A Sellsword's Valor

by Jacob Peppers

  Gods, it’s a wonder that I’ve lived this long, Aaron thought, but he started toward the brothel anyway, his eyes still roaming the street around them. He could hear the laughter and feigned shouts of ecstasy of the women even before he opened the door, and he glanced back to see that Caleb had grown paler still, his eyes big and round as if he expected to find a horde of monsters waiting on the other side of the door. The thing of it was, Aaron had met quite a few prostitutes during his time in the Downs and, if Baresh was anything like Avarest, the kid wasn’t far wrong.

  “Alright then,” he said to the others, “keep your eyes open and act natural—let’s not get dead.” With that, he opened the door and stepped inside. His nose was immediately accosted by a menagerie of smells, most unpleasant. There was the smell of ale, the smell of women’s perfume—so strong and thick that it took some doing to keep himself from gagging—and beneath it all, the smell of sex.

  The bottom floor of the brothel was similar to that of a tavern, the only major difference being a raised stage on one side of the room and the scantily clad woman that danced languidly upon it as half a dozen men looked on and cheered. The woman worked her way across the stage to each of the watching men, her body bending and shifting sinuously, giving them a look that said she could be theirs, that she could make their wildest dreams come true.

  But no matter what her eyes and her body said, the woman was there to be seen, not touched, to give men their fantasies while keeping the reality they so desperately longed for out of their reach. The two thickly-muscled men standing on either side of the stage, clubs in their hands, made sure of that. Aaron was just about to turn when Wendell let out a whistle and stepped past him. “I’ll guard down here,” he said, “make sure nobody comes up on you fellas unawares.”

  Aaron sighed as the scarred sergeant hurried to one of the empty chairs and plopped down, already reaching into his pockets for coins. It wasn’t a bad idea to leave a guard, but Aaron seriously doubted Wendell would notice anything even if a horde of monsters broke in and began to chew on the men seated around him. Still, there was no point in four of them finding Bertrand anyway.

  Aaron turned back to the others and saw Leomin starting toward the stage. He caught the man by the back of his tunic. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The Parnen looked back, a guilty expression on his face like a man caught in the middle of some terrible crime. “I…that is…I thought that perhaps Wendell would need some help. After all, there is poor lighting here, and he might very well miss—”

  “Never mind what Wendell might miss,” Aaron said, “what you’re going to miss is a show. Now, come on. We didn’t come here for this.”

  Leomin sighed heavily, shaking his head. “The sacrifices I make for the greater good are truly almost too much to bear. You make a martyr of me, Mr. Envelar.”

  “No,” Aaron said, letting the man’s collar go, “not a martyr. They die, after all, and you’ll live. At least, you’ll live just so long as you don’t keep trying to creep over there as if I can’t see your feet moving.”

  Leomin froze and, after a moment, his shoulders slumped. “Fine,” he said heavily, “but she is good at her work.”

  “Yeah,” Aaron agreed, leaning close, “maybe she is. Of course, even if she was bad, the worst that would happen would be that she left with fewer coins in her pocket. If we’re bad at ours though, somebody—most likely us—will end up dead. Now, snap out of it and get your mind where it needs to be. I don’t plan on dying because you can’t go three weeks without a tumble in the sheets with some woman whose name you won’t remember in the morning.”

  “Three weeks?” Leomin breathed. “Gods, has it truly been so long?”

  Aaron frowned, narrowing his eyes. “Leomin,” he said warningly, and the Parnen held up his hands as if to defend himself from a blow.

  “Very well, very well, Mr. Envelar. I only hope you can appreciate the degree of my affection for you, for were it not as strong as it is, I might very well be sitting in one of those chairs now.”

  “If it’s any consolation, Leomin,” Aaron said, “you never would have made it to the chairs. Now, come on.”

  “S-she doesn’t hardly have any c-clothes on at all,” the youth breathed, “s-she’s taking them a-all off.”

