by J. V. Jones
Melli found herself in the cold once more, but this time she was oblivious to its touch. They were in the center of a small town. Light peeked from shuttered windows, smoke rose from snow-laden rooftops, and a lone dog barked an angry lament.
Melli was led to the narrow doorway of a tavern named the Dairyman. Behind her, the wagon rumbled away. Fiscel pushed her into the bright lights and warm air of the tavern. A room full of men stared at them.
“Keep your mouth shut,” warned Fiscel. He left her by the door in the care of the raven-haired woman, Alysha. The flesh-trader made his ungainly way to the bar, sparking many a disgusted look as he did so. He spoke with the innkeeper and money changed hands. A second exchange with the tavern girl prompted further largesse. Finally, Fiscel turned to Alysha and nodded. Melli was guided forward, toward a low door at the back of the room. The motion drew the eye of every man present, and the room fell silent as they passed.
Fiscel tapped impatiently with his walking stick and threw Melli an accusation of a glance. It was as if he blamed her for being an object of attention.
Melli was feeling most peculiar. Blood coursed through her veins at an alarming rate; she was giddy with its speed and richness. Her body felt heavy and feverish, and somewhere deep within she felt an unnamable need.
With Fiscel to the front, and Alysha to the back, she was led up a curved staircase to the floor above. The tavern girl appeared and showed them to their rooms. One was large and comfortable, with a full-sized bed, the other small and cramped with two pallets. The tavern girl bobbed a curtsy and promised to be back soon with food.
Melli struck a path toward the smaller room, but Fiscel laid a restraining hand upon her arm. “No, my pretty,” he said, his voice thin and mocking. “Why so eager to be rid of me? We should spend some time together. Get to know each other.”
Alysha opened the door of the largest room and sat on the bed. She patted the covers, inviting Melli to join her. Melli declined and sat on a wooden bench near the unlit fireplace. As she did so, she heard the soft laughter of the raven-haired woman. Fiscel smiled, the good side of his mouth revealing his bad teeth.
“I propose we eat first, and then, when we’re all relaxed, we can get down to the business of the night.” He turned to Alysha. “I see you have brought a flask of nais with you, my precious one. Pour our new friend a cup before it grows cold.”
• • •
Nabber watched as Tawl stepped from the pit. The golden-haired knight was oblivious to the praise and back-slapping. A wealthy-looking man stepped forward and tried to engage him in conversation. Tawl brushed him aside. Another man who was watching the knight closely seemed familiar to Nabber. It took him a moment to realize it was the very first person he’d pocketed upon entering the city. The man with the portrait of the golden-haired girl. Yes, it was him all right. His chest was as broad as his head was narrow. His dark, plumply lidded eyes never left Tawl for an instant.
The knight was still clutching the victory marker. Even from Nabber’s position at the opposite side of the pit, he could see the force with which Tawl was holding on to the swath. His knuckles were white.
In all his days, Nabber had never witnessed a fight like the one he’d just seen. It was almost as if Tawl were possessed. His eyes glazed over, and he didn’t seem to know what he was doing, nor how to stop himself. Nabber was sure he wasn’t the only person in the crowd who’d felt disturbed at the sight. It was as if they’d been allowed a glimpse of something shocking and intensely private. A spell had been cast this night, and the man in the blood-stained undershirt whom he used to call his friend had been the sorcerer.
Nabber had watched as the crowd grew more and more excited. More than just blood thirst, it was the fascination of seeing a fellow human laid bare. Those primitive instincts, which the world commands be hidden, had been on show this night. Nabber shook his head slowly. Men would pay good money for the chance to see such savagery again.
Already a fair sum of coinage had been thrown into the pit. Gold and silver, no copper. Nabber felt that the crowd only needed the smallest measure of encouragement to throw more. Their generosity needed a little prompting, that was all. He might have even done it himself if it weren’t for the fact that a fleshy woman with hair of a particularly unnatural shade of yellow was quickly putting what coinage there was into a sack.
