by Amy Hopkins
“Oh, I can afford it.” Julianne looked around the room.
Incense burned on the walls, making the room hazy. Silks hung from the ceiling, tied so that they billowed and undulated in the breeze from an upper window. The floor was green with pillows, and couches were scattered haphazardly about.
Across from her, one man lay on an ornate daybed, passed out. Another sat nearby, limply hanging onto a brass cup that leaned dangerously to one side. As Julianne turned away, it tipped just a little too far. Dark wine patterned on the carpet below.
“We’re quiet at this time of day,” the girl whispered. “You’ve got the pick of all the ladies. There are a few men out back, too, if that’s what you prefer?”
Julianne quickly brought to mind the image of George’s favorite girl. “Are they all as old as you?" she asked, trying not to show her distaste at the comment. She could just brainwash her way through, but acting the part instead would allow her to conserve her mental energy.
Her companion didn’t seem offended. “We have plenty to choose from, my lord.”
“I like the pale ones. Skin like milk, hair like fine sand.” Julianne stopped short of asking for anything too specific. She didn't want to draw attention to herself.
Julianne waited patiently while the girl disappeared behind a curtain, trying to ignore the men in the room with her. A moment later, George’s girl sauntered out. “Greetings, my lord.”
Julianne regarded her a moment, then nodded. “You’ll do.”
“This way.” The girl gestured to one of the curtains and Julianne followed her out, paying no attention to her swaying hips.
They went down a short hallway, past several doors. Each one had something hanging from the doorknob—a necklace, or scarf, or in one case, a shoe.
When they came to an unmarked door, the prostitute—Polly, Julianne read from her mind—pushed it open and ushered Julianne through. She peeked down the hallway before closing it, and draped a ribbon on the knob before shutting it behind them.
Polly turned around and gasped to see a small woman toe to toe with her, where the tall man should have stood. Unlike her wealthy client, this girl looked alert and dangerous. Her eyes glowed with the white heat of an over-baked coal.
Polly opened her mouth to scream. Before she could make a sound, her muscles sagged and her mouth dropped shut. Julianne led her to the bed and sat her down.
“Polly, when did Lord George last visit?” Julianne laced the words with light compulsion.
The girl wasn’t particularly resistant, just a little afraid. Julianne drained a little of the fear to make her comfortable, not that she would remember a single thing when they parted ways.
“Last night,” she murmured in a flat voice.
“What did he tell you about his trip to Tahn?” Julianne demanded.
She knew from experience not to ask for ‘everything he said’. That would leave the poor girl compelled to repeat everything that slipped through his lips, and could take hours.
“He’d come from a mission for his father’s advisor. Something about insurgents taking over the town, he wasn’t really sure what had happened. He was asked to go there, and find out what happened to the people the advisor had stationed there.”
So, he’s referring to us as insurgents? Not surprising, Julianne thought.
Polly kept talking. “Tobias lost a horseshoe. It slowed them, and George was getting angry. He told the men to leave him behind, and they refused because of the bandits. George couldn’t do anything about it. It made him so angry.”
Wide eyes turned up to Julianne, devoid of empathy. “It made him feel impotent. He told me that, before he hit me.” A hand drifted to her jaw and looking more closely, Julianne saw the makeup Polly had used to hide the bruise.
“He got to Tahn. Lied about his reason for being there. He thought if the townspeople paid him to go away, he could keep a cut of the money. They made him angry, though. A girl—” Understanding dawned on Polly’s face, and Julianne made sure to note that this prostitute was anything but stupid.
“The girl and her friends made a fool of him. He’s going to tell the advisor that the town is riddled with insurgents, that they have to lead an army there to destroy them. He has to keep it from his father, because his plan will fall apart.”
“Then what?” Julianne leaned closer, urgency in her voice.
“Then he fucked me. While he did it, he talked. He told me about the advisor—he’s been here for months, but George still doesn’t know his name. That makes him angry, too. The patches in his memory make him wonder if he’s going insane. He just kept talking and talking.”
