Their breathing became slightly more rapid, and I tried very hard to maintain my own, wondering how it had sounded before my waking and trying to approximate the breathing of a sleeping man as best I could. I heard Syrie moan as their bodies shifted, a small sound that seemed to originate from the back of her throat and exit through a closed mouth. I closed my eyes, hoping to block out what was occurring on the next bed for a moment or two and fill my mind with some other, more pure thought, but in doing so, I found myself imagining more keenly what they were doing. Was she spreading her legs for him? Was his hand on her thigh or small breasts that had caused her to moan so, or had it traveled to the core of her sex? I felt filthy with such questions and visions in my head, but the more disgusted I became, the more I found I couldn’t think of anything. I was horrified to discover that I was becoming physically aroused myself, listening to them couple in the dark alongside me.
And my horror only increased when, unbidden, I began to wonder how many men my mother must have lain with like this. It wasn’t even her father who ran the Jackal, so there was even less reason to be chaste or selective. I remembered far too many nights when she hadn’t returned to our room until dawn, and even at a young age I knew it wasn’t because she’d been cleaning as she so often claimed, but only vaguely guessed at what the real reason was. At least she hadn’t brought them to our bed. There was that small mercy.
Syrie moaned again, slightly louder this time—I pictured her mouth opening, her head thrown back, perhaps turning to the side—and then Braylar began whispering unintelligible words again. I tried to remember the last time I’d whispered words to a lover, to recall exactly what it was I might have said, but I couldn’t focus. The whispering ended, and I heard his lips on her body—I pictured his mouth moving down from her ear, traveling along the course of her neck, her head twisting again as he did, kiss by kiss down her shoulder, her arm. I might have been correct, but if I was, judging from the sucking sound I heard next, the lips had detoured off an arm and made their way quickly to a breast.
She exhaled sharply as he sucked, and the slats creaked again as they changed position on the bed. I imagined him, mouth on her breast, one hand in her hair, rubbing the nape of her neck, the other traveling up her thigh, her legs spreading farther. And with each sound, and each instance I interpreted those sounds, I found myself becoming increasingly more aroused as well as disgusted with my arousal. I felt the urge to touch myself, and an equally strong urge to roll over and press my stomach to the mattress, to prohibit my perversion from growing further.
I could tell Syrie was trying to muffle her sounds, and I was sure her head was turned, her mouth in her pillow. I imagined her pulling the edge of it up with one hand in an attempt to stifle the growing intensity of her passion. If so, she removed the pillow long enough to whisper something to him. I couldn’t understand much, but from the tone, she was concerned about waking me. Braylar responded, and I heard him clearly this time, “Fear not—he sleeps like the dead tonight.” She whispered something else in return, and he replied, “He’s sotted, I swear.” There was another movement, and I heard her cry out sharply, whatever momentary concern she might have had overcome with lust.
Still, her small show of modesty and consideration for what she believed to a sleeping man shamed me still further. But it still didn’t cool my heated blood. The slats groaned, and I heard him shift his weight—was he mounting her now? had she succumbed and spread her legs to accept him?—she moaned her muffled moans anew and I was sure I had my answer. Feeling torn in my two directions, I twisted my blanket in my hands and balled it into my fists, closing my eyes as tightly as I could, trying to think of the look of pain on Syrie’s brother’s face as he was mocked by the soldiers, the look on the soldier’s face as Braylar had a blade to his throat. But these were fleeting, and couldn’t distract me from the two bodies joining only a few feet away from me. I simultaneously wanted to touch myself to release the growing ache in my stomach and to scream, “I’m here!”
But I did neither and then something surprising occurred. I heard Syrie say “No.” Braylar continued groaning—was his head buried in her hair? were his hands locked in hers? was he kneading her flesh?—and she repeated herself more loudly, “No, I can’t do this.”
I still heard their bodies slapping together with the same pace, and Braylar replied through gritted teeth, “You can, Syrie, yes, yes, yes you can.”
She said “I won’t,” loud enough that if I hadn’t already been awake her protests would’ve changed that. The slapping of skin on skin stopped then, and I heard nothing more but their heavy breathing for a few moments. I was afraid the captain was going to force himself on her, but the next thing I heard was feet hitting the wooden floor soundly. Braylar said, “Get out.” Followed by silence. Then, more loudly, “Out with you! Get dressed and go. Now.”
