that the young master, who would not even raise an eyebrow as a show of appreciation for the arts, would be spellbound by a beauty.
Nür hurriedly waves for a divine to come over and asks what the price would be to have this one entertain the Division General of Ažamür Cavalry and a few other high ranked officers for the evening.
The divine startles hearing who they are and whispers that they would ask the Madame. Only the Madame could decide with whom the Butterfly would stay, or if it would be none at all.
Çetžak notices this and turns to the worker dressed in barely more than the dancers. “Don’t mind it. It needn’t be them.”
“It definitely needs to be the Butterfly,” Nür tells them.
He’s rewarded with a raised eyebrow, but Nür pointedly ignores it. Seeing that he was ignored, and he guessed that he’d only see this much of this dancer, he looks back at them.
He watches as they move around the empty spaces, their movements elegant and clearly not what to be expected of this kind of crude establishment. When they pass their table, their eyes sweep past Çetžak. As if they notice half a beat later that Çetžak is closely observing, they hastily look back and winks before they’re gone from in front of Çetžak.
“Now there can’t be any more beauty to appreciate here in Žanutian’ur,” he comments earnestly, startling his close subordinates further. They couldn’t even see the person’s face, what did their young master look at? Their abdomen?
Third Young Master Khanuk is a regular at Silver Swan. The madame is also aware he comes solely for Laž’ar. She, much like Laž’ar, knows he frequented the Rose Pavillion some years ago, but, for a while, the Third Young Master would stray from his regular places, and one of his new regular establishments for entertainment was the Silver Swan.
This had made the madame arrogant, thinking that she had stolen money from the Rose Pavillion by buying such a good dancer off of their hands.
What Laž’ar knows is that Third Young Master couldn’t just leave Laž’ar to his own fate, and that his good big brother sent him to make sure Laž’ar was doing fine, despite the circumstances.
The amount of money Laž’ar owed the madame at the Rose Pavilion had been far too much for both the Governor’s second son and this third son of another official when they put their money together. If it hadn’t been for his good big brother, though, Laž’ar’s debt would have increased even after being sold several years ago.
The Silver Swan doesn’t give much money, nearly nothing compared to what the Rose Pavilion paid its performers, but the patrons can be generous in offering him a little extra if he pleases them a little more. Although he has his boundaries, he also can’t have any shame if he ever wants to leave.
Because he is such an important source of income for the madame here, she treasures him greatly, the things she gets him being a bit better quality than the rest.
So when he heard ‘important’ guest, he assumed it was Third Young Master.
His assumption was right, according to what the madame told him before his performance, so why…
He bashfully puts a loose strand behind his ear, as he glances at the young man facing him directly.
Light blue robes with intricate silver brocade featuring falcons and trees, and a hint of red and green in stripes along the lapel. A silver hair ornament in an exquisite style foreign to Khatian adorn the half-up, half-down braided hairstyle.
The young man’s eyes are so dark they are like deep waters reflecting the sharp, equally black eyebrows. Unlike many of the patrons Laž’ar usually sees, this man gives off a cold sort of handsomeness that doesn’t fit in with the hot weather of Žanutian’ur. He exudes strength where he sits, seemingly unaware of Laž’ar, although he knows this must not at all be the case.
Why is it this young master?
He doesn’t quite know how to react. He knows this young master observed him very closely during his performance earlier, but the expression had seemed to lack any interest in him. Even now, his expression was somewhat cold.
“Ah, little butterfly, don’t mind our eldest young master. I’m sure he’s just shy.”
Shy my arse! Your eldest young master is about to murder you and I’ll be the fucking witness.
“Is…” Laž’ar looks up at this eldest young master and inches closer to the table. He reaches out, softening his voice. He still doesn’t know what kind of voice this young master would find seductive and pleasing to the ears.
“Is this true, my lord? Are you shy? Is this your first—”
“Get out.”
Laž’ar flinches and makes himself as small as possible.
He’s been around poorly tempered young masters before, but this is the first time he’s told to… wait, what?
He dares to glance up when the other men stand up.
One tsks. “Eldest Young Master, why are you like this? The General will worry.”
Another hums. “To think he’s doing it this way. Is he going to find another exit?”
“Should we surround the place?”
“And what, say we’re just trying to catch the runaway young master, our very own General Züčan? Dream on.”
They laugh as they exit, leaving Laž’ar with General Züčan.
“Um…”
Before Laž’ar has time to react, the General takes an ewer and pours himself a cup of wine. He then pours another one, pushing it closer to Laž’ar.
“I heard you had an important patron. I hope you’re not inconvenienced by this. I told them not to.”
“Oh, no! Not at all! I’m sure you’ll pay more.”
The General paused, his eyebrows raised. “Are you usually this straightforward?”
Laž’ar clams up. Trying to read this man is like reading an ice block. Which is indeed very difficult in Žanutian’ur where winters are hot and the summer hotter, and ice melts before you have time to truly look at it.
“I take that as a no.”
Laž’ar bows. “My manners are inappropriate, my lord may do as he sees fit.”
He thinks for a moment he hears wrong. But no. The general is… laughing. Quietly, yes, but laughing nonetheless.
“Be at ease. I may be a general, but I’m not truly a young master…”
“They call me a butterfly. My lord may do so as well.”
“Is it because of your birthmark?”
Laž’ar looks at him, and the general taps below his own left collarbone.
“It somewhat looks like a butterfly.”
He nods.
“That’s an oddly shaped blessing,” the General comments.