It immediately became abundantly clear that she was not of the same ilk as the others, but a different creature entirely.
This woman possessed a regal and striking beauty. Cainen could not help but suddenly stop short in his tracks.
The sight of her, resplendent in the torrent of moonlight, reminded Cainen of a great beauty from an ancient legend. A mythical princess.
“O, Leandra, fair daughter of the queen of the forest-nymphs and the King of Erythia!” Cainen said, with a theatrical flourish. “You are far from your glade, fair one!”
She raised an eyebrow at Cainen’s strange and sudden outburst, but did not appear at all fazed.
“My name is not Leandra,” she began. “And you, good saigneur, are no Kheros.”
“No, my heart,” the Fennishman said, grinning roguishly. “I’m called Cainen. Know that I am at your service!”
Her gown - of deep crimson broadcloth – was somewhat faded and fraying at the hems, but she managed to wear it exquisitely. Cainen was pleased to find that all her curves curved in the right direction, and that they were all in the proper place. She had a stately face – an aquiline nose, high cheekbones and a fine and clear jaw line. Long, fluttering dark lashes made her large brown eyes seem larger and more alluring still. The structure of her face and the complexion of her skin suggested southern climes.
“But what’s your true name, then, my heart, if it is not Leandra?”
“My name?” she echoed, giving him the slightest of smiles. “What use is a name, good saigneur, for a woman such as me?”
Cainen raised an eyebrow. “Oh, but I must know!” Her accent, too, was suggestive of southern places – she was a native of northern Olitana, perhaps. Cainen knew that many of the harlots there in the streets of Auvand were not native citizens – that most of them came to the city from farming and grape-cultivating villages in the city’s hinterland and from nearby provinces. Some of them, however, came from entirely different countries.
She let out a low chuckle at his eagerness. “You would know what the old legends say. Kheros, the young shepherd, had to slay the terrible Lion of Lymoea before he could even learn the name of the girl who was the attention of his affections.”
She was educated. Quite surprising, it seemed to Cainen, considering her profession – but yet not surprising, considering her aristocratic face and bearing. Certainly she was a high-class courtesan of some description. Cainen did not spend overly long wondering why she was there, amongst the ragged and unwashed street-walkers there in the middle of the sprawling slum district in the middle of the night: he was too busy trying to be as charming as possible, and thanking the gods for his lucky fortune.
“As you said, my lady, I am no Kheros. I am greater than that poor sod ever was! Direct me to the nearest monster and I’ll slay it right away. I’ve already put down the Beast of Vaudain, after all. Kheros’ fearsome lion of Lymoea would skin itself rather than face me! The dreaded basilisk would turn right to stone after getting one good look at me!”
“Such bombast!” the woman replied, not unimpressed. Her great big eyes went impossibly wide at him.
“Sure, I’ve got the prize to prove it!” Cainen exclaimed, fumbling into his satchel. “From the Baron de Vaudain’s own belongings, a fine silver brooch.”
He searched. “A lovely heirloom. Silver-gilt, and well crafted. The servants could not be sure if it had belonged to the grandmother of the baron, or his great-grandmother…” As he spoke he searched about inside the leather bag for what, under the woman’s keen gaze, seemed like an hour – checking inside pockets and under flaps and in every conceivable place. Eventually a silvery glint caught his eye, and his hand seized upon the pretty prize and plucked it out.
“There,” he announced, holding it before her. It was a finely-made and gleaming - if not somewhat battered – old piece of jewellery featuring the snarling wolf’s head sigil of the baronial House Vaudain. Along with the enamelled goblet and the ruby-studded gold ring, it had been their somewhat meagre prize for dealing with Harquen’s pack of frightful wolf-beasts. Since then, the goblet and the ring had financed Kozef and Cainen’s eating, drinking and lodging, but they were yet to pawn the silver brooch.
The harlot raised a fine eyebrow at the trinket. She smiled slightly, but appeared altogether unimpressed. “It is rather nice, I think. Shiny. Pleasing to look at. It is a very nice little thing, but nothing special. You slew a great beast, you say, and your prize was only that little bauble?”
