Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1)

by CW Thomas

  “The link to one’s ancestral line is not always strong,” Demulier said, “but in Prince Tristian it thrives. I’m telling you, he is the one we need to—”

  Ustus held up his hand. “All right. All right.” He looked down the hallway, first away from Scarlett, then toward her. Just as his head swiveled in her direction she ducked back behind the corner.

  She heard them whispering before their footsteps retreated away.

  After a few calming breaths Scarlett pursued them back to the State Hall.

  The entertainers had left the stage and were now mingling with the crowd, doing sleight-of-hand tricks and telling jokes. The main stage had been taken over by a woman with a large harp, strumming away and humming as the guests indulged in wine and the large number of prostitutes now mingling with the crowd.

  Scarlett looked around for Tristian, desperate to tell him what she had just overheard. But what had she overhead? In her mind, she couldn’t make sense of it. Demulier sounded obsessed with Prince Tristian, rambling on about the memories of his ancestors, not to mention her talk of gods and the high king, which made no sense.

  She looked left, then right, searching for signs of Tristian’s lumbering frame. She wheeled around, bumping headlong into the hip of Princess Arrahbella.

  “Oh, my dear, are you all right?” the princess asked.

  Scarlett nodded.

  Arrahbella stepped back, her brows crinkling as she looked at Scarlett’s dress. “My, my. What have we been up to?”

  Scarlett realized with horror that her beautiful purple dress was smeared with dirt and dust from the narrow vent. She should’ve known that crawling around in the arteries of the castle would leave her filthy.

  “Maybe you should go clean yourself up,” suggested Arrahbella. “It’s getting late, and besides this party is becoming hardly a place for a young girl.”

  “Quite right,” said the queen. She wandered up behind Scarlett. Her eyes glanced up and down her filthy dress in disgust. “What in the nine kingdoms have you been up to, child?”

  Scarlett mimed the first thing that came to her mind: a monkey. She puffed out her cheeks, scratched her armpits, and wobbled from foot to foot, knowing that such an unladylike display would rile the queen’s temper. It might mean a slap to the face, but it would at least stop her from asking questions.

  “Ghastly!” Catherina exclaimed. “Off to your room at once!”

  Scarlett hung her head in mock sorrow and walked off.

  “And not to the west wing,” Catherina said. “Aamor!” She snapped her fingers, and a moment later the young maidservant appeared next to her. She was sweating and out of breath, a pile of dirty plates in her hands. “You are to move this child’s belongings to the servants’ dormitories at once.”

  Aamor looked confused. “My lady, Prince Tristian told me to give her a room in the west wing with—”

  “Did Tristian recently become king of Tay?” Catherina asked.

  “No, my—”

  “Do his orders supersede my own?”

  “No, my—”

  “Then what part of what I have ordered you to do remains unclear? Take this child to the servant chambers at once. She isn’t large. Give her the smallest room.”

  “That would be my room, my lady.”

  Catherina pressed a hand to her heart and gasped. “What a marvelous idea. Thank you, Aamor.”

  The maid scrunched her brows. “My lady?”

  “You two can be sisters and share a room together and giggle over silly dreams and sew patches into your filthy clothes.”

  Aamor dipped her head. “Yes, my lady.”

  She set the stack of dishes on a nearby table and took Scarlett by the hand. Together they left the State Hall.

  Aamor said nothing as they walked to the rear wing of the castle, descended to the lowest level, to the damp, dark passageway where the servants resided in cramped quarters.

  Scarlett wondered if the young woman was still upset at her about trying to join her hand with Tristian’s.

  Aamor pushed hard against a stubborn door that scraped and groaned as it opened, revealing a small room with a bed, a wooden chest, and a small table. Aamor went inside and lit a few candles. She then went about picking up a few loose garments laying on the floor.

  Scarlett stood in the doorway, somewhat afraid to enter. She didn’t quite feel welcome in Aamor’s room, but, then again, she had never felt very welcome in Tay. She had been brought here to be the butt of a joke, and found herself unwanted all over again once the punch line had played itself out. There was no place for her in Tay, apart from her friendship with Tristian, and even that appeared to be coming to an end.