Dual instincts warred within Nabber. There was money to be made here, lots of money. No doubt about it. But it would be money gained from the loss of a man’s honor. Now a dilemma such as this would have been no problem in the past; coinage was coinage, and acquiring it was the most noble of pursuits. However, Nabber only had to look over to where Tawl stood—distant and immeasurably changed—to know that there were other things in the world just as important as money, and helping a friend was one of them.
The hairs on Nabber’s arm stood on end. This was, without a doubt, his noblest moment. He felt quite proud of himself; he would help his friend. Still, if there was money to be made while doing so, he was not about to turn it down.
Nabber watched as the yellow-haired woman scrambled from the pit and went to join Tawl. He said something to her, and the woman pulled a half-skin of ale from her sack. Tawl snatched it from her and drained it flat. The woman handed him his tunic, but he brushed it aside. He grabbed hold of her arm and they made their way free of the crowd.
It was bitterly cold on the streets of Bren. The mist from the great lake had begun to gather and thicken. Nabber was chilled even with his cloak, jerkin, tunic, waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt on—Rorn had been a much easier city to dress for—and he wondered how Tawl could manage with just a layer of linen between him and the cold.
He didn’t like any of it: the fighting, the drinking, the woman with yellow hair. It wasn’t that he disapproved of those sort of things. No, indeed, he was an open-minded man of the world. It was just that it didn’t seem right for Tawl to be doing them. Tawl was a knight, and knights were supposed to be better than everyone else.
Nabber followed the knight and his lady as they made their way through the city. The district began to change for the worst and Nabber began to feel more at home. Prostitutes clothed in low-cut dresses stood in brothel doorways and called to passersby. They promised exotic delights, curvaceous bodies, and cheap rates. They even called to Nabber:
“Over here, dearie. Special rate for first-timers.”
“Give me a chance, little one, and I’ll show you where everything goes.”
He smiled politely at the offers, but shook his head, just like Swift had taught him. Not that Swift himself ever shook his head at a prostitute. After all, he’d say, what else was a man’s contingency for?
Some of the calls were less flattering.
“Bugger off, you little snot! You’re scaring the punters.”
“Stop gawking, peep-boy! If you can’t pay, don’t look.”
“I don’t give lessons, baby-face. Come back when you’ve filled out your britches.”
Nabber was immune to this sort of heckling. The prostitutes in Rorn had far sharper tongues.
He hung back a little from Tawl, keeping his distance. For some reason, which he could not name, he didn’t want to make contact with the knight just yet. Eventually the pair slowed down and entered a brightly lit building. The red-painted shutters confirmed it was another brothel.
Nabber slipped down the side of the building. He waded through the filth of kitchen refuse and emptied chamberpots until he found what he was looking for: a way to see inside. The shutter was closed to keep out the cold and the smell, but the wood was badly warped. There was a convenient split running down its length. Nabber put his eye to the wood.
Smoke filled the room. Candles burned low and the fire was well banked with ashes. Groups of men and women lounged on chairs and benches. Food, fried but now cold, congealed unnoticed on platters. There was fondling and drinking, both men and women showing more enthusiasm for the latter. The women’s dresses were unlaced and
their bosoms, both small and large, went mostly unnoticed.
Nabber looked on as Tawl and his ladyfriend entered the room. She pushed a path through the drunkenness and cleared a bench for them to sit on. Tawl immediately called for ale, his voice harsher than Nabber remembered. Ale came and food along with it. The knight ignored the food and drank the ale from the jug. The girl whispered something to him, perhaps a caution for his drinking, and Tawl smacked her in the chest. Nabber was shocked.
The girl appeared quite used to this sort of treatment and didn’t make a move to leave. She took a portion of fried chicken and set about tearing at it with large but even teeth. Nabber saw her exchange a seemingly casual glance with a small-eyed woman. The woman edged nearer, and the girl slipped her the sack. Tawl was drinking heavily and saw none of this.
The small-eyed woman left the room and returned a few moments later. Tawl’s sack was still in her hand, but it looked slimmer now. She crossed the room, paused a second in front of the mirror to pat her heavily powdered hair, and then returned the sack to the girl. Although Nabber had no way of knowing, he was almost certain that the bundle now contained substantially less of Tawl’s gold. Indignation rose in his breast. Robbing was normally fair game to him, but this was downright deceitful. The girl with the bright yellow hair had set Tawl up. And it probably wasn’t the first time.