  Aaron stared at the ceiling for a moment, barely suppressing a groan, then he turned to the boy. “Yeah. In case you ever want to start your own brothel, Caleb, here’s a piece of advice for you: men generally pay better for women taking their clothes off than putting them on.” He grinned as the boy visibly forced his gaze away from the woman. “To be honest,” the sellsword said, “I’m a little surprised at your discomfort. Do you mean to tell me you have all of that knowledge and intelligence, and somehow you don’t know what goes on in a brothel?”

  “I knew it,” Caleb said slowly, blinking as if awakening from a trance, “but now…now I know it.”

  Aaron grunted. “Come on.” It didn’t take them long to make their way to the bar. Other than the seats around the stage itself, the tables and other chairs of the brothel’s common room sat almost completely empty, and that was no real surprise. People didn’t come to brothels to sit around and chat or make friends. It was the upstairs where all of the real coin was made and where desperate men—and some women—got to live out their fantasies. Aaron had never been into whores personally, but he understood it well enough. A week of a man’s pay could either be used on food and clothing, maybe to do some work on his house, or it could be used as a sort of key, a key that unlocked a room that otherwise would remain shut. A room in which all of the deepest, darkest desires of his heart could be made real, if only for a time.

  Still, to Aaron it seemed a funny thing to do, to spend all of your coin for the time of your life when the only souvenir you might walk away with would be a rash that wouldn’t go away, or weeping sores that made pissing an incredibly agonizing ordeal. Aaron had seen such men before, and during the few brief instances when he’d spoken with them, they had not spent their breath recounting the joys of that one, magical night, but instead cursing and moaning about the pain.

  He didn’t see anyone behind the bar, so he knocked on the hard wood of the counter and waited, ignoring the two other thickly-muscled men who stared challengingly at him from either end of the empty bar, as if looking for a fight. It wasn’t long before a woman walked down the stairs, shaking her head in an astonished sort of way. In one hand she held a small, glass bottle of what appeared to be some sort of oil, and in the other a rag that was coated with the stuff. “Best go and fetch a healer, Eckard,” she said, glancing at one of the big men at the bar. “Sticky Ricky will be wantin’ one before long.”

  The man grunted, looking away from Aaron, a wide grin on his face. “What was it this time?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “You just never mind that and keep your smiles to yourself. I pay you for your arms, not your laughs or your questions. Ricky’s one of our best-paying customers, and if the man has a particular kind of pleasure he’s after, well, it’s our job to provide it. Still,” she said, shaking her head again, “the key to his house? I’m all for a good time but… never mind. Just go on and fetch the healer.”

  The big man nodded, frowning once more at Aaron before starting for the door. “Oh, and Eckard?” the woman said.

  The big man turned. “Ma’am?”

  She sighed. “Best tell the healer to bring a set of tongs, if he’s got them. And let him know I’ll pay him extra for the trouble.”

  The bounder bowed his head then turned and headed for the door. In another moment he was gone. “Remember,” Aaron mumbled to Leomin and the youth whose skin had taken on a faint green color, “act natural.”

  The woman walked behind the bar, setting the oil and the rag down somewhere behind it and coming up with a clean rag, grimacing as she wiped her hands. Finally, she turned to look up at Aaron and the others. Judging by the way she moved and the face paint she wore, Aaron suspe
cted the woman had been a dancer herself, in her time. But she was older now, her long black hair streaked with gray, and no amount of face paint could hide the wrinkles around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes.

  “Well, strangers,” she said, “what can I get for you? Not a key, I hope.”

  Aaron grinned. “No, not a key. I generally make it a point to wear trousers with pockets to avoid this exact kind of problem.”

  She grunted a laugh at that. “Yeah, well, the gods must have been drunk when they made Sticky Ricky, and that’s a fact, but the man never hits or bites the girls, and his money is always good. A woman in my position can’t afford to be too picky about the kind of people she accepts.”

  “And what position might that be?” Aaron asked.