I imagined her holding the blanket up to her chin, her face flushed with fleeting lust and confusion. Barely above a whisper, she said, “Please. Don’t be angry. It’s just, well, were we alone and all, I’d—”
He laughed, “You grow suddenly shy in the middle of fucking a stranger because there’s an audience? No. Get out.”
I heard her shift her weight, perhaps rolling onto one elbow, touching his shoulder or his elbow, saying, “This doesn’t mean—”
But again, he didn’t let her finish. “It’s a simple word. There’s no mistaking its meaning. Much like the word ‘no.’ Out.” Whatever fire she might have still felt went out as surely as if he’d pissed on it. Which was ironic, considering what happened next. I heard him stand and take a few hesitant steps. The sound of metal rattling on the wood. A few seconds later, the sound of liquid hitting the metal. In the silence, it sounded like thunder or battle.
She felt around for her nightclothes and slipped into them. Braylar remained standing where he was, clearly waiting for her to leave. After a few more seconds he kicked the chamber pot and said, “I’d ask you to take this on your way out, but that would be discourteous to the other guest in the room, no?”
I heard Syrie sigh and the floorboards told me she moved toward the door. I imagined her hand feeling its way down the frame to the handle, then I saw a space of black slightly less black than our own as she opened the door and slipped out, pushing it closed behind her.
Syrie was a better woman than my mother. I felt equally awful for having judged her so harshly and for allowing my own lust to rise up.
Braylar stumbled back to his bed, threw back the blanket, slid in, and said, “Would that I’d rescued a whore.” I listened as his breathing quickly grew heavier, woollier, and some time later, sure he was asleep, I walked over to the chamber pot as quietly as I could and emptied my own overfull bladder.
After I lay back down, my mind was ablaze with everything that transpired that night, and I felt like my chance for more slumber had disappeared completely. But as it often does, sleep snuck up and ambushed me again.
⊕
I was shaken awake, bladder somehow full again and head pounding. The room was still dark, and I was completely disoriented. Was it morning? Braylar was standing next to the bed. He shook me harder. “Get up. Now. Up.”
“What is it?”
“Get your things.”
Half asleep, I didn’t understand. “But it’s dark. What’s happening?”
I heard him move across the room. A few moments later, the lantern bloomed and I blinked and covered my eyes. When I adjusted to the brightness I saw Braylar pull on a boot, his weapon belts already buckled around his waist.
I sat up and put my feet on the floor. “It’s not yet dawn. Why must we—”
“They’re coming. We don’t have much time.”
I pulled my tunic and trousers on. “Who? Who’s coming?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, pulling on the other boot as he hopped to maintain his balance, adding, “I wish I had time to shit.”
“If you don’t know who it is, how do you know we need to go? I don’t—”
“Violence is coming, Arki, coming fast. I don’t mean to be here when it arrives.”
My mouth was desert dry and my head felt like it had been run over by an ox and a heavy wagon behind. I wanted dearly to use the chamber pot, but he clearly wasn’t in a mood to tolerate any delays. I got dressed as quickly as I could and threw my satchel over my shoulder.
“Good, then—” He stopped to cock his head, listening.
I listened as well. There it was. A creak. And another. And then muffled voices coming from the downstairs common room.
Braylar said, with much bitterness, “A room without a window. You deserve to be caught and hung.”
“But, but you said you didn’t know. Didn’t you? You don’t know they’re here for us, or who they are even, isn’t that right?”
He ignored me, circling one last time like a bear staked to a post, waiting for the dogs to descend, and then he shoved me roughly back toward the bed. “They’ll be here in a moment. It’s likely they’d sooner kill us as not. And I won’t be taken alive. I’ll take out as many as I can, and then—”
“But why? Even… even if they are here for you, why not surrender? So long as you live, there’s a chance to—”
“To what? Escape? Be rescued?” He laughed. “You’ve read too many romances, Arki. I doubt they’ll take me prisoner, but if they do, it will only be to hang me on the morrow. That’s the good scenario.”
“The good? To be hung? What’s the bad?”
