by RW Krpoun
As Gerhard helped Tonya out of her cloak a slender man of average height and a shaved and waxed head hurried up, a silvery shield and spear in hand, wearing black leather trousers bound tight at the thigh, mid-calf, and ankle in the manner associated with executioners, a large gold medallion bouncing on his oiled chest. “There you are, Gerhard; now, you know your job well enough that I won’t have to tell you anything, you’re on the main assembly. You must be Tera,” the man looked her up and down, from the silvery sandals she wore to the silvery pin that held her hair in a military bun. She put a hand on her hip and gave him a sultry, low-lidded look, but he inspected her like a side of beef. “Yes, you’ll do; the sandals were supposed to have heels, high ones, but with your height it won’t matter. You will stand there, against the wall to the right of the King’s throne. You will lean your spear against the wall and take anyone the King says to seize out to the middle of the floor until a team of executioners comes up. Do not harm anyone in any way; should someone resist violently, immediately go back to your post. Should someone proposition you, state that you may not leave your post in a good clear voice; I will stop it from going further, or the King will if I am busy. This evening’s entertainment have been carefully planned, we need no random events. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good; I appreciate a straightforward attitude. After the party breaks up you will remain at your post until I relieve you; should a guest express an interest in you and approach you outside after the party how you handle it will be your business. Wear the shield across your back, see this strap? And hold your spear at your side, thus, so your costume is plain view. Maintain a sensuous appearance until the penalties begin for appearance’s sake; after that you may relax and stand comfortably. Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
“Excellent. Unlike the others, you and Gerhard are here for free; I won’t insult you by offering you wages, but I won’t forget this favor, or good conduct. Do you like the outfit?”
Tonya shrugged. “Actually, no: too much silver.”
“Yes, I agree, but it’s for the party, silvery mail and all that. I must say, you do wear it well. It’s a good thing I found a girl who’s near your height, I hate mismatched guards. Here are your arms, go take your place, the guests will be arriving momentarily.”
“That was Rodolf Cens, if you hadn’t guessed,” Gerhard advised her as he rubbed oil on his chest. “He never introduces himself, always too busy.”
“He reminds me of a headwaiter,” Tonya said, examining her ‘arms’: the shield was three layers of dried leather stitched together with silvered paper glued to the front and back, along with a polished tin boss; it might stop a single blow, except that it lacked any sort of arm straps. The spear was a silver-painted wood shaft and a polished tin spearhead with no edges and a blunt point; she eyed the single nail holding the spearhead on and decided that in the event of trouble she could throw the shield as a distraction, knock the spearhead off and use the shaft as a quarterstaff. It made her feel a bit better.
“Yes, we often comment on that, I think he was trained as a manservant in his youth, some things never wear off. I’ll see you after the show,” the leather worker hesitated.
Tonya slung her shield across her back and leaned in from a distance to give him a quick kiss. “Can’t get oil on my breastplate,” she laughed and marched across the ‘court’ to her post. There were six guards counting herself, she noted, posted in pairs around the court; her partner was a blond girl who was actually two inches shorter than herself, but whose heels narrowed the gap to nothing.
“Tera,” Tonya nodded to the blond. “My first time.”
“Bessie,” the hard-eyed young woman nodded back, adjusting the lay of her stocking. “Not mine, more’s the pity.”
“It is an odd kind of entertainment,” Tonya observed carefully.
“Oh, I don’t mind doing it, although I can’t say I like having it done,” Bessie straightened and adjusted her breastplate; Tonya noticed the girl had the same troubles staying within the silvery confines as she did. “Usually a bit of rough talk and a few strokes of the riding crop’ll satisfy most. This bunch, though, seem to go a bit far for my tastes.” She looked Tonya up and down with a frank gaze. “Coo, I thought I was a tall one. You’re not a working lass, either, are you?”
“No, I’m her with a gentleman friend who’s trying to impress me, he’s one of the executioners. How did you come to be here?”
