by Aldrea Alien
Marin skewered a carrot on the end of her knife and held it aloft as if she’d never seen one before. It was only when he caught Authril sticking her tongue out at the other woman that he realised the hunter was comparing the vegetable to the shade of the elf’s hair. It wasn’t a bad match.
One of the serving women, the plumper one with hair the colour of a midnight sky, bent over to collect Tracker’s empty plate. Under the warm light of the candles, their skin shared a very similar bronze hue. She smiled up at the elf. “Will that be—?” She stiffened, jerking upright again. “Oi!” the woman shouted over her shoulder as she rubbed her backside. “Keep your bloody hands to yourself. I’m not part of the service.”
“What?” The man sitting behind her laughed. “With what he charges for drink in here?” The drunkard reached out and clumsily snaffled her around the waist.
The woman struggled in his grasp, clearly losing ground. “Let me go right now or I’ll have Rhys toss you out.”
Beside them, Tracker casually sipped at his tankard. One russet brow rose along with the woman’s voice.
“Aw, come on, love.” The man jigged her and leered down her cleavage. “Don’t be like that.”
“Dear man,” the hound said into his tankard. “I suggest you let the woman be.”
The drunkard turned his bleary brown eyes on Tracker. “Keep your nose out of it, elf. If I want a little fun with the lady, I’ll have a little fun. Isn’t that right, love?”
“I’m not your love,” the woman snarled. “Now let me go, you tosser.”
With his cheeks hollowing as if he’d drunk something sour, Tracker twisted on his stool enough to face the pair. “She does not appear to be enjoying your attention, you putrid waste of flesh. And I am sure she would much rather do her job than be pawed at by the likes of you.”
Sneering, the man tossed the woman to one side as he lurched to his feet. “You want to say that to my face, elf?”
“I believe I just did.” Tracker took another swig of his beer. “Or perhaps that unseemly growth on the front of your head has atrophied your brain. Should I perhaps speak directly to the organ in charge?” he asked, nodding at the man’s crotch.
The drunkard squared his shoulders. “If you were any real man, elf, you’d—”
“Again with the elf?” the hound taunted. “Is that the best your undersized mind can think of? If you were any real man, you would not need to harass these dear women.”
The man grabbed Tracker’s jerkin and hauled the elf to his feet. He held the hound close to his face, leaving Tracker barely balanced on his toes. “You’re a dead man,” the drunkard growled.
“Hold up.” Marin leapt to her feet, the stool crashing to the floor behind her. “You unhand our friend right now.”
The drunkard leered at her. “This your little mistress, elf? Standing up for your pet, are we, love?” He grinned, his teeth seeming far too big for his mouth. “He won’t look so pretty once I’m done with him.”
“Touch him and I’ll rearrange your face,” she bit back.
“My dear hunter,” Tracker said, “Your concern is unnecessary. He is welcome to test his luck, but I have survived far worse than a drunken beating.” He grinned up at the man. “Although, if I may direct your attention down.”
Dylan’s gaze dropped to where Tracker held the point of one of his seemingly endless collection of knives to the man’s crotch.
The man stiffened, having become aware of the situation he’d put himself in. His brows drew together, forming a veranda of wheaten hair over his bulging eyes. “Pointy-eared scum,” he growled as he slowly lowered the hound back onto the floor and released his grip. “I’m going to break every bone in your body.”
“Not tonight, it would seem. Now run along, my dear man, before I decide to separate you from your little brains.” Tracker righted his stool as the man stepped back, casually sheathing his knife before sitting down and returning to his drink.
Snarling, the drunkard lurched at the hound, his hands clasped and raised above his head.
Tracker leant to one side as the man’s fists came down on the table where he’d been sitting. “Predictable,” he said, shaking his head. “Very well, my dear man. Let us do this the hard way.” Before the drunkard could react, the hound slammed his elbow into the man’s chest, followed swiftly by a fist to the neck.