  The woman leaned forward and gave him an over-exaggerated wink. “On my back, if you want, stranger. My eyes aren’t getting any better, and the gods know it’s dark in here—better that way, as the men and women that come here generally don’t want to look at one another anymore than they have to—but from what I can see, you’d be a fine tumble even if there wasn’t any coin involved.”

  Aaron smiled. “I’m flattered, but I’ve actually come on another matter.”

  The woman grinned, apparently not done. “You follow me on upstairs honey, and you can come wherever you like.”

  Aaron cleared his throat, trying to think of what to say, but she saved him from making a fool of himself as she cackled a laugh and slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, don’t be so embarrassed, honey. A good-looking fella like you ought to be used to such comments. Anyway, I’m just playing with you, that’s all.” She smiled again. “Unless you say the word of course. And then I’ll still be playing with you, but I’ve got a feeling we’ll both enjoy it more.”

  “I’d uh…I’d love to,” Aaron managed, “but unfortunately the business that brings me here really can’t wait.”

  The woman sighed, shaking her head sadly. “Well, whoever she is, she’s a lucky girl. As for your question, I’m the owner of this fine, sordid establishment you see before you. The owner and,” she smirked, “the sometimes oiler when things grow slightly out of hand.”

  “And what about me, ma’am?” Leomin said, glancing at Aaron as if sizing him up before looking back at the woman. “I like to play games as well as anyone.”

  The woman stared him up and down and sniffed. “No, sorry friend. I’m sure you’re kind enough—look like the type’d buy a girl flowers and a meal after, but you’re too thin for my tastes. And shorter than I like too. The gods found it in them to grant me a need for tall, strong men but didn’t give me sense enough to look for the nice ones.” She shrugged. “A pity, but there it is.”

  Aaron heard a scream from upstairs, and while he’d been hearing them since even before they’d walked in, this one was different. Not a scream of ecstasy or pretended ecstasy, but a man’s scream, and one of pain. His first thought was that something was happening to Bertrand, and he started to rise but the woman patted his hand. “Relax there, good-looking,” she said, and Aaron noted Leomin frown in what looked like jealousy, “that’s nothing but Sticky Ricky—I’d know that yell anywhere.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I’ve heard it often enough to recognize it, the gods know,” she muttered.

  She leaned forward. “You see, we call him Sticky Ricky—”

  “Because of the oil,” Leomin said, blurting the words out like a child looking to be his tutor’s favorite student, and Aaron frowned at him.

  Natural, Aaron mouthed, and the Parnen cleared his throat.

  The woman glanced between the two of them and shook her head slowly. “No, not because of the oil, I’m afraid, though that works, too. We call him that because his real name is Richard, and he’s got a way of sticking things in places where they don’t exactly belong.” She seemed to consider for a moment and finally shrugged. “Well, the one place anyway.”

  Aaron heard a gagging noise beside him and turned to see Caleb with his hand over his mouth, his cheeks swelled up. The youth looked green in truth now. The woman sighed and brought out a metal bucket from behind the counter, handing it to him as if it was just another common chore of which she was not particularly fond. “In the bucket, hon. I really do hate mopping.”

  They waited awkwardly as the boy hacked and spat up the remnants of his last meal. Then, after what felt like an absurdly long time to Aaron, the boy lifted his head up out of the metal pail, wiping the sleeve of his tunic across his mouth. “T-thank you,” he muttered, offering the woman the pail back.

  She crinkled her nose and waved a hand. “Just sit it on the floor there, lad. I’ll get one of the fellas to grab it in a bit. And say,” she said, leaning forward and studying the youth, “aren’t you a bit young for a place such as this?”

  The youth glared at Aaron accusingly, but Aaron only smiled. “Well, Caleb here is my nephew,” he said, slapping him on the back, “and much more mature than his years. You’d be surprised by how much. Sometimes, I think he’s just about the smartest person ever to set foot on this country and, worse, he knows it too. Anyway, I’ve been looking after him while my sister’s out of town, and I didn’t have anywhere to leave him when my business brought me here.”