  Aamor noticed her standing hesitant under the lintel. The young woman sighed as she sat down on the bed and patted the mattress next to her. Scarlett entered and sat down.

  “I’m sorry,” Aamor said. She set a hand on Scarlett’s back and gave it a rub. “I shouldn’t be mad at you. It just doesn’t seem fair. With every passing day it seems the wealthy get more and more, and we get less and less.”

  Scarlett thought for a moment, then pulled out her blackboard and wrote: We have each other.

  Aamor dropped a kiss atop her head. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  BRYNLEE

  “Another flawless performance, Emma,” said Mistress Rose as she sat crossed legged at the breakfast table. “You’re surpassing my expectations, which doesn’t happen very often.”

  Brynlee stepped back and bowed her head. “Thank you, mistress.”

  She wiped her sweaty palms on the front folds of her yellow linen dress and surveyed her handiwork. She had set the table perfectly, with spoons, forks, and knives in careful order. The tea had been poured without spilling a drop, the biscuits served and buttered in a clean manner, and the apples sliced and laid out in a balanced pattern. The setting looked pleasing dappled by the sunlight floating in through the window’s latticework.

  Mistress Rose looked elegant in her black and red silk gown. The lace-covered fabric panels on her chest fit closely making a flattering silhouette, but from the waist down the fabric flowed outward in a giant bell shape, the hem trimmed with black braiding.

  “Wipe that hateful look off your face, girl,” Rose snapped.

  Brynlee’s eyes darted to the mistress, fearing she had done something wrong. To her immediate relief she realized Rose was speaking to Tavia, another one of her courtesans in training. Tavia was fifteen and was already taking on charges even though she was, as Rose would say, “slow and clumsy.” Tavia was the daughter of a poor brick maker in the slums of northern Perth. She knew little about decorum and table etiquette, an area Brynlee excelled it, which was probably why the young woman had developed such a dislike for her.

  When it came to physical beauty, however, Tavia had more than a leg up on Brynlee. She had two actually, and both were long and beautiful, giving way to shapely hips as well as other desirable curves.

  “You could learn a lot from Emma,” Rose continued. She reached out and caressed Brynlee’s chin. “She’s going to be my best girl some day.” She gestured toward an empty wooden chair. “Sit, my dear.”

  Brynlee took the seat, pulling at the uncomfortable folds of her linen dress, which was little more than a shift with nothing worn underneath. She felt naked wearing it outside her bedroom, but Mistress Rose insisted the garment would help her grow accustomed to the even more revealing clothes she would be expected to wear in the future.

  “Let us talk,” Rose said. “Pretend I am your man. You have successfully seduced me with your delicious treats, charmed me with your lovely looks, now stimulate my mind with some engaging conversation. This, ladies, is the true art of a courtesan.”

  Brynlee’s mind went blank. “Um.”

  Rose snapped her fingers. “Never start a conversation with, ‘Um.’ Never say ‘uh’ or ‘er’ or any other empty-headed noises. Noises are uninteresting. Use words. Now try again.”

  Brynlee c
leared her throat. “I—”

  Rose’s fingers snapped again. “Never start a conversation with ‘I.’”

  Tavia snickered.

  “You’re not here to talk about you,” Rose continued. “You’re here to stroke the ego of a man, which is an art unto itself. Stroke his ego too blatantly and he’ll know you’re putting on a show. Stroke it too lightly and he won’t feel like he’s getting his money’s worth. Now come on, child. I thought you were a well-learned girl. Show me some of those wits of yours.”

  Brynlee racked her brain for something to say, a piece of historical fact, any fact, and said the first thing that came to mind. “You’re from Aberdour, aren’t you my lord? The summer must almost be over right now, if I’m not mistaken. I hear it gets quite humid there in the summer. Tell me, do you know of any watering holes where a girl might enjoy a cool bath when the summers get too hot to bear?”