“Money, same as always. The shaved gent, we call him the Butler for the way he talks, he pays hard coin for this, just standing around in your skimpies and marching people about. You know, with these heels, and with my hair up we’re exactly the same height.”
“Yes, we are, and we’re built alike too. Is the Butler a customer of yours? I’m wondering because I gave him a look when he was checking my costume and he didn’t even notice.”
“No, I met him through a girl friend of mine, another room girl; she told me about this, making a little clink on the sly, you..no, I guess you wouldn’t know.”
“You aren’t cutting your handler in on this,” Tonya guessed.
“That’s right. With what they pay and what I’ve put aside I’ll be able to get out of the business soon; I thought living in a small town was dull, but I could stand a bit of boredom, these days.”
“Is your friend here tonight?”
“No, she was there at the first one, but then she disappeared; I heard she moved out of town with a customer,” Bessie shrugged indifferently. “These girls are all new faces to me.”
“How many of these have you worked?”
“Three, this is the third.” Bessie straightened and patted her hair as a blast of trumpets sounded outside. “Here we go.”
The guests arrived, a mass of laughing men and women perhaps twenty strong dressed in old-fashioned tunics and dresses, although Tonya doubted that they were worn quite so tight, sheer, or low cut back in the days of kings. After they had finished sorting themselves out along the great table, there was another fanfare and Cens marched into the center area. “All hail his Majesty, King Feuchter.”
Tonya swallowed hard.
“My, what a magnificent pair of guards,” the King smiled at Tonya and Bessie as they turned their shields and spears over to Cens after the last guest departed. “Having seen the two of you, I almost departed from the plan for the night’s entertainment. Rodolf, these young ladies were wasted as guards, they should have been amongst the executioners.”
“Yes, sir, capitol idea.”
The fake monarch studied the two women, who eyed him warily; Tonya could tell that Bessie was just as uncomfortable under that steely gaze as she was. “A pity the two of you aren’t more, shall we say, interested, instead of being merely interesting. You, with the golden hair, you’ve been here before, at other parties?”
“Yes sir,” Bessie muttered.
“This is her third party,” Cens advised van Feuchter, and Tonya noticed an emphasis in his voice.
“Well, I hope you’ll be available for a another, both of you?” The silver-haired gentleman smiled at the two women but Tonya realized the remark was directed at Cens. “Good, good. Then a good evening to you ladies.” Bowing with effortless grace, the King departed.
“Good work the two of you.” Cens passed Bessie a small pouch that obviously held coins. “And good evening.”
“Oooh, there’s a sick bit of goods,” Bessie muttered to Tonya, counting the coins in the pouch by touch. “But a generous one: I got double pay.”
“The King? Yes, he makes my skin crawl,” the tall Badger nodded. “Do you need a ride, Bessie; we’ve a carriage hired for the evening.”
“Thanks, no, they haul us to a cottage up the way where we change clothes, and then they take us home, those who haven't gotten something lined up with one of the guests.” The tall whore hesitated, eying the dark-haired Badger. “You don’t really fit in, you know? You don’t care for this sort
of thing.”
“You don’t either,” Tonya parried, caught off-guard.
Bessie shrugged and smiled sourly. “I need the money: I don’t want to be a whore all my life; I’ve wasted too much of it being one as it is. I’m tall and kind of pretty so I can bring in a good sum, but most goes to my handler; if I don’t do specialized trade or sneak off for things like this they’ll work me until some crazy cuts my throat or I’m too old to be good for anyone, including myself. Whoever said slavery’s dead in the Empire didn’t come through my neighborhood.” She looked Tonya in the eye. “I wasn’t trying to pry, and I won’t breathe a word to anyone, I was just making conversation; I don’t get to talk to many people, you...no, I guess you don’t know how it is.”
Catching sight of Gerhard coming across the warehouse’s yard with her cloak over his arm, Tonya leaned close to the tall girl. “I’m staying at the White Lion with my husband, who isn’t the man I’m with tonight. If you ever need help, you can contact me there.”