Cainen could not help but frown at that.
“Maybe you’d like to see something a bit more visceral, then?” he asked, sliding down his ragged sleeve and brandishing his forearm at her like a trophy. “I’ve got this here bite mark, you see.” His forearm was knotted with sinewy muscle and threaded with ragged scars – the largest and freshest of which coincided with the fang-marks left by a great pair of canine jaws; ones that could have torn right through his arm, but for whatever reason had only left their mark.
“It all happened some four weeks ago,” he said. “The sum of fifty five silver sovereigns was thrown about, but that wretch of a baron wouldn’t provide in the end. He was dead a few hours later – slain and partially eaten by his wild-and-mad brother, you see. Ghastly business!”
“Such a story!” the harlot exclaimed, although Cainen found that he could not discern whether she was genuinely intrigued by his tale or if she was subtly mocking him. He chose to believe it was the former, and continued on.
“So, where do you like to ply your trade, dear heart? We’ll make our way there and I’ll tell you the whole story on the way, if you like.”
The harlot smiled demurely, and, through long lashes, looked up at Cainen with mysterious eyes. She sidled over to him slowly and temptingly – or it appeared slow and tempting to Cainen, even though the distance between them was not great at all – and put a soft, warm hand to his waist. She put her lip to his ear – almost touching it, but not quite – and her auburn hair brushed against the side of his face and her bosom, ever so slightly, grazed his arm. Lavender perfume filled his nostrils.
“For three sovereigns, dear Kheros, you could have me for the night.”
Cainen was so distracted by the panoply of pleasant sensations that he almost did not hear her.
She took a back-step away, eyeing him coquettishly all the way. There was a slight smile and her eyes were open widely, innocently – ready to gauge his reaction.
Three silver sovereigns was a steep price for such a service – one of the night walkers Cainen had seen before would likely have charged only a quarter of that.
“…Oh, Leandra, my heart. Your price is grave, but I’ll gladly pay it!”
Smiling demurely, but with a mischievous gleam in her eye, she folded her hands before her, saying: “Paid up-front.”
“Oh, my heart,” Cainen moaned. “So be it!”
He went back into his satchel, and took out three silver sovereigns. He knew that Kozef would surely curse his very bones if he were to ever find out that he had dropped three sovereigns on a whore’s favours, but he tried not to think about that eventuality.
He dropped the silver pieces into her hand and with a quick slip of her hand they were out of sight, sequestered away in some hidden receptacle or such.
With that she gave a great smile, and took his hand in her own.
“Let us walk, then, my love,” She linked her arm through his and they began to walk together. “This way. You’ll tell me that tale now, won’t you?”
“Oh, certainly, my heart!” Cainen exclaimed.
They walked for a time in that manner, through the moonlit streets of the Donjon Quarter. Here and there some city-dwellers were out-of-doors, despite the lateness of the hour and the fact of the city’s curfew, which was seldom policed there in the streets of the slum district. There were whores out treading the alleys, drunkards in a stupor, sprawled in their mud and vomit, and various persons of no fixed abode – beggars and vagabonds and
vagrants – tucked here and there into snug nooks and gaps for the evening. But to Cainen it seemed as if it were only he and his Leandra out in the world that evening, walking leisurely under the full and clear moon, talking and laughing quietly.
He told her happily about Kozef and the wolves of Vaudain – of how they had joined the hunt with brave Boero – the magnificent huntsman who had fallen prey to the beast’s gnashing jaws – of how they had met with the wolf in its deep and dark lair, and of course of the unexpected terrors they had faced back at Vaudain castle in the deep black of night.
Just as his tale was drawing to a close, however, he realised that his bladder was in rather severe need of emptying.
“Leandra, dear one,” he said. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I’ve got a wee bit of business to attend to in this narrow alley here, you see. It’ll only be a moment.”
