You’ll need to know these things, Rina, her father’s voice echoed in her mind.
Making Tosh captain of the castle guard seemed a good way to reward him with a cushy job. What was there to do, really? Make sure there was a man standing at every entrance to hold a spear and look official, right?
Apparently there’s more to it than that. Somebody needs to keep the assassins out.
Still, she was glad about her decision to give Tosh the job. She wanted at least one trustworthy person close by who knew how to handle a sword. Alem was as brave as any man, Dumo bless him, but he was no swordsman. Although he did seem to be getting better with his crossbow.
Rina sighed. “Barely an army, no chamberlain, not enough men for a proper castle guard. I don’t seem to be duchessing very well, Tosh.”
“It probably takes practice.”
“Well, I hope I get the hang of it before the whole city falls down around our ears.”
Tosh cleared his throat, scratched behind one ear, and shuffled his feet.
Rina raised an eyebrow. “You want to say something?”
“Oh . . . I don’t know.”
“Out with it.”
“I can’t raise an army for you,” Tosh said. “But I might have an idea how to solve your other problems. Although as solutions go, these might seem a bit . . . uh . . . creative.”
“Go on then,” Rina said. “Let’s be creative.”
***
The area of Back Gate had come alive in recent weeks. Darshia supposed the closure of the Long Bridge was the reason. With the bridge and front gate useless, some of the more intrepid tradesmen and merchants had elected to take the long way around, up the Small Road to Back Gate.
For years the abandoned buildings of Back Gate had been home to the city’s criminals, beggars, and outcasts. The Wounded Bird brothel had been the only honest place of business in the neighborhood, but now a fledgling market had sprung up among the desolation.
I hope it’s not just something temporary until they fix the Long Bridge, Darshia thought. I like the idea of Back Gate getting a second chance.
It was a cold day, but not so cold. She wore her heavy cloak open and thrown back so people could see the leather armor underneath. She let her hand rest on the hilt of her sword as she walked. When people passed—men and women both—they nodded to her with respect.
Respect. It was something new, and she liked it.
I’m not the tall redheaded whore with the big tits anymore. I’m . . . what?
She wasn’t sure. Darshia and Prinn and the other girls had talked about it. Most of the ones who’d taken up arms against the Perranese agreed—the ones who’d lived through the battle anyway—weren’t going back to whoring. Never again. A few did go back. The idea of a man’s cock inside them was more appealing than sticking a blade in his belly and watching his guts spill out. A couple of the girls didn’t want to follow either path and had packed their things and vanished into the night.
That left fourteen women, good with swords, taking charge of their own destiny.
She hoped. It was a plan anyway.
Darshia entered the Wounded Bird, and a half dozen faces turned to consider her a moment before going back to the business of drinking and whoring. Even this early in the afternoon, there were always at least a few customers. Darshia didn’t recognize the new girls flirting with them.
Mother is already replacing us. Business is business, I guess. I wonder if the new cook is any good.
Since Tosh had taken his position as captain of the castle guard, the Wounded Bird had gone through three cooks. Two simply couldn’t measure up, the food they’d prepared barely edible. The third thought freebies with the girls were a perk of his new job. Bune and Lubin had disabused the man of this notion—with their fists—then thrown him and his belongings into the snow.
“Darshia.”
Darshia turned her head to see Prinn coming down the stairs.
“Did you find a place?” Prinn asked.
Darshia frowned. “Not a place big enough for all of us. Not that we could afford.”
Mother had been generous. She’d told them they could stay in their old rooms until they’