Polly told Julianne that the advisor had been playing tricks on his father, but that George Senior hadn’t fallen for all of them. He couldn’t say what the tricks were, just that it had happened. He told her about the new faces, slowly taking positions in the town.
Julianne dove into her head. She watched as Polly connected dots all over the place—the talk about the new advisor brought a flash of memory, a well-dressed man Polly had seen more than once. Julianne recognized him immediately.
How like a power-hungry dictator to wipe only the minds he thought mattered. George the Third and all his soldiers had all had every trace of Rogan’s face removed from their memory. Not Polly. As a lowly commoner, she would have been beneath his notice.
It was Rogan. A thrill of fear and excitement went through Julianne at the thought of taking him down at last. Polly kept on with her story, telling about a red-haired woman and a sleazy little man. The first she had seen—that was Donna, of course. The second she hadn’t, but Julianne guessed it was August.
Under the words, Polly was thinking about the recent absence of Lord George Senior, and how the city was slowly falling into disorder and disrepair. Their normally bright, clean city was now hit with higher taxes and fewer services, leading residents to start grumbling.
The city guard had increased. Lord George had given them directions to stamp out violence and unrest, using ruthless tactics that even some of the guards employed with reluctance.
More jobs meant not only relief for the poorer families, but more men with free coin to spend at the brothel. Polly and the other workers for Madam Rosa could barely keep up.
The problem with that was in recent weeks, rumors were flying that Lord George no longer approved of the practice. Plans were already in place to move the business to another town if the crackdown became reality.
Polly was still rattling off her story. She mentioned George had attended to his business a lot faster than usual—not that he ever took long—and left.
“He threw money on the bed, emptied his purse. He said he didn’t know why he was doing it, he was confused. He still left it there, though.” A smile traced Polly’s lips as she thought of the sudden windfall.
“What will you do with it?” Julianne asked.
There was no compulsion behind the question, but Polly seemed happy to answer it, thanks to Juliane’s emotional dampener.
“Start me own business. I’ve always wanted to be a madam, have me own group of girls. Madam Nacht. They say it means night in one of the old tongues.”
Julianne shuddered. It means a hell of a lot more than that, she mused, thinking of the legend of Queen Bethany Anne’s creator and companion, Michael Nacht. Though, he was said to be responsible for Bethany Anne’s power, it was unsure who was stronger. Many of the legends suggested the student had overtaken the master before the world went to hell.
“Polly, how can I meet Lord George? Where would I go if I wanted to see him away from his advisors?” She wanted to mind read him.
Her first priority was calling off the attack on Tahn. She had to see how tight he was snared and if she could break any hold the New Dawn had over him.
“They’re always with him. Maybe at the Cirque. They’ve a new performance debuting in a couple of days, he always likes to see the first showing. He’ll be guarded, but not by them.” She spat the last
word with venom.
Julianne reached out to touch Polly’s cheek. Her eyes flared white, and she murmured another word. “When I walk out that door, you will forget everything that happened in this room. You will remember the handsome young trader. He wasn’t very good in bed, but he was polite.”
Julianne knew from previous mind reading encounters with prostitutes that as much as young men believed in their sexual prowess, to a seasoned professional, most of them resembled fumbling idiots. She didn’t want to stand out, so she kept the false memory consistent with what Polly would expect.
“He talked briefly of leaving town. You do not expect to see him again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Marcus shuffled his boots on the coir mat outside the inn. It was the third one he had tried—the last one he had visited was full, and the first was closed, apparently for health violations if the notice nailed to the door was accurate.
He ducked his head through the low doorway and hailed the man at the bar. Already, it was teeming with people.
“Any rooms?” Marcus asked over the din.
The innkeeper shrugged. “Sorry. We had to take in the people from Bitch Alley.”
That was the name of the inn that had closed. “Anywhere else I can try?” Marcus asked.
