by Sharon Green
The servant who had led Timper to that room appeared even before the crystal voice of the bell died away, giving the young courier no further opportunity for asking questions. Timper felt bewildered and because of that was extremely annoyed, but the presence of the very large servant helped him keep firmly in mind the tenet that no true gentleman was ever rude to a woman.
"Rinson, please show this gentleman to the area of the house where the Blades of the Silver Gleaming are taking their ease," the woman directed, her tone entirely neutral. "Specifically, I would say, the Fist of Soft and Gentle. Are you acquainted with the Blades of that Fist?"
"Of course, Madam," the servant said, his bow tinged more with curiosity than propriety. "If you will follow me, sir?"
Timper had very little choice concerning the following, but his annoyance was growing in leaps and bounds, and he was beginning to regret not having surrendered his cloak when he might have. Not only had the house grown extremely warm, but the output of anger was adding itself to the discomfort of wool. What in Home's name might the Fist of Soft and Gentle be? Hardly the general name of something called a Fist, but just as unlikely a sobriquet for a Blade of a Fist. The young man stomped out of the room at the servant's gesture, deliberately refraining from bowing to the woman whose company he departed. Lovely she might be, but her loveliness had diminished quickly with the increase of her amusement.
This time the servant led the way to the very end of the narrow hall, and the door there gave access to an even smaller and narrower backstairs area that was rather dim. As soon as they had entered the dimness, however, the sound of voices that Timper had noticed earlier became a good deal more imposing on the former quiet. He followed the servant through the dimness to the left, wondering what could possibly be causing such a row, and then another door was opened that answered his question as soon as he had stepped through it into the room beyond.
"Holy Emissaries intercede for my soul!" Timper prayed silently but fervently as he fought to keep the shock off his face, his eyes seeking something innocuous to rest on. The only trouble was, there was nothing innocuous to look at, at least not in that well-lit room. Men dressed in the off-duty leathers of Blades lolled everywhere on the thick carpeting, many of them leaning elbows on cushions as they drank from goblets or shouted in encouragement and high amusement. The many … females with them either had hands on them or were being themselves explored, their scantily clad bodies proving easily accessible, and in the midst of all that there was a - a - dance of sorts being performed.
The pretty young thing standing alone in the middle of the floor was still clad in a proper gown, but even as Timper watched she acceded to the shouting around her with a sob, and began slowly removing the gown. Tears ran down her blushing cheeks as sight of her delicate underclothing was brutally forced from proper privacy into the public domain, but all she received in the way of compassion from those who watched was an increase in their laughter. Had Timper not been certain the girl was a slave he would have interfered no matter the consequences, but a man would be foolish to concern himself with the distress of a newly-made chain child, mostly especially in what he now knew that place to be. He had never before visited one himself, but he had heard stories of such places, oh, my, he certainly had…
"This way, sir," the servant Rinson said to a hopefully unobtrusively appalled Timper, and the courier was quick to follow across the floor behind the stiffly moving, softly sobbing girl. He made every effort to keep his eyes on the servant rather than looking again at the slave, and strove to move as rapidly as possible without giving the appearance of hurrying. A true gentleman never looked at the unclad body of any female, not even his wife, unless he received special dispensation from the Holy Emissaries in acknowledgment of his proven piety. He was then permitted to look upon the woman he took to wife, but certainly not any other. When he admitted to his Holy Council in Strict Truth that he had abrogated a privilege which wasn't his, there would, without the least doubt, be absolute hell to pay.
An arch gave access to another room like the first, only this one had a small, dark beauty in transparent veils moving sensuously to the sound of a pipe. Her wide, beautiful eyes moved from one watching, grinning Blade to the next, the smile visible on her full, pouting lips beneath her face-veil an almost-shouted invitation. Timper found it best to remove his cloak as he passed her, something that helped to keep her from his sight. Everyone knew that Blades of a Sword Company were eternally damned anyway and therefore often indulged in things that made a sensible man tremble and turn away, but possibly no one had told the Blades they were lost. For people who were inescapably heading for eternal damnation, Timper thought they appeared unexpectedly satisfied and unworried.
The courier had his cloak thrown over his left arm by the time he moved through the next arch, which happily gave him something to clutch when he abruptly understood what he was seeing. Blades still lounged in their leathers on the carpeting, but most of these Blades were female and the ones attending them in oiled tights were male. If a woman was of the nobility a man certainly did well to bow low in her presence, but to kneel in front of a common rag, nearly naked and obscenely exposed despite a supposed covering! Timper had never felt so outraged in his entire life, even if the men were nothing but slaves! Good taste demanded restraint in some quarter, and for a man to be made to exhibit himself like that, slave or no, was absolutely unacceptable. Why, he had half a mind to -
"I believe the Fists of the Silver Gleaming are to be found in the next area, sir, " the servant Rinson interrupted Timper's silent expostulation, at the same time reminding him of the warning he had been given. If he were going to execute his commission he needed to restrain his perfectly proper indignation, at least for a short while. After he had gotten what answers were to be had, he would certainly speak his mind and then dare them to do their worst. He strode after the servant without looking again on depravity, knowing without doubt that one who was Saved had nothing to fear from those who were damned.