“They ask questions. Questions lead to more questions, none of which I’ll answer truthfully. That will lead to torture. Then I’ll answer very truthfully. All men do in time. So, I kill as many as I can before they cut me down. And then they’ll turn on you—”
He broke off and listened. I heard it, too. The stairs were creaking. Men were ascending.
“Surrender if you like. However, I wouldn’t advise it. Torture is very unpleasant.” He pulled his dagger out, spun it, and held it out to me hilt first. “I suggest you slit your throat first. Cleaner.” He nodded. “Quicker.”
I refused the dagger and held my satchel to my chest. “They could be anyone. They, they might not be here to kill us, or arrest us. And I’ve done nothing wrong! They—”
He snatched his dagger back. “We all make choices.” And then he moved to the left side of the door so it wouldn’t hit him when it swung in, his flail and buckler at the ready.
There was more creaking, the floorboards now. Whoever they were, they were close, coming down the hall, almost to our door. I clutched my satchel and wondered for a brief instant if I should have taken the dagger, before reminding myself that I was innocent. I just hoped whoever it was cared about such things.
We waited. I looked at the door, sure someone was right in front of it, equally sure I’d be the first thing anyone saw if they broke through. But I couldn’t move. My body didn’t respond, even as my mind screamed danger was on the other side of the door. And then I heard another creak, and almost emptied my bloated bladder. This creak was followed by another, and another still, as whoever had been in front of our door moved further down the hallway.
I looked at Braylar, and there was confusion in his eyes, and for the briefest moment, I thought doubt as well. I don’t remember doing it, but I’d begun holding my breath at some point, because I exhaled then, and felt faint.
A few more moments went by, in which I heard nothing at all, and then there was a horrendous crack, the splintering of wood down the hall. And then chaos erupted. Shouting, a man screaming, ordering someone else to surrender peacefully, more shouting, all of it running together, several voices at once, made incoherent.
I sat against the wall as the source of the commotion made its way back down the hall again. From the sounds of it, men fought other men, some shouting that an injustice was being done, others shouting for silence. There were collisions, the prisoners no doubt struggling against their captors as they were ushered past us, slamming into walls and doors as they went.
Braylar waited until he was certain danger had moved down the stairs, and then he cracked his door, just enough to look out and gauge the situation.
I whispered, “Who is it? Who did they apprehend?”
He tilted his head and opened the door an inch or two more. “I don’t know.”
“What’s happening?”
He didn’t respond, but opened our door entirely and stepped out into the hall. Poking my head out, I saw Braylar wasn’t alone. In fact, I’m sure there wasn’t a sleeping soul left under the roof. Most had come out of their rooms, but there were a few peering out from behind doors. That seemed prudent.
Braylar was standing alongside a wagon driver, leaning out over the railing. I walked over quickly and stood behind him. The common room below was a flurry of activity. Those who had slept on the floor between the benches were being pressed out of the way at spearpoint, pushed toward the walls to make room for the prisoners who were being escorted down the stairs. A few grumbled complaints, but that ended the moment the spears got too close. Reluctantly or not, everyone moved back, leaving a clear path to the door.
Hobbins was on the floor below, looking none too happy. I glanced down the rail and saw the Hornmen (all save Lunter) in their nightclothes as well, though a few had grabbed their swords. The same held true for the Syldoon as well, Mulldoos and Hewspear on our level, and Vendurro and Glesswik below—underdressed but hands on weapons. It struck me that, other than the men conducting this raid, Braylar and I were the only other people in the inn who were fully dressed. I wasn’t sure if anyone would notice, but my regret at leaving the room was growing by the moment.
The men who had woken everyone were dressed plainly and without indication of their position or rank. They wore blackened mail over dark gambesons, but no surcoats, livery, or badges. At a glance it was impossible to determine anything about them besides the fact they were abducting two very frightened-looking patrons whose faces I dimly recalled from the crowd the night before. There were at least ten soldiers, most armed with short spears and round shields, but some had swords drawn, and there was a man at the foot of the stairs with his sword still in the scabbard. He had brown-and-gray hair receding sharply above his temples, and he appeared to be the only man not doing anything. I supposed that made him the leader.