The man staggered back, clutching at his throat. His eyes bulging as a dreadful choking sound escaped his gasping mouth.
Tracker followed, ramming the heel of his boot into the man’s crotch.
Dylan winced as he watched the man go down, certain everything in his smallclothes had just contracted in sympathy.
The screech of wood across wood preceded the rest of the dicers getting to their feet. There were six in all. Each armed with a dagger or a knife, although only a couple had drawn their weapons.
Tracker spun to face them, a dagger in each hand.
Dylan slowly got to his feet. It seemed his preference to sleep in a bed tonight wasn’t going to be a reality. He examined the men. A simple pulse through the air should be enough to knock them all down without causing too much damage to their surroundings. Of course, it’d also knock over the hound, but—
“That’s quite enough,” someone said, the words sounding as if they had to grind their way out of the owner’s throat.
Dylan joined the others in looking to see who had spoken, sinking back onto his stool as he caught sight of a burly man, about the same height as himself. He’d a face like tanned leather and shoulders that looked as if he’d barely fit through most of the tower doors. A dull thud preceded every second step, drawing Dylan’s gaze down to find the man had a wooden leg.
“All right, sunshine,” the man said as he clapped his meaty hand on the drunkard’s shoulder. The man’s forearms looked easily as big as Dylan’s thigh. “I think it’s time you went off home.”
Tracker’s grin widened into a far friendlier version. “Evening, Rhys.” He sheathed his daggers as if this was an everyday occurrence for him. “So sorry to intrude on your quiet like this.”
The man glared down at the hound. “Why is it that every time you’re here my workload doubles?”
Tracker shrugged. “Come now, this is nowhere near as bad as last time. No one is bleeding and everyone still has the bits they came here with.”
Rhys grunted as he hefted the drunkard over his shoulders. His gaze swung to the other dicers who had returned to their seats upon his arrival. “Let’s keep it that way, hound.” He strode off, grumbling inaudibly under his load as he made for the exit.
Tracker slowly turned on his heel to face the other dicers as the man vanished outside. He spread his arms wide in a silent challenge.
One player toyed with the dice, another became overly interested in his stack of coins. Several seemed to be admiring various sections of the tavern architecture. To a man, none appeared willing to meet the elf’s gaze.
“I thought not,” the hound muttered as he returned to his stool.
The serving woman wasted no time in plonking herself on his lap. “As I recall,” she said, her voice huskier than it’d been before the fighting. “Knights tend to wear shiny armour.” She ran her finger along his shoulder.
Tracker chuckled and Dylan fancied he caught a faint blush touch the man’s cheeks. “My dear Annalise,” he purred. “There are no knights in Demarn.”
“Oh?” Her finger worked its way up to the elf’s ear with a deliberateness that spoke of knowing exactly how sensitive they were. “Then I guess I’ll have to show my saviour thanks in another way.” Annalise tilted the hound’s head back and kissed him, quite deeply if Dylan were to judge by the way Tracker clutched the woman.
Feeling his face heating, Dylan engrossed himself in the remains of his food. The meat was cold and the gravy had begun to form a film on the top, but it was better than watching the woman try to fish out the hound’s tonsils with her tongue.
Marin cleared her thro
at. “Do you think you could do that elsewhere? I’m trying to eat.”
“Yes, well.” Tracker swiftly deposited the woman back onto her feet. “Your gratitude has been noted, my dear.” The hound pushed back his stool. He laid a friendly hand on the serving woman’s shoulder. “My dear women, I am sure Annalise will be available to show you to your rooms when you so desire, but this is where I part ways with you for a time. There is someone I must speak with who can tell us what lies ahead and it is not a place one should loiter near for long.” He eyed Dylan, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “I think it would be best if you come with me, dear man, for your own protection. We do not want to risk another hound stumbling upon you the way I did.”
Dylan nodded as he swallowed his current mouthful. Although he now carried the remains of the collar in the same pouch Katarina had, the likelihood of another hound willing to believe the truth was slim.