Which high-minded attitude took him through the arch and into the next room, but not beyond the first two steps. Once again the majority of Blades were male and their attendants female, but three female Blades sat among them, no two of the women together, half a dozen male attendants also rather visible. Laughter came from many of the Blades, squealing arising from one of the attending females being held down out of sight by four of the men, but none of that was what struck Timper speechless. The sight that froze him was of three of the male attendants, all lined up and posturing in front of one of the female Blades, arms flexing muscle, chests inflated and hips rolling suggestively -
But the rag wasn't even watching! Men were trying to catch the attention of a female, and she wasn't even paying attention!
Timper closed his eyes for a moment and fought to contain his outrage, memory of his commission alone making it possible for him to do so. Females forcing males to grovel and demean themselves was bad enough, but for the female to then turn around and ignore them - ! Such arrogance was intolerable, and completely unacceptable to a gentleman of Timper's station; he would ask his questions and then resoundingly denounce the rag, and yes, the men with her as well. If she had never been taught better, they certainly should have been. The servant Rinson was moving forward, toward the very group Timper meant to confront, and once he had followed and gotten near enough, their words separated from the background din.
". . . could have had our backsides sliced if we hadn't withdrawn when we did," one of the men was saying to another, the speaker a big man with black hair and light eyes who sat to the right of the female Blade. "If Seepar thinks he'll be riding back for us again, he's suffering from the effects of too long a time substituting other things for girls."
"I heard he did the same to one of the Fists of the Crimson Rush just before first snow," the female Blade remarked, the disgust in her voice evident even in the midst of the surrounding noise. "If the Opened Throats Company wants his so-called Fist
, they're more than welcome to it, but we'll have to insist on saying our good-byes now - to the Blades he'll supposedly be supporting."
"He's really that bad then," the man who had been spoken to said, sighing where he sat at the first man's right. He was also large with longish, dark hair, but his eyes were dark rather than light. "After the losses we took just before first snow, I was hoping to recruit some seasoned fighters for the Opened Throats rather than the green lads we've been attracting, but I'll take green over yellow any day."
"Yellow might not be the proper color for Seepar and his four," the woman said, then turned her head to the man who sat between her and the second man. "Rullin, old sage, what's the color of incompetence?"
"Red," the man replied with a grin, reaching over to tousle the girl's brown hair. "For all the blood they'll be losing one of these days, hopefully their own. And the next time you refer to me as old, you female infant, I'll turn you over my knee and see to it that you'll need to walk to battle for the next day or three. Instead of needling your unit leader, why don't you pay some attention to those three over there? They're half killing themselves trying to get you to choose one of them for tonight, and you ought to be flattered."
"Flattered isn't what I'm in the mood to be," the girl answered, leaning back on one elbow while continuing to stare at the man called Rullin. "Pleasured is what I'm in the mood to be, but my unit leader has suddenly grown too old and infirm to manage that. Someone not a Blade might think he was afraid of a mere female infant."
The girl's insolence shocked Timper and caused the Fist leader Rullin to begin straightening in anger where he sat, but the servant Rinson interrupted before anything more might be said.
"I do beg your pardon, sirs and madam," he said, bowing to those who reluctantly took their attention from other things. "The house dislikes disturbing guests during their relaxation, but this gentleman was quite insistent about speaking to members of the Silver Gleaming, and one of our staff suggested your Fist. There is someone he is in search of."
The servant looked toward Timper then, and all the eyes of those he'd been addressing followed suit, momentarily disconcerting the young courier. One is looked at many times in one's life, but not often by so large a number of Blades. Their eyes were … different, somehow, harder, perhaps, with gazes unwavering and sharp. Timper found the need to clear his throat, then straightened where he stood.
"I am the courier of Duke Rilfe of Gensea, and have been told that I might learn the whereabouts of the Duke's eldest daughter from this Company," he said in more of a rush than he had expected to, oddly eager to have the words spoken so that he might depart. "I would greatly appreciate being directed to her correct location."
"You expect Blades to be entrusted with the location of a lady?" the man who, from the device on the medallion about his neck, was a member of the Opened Throats Company, asked with a snort of ridicule. He had been the second man in the discussion just past, and seemed greatly amused. "Do your people also believe in having wolves guard their hen houses, boy?"
"It was not I who arranged the matter so," Timper replied with stiffly affronted dignity; "boy" indeed! "Had I had a say in it, I assure you it would have been done differently. If none of you has the information I seek, I will now take my leave."
"Calm your rush, boy," the Fist leader Rullin suggested in a drawl as Timper was about to turn away, the easy words very much a command. "One who walks about unarmed in company such as this would be wise to polish his good manners. For what reason are you looking for this duke's daughter?"
Timper was taken aback by everything the man had said, perhaps most forcefully by the suggestion that a duke's courier was not considered untouchable by the men he spoke with. He realized then how barbaric those of the north really were and that he was trapped in the midst of them, but there was little he could do right now to alter the situation. The man Rullin, he thought, had deliberately called him "boy," most likely to stress his place among Blades; despite the talk of age, the Fist leader had seen, at most, a decade more of life than Timper. Very briefly the young courier considered refusing an answer to the question which had been put to him; the patient and not-so-patient gazes resting on him, however, caused him to reconsider the idea.