“I live on Hempstead street, number fifteen,” Bessie whispered. As Gerhard approached the girl continued in a normal voice. “Well, keep me in mind, then.” Nodding at the leather worker, she strutted off.
“What did she want you to keep in mind?” Gerhard asked, holding open the cloak for her.
“She wanted me to go to bed with her,” Tonya improvised.
“Really? I take it you said no.”
“Not really no, just that I wouldn’t want to do it without a man being a part of it,” Tonya gave Gerhard a smoldering look. “How would you feel about that, Gerhard? Being with me and another woman at the same time, sharing all around?”
Gerhard had difficulty speaking.
“So you dodged the arrow this time,” Philip observed as he unbuckled the back straps to the breastplate.
“Yes, he got plenty of activity at the party, so I didn’t have to do a thing,” Tonya nodded, unbuckling the belt of silver plates. “We just drank wine and talked while he sketched me in this outfit. I get to keep this one, too, and he’s making me a belt pouch to match the belt he made me.”
“So how was the party?”
She gave him a brief description of the layout and situation. “My part was easy enough, all I did was stand there on display, and occasionally take someone out into the center floor for the King and strut back to my post. Since everyone's back was to me I could advert my eyes through the penalties.”
“Rough, were they?”
“Some; the mildest was one given to one of the ‘rebel noblewomen’, she had to pleasure three of the male servants, of course in front of everyone. Some of the people who were punished had the limits pushed a lot further than they expected; I haven't heard screams like that in a while.” She shuddered, and Philip took her into his arms. “And you were right, I should never underestimate Gerhard: he’s obviously a lot more dangerous than I initially credited him with. I got a good look at his other side tonight.”
“Were they handing out real punishment for infractions, do you think?”
“No, I believe it’s like Arian said: they were applying humiliation, pain, and degradation in amounts just a degree more than those people wanted or could handle; this was just part of the process they use to strip away a cultist’s self respect, pride, inhibitions, self-worth, and the meaning or worth to any relationships they might have. Van Feuchter was in complete control; every guest was a cultist, and while some were there just to have a good time and supply peer pressure and an audience, others were there to be brought a bit deeper into the cult. There were some haunted looks and real tears by the time the party ended. That’s another reason for the girls on ‘guard duty’: they’re not just stage props, but also as strangers in the audience to deepen the humiliation.”
“I suppose Priller ended up at one of these parties,” Philip mused.
“Yes, I would guess they took him too far, too fast, or he couldn’t live with what they had taken away. Incidentally, I think that after three parties the prop-girls disappear.” She explained the conversation with van Feuchter. “Bessie would have had an accident in the next few days, I bet, a cultist customer who would have murdered her. Whores die all the time.” She shuddered. “Van Feuchter was himself there, no effort wasted on hiding what he is. He is a sick, evil man, Philip, the worst I’ve ever seen.”
“And a dead one,” Philip whispered into her hair. “We’ll see to that.”
“It wasn’t the site, the main one where they’ll bring the Orbheart,” Philip announced after reading the note from Elonia. “She checked it first thing this morning.”
“I didn’t really think so, but I have a plan to find out where it is,” Tonya said thoughtfully, looking up from a list she was compiling. “Something Bessie said got me to thinking. We need to get a note to Elonia right away.”
Chapter Twelve
Henri Toulon was bored: sitting around the smuggler camp baby-sitting the three remaining traders and waiting for the Goblins to show was deadly dull; at least back at the New Fork there would have been greater creature comforts and women, as seven of the nine females belonging to the Badgers were with the main body. That was another sore point with him: Tonya, the tall standard bearer whose charms he had been courting for nearly a year without success, was off on another assignment with that hairy bastard Milden, and likely getting taken in by him. Elonia was no loss: she was easy on the eyes but too arrogant for his taste, always looking down her nose at the world, and was sleeping with Maxmillian who was a friend of his. Of course, back at camp Bridget was married, Janna might as well be, and Starr was off-limits to any man who couldn’t kill Kroh, but that still left four women in the ranks to consider, one or two of whom weren’t bad-looking.