Authril peered at the other elf. “How do we know you’re not just going to leave him dying in a ditch somewhere?”
Tracker laughed. “You are such a suspicious woman. If I was going to kill him, then why would I bring him all the way into town? However, if you think me so untrustworthy, you are more than welcome to come along. I have nothing to hide.” With that, the hound turned on his heel and strode towards the door. “Come, my dear friends. It will be harder to speak with her the later the night gets.”
Dylan walked at Authril’s side through the lantern-lit streets, tailing Tracker as the man made for whatever destination he had in mind. They entered what looked like a market square, vacant now beyond the occasional seller still packing away their goods. The scent of spices hung heavily in the air.
There appeared to be another inn ahead, a massive stone and timber structure, its front illuminated by a lantern hanging across the street. Lights flickered in every window of the multi-levelled building. The entrance opened as they neared and a man staggered out, a grin splitting his face. He wound his way past them, smelling heavily of incense and spiced wine.
Dylan’s idle gaze caught a sign declaring the place was The Gilded Lily as he followed Tracker up the stairs.
A man, quite broad and muscular, stood by the door. He unfolded his arms as they neared, thrusting a huge hand towards the hound. Tracker silently pressed a small silver coin into the man’s palm, patiently waiting as the man bounced it against a piece of wood. Seemingly satisfied, the man grunted and indicated the door with a jerk of his head.
The main entrance opened into a room that encompassed much of the lower level, the ceiling held aloft by a series of carved wooden pillars. That was all he caught before his eyes began to water at the heavy smoke in the air. The burning incense gave the area a hazy touch, as if Dylan peered at the world through a layer of fine gauze.
Blinking, his gaze drifted to the curtains flanking the pillars like huge red wings. Paintings of men and women in various stages of undress and revelry adorned the walls. A trio of musicians sat to one side, playing soft alluring music, whilst a young man sang.
Dylan caught all of two words before he registered the other people in the room. His thoughts of this being a high-class inn of sorts slowly veered elsewhere. Judging by the half-naked people lounging about in cushioned chairs almost big enough to be beds, he’d a rather sneaky suspicion that there was more on offer here than alcohol. “Is this a… brothel?”
Tracker chuckled. “Oh, it would seem he is not quite as innocent as he looks. You are correct in your assumptions, my dear man. Although, The Gilded Lily is not just any brothel. This is the most expensive in Oldmarsh.” He indicated the room with a sweep of his hand. “Every man and woman you see here is the finest the town has to offer.”
“And your home away from home, I take it,” Authril said.
Grinning, the hound waggled a finger at her. “You have such a sharp tongue for one so beautiful, but I am not ashamed to admit I have spent quite some time here in the past. Not only for the reasons you would think. My contact works here.”
The warrior eyed him, clearly trying to determine if Tracker was lying. “And who would that—?”
“Precious!” a voluptuous woman called out. She sashayed through the other people as if they weren’t even there to capture the hound’s lips in an open-mouthed kiss. “I thought you were moving on from here.” She swatted at his armoured chest with the back of her pale, dainty hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve been around all this time and haven’t come to see me. Why, darling, I’d be positively heartbroken.”
The hound grinned. “Not at all, my dear woman. And, I am afraid to say, my stay this time shall be quite brief. My dear friends and I are merely passing through. I am simply on the hunt for a little information of what lurks along the northern roads.”
The woman wore a light blue dress that looked to be a single piece of cloth held up by a chain necklace. The skirt parted at the side as she cocked her hip, revealing a creamy thigh. “You know information costs you.”
Tracker laughed. “The usual fare, I imagine.”
“Wait.” Authril raised an eyebrow at the hound. “This is your contact?”
The woman turned her attention from Tracker to run her cool, green eyes over the warrior. Her lips—a deep shade of pink that Dylan doubted was natural—curved into a warm, and altogether practised, smile. “Well, we certainly can’t all be impressive creatures of muscle and steel.”