The man shook his head. “Look, if you’re desperate, you can sleep in the bar. We don’t close until midnight, though. Used to be later, but the curfew put a stop to that.”
“Curfew? Has there been trouble in town?” Marcus asked. In Arcadia, that would be the only reason for restricting the movement of citizens.
The innkeeper shook his head. “Those new pricks in town think it’s unseemly, or some shit. Got in old George’s ear and convinced him to make it law. Damned lucky the lord loves his booze, or they’d have shut us down completely.”
Shaking his head, the man turned away. He stepped over to serve a burly man in crisp linen when a woman shrieked.
“You bastard, Emmory!” Heels slammed against boards as a furious woman stomped downstairs and into the bar. “I can’t believe you went and fucked that little trollop!”
A weedy man carefully stuck his head out, then ducked as the girl picked up a nearby mug and pegged it at his head. “Adeline, it was just one night!" he protested.
“You said we were getting married! Instead, you gave me crabs, you asshole! You… you slimy little cunt fucker.”
Marcus bit down on the inside of his cheek. For some reason, the foul language spewing from the pretty girl’s mouth seemed hilarious.
She turned a scathing gaze past him. Slamming a key down on the bar, she snapped at the innkeeper. “I’m going home. You saw me pay for the room—well keep the money. Just don't let that limp-dicked, lice-infested little creep back in. It’s MY room, and he’s NOT allowed in it.”
The innkeeper grinned. “My pleasure, love. Mind if I give it to another patron?” He nodded at Marcus, who cringed at the attention.
The girl regarded him a moment, then nodded. Then, she leaned close. “Here’s a tip. Don’t sleep with the village whore the night you elope with your girlfriend, or she’ll cut off your balls.”
Marcus coughed, wondering if it was possible to feel any more uncomfortable than he did now. “Ok?”
She smiled a brilliant grin. “You can have the room. Might be best to burn the sheets, though. Never know what you’ll pick up in a town like this.”
Turning, she flounced out the door. “I’ll send a man for my things!" she called behind her.
The innkeeper just shook his head. “Crazy, bloody women,” he muttered. He shot a glance at the man—Emmory, Marcus guessed—and flicked his thumb towards the bar. “You heard the lady. I’ll bring your shit down, but you’re not stepping foot back in that room.”
Emmory nodded, then slunk over to a booth and slid down into the seat looking miserable. For a moment, Marcus felt sorry for the man. The feeling quickly vanished when a serving girl walked up to offer him a drink, and Emmory immediately started flirting.
“Doesn’t look like that marriage was ever destined to last,” he commented.
“He didn’t know a good wicket when he was on it,” the innkeeper said. “Name’s Jones, by the way. I’ll send one of the girls up to clean the room. And, er, change the sheets.”
Marcus laughed. “That’d be appreciated. How much do I owe you?”
Jones lifted his hands and shrugged. “You heard the lady. It’s already paid for.”
“Thanks!” Marcus stood. “I’ll go get my things.”
He went out to the crowded stable and unlaced the packs tied to the two horses. Carrying his things in, he caught sight of the furious maiden across the street. Her face was streaked with tears and when she saw him, another fat drop rolled down her cheek.
“Do you have a way to get home?" he asked, concerned.
“Y-yes.” Adeline hiccuped. “My footman is looking for a carriage to hire. Surely, someone will have one when they find out what a desperate situation I’m in?”
Feeling awkward, Marcus nodded. He wondered if he should stay until the young woman had company when she suggested he do just that. “Anyone could see me here, weak and vulnerable. I wouldn’t want some brute to take advantage of that.” She caught his sleeve and tugged it gently, looking up with big, bright eyes.
“Err… sure.” He hitched one of the bags over his shoulder, using it as an excuse to move slightly away.
Adeline moved closer. “You know, I really didn’t love Emmory. I was just so desperate to get away from Father. He’s such a beast—always keeping me home, when I could be visiting the city, meeting eligible husbands. Why, my cousin Dora had the most wonderful party the other week, and he made me leave at midnight! Things were just getting exciting.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Marcus didn’t comment. He didn’t think she would appreciate him siding with her father.