  Rose smiled and clapped her hands. “Very good, Emma. You put the attention on him right away. Asked him a question to get him talking. And that, ladies, is the easiest trick in the book. Get a man talking about himself and you’ll be set for hours. Just don’t forget to bat your eyes and at least pretend to be listening.”

  Brynlee offered a cute little smile, which was something she had learned to do on cue at Mungo’s.

  “And a word of warning, when a man is thoroughly charmed by you he will likely lavish you with gifts. No matter how silly or useless they seem, you will treat them like gold. Understand?”

  “And if he doesn’t give you gifts he’ll give you secrets,” Brynlee said, repeating something she’d heard from Korah years ago.

  Mistress Rose looked pleased. “Quite right. Most men assume you are too stupid to understand, and so they’ll talk about many things they should not, but always remember that secrets are to be kept. Never shared. The moment you lose the trust of your clients, you’ve lost your reputation and your job.”

  Rose stood up and smoothed out the front of her sleeveless red gown. “Clean this up.” She waved her hand over the breakfast table. “When everything is finished, meet me upstairs.”

  “Yes, mistress,” the girls answered, almost in unison.

  Rose left the dining room and pattered up the stairs. Brynlee began collecting plates and dishes and placed them into a wooden crate to take to the kitchen.

  Tavia grabbed a piece of uneaten cake and lifted it to her lips. She paused, said, “If you say anything I’ll scratch your face,” and stuffed it into her mouth.

  Brynlee noticed dark welts across the back of Tavia’s hands. “What happened?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” the girl said, grabbing for the forks and spoons. Then, considering, she added, “Mistress Rose caught me drinking milk from the cellar again.”

  Brynlee exhaled and shook her head. “I told you not to do that. Milk is costly, and you know the mistress saves it for the clients.”

  “Shut up,” Tavia said. She slammed the silverware down into the crate and closed her eyes. For a moment Brynlee thought the girl was going to cry. “Some of the other girls say I’m too skinny. They say none of the men will love me if I’m so skinny. They tell me to drink more milk, but the mistress won’t let me have anything except water.” She looked at Brynlee. “So what in all the hells am I supposed to do, huh?”

  For a moment Brynlee didn’t know what to say. Tavia’s sudden revelation was jarring and made her pity the poor girl.

  Her eyes wandered to the welts on the back of her hands again, which were not the first the young woman had ever received. Mistress Rose used a long leather switch, about as thick around as her biggest finger and as long as her arm. It whistled through the air when she swung it and landed against flesh like a sharp sting, hard enough to leave a mark, but not to break the skin. Brynlee had seen the mistress whip Tavia across the feet for tripping over a customer, and once across her back when she broke a plate.

  “Why do you have to be so perfect, Emma?” Tavia asked, toweling off the table.

  “What?”

  “I mean, where did you learn to do all this stuff?”

  Brynlee shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I just watch how others do it.”

  Tavia threw the towel in the crate and heaved it off the table.

  “You’re like a little princess,” she said. “Sweet and spoiled, big brown eyes like a little fawn. Just wait until you start taking on charges. See how you like it.”

  The thought of taking on male clients hung over Brynlee’s head like a dark gray cloud. Mistress Rose reminded her of it almost every day. The whores of her brothel talked about it like it was a great honor, but to Brynlee it was a terrifying prospect. She had three more years of waiting and training and then she would know what it was like to sleep with a man.

  “Tavia?” she asked just as the girl was about to enter the kitchen.

  She stopped and huffed. “What?”

  “What’s it like? The first time?”

  “What do you mean ‘the first time…” Tavia started to ask, but she stopped when she realized what Brynlee was referring to. She shrugged. “It is what it is.” She disappeared into the next room where Brynlee heard the rattling of dishes and trays.

  Disappointed that she didn’t get a more definitive answer, Brynlee went back to cleaning the kitchen by swiping crumbs off the wooden table. She should not have expected Tavia to answer her seriously anyway. The young woman hated Brynlee. Ever since that day when she spilled a tray of cakes all over Sir Dunmore Waters and received a whipping for it, she’d been haughty and spiteful.