But it would be the last. No one robbed a friend of his and got away with it. No one.
Nabber looked toward Tawl. The knight’s head was down. He seemed absorbed in something. It took Nabber a moment to realize that he was intent upon his arm. He was rewinding the cloth that bound his forearm. The cloth that served to hide his circles. With movements made slow by drink, Tawl wound the cloth, his fingers binding the fabric deep into his flesh. The bandage slipped and Nabber was shocked by what lay underneath: a portion of flesh as big as a fist was burned. The flesh was raised and blistered. The scar which ran through his circles had reopened and formed a ribbon of red through the black.
Tawl began to rewind the cloth. He wasn’t a man concerned with bandaging an injury, he was a man intent on hiding his shame. By covering his circles it was as if Tawl were trying to hide the past, to bandage it out of sight.
Nabber moved away from the window. He felt a confusion of unfamiliar emotions. There was a pressure in his throat and an aching in his chest. The sight of Tawl, sitting alone in the sordid whorehouse quietly binding his circles, was too painful to bear. He turned his back on the window and made his way to the street. Time to get a little sleep. He would return in the morning when the knight was sober.
He walked back up the road, past the brothels and their prostitutes. If they called to him, this time he didn’t hear them.
• • •
Melli, who usually prided herself on a healthy appetite and had not eaten for at least half a day, found the food held no interest for her.
Fiscel and Alysha had been the perfect hosts, solicitous and polite. Her plate was never empty, her glass always full. Melli hadn’t actually tested how quickly they brought more food, but when it came to refilling her glass, they showed the speed and intent of swooping kestrels.
Thinking of birds of prey, Melli noticed that Fiscel had the eye of a predator. His gaze was sharp, focused, cold as metal. That was his good eye, of course. His bad eye had the look of the prey. Melli giggled merrily and wondered why she only had such witty thoughts when she’d been drinking. A small, detached part of her argued that perhaps she did have such thoughts when sober, only they didn’t seem so amusing to a sound mind and a dry belly.
She most definitely had a wet belly now. Wet Belly Melli! She laughed brightly and Fiscel laughed, too. The flesh-trader looked so repulsive when he laughed that the sight of him made Melli laugh more. The raven-haired Alysha just smiled, a smile soft with all the guile and complicity that women of the Far South were famous for.
Fiscel refilled her cup. The brimming glass was unsteady in her hand and wine spilled on the rush-covered floor. Melli bent forward to see how much wine was lost. As her head came up, she caught a glance and a nod exchanged between her hosts. Alysha moved toward the foot of the bed. Strangely, amidst all her feelings of drunken glee and growing trepidation, Melli found herself envying the older woman. She moved like a temptress. The beauty that was denied in her face flourished in the ravishing but effortless grace of her movements. Melli felt like a country bumpkin in her presence.
With arms so fluid as to seem almost without bone, Alysha reached for the embroidered sack. A pull on the thread revealed its contents: rope, coiled like a snake. Something glinted in the center of the coil.
Melli tried to focus upon the shiny object, but her eyes refused to do her bidding.
Fiscel settled back in his comfortable chair. He had the satisfied look of a connoisseur about to enjoy a feast. Wet Belly Melli was beginning to feel like Melli On a Spit.
The bright flash of metal drew her eye and turned her stomach. Alysha drew a blade from her belt. Its haft was encrusted with pearls. The dark-haired woman knelt before the rope and began to cut its length. She was adept with a blade and even managed to endow the business of rope cutting with a certain capable elegance.
When she’d finished there were four lengths of rope. Up came the beautiful neck, revealing a half smile on the unlovely face. “Come,” she beckoned, the first word she’d spoken in Melli’s presence. “Come and join me. I will promise not to hurt you.” A voice to match her movements, not her face. A beautiful, husky voice that hinted of things exotic and forbidden.
Melli was suddenly afraid. She looked to the door and saw that Fiscel caught the action. His good hand lay resting upon his walking stick. The end of the stick was formed by a large swelling of wood a fist thick. Melli understood the threat even before the flesh-trader’s fingers enclosed the weighted end. She looked back to Alysha, who was sitting patiently on the bed. The dark-haired woman raised a hand of invitation. She was playing the game as if Melli had free will. Melli knew there was no choice; the invitation nothing but an order in disguise.