  “There is that ‘business’ again,” the woman said, frowning. “I’m a simple woman of simple pleasures, and I must say the word makes my skin want to break out in hives every time I hear it. Still, I guess it’s best you let me know what it is you’re after, so you can get the young lad out of here before I have to mop my floors. Unless, that is, you’re wanting to find him a girl?”

  She took in their incredulous expressions and laughed, shrugging. “He wouldn’t be anywhere near the first young boy a family member’s brought in with the intention of making him a man a bit earlier than most. Fathers mostly,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s as if somehow they’re making themselves more of a man by thrusting manhood on their sons. Still,” she said, holding up her hands, the rag still in one of them, “it’s not my place to judge. I’m a woman who trades in pleasure, and I’m here at your pleasure, so if that’s what you’re looking for, I’ve got a few ladies who’ll be willing to—”

  “It’s not that,” Aaron interrupted, and Caleb breathed a heavy sigh of relief, “I’ve come on another matter. There’s a man that comes here fairly often, name of Bertrand—short, sort of skittish? Type of man would take off running if someone looked at him wrong.”

  The woman’s easy-going, pleasant expression vanished as she frowned. “Stranger, I may or may not have such a man that comes by the brothel to see the girls, but if you own a place like this for a few months, you learn that the discretion that comes along with it is just as important—if not more so—than the pleasure the visitors get when they come. After all, their coin pays for both, and I make it a point not to discuss my clients’ affairs with others. You understand, of course?”

  “I do,” Aaron said, sighing, “and normally I wouldn’t even think to ask. It’s only …. Well, you see,” he paused to wipe at his mouth as if hesitant to say what he was about to when, in truth, he had no idea what it would be until it was out of his mouth, “Bertrand is my cousin on my father’s side. As for the boy,” he glanced at Caleb who still looked as if he might vomit at any moment, “well, I might have lied to you a bit before. You see, he’s not actually my nephew at all—he’s Bertrand’s.”

  “Is that right?” the woman asked, leaning over the bar and studying the boy. “Doesn’t look much like him.”

  “We can hope,” Aaron said, smiling. “Anyway, he’s Bertrand’s sister’s boy. After her husband ran off and left her last year, well, she just hasn’t been the same. Weeping all hours of the night, drinking more than is good for her and for the boy too.” He shrugged. “Me and the rest of the family, we’d hoped it would get better—it almost even seemed to—but then one day she just up and disappeared. That was six months ago now, and we haven’t heard a word from her since.”

  �
�A sad story,” the woman said, nodding slowly, “and I’m sorry to hear it. So what, then, you’ve come to see if Bertrand will take the kid into his home?”

  Aaron sighed as if in regret. “The thing is, I’m just not cut out to be a parent. It’s the reason why I don’t have any kids of my own. And I don’t want you to think it’s just selfish reasons that have me looking for Bertrand—though I’ll admit there are a few of those—it’s also because I think it’s only fair to the boy to have his uncle take care of him. Bert’s a funny guy, scares easy, but the boy would be a lot safer with him than he would with me—gods, I won’t even get a dog for fear that I’ll forget to feed it and the poor thing’ll starve.”

  The woman nodded at that. “So you’re just a good cousin trying to do right by the kid,” she said, her voice doubtful.

  “I’m sitting right here, you know?” Caleb said. “You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not—” He abruptly grew silent as his cheeks bulged once more and he brought his hand to his mouth, grabbing the bucket with the other.

  As the boy bent over the bucket and began hacking, Aaron turned back to the woman. “Look, I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I’m some priest, all dressed up in white so pure it’d blind you and shitting out rainbows wherever I go. But I think this would be the best solution for everyone involved, that’s all.”

  The woman smiled slowly. “Shitting out rainbows. I like that. Still,” she said, leaning back and frowning, tapping her chin with a long, thin finger in thought, “it is, as I said, generally against my policy to give away any information about my clients. I don’t like to intrude on the privacy of others, and I truly believe that’s one of the only reasons this place is still doing as well as it is. A woman has to be very careful crossing such a bridge as that.”