  Tavia remerged from the kitchen, her bruised hands hugging her waist. “It hurts,” she said. “The first time. It hurts.”

  Brynlee felt the nervous knot in her stomach clench a little bit tighter. At the same time, however, she saw the pain in Tavia’s face and her heart filled with compassion for the poor brick maker’s daughter.

  That afternoon they served Rose and her guests during a small, private gathering of wealthy knights and high-ranking noblemen. The femininity of Rose’s establishment shrunk behind their charade of polished armor, decorative swords, the scent of oil rubbed leather, and rugged virility. The exclusive party, which was by invitation only, coupled with fine wine and the popularity of Rose’s girls, made the gathering a much talked about affair. Even the stout-waisted Mungo attended, his balding head wreathed in green leaves.

  Brynlee was thrilled with the new gown Rose had given her for the occasion, the first red dress she’d ever had. The top was delightfully soft, a velvet fabric that hugged her torso with the help of a gold and black ring belt. Silk-lined tippets let her hands and forearms work unrestricted while the brocade skirt allowed lots of room for her legs to move.

  And move she did.

  Brynlee and a couple of Rose’s less experienced courtesans spent their time hurrying up and down the stairs to and from the kitchen serving cakes, wine, fruit, and spiced cheese. Hustling without looking like one was hustling, Brynlee knew, was the key to looking desirable. Rose insisted upon gracefulness at all times, along with an unending smile, and, when it came to interacting with potential charges, a sweetness so thick it was almost suffocating. Pet names like “Honey” and “Deary” were to be peppered all throughout their conversations.

  The most exclusive clientele had pseudonyms that the girls were to use as often as anything else. The seasoned knight Dunmore Waters, for example, was known as Sir Dimples. All the girls knew if they ever called him this outside of Rose’s brothel he would probably beat them to death, but when they purred “Sir Dimples” into his ear while tickling his beard he became butter in their fingers.

  Rose’s girls worked the bawdy crowd with enthusiasm, filling the stomachs with wine and teasing them with flesh, all while stroking their egos with incessant flattery.

  A crash, like a door breaking off its hinges, sounded from one of the bedrooms down the hall. A moment later a lean man with a tuft of hair circling his bald dome stumbled down the hallway, half dressed and
red in the face. Sir Dunmore Waters came stalking after him, fists clenched and ready to fight.

  Rose Gown emerged from the crowd of prostitutes and half drunk nobles. “What is this all about?” she demanded. Upon noticing the skinny man, she gasped. “Brother Placidous? Are you all right?”

  The quivering priest stopped in the archway and faced the room of gawking party guests. He finished roping his pants around his waist. “Yes, m–my lady. I–I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  Tavia hurried down the hall, naked save for a bed sheet that she clung to her chest. She punched Sir Dunmore in the shoulder, a blow the knight didn’t even appear to feel through the leather padding of his torso. “What is the matter with you? He is my charge. We were—”

  Dunmore turned and slapped her so hard she spun to the floor. He looked at Rose. “You’ve got a wolf in sheep’s clothing here, my lady.”

  Rose was fuming. “Sir Dunmore, you better be glad we have such a lengthy friendship otherwise I’d have you thrown out for this disruption.”

  “My apologies, mistress.” He pointed to Placidous. “This charlatan is no longer a priest. Seems he is still taking your money to support the church, however.”

  Placidous lifted his hands. “N–now, hold on now. Mistress, I’ve known you for many years, and the church greatly values your support. You must believe—”

  “You are not a priest?” Rose said.

  “He was exiled from a monastery called Halus Gis on Efferous more than three years ago,” Dunmore said. “Seems there were questions about his morality.”

  A few chuckles sputtered up from the guests.

  Rose cocked an eyebrow at Placidous. “Is that so? And the donations I’ve given you?”

  Without his shirt on it was easy to see the shiver that ran up the man’s torso. He opened his mouth to speak, but in his distress it appeared that words had escaped him.

  “He probably kept the money for himself,” Dunmore said. “How else could he afford to frequent such a lavish, respectable brothel such as this?”