“And bringing me to a place like this to get married! I thought he was taking me out of the city, to a far-off estate near the sea. He had no taste, none at all. Just think what my life would have been like!” One hand lifted to her brow and she swooned, stumbling into Marcus. He jumped back like he’d been burned.
“Oh,” she giggled. “I’m dreadfully sorry.”
“No, that’s ok. Um… you’re sure your footman is coming, aren’t you?” He craned his neck to look down the street.
“Unless…” her eye widened. “Unless he’s abandoned me! Oh, sir, please would you take pity on me if he has? I can’t return home alone! There are bandits, and thieves, and Bitch knows what else out there.”
“I’m sure he’ll come,” Marcus said, desperately hoping it was true. He stepped back again when she lunged at him.
“Wait, I know! I could stay with you! Where are you from, one of the neighboring estates?”
A carriage pulled up on the street nearby and Marcus shot a glance at it, hoping it was the footman.
“I… came from Tahn,” Marcus explained. He didn’t go into detail about where he had come from before that—he didn’t have a chance.
Adeline stepped back, eyeing him up and down. “You come from a farming village? And you dare speak to me? Young man, do you even know who I am?”
“I’m pretty sure you spoke first,” Marcus said. He straightened, able to look her in the eye now that she wasn’t drooling on him.
“Nonetheless, you have no right to bother me. I am Lady Adeline, daughter of Lord George the Second. I am far too important to be spoken to by a commoner like yourself.”
Adeline picked up her skirts and flounced across the cobbled road, narrowly missing a rider coming through at a trot. She stumbled, glared at Marcus as he reached out to help, then stormed off to the waiting carriage.
“Bitch take me, both his kids are assholes,” Marcus muttered to himself.
A short man flung a door open, then had it snatched out of his hand as Adeline slammed it shut. The footman jumped onto the seat behind the horses and they flopped off down the roa
d, sending up a cloud of dust that tickled Marcus’s nose, making him sneeze.
“Bless you.”
He spun to see Julianne approaching from behind.
“Did you find us a place to stay? I hope so—it’s almost sundown and I’m starving.” She rubbed her stomach for emphasis.
“Oh, thank God. I was almost attacked.” Marcus grabbed her arm and led her into the inn.
“Attacked?” Julianne asked, shocked.
“Yes. A woman jumped me, and I’m pretty sure it was with the intent of marrying me—that is, until she got the idea I was a lowly farmer. That made her back off pretty quickly.”
Bewildered, Julianne just shook her head.
“Is she gone?” Emmory stuck his head out of the door.
Marcus groaned. “Yes. Now leave me the hell out of it.”
“What, she try to hit on you?” Emmory snorted. “I knew she didn’t give a rat’s ass about me. Oh, well, I’ve found a softer pillow to cuddle tonight.”
A hand slapped the side of his head, and he ducked back in. Marcus resolutely kept his eyes averted as they entered the inn and walked past Emmory’s table. Still, Marcus could have sworn there was more than one woman eating dinner with him.
“Let’s get a meal sent up to the room, shall we?” he said to Julianne.
“Oh, I’d much rather eat down here,” she said. “Because there just has to be a story behind what just happened, and I’d much rather hear it in front of him.” She jabbed a thumb at Emmory’s table.
“I hate you,” Marcus muttered.
Julianne laughed as she leaned over the bar. “Can we have two meals brought up, please? I don’t care what, as long as it tastes good. A bottle of wine, too, if you have something old and red.”
“Got some aged sweet wine, it’s going on about five years now.” The bartender pointed at a customer loading up flatbread with some kind of spicy bean mix. “That’s the special. It’s got some kick to it.”
Julianne nodded eagerly. “It smells amazing!”
She headed upstairs after the innkeeper told them which room was theirs. “One of the girls are in there, stripping the sheets,” he said. “She’ll be done soon.”