"I seek the lady Sofaltis so that I may deliver the extremely urgent communication entrusted to me," Timper admitted, suddenly and unhappily aware of exactly how long he would retain the duke's letter if these ruffians should attempt taking it from him. "A family tragedy has occurred, and the duke wishes the lady to be informed of it."
Timper had spoken the truth without thinking, but it suddenly came to him that that very same truth should cool their interest. No gold being sent and no secret messages, nothing but news of a tragedy, and what man would find interest in the tragedies of others? Already the eyes of Rullin had lost their look of amusement, but the girl beside him had abruptly straightened to sitting, as though disturbed over something. The Blade leader Rullin noticed the movement as well, and quickly turned his head to her.
"It's your turn to be calm, Soft and Gentle," he said to the female, making no effort to put an arm about her to ease her sudden upset as a gentleman might. "We'll have this straightened out in another minute or so." Then he looked up again at Timper and added, "How were you supposed to identify the lady Sofaltis?"
"Why - I've been given her description," Timper replied in confusion, in the midst of registering the name the girl had been called by. Women were, for the most part, soft and gentle, but by the look of her and the words she had spoken, there was a misnomer if ever he'd heard one. "Perhaps a year my junior, brown-haired and gray-eyed, tall and lithe… "
Timper's words trailed off as the girl rose gracefully to her feet before him, her faintly pretty face expressionless. Her black off-duty leathers fit like the skin they were, her black boots appeared sturdy but well broken in, the sword hung at her side was plain-hilted and no longer new, and the silver medallion of her Company gleamed in the lamplight. It startled Timper to realize that he needed to look up, for the girl was taller than he even though she seemed somewhat younger, and then he began registering certain additional items. Her form was lithe, her face pretty, her hair brown, her eyes gray. . .
"I am the lady Sofaltis," the female said in a voice much like that which the Blade Rullin had used, putting a hand out toward Timper. "Give me my father's letter."
At another time, Timper would have been quick to argue or obey; at that time, however, he was too deeply in shock to do either thing. He had thought the lady Sofaltis indiscreetly involved with a Blade of a Sword Company, but that wasn't so. Far, far worse, she was a Blade of a Sword Company!
* * *
The young idiot just stood there staring at me, his long face pale enough to rival flour. Someone had dressed him in the tights, tunic and short boots no one but very young pages wore in the north, and if I hadn't been so upset I would have felt sorry for him. It wasn't really his fault he looked like a pompous ass, or that I have very little patience with pompous asses.
"I said, give me my father's letter," I repeated, having no idea what could have happened, but anxious to find out. "How long ago were you dispatched?"
"Why-why-five weeks and some days ago," he answered, finally snapping out of it enough to begin fumbling at his tunic. "The roads were terrible and the accommodations worse, but-but-how do I know you're the lady Sofaltis? I must insist upon seeing your signet ring."
"My aunt Illi has my signet ring, and you know damned well who I am," I countered, snapping my fingers in impatience as he winced at what he undoubtedly considered dreadful language. "You couldn't have found me if my aunt hadn't set you going in the right direction, and that direction led here. Stop quibbling and give me the letter."
"Take it slow, Soft and Gentle," Rullin said as he got to his feet, Foist, Jakkar and Hammis rising with him. "I doubt if the boy's used to our sort, and he needs some time to adjust. She is who she says she is, boy, so you'd better give her t
hat letter. If you make her take it from you, you'll be responsible for our needing to find another house to pass the night in. This house has rules against staining the carpeting with blood."
Rull was being his usual lightheartedly mediating self, but the boy my father had sent wasn't finding much comfort in the attempt to put him at ease with joking. His wide, dark eyes moved from one member of my Fist to the next, noticing how every one of them was larger even than I, and then the heavy paper of a sealed envelope was being thrust into my hand. I automatically checked the seal before breaking it, withdrew the letter and read it quickly, then turned back to where I'd left my cup of wine.
"How bad is it?" Rull asked quietly from behind me, concern in his voice. "From your expression it can't be good, but how bad is bad?"
I took a minute to swallow some wine before turning back, then looked directly at him.
"My brother Rymar is dead," I got out with more difficulty than I'd expected to have, feeling as though saying the words aloud was what made them true. "After our oldest brother's accident Rymar was named Father's heir, but Rymar always considered that a responsibility rather than a privileged right. Now he's dead too, but not because of any accident. They tried to make it look like one, but only a fool would have believed that, and my father's no fool. Rymar was deliberately killed."
"Who's 'they'?" Jakkar asked in his rumble of a voice, his big left hand unconsciously stroking his sword hilt. "And why would they want to kill a ducal heir and not go after the duke himself first?"
"I don't know," I admitted, annoyed at the lack of logic to the thing. "It's clear they want my father's heir dead, but not him. And as for who 'they' are, I don't know that either. I have a feeling my father knows, but I don't."