A faint pinkness, almost impossible to notice in the smoky light, fast bloomed upon Authril’s cheeks.
“It is not so strange, my dear warrior,” Tracker said. “The Gilded Lily’s prowess is renowned all over Demarn and a great many people come through here.”
In more ways than one, I’m sure. Dylan’s gaze drifted to the woman’s fellow… tradesmen. Now he looked, he spied a great deal of patrons amongst them. Some merely drank and lounged on the chairs to be pampered via touch, presence or even food. A few of the brothels employees appeared to be in the process of securing various deals, but the majority seemed content to recline there, silently tempting those who were undecided.
Whilst those who waited were all in various stages of undress, it was especially true of the men. Most of them wore only trousers or smallclothes, a few had forsaken both for lengths of cloth and glittering adornments that drew the eye. A handful danced to the young man’s song, the sheer fabric draped over their hips teasing as the folds swung back and forth in a hypnotic fashion. The longer Dylan stared, the more his skin prickled and his breath quickened.
A particularly lean fellow and his giggling client blocked the sight for a moment, snapping Dylan’s attention back to his surroundings. He idly tracked the prostitute as the man escorted his client towards a set of stairs leading to the upper levels. The man’s patron fondled the bulge in the prostitute’s smallclothes as they ascended, leaving rather less to the imagination than there’d been a moment ago.
Dylan reflexively wet his lips, unable to tear his gaze from the pair until they were out of sight. By the gods. No wonder the client giggled his head off.
“…and Treasure hears a great deal of gossip,” Tracker went on, still in conversation with the warrior.
“That so?” Authril took another step closer to the woman. “Then tell us, what news have you heard from the north?”
Treasure’s smile barely shifted. “I couldn’t tell you that, darling,” she said in a tone that was overloud. “Anything my clients say is strictly confidential.” With her voice dropping to a whisper she continued, “I could, however, tell you in private. For a fee.”
“Why you money-grubbing—” Authril stilled as the hound laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Relax, my dear woman,” Tracker purred. “I will handle this. Just give me half an hour or so and I will return with the information we need.”
Authril sneered. “I don’t think so. I don’t trust you, hound. If you’re going, I’m coming with you. I want to hear exactly what she has to say.”
“Of course, darling,” Treasure piped
up. “The more the merrier.”
Dylan took in the prostitute’s smug smile. He wasn’t certain if he trusted the pair alone with the warrior. “If you’re going, then so am I.”
Authril whirled around, her face horror-stricken. “No!”
At her side, the hound chuckled. “Such vehemence, my dear. Would you prefer he remain amongst all this?” He indicated the room with a broad sweep of his hand. “Actually, that is not such a bad idea. I do believe several of them have caught his eye.” Tracker leant close to him and whispered, “I am willing to pay if you wish to take one upstairs for a little fun.”
“You will not,” the warrior snapped. “The last thing I need is to catch some disease off him.”
Dylan opened his mouth, ready to explain that it wasn’t possible for him to become diseased. At least, not for long.
“Darling,” Treasure interjected, one brow arched high. “That might be true for a lesser establishment, and I’m frankly shocked that you’d insinuate we aren’t clean when that’s simply not true.” She circled the other woman, brushing her hand down Authril’s arm before linking their fingers. “Come,” she breathed. “I’ve just the place to discuss whatever you like.”
With her entire face having gone deep red all the way to the very point of her ears, Authril offered no resistance as Treasure guided the woman to the stairs Dylan had seen the previous client travel up.
He trailed behind the hound, less certain of following the woman than either elf. “Are we actually going into one of the rooms with her?” It wouldn’t be quite so bad if it was all just a pretence, but he’d a feeling that both her and the hound were quite serious in their meanings. “We’re not really going to—?”
“Have sex with her?” Tracker replied, his voice oddly sedate. “It’s the way things are played here. You buy her time, you use it, then she tells you what she knows.”