“Oh, but of course,” the harlot responded, coquettishly. “Attend to it, my dear Kheros. I’ll be just here, waiting for your swift return.”
Reluctantly, Cainen unlinked his arm from hers and trudged into the narrow alleyway. He was beside a tall tottering townhouse, not unlike many of the buildings in that city. It was of a half-timbered construction, and the white plaster of a nearby section of wall had a long fracture, revealing a sliver of the clay brick beneath. Cainen figured it as good a place as any to do his business.
Feeling much more at ease after his piss, he nonetheless took a deep breath to calm himself for his return into the harlot’s presence.
He stepped out of the darkness of the alley, and into the moonlit brightness of the avenue only to find that his Leandra was gone.
*
Sullen and heartsick over having been thieved and conned by a woman who seemed to have sauntered straight out of his dreams, Cainen found that he had little interest in searching her out or tracking her down to gain back his three silver sovereigns.
He made his way back to the Twisted Whisker, and plunked himself down at the greasy trestle table next to his boon-companion.
“Ah, and here he is again!” Kozef said. The Kaszian was quite deep in his cups - his nose and his cheeks were red from the ale he had been drinking. “The true Cainen!”
After taking a long draught from his ale mug, he gave the Fennishman a rough pat on the shoulder. “Why do you have the long face, short man?”
“Ah,” Cainen sighed, full of melancholy. “I met a harlot, Kozef. A beautiful harlot…”
“Yes?” Kozef asked. “And what is your grief, then?”
“Disappeared, she did.” Cainen said. He was focused on the dying candle-flame on the table in front of him, slowly drowning in molten tallow and spewing forth its rancid smoke. “We were gabbing along together just fine, talking and walking to her place. I excused myself to take a piss and while I was at it she slips away, all without a fuss.”
“Oh, Cainen,” the big man said. “Cainen, Cainen. Do not worry yourself about her. It is for the best, maybe. You don’t know what she was like, truly. She might have had the lover’s blight. Do you remember, down in Carreador last summer? That sweet young thing with the bronze skin and the bright eyes? You had the itch in your breeches for two weeks after visiting with her.”
Cainen groaned. That was a discomfort he would rather not remember.
“Many of those women cannot be trusted,” Kozef continued. “They cavort with thieves and scoundrels, or are such themselves, as was your friend just now. So sit and have a drink with Kozef. Forget about your beautiful harlot.”
Cainen sighed, and he allowed his head to drop forward, hitting the tabletop with a loud thud. He lifted his head up slightly, and then threw it down again. Then repeated the motion one last time: three bumps, for the three coins that she had purloined.
“Three sovereigns,” Cainen finally muttered.
“What?”
“Her price,” he admitted. “For the night. That’s what I gave her. And what she took from me.”
“Her price?!” Kozef’s eyes became suddenly stern, and his moustache bristled indignantly. “That she-demon took three of our sovereigns?!”
Kozef, in a fury, surged up from the table suddenly. His left hand was clutched into a tight fist, and in his right he brandished the mug as if he were about to smash it down on the tabletop.
“Sweet Intercessor!” Kozef bellowed. “Gods! Damnation! Blast her eyes!”
He looked to Cainen. His companion, dejected and ashamed, still had his head resting on the table.
Regaining his composure, the Kaszian slumped back down into his seat. Three silver sovereigns were enough for a hearty supper for two and a whole night’s worth of drinking. Lodging, too, in some parts.
“You aught to take more care next time, Cainen.” Kozef grumbled, taking another sip of his ale. “It is good that a few coins was the only thing she lifted from you.”
With that, Cainen jerked himself upright. His mouth was suddenly taut and his brow was knitted with trepidation. Had that truly been all she had taken from him?
“…Cainen?”
The Fennishman turned then, slowly, to look to Kozef. His brown eyes were wide with agitation and his lips were moving about furtively, as if trying and failing to form words.
“She only took the three sovereigns… Did she not?”
Cainen lifted up his satchel and placed it on the table. The fastening, he saw, was undone.
