Authors: J. V. Jones
The two women were
not surprised at her sudden entrance. They lounged on a pallet drinking hot
liquid from brass-encased glasses. One of the women, who was dusky skinned and
raven haired, indicated that she should sit. Melli was inclined to ignore the
languid gesture, but the wagon lurched forward and she found herself unsteady
on her feet. The raven-haired woman smiled an I-told-you-so.
The wagon began to
move more steadily and Melli settled herself on the pallet nearest the door.
The raven-haired woman nodded to the pale-haired girl, obviously an order to
pour another cup of liqueur, for the girl took up the silver pot and filled a
glass with the steaming, clear liquid. Melli took the cup by its brass handle.
The metal was warm to the touch, but not as hot as the glass beneath.
The sharp but
fragrant vapors slipped into nose and lung, working their subtle magic of
relaxation and comfort. The jostling of the wagon, the itch of the straw, the
ache of her muscles, they all seemed to recede into the background. Melli took
a sip from the cup. The liquid scalded her tongue. She felt it burn all the way
to her belly. Then the warming began. She felt her body growing heavy and warm.
Her fingers swelled with hot blood, her face became flushed, and she could feel
her heart racing to keep up with her thoughts.
The raven-haired
woman smiled an encouragement. The pale-haired girl sent a warning.
Melli drained her
cup, welcoming its heat on her tongue. The wagon came to an abrupt stop. A
minute or two later there was a rap on the wood. The door was opened again and
Fiscel stood there, one shoulder higher than the other. He beckoned Melli
forward. The pale-haired girl stepped ahead of her.
"No,
Lorra," said Fiscel to the girl. "You will spend the night here in
the wagon. Estis will watch over you."
"You mean I
don't get to stay at the inn and have a decent supper." The girl sounded
peevish.
"You will do
as I say." Fiscel's tone brought an end to the matter. Then, turning
toward the raven-haired woman, he said, "Come, Alysha." The
raven-haired woman poured some of the almond liqueur into a flask, picked up an
embroidered sack, and followed him out.
Melli found
herself in the cold once more, but this time she was oblivious to its touch.
They were in the center of a small town. Light peeked from shuttered windows,
smoke rose from snow-laden rooftops, and a lone dog barked an angry lament.
Melli was led to
the narrow doorway of a tavern named the Dairyman. Behind her, the wagon
rumbled away. Fiscel pushed her into the bright lights and warm air of the
tavern. A room full of men stared at them.
"Keep your mouth
shut," warned Fiscel. He left her by the door in the care of the
raven-haired woman, Alysha. The flesh-trader made his ungainly way to the bar,
sparking many a disgusted look as he did so. He spoke with the innkeeper and
money changed hands. A second exchange with the tavern girl prompted further
largesse. Finally, Fiscel turned to Alysha and nodded. Melli was guided
forward, toward a low door at the back of the room. The motion drew the eye of
every man present, and the room fell silent as they passed.
Fiscel tapped
impatiently with his walking stick and threw Melli an accusation of a glance.
It was as if he blamed her for being an object of attention.
Melli was feeling
most peculiar. Blood coursed through her veins at an alarming rate; she was
giddy with its speed and richness. Her body felt heavy and feverish, and
somewhere deep within she felt an unnamable need.
With Fiscel to the
front, and Alysha to the back, she was led up a curved staircase to the floor
above. The tavem girl appeared and showed them to their rooms. One was large
and comfortable, with a full-sized bed, the other small and cramped with two
pallets. The tavern girl bobbed a curtsy and promised to be back soon with
food.
Melli struck a
path toward the smaller room, but Fiscel laid a restraining hand upon her arm.
"No, my pretty," he said, his voice thin and mocking. "Why so
eager to be rid of me? We should spend some time together. Get to know each
other."
Alysha opened the
door of the largest room and sat on the bed. She patted the covers, inviting
Melli to join her. Melli declined and sat on a wooden bench near the unlit
fireplace. As she did so, she heard the soft laughter of the ravenhaired woman.
Fiscel smiled, the good side of his mouth revealing his bad teeth.
