"You really think this will work?" Emmaline asked as they sauntered down the street. Unlike the slums they had left, this street was a wide bouldevard both sides of which were lined with mansions which ranged from large town houses to small palaces. Each house was set off by its own wall of low sandstone topped with iron spikes, broken glass and other impediments to thieves. Behind each wall were small gardens, some quite elaborate, whose lush green color clashed with the sandstone and did more to display the wealth of those inside than the onion domes and marble facades of the structures they fronted.

"Well it is working for me," Markus snickered. Emmaline was dressed, if that were the correct word in a brazier of red silk, and a short skirt of the same fabric, both of which had been hung with short chains of overlapping brass discs and elaborate lacework. Bangles and necklaces had been added along with rather intricately applied henna tatoos which covered the backs of her hands, crept up over her neck and ran from her hairline halfway down to her brow in a series of interconnected geometric designs. Her hair had been gathered up in a lose braid that hung behind her head and a series of guasy veils that covered her from head to mid thigh provided the illusion of modesty. Emmaline resisted the urge to stick her tongue out with some difficulty. Markus was dressed in chainmail wrapped in dark cloth with a scarlet cloak and an ornate helmet with a chain coif that extended down over his neck and shoulders. He carried a scimitar at his waist though he had his backsword tucked in under the cloth for good measure. There wasn't much in the way of a city watch in the City of Corsairs, various groups paid their own muscle to stop their competitors from taking what they would at sword point, and the resulting peace was rather a nervous one. High class prostitutes, like the ones Emmaline's costume deliberately emmulated, usually had at least one of their own toughs to see them safely through the streets.

"Well I guess that is a point in its favor," Emmaline murmered. It was just after dusk now and the city was moving from its langorous afternoon stupor into the roar of its busy night. Like many desert cities, the heat of the day meant that much bussiness was conducted in the cooler hours after sundown, and in more mercantile districts the streets had been crowded and the air filled with the scents of perfume, cooking meat and the ever present scent of the sour wine and aarak which passed as the local drink. Even in these richer areas, couple promenaded and self important servants strode along on their own errands. Emmaline and Markus had scouted the area earlier with the map and identified Mavikim's palace. Predictabley it was the largest on the street, and contained four onion domed turrents as well as a vast central dome over a three story marble edifice. The domes had been painted with bright metallic golds, greens and reds which swirled around them, and gold or brass glittered from the arabesque windows on the upper stories. A pair of guards, equiped much the same was as Markus was, though in cloth that was cleaner and finer, lounged beside an iron wrought gate flanked by two large stone pillars, each surmounted by the carved forms of crouching lions. Beyond the gate was a palm lined path which lead to the main door, the way illuminated by several lanterns which had been housed in green glass. 

"What is your business?" one of the guards demanded as they approached. At least that is what Emmaline thought he said, her Arabian was rudimentary at best, fortunately Markus had more experience in these parts and spoke the tongue better. Both men were alert now, weight distributed with the tell tale poise of experienced fighters who expect trouble. One of them looked back over his shoulder briefly as though signaling to the house. 

"What else," Makrus asked making a theatrical guesture at Emmaline, "One of the finest dancers in the city for the entertainment of the house of Mavikim."

"We have heard of no such arrangements," one of the guards objected, tearing his eyes of Emmaline with obvious difficulty.

"And while I am sure you are the close confident of the Mighty Mavikim," Makrus interjected, "we are expected." The guards wavered, clearly uncertain about letting in strangers and also about upsetting their master. They seemed on the point of interrupting further when Markus reached out and drew several stray locks of Emmaline's hair from beneath the gauzy veils, running it through his fingers to demonstrate that it was fine and blond.

"Who else but Mavikim could afford such ... exotic luxuries," Makrus continued. That seemed to convince the guards, whores might be as common as rats in a place like this but pale skinned and fair haired ones were a rarity beyond price.

"Well the Master does like them blonde," One of the guards snickered, the tension going out of the pair, "Who knows maybe he will even share with us poor servants one day." That bought a chuckle from both guards as one drew a key from a pouch and unlocked the gates.

"Go up to the house, the servants there will take her off your hands," the guards explained.