With trembling hands, he opened the flap and dug around, searching every inch of the bag for their silver wolf’s head brooch.
But it was not there.
3 – Caelummar’s Folly
The mercenaries thundered out of the Twisted Whisker and into the moonlit street. Cainen led the way. They charged down one alley and into another, eventually coming to the place where Cainen had first made the crimson-clad whore’s acquaintance.
“This is the place where I found her,” Cainen said. He was pacing back and forth with agitation, with eyes busily searching in every direction.
The band of ungainly prostitutes still congregated where they had earlier that evening. Cainen eyed them suspiciously, and then charged over to them.
“The woman who was lingering here before,” Cainen cried. “Did she return here?”
The harlots, startled by the frantic foreign mercenary, stepped away and drew close to one another. They did not reply.
“Have you seen her?” Cainen demanded. “Has she returned to this place?”
“We – we haven’t seen her, saigneur,” the tall and gaunt one finally piped up. “Not since you were here before, and went off with her.”
“You know more about this woman than you’re telling, maidamme,” Cainen growled. His hands were balled into fists and his chin was jutting out. “You are all her compatriots.”
The harlots, seeing the Fennishman’s fury, shrank back further away. The youngest one, with eyes wide and face blanched, seemed especially afraid.
“No, good saigneur!” one of them shrieked. “We swear!”
Kozef, seeing the fright his companion was instilling in the hearts of the poor women, placed a firm hand on his friend’s arm and drew him away a few paces.
“Small man,” Kozef said. “It is too much. Take a deep breath.”
Cainen clamped his eyes shut and took a long breath in and out. When he opened his eyes once again, he was noticeably calmer.
“They do not know this woman-thief, small man.”
“Ach, you’re right, big fellow. You’re right. Let me think.”
Cainen gently disengaged himself from his companion’s grasp and paced a few paces in one direction, and then in another.
He then turned about, and regarded the dark mouth of an alleyway nearby. The avenue was very dark – as with many alleys throughout the city, the upper stories of the buildings had a tendency to lean or abut forwards, overhanging the thoroughfare below and almost meeting together in the middle, making the narrow alleyway into something not unlike a tunnel. Though dark and narrow it was rather straight, and
Cainen could see all the way through to the next moonlit avenue, some two hundred feet away.
He saw, then – or at least thought he saw, at the far end of the alleyway – a fleeting flash of deep crimson.
“There!” Cainen cried.
Within a heartbeat, Cainen and Kozef were charging down the alleyway.
Within moments they emerged at the other end, into another street.
They continued in this manner, storming through the city streets, charging down lanes and wending their way down narrow alleys, filled with indignation. Cainen, with Kozef following close behind, would rush down one rutted thoroughfare, only to see, at the very corner of his vision, the tell-tale flicker of crimson red at the far end of another lane. In his great choler and his agitation the short-statured Fennishmen did not take a moment to consider the possibility that his eyes – in league with his frustrated mind and the stark moonlight – might have been glimpsing things that were simply not there.
Eventually the pair found themselves in a part of the city that was wholly different to the dirty and bedraggled Donjon quarter. Uniform townhouses, built partly of masonry and partly in the half-timbered style, lined both sides of the street, which was paved throughout with clean, regular cobblestones – the streets of the Donjon quarter, meanwhile, were for the most part a mire of mud and excrement. Here and there they could see especially large and stately free-standing houses, encircled by high walls and resembling castles or palaces – the abodes, no doubt, of nobles and especially wealthy merchants.
A hundred feet or so before them the broad street opened up into a sizeable city square, a space where, in the daytime, a bustling market might have been held. In the very centre of that plaza though there stood a colossal edifice, a great ancient archway of cream-white marble rising higher than all the surrounding shops and townhouses.
It was ghostly in the bright moonlight, almost appearing to glow. The fine inscriptions and exquisite sculpted relief – had Kozef or Cainen been close enough to see – would have been awash with bright whiteness, their detail difficult to discern.
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