As if reading her thoughts, the woman said, “Come willingly to me now and I will be gentle. Refuse and I may have to hurt you.” There was bone to the flesh after all, and tough meat beneath.
Drinking all that almond liqueur followed by numerous glasses of cheap wine had been a terrible mistake. Melli was pretty sure that she was in no state to make a run for it, or to put up a fight. There was one option, though.
She began to scream at the top of her voice. Melli was pleasantly surprised at how loud and jarring a sound came from her lips.
She didn’t see the blow coming. She felt the excruciating impact, heard the thud of wood against her skull. Tears came to her eyes and spittle to her lips. Stumbling forward, she fell into the waiting arms of Alysha. The woman dragged her onto the bed.
Melli’s head was caught in a spiral of pain and heaviness. She was tempted to give in and pass out. Forcing herself to stay conscious, she focused on the pain rather than the heaviness. The back of her head throbbed like a hive. Even in her dull and drunken state she realized the blow had been placed with care; a knock on the back of the head would leave no noticeable scars or bruises. Her hair would cover the consequences. Fiscel was obviously a man who treated his merchandise with due consideration. Melli felt a certain spiteful delight in the fact that she was already marked goods. Six welts on her back would bring her desirability—and very probably her price—right down.
Alysha bent over her and began to spread her arms. Melli could do nothing; it was taking all her concentration just keeping the room in focus. The raven-haired woman drew her arm out to the side and then above her head. She reached over for the length of rope and tied Melli’s wrist to the bedpost. The rope was soft against her wrist, its touch nearly a caress. Alysha pulled hard on the silken rope and the caress became a vise. Fear and bile bubbled within Melli’s stomach. She felt the mix burn in her throat. Once both arms were secure, Alysha’s cool touch fe
ll upon Melli’s leg, drawing it out and to the side. The rope found one ankle and then the other.
Melli was spread-eagled on the bed. She raised her head, an achievement in itself considering it weighed twice as much as normal. Fiscel was back on his well-cushioned chair, and Alysha stood above her, knife in hand.
The dark-haired woman wielded the blade like a professional. One moment its tip rested against Melli’s bodice, the next it was slicing a path down her dress.
The knife! Melli felt it fall from her skin along with the fabric. She waited, breath in body, for its discovery. A few seconds passed, and she risked raising her head once more. Alysha was sitting cross-legged on the floor; it looked as if she was polishing something. Melli glanced down at her dress. The fabric of her bodice lay unfurled on both sides like opened petals. Most of the knife was concealed under the dress, but the edge of the hilt could be seen jutting from the folds. Melli shifted her body slightly, and fabric and knife fell toward her. Next, she raised her back and shoulders, and the knife slipped down toward her waist. When she lay flat once more, the knife was hidden beneath her.
She was allowed no time to enjoy her triumph. Alysha came and sat by the foot of the bed, between her legs. In her hand she was holding what looked to Melli to be a smooth piece of glass. Melli felt her undergarments fall away from her skin. She flushed with shame.
“Such a pretty body,” said Alysha. “Not as skinny as I thought. You would render a fair amount of fat.”
Melli raised her head as Alysha lowered hers. The woman was kneeling between her legs and looking at her most private parts. Melli could not bear the indignity and shifted angrily against the ropes. She felt her knife slide against her back, and then the sting of the blade as it cut into her skin. Terrified she might do more damage to herself, she lay as still as the dead.
Alysha murmured words of calming in her soft, faraway voice. Melli felt something smooth and cool press gently against her sex. She saw the woman’s lips move as if in prayer. What was spoken had more weight than words. The air from Alysha’s mouth reached out toward her, probing. Melli became afraid. She’d heard many tales of sorcery, even seen it once herself, but this—so much less powerful than Jack’s drawing—seemed an unbearable intrusion. She shifted against the ropes, suddenly not caring if her knife was revealed. Magic was inside of her; its presence warming as it searched. Every fiber of her soul fought against it. Every cell of her body felt violated.