"I propose we
eat first, and then, when we're all relaxed, we can get down to the business of
the night." He turned to Alysha. "I see you have brought a flask of
nais with you, my precious one. Pour our new friend a cup before it grows
cold."
Nabber watched as
Tawl stepped from the pit. The golden-haired knight was oblivious to the praise
and backslapping. A wealthy-looking man stepped forward and tried to engage him
in conversation. Tawl brushed him aside. Another man who was watching the
knight closely seemed familiar to Nabber. It took him a moment to realize it
was the very first person he'd pocketed upon entering the city. The man with
the portrait of the golden-haired girl. Yes, it was him all right. His chest
was as broad as his head was narrow. His dark, plumply lidded eyes never left
Tawl for an instant.
The knight was
still clutching the victory marker. Even from Nabber's position at the opposite
side of the pit, he could see the force with which Tawl was holding on to the
swath. His knuckles were white.
In all his days,
Nabber had never witnessed a fight like the one he'd just seen. It was almost
as if Tawl were possessed. His eyes glazed over, and he didn't seem to know
what he was doing, nor how to stop himself. Nabber was sure he wasn't the only
person in the crowd who'd felt disturbed at the sight. It was as if they'd been
allowed a glimpse of something shocking and intensely private. A spell had been
cast this night, and the man in the blood-stained undershirt whom he used to
call his friend had been the sorcerer.
Nabber had watched
as the crowd grew more and more excited. More than just blood thirst, it was
the fascination of seeing a fellow human laid bare. Those primitive instincts,
which the world commands be hidden, had been on show this night. Nabber shook his
head slowly. Men would pay good money for the chance to see such savagery
again.
Already a fair sum
of coinage had been thrown into the pit. Gold and silver, no copper. Nabber
felt that the crowd only needed the smallest measure of encouragement to throw more.
Their generosity needed a little prompting, that was all. He might have even
done it himself if it weren't for the fact that a fleshy woman with hair of a
particularly unnatural shade of yellow was quickly putting what coinage there
was into a sack.
Dual instincts
warred within Nabber. There was money to be made here, lots of money. No doubt
about it. But it would be money gained from the loss of a man's honor. Now a
dilemma such as this would have been no problem in the past; coinage was
coinage, and acquiring it was the most noble of pursuits. However, Nabber only
had to look over to where Tawl stood-distant and immeasurably changed-to know
that there were other things in the world just as important as money, and
helping a friend was one of them.
The hairs on
Nabber's arm stood on end. This was, without a doubt, his noblest moment. He
felt quite proud of himself; he would help his friend. Still, if there was
money to be made while doing so, he was not about to turn it down.
Nabber watched as
the yellow-haired woman scrambled from the pit and went to join Tawl. He said
something to her, and the woman pulled a half-skin of ale from her sack. Tawl
snatched it from her and drained it flat. The woman handed him his tunic, but
he brushed it aside. He grabbed hold of her arm and they made their way free of
the crowd.
It was bitterly
cold on the streets of Bren. The mist from the great lake had begun to gather
and thicken. Nabber was chilled even with his cloak, jerkin, tunic, waistcoat,
shirt, and undershirt on-Rom had been a much easier city to dress for-and he
wondered how Tawl could manage with just a layer of linen between him and the
cold.
He didn't like any
of it: the fighting, the drinking, the woman with yellow hair. It wasn't that
he disapproved of those sort of things. No, indeed, he was an open-minded man
of the world. It was just that it didn't seem right for Tawl to be doing them.
Tawl was a knight, and knights were supposed to be better than everyone else.
Nabber followed
the knight and his lady as they made their way through the city. The district
began to change for the worst and Nabber began to feel more at home.
Prostitutes clothed in low-cut dresses stood in brothel doorways and called to
passersby. They promised exotic delights, curvaceous bodies, and cheap rates.
They even called to Nabber:
"Over here,
dearie. Special rate for first-timers."
"Give me a
chance, little one, and I'll show you where everything goes."
He smiled politely
at the offers, but shook his head, just like Swift had taught him. Not that
Swift himself ever shook his head at a prostitute. After all, he'd say, what
else was a man's contingency for?