Other than Tonya, however, his interests in a liaison within the Company were minimal; as a rule, he preferred brief relationships without any entanglements, something that might be difficult to accomplish within the close confines of a mercenary company, and it was certainly a bad idea to have to place your safety in the hands of a woman who felt you had treated her badly. Still, it was nice to hear women’s voices and see them moving about, just to give a little substance to your speculations.
Henri was an Arturian by birth, although he had spent much of his life in other lands. He had been sent to a temple of Kiy, the goddess of learning, magic, and the arts as a child, but his aptitudes and inclinations rendered him unsuitable for the religious life, and he was apprenticed to a wandering Wizard. When his apprenticeship had been concluded he had gone to the Oxton University in Aldenhof, the capitol of the Empire and refined his studies, Oxton being the best school of magical study in the Empire, if not Alhenland. He had joined the Badgers after running out of money, the role of wizard-student having been one he had enjoyed greatly, but not one he could afford indefinitely. A mercenary company had been his eventual goal, service on the staff of some wealthy merchant or in the employ of a government or petty ruler not being something that attracted him; mercenaries (if a good company) paid well and offered considerable opportunities for travel and exposure to all sorts of study opportunities. He had chosen the Badgers after a careful study of the field, and had been with them since the year fifty-two, and was glad of it.
Still two years and some months short of his thirtieth birthday, Henri was of average height and slender build, with agreeable features now a bit marred by the scattering of small scars that he had suffered in the fight with the White Necromancer, an action that had cost him much of the hearing in his left ear. He kept his mustache, beard, and light brown hair neatly trimmed and worried over his receding hairline, a trait unfortunately common on both sides of his family; he compensated as best he could by keeping his hair cut short and seeing to it that he got enough sun to keep his forehead tanned. The wizard had long, thick eyebrows which crawled across his forehead, twisting themselves into question marks whenever he was dubious, intrigued, or irritated; it was a common saying in the Company that Henri could only play cards if he was wea
ring a hat.
With nothing much to do in the warm summer sunlight on the eighth day of Natterteil (the fifth month of the Imperial calendar), Henri sat with his back to a stump and tossed bits of wood broken from a dead branch at a dirt clod. Rolf was sitting behind him using the same stump as a backrest and facing the opposite direction, but conversations with the big half-Orc were usually dull, and short: Rolf said what he had to say and that was it, the polite art of idle conversation being a complete mystery to the big Corporal. Henri had seen him sit with Kroh for hours and the two never exchange a word.
Thus it was a surprise when Rolf suddenly spoke. “Do you know Veda Sligh, Henri?”
The Wizard jumped, startled by the rumbling voice and the bit of twig missed the dirt clod by a good four feet; he had been lost in remembrances of Kustar Pravas, the lovely Pargaie officer they had captured and coerced into aiding them briefly in the fight with the liche. The night before the battle she and the wizard had whiled away the hours in bed, and Henri treasured the memory as one of his best; he regretted that she was dead. “Veda? Yes, sure, I’ve spoken with her, but I don’t really know her; she’s been on a couple patrols I’ve led and a detail or two, but I’ve never really talked with her in depth.”
“Oh.” The silence settled back in with an air of permanency.
Henri’s eyebrows climbed across his growing forehead; Rolf must have been pondering the question for a good while before asking it, being a man of few words. Intrigued, the Wizard tossed another bit of twig and kept his voice nonchalant. “She seems like a nice enough sort and a good Badger, though a bit young. Why do you ask ?”
He knew Rolf well enough to know that the long silence that followed was not an attempt to ignore the question, but rather a considered study of what to say; along with casual conversation, Rolf had no grasp of lying. “I dunno, she’s nice...she smiles at me a lot.”