Some of the calls
were less flattering.
"Bugger off,
you little snot! You're scaring the punters."
"Stop
gawking, peep-boy! If you can't pay, don't look."
"I don't give
lessons, baby-face. Come back when you've filled out your britches."
Nabber was immune
to this sort of heckling. The prostitutes in Rorn had far sharper tongues.
He hung back a
little from Tawl, keeping his distance. For some reason, which he could not
name, he didn't want to make contact with the knight just yet. Eventually the
pair slowed down and entered a brightly lit building. The redpainted shutters
confirmed it was another brothel.
Nabber slipped
down the side of the building. He waded through the filth of kitchen refuse and
emptied chamberpots until he found what he was looking for: a way to see
inside.
The shutter was
closed to keep out the cold and the smell, but the wood was badly warped. There
was a convenient split running down its length. Nabber put his eye to the wood.
Smoke filled the
room. Candles burned low and the fire was well banked with ashes. Groups of men
and women lounged on chairs and benches. Food, fried but now cold, congealed
unnoticed on platters. There was fondling and drinking, both men and women
showing more enthusiasm for the latter. The women's dresses were unlaced and
their bosoms, both small and large, went mostly unnoticed.
Nabber looked on
as Tawl and his ladyfriend entered the room. She pushed a path through the
drunkenness and cleared a bench for them to sit on. Tawl immediately called for
ale, his voice harsher than Nabber remembered. Ale came and food along with it.
The knight ignored the food and drank the ale from the jug. The girl whispered
something to him, perhaps a caution for his drinking, and Tawl smacked her in
the chest. Nabber was shocked.
The girl appeared
quite used to this sort of treatment and didn't make a move to leave. She took
a portion of fried chicken and set about tearing at it with large but even
teeth.
Nabber saw her
exchange a seemingly casual glance with a small-eyed woman. The woman edged
nearer, and the girl slipped her the sack. Tawl was drinking heavily and saw
none of this.
The small-eyed
woman left the room and returned a few moments later. Tawl's sack was still in
her hand, but it looked slimmer now. She crossed the room, paused a second in
front of the minor to pat her heavily powdered hair, and then returned the sack
to the girl. Although Nabber had no way of knowing, he was almost certain that
the bundle now contained substantially less of Tawl's gold. Indignation rose in
his breast. Robbing was normally fair game to him, but this was downright
deceitful. The girl with the bright yellow hair had set Tawl up. And it
probably wasn't the first time.
But it would be
the last. No one robbed a friend of his and got away with it. No one.
Nabber looked
toward Tawl. The knight's head was down. He seemed absorbed in something. It
took Nabber a moment to realize that he was intent upon his arm. He was
rewinding the cloth that bound his forearm. The cloth that served to hide his
circles. With movements made slow by drink, Tawl wound the cloth, his fingers
binding the fabric deep into his flesh. The bandage slipped and Nabber was
shocked by what lay underneath: a portion of flesh as big as a fist was burned.
The flesh was raised and blistered. The scar which ran through his circles had
reopened and formed a ribbon of red through the black.
Tawl began to
rewind the cloth. He wasn't a man concerned with bandaging an injury, he was a
man intent on hiding his shame. By covering his circles it was as if Tawl were
trying to hide the past, to bandage it out of sight.
Nabber moved away
from the window. He felt a confusion of unfamiliar emotions. There was a
pressure in his throat and an aching in his chest. The sight of Tawl, sitting
alone in the sordid whorehouse quietly binding his circles, was too painful to
bear. He turned his back on the window and made his way to the street. Time to
get a little sleep. He would return in the morning when the knight was sober.
He walked back up
the road, past the brothels and their prostitutes. If they called to him, this
time he didn't hear them.
Melli, who usually
prided herself on a healthy appetite and had not eaten for at least half a day,
found the food held no interest for her.
Fiscel and Alysha
had been the perfect hosts, solicitous and polite. Her plate was never empty,
her glass always full. Melli hadn't actually tested how quickly they brought
more food, but when it came to refilling her glass, they showed the speed and
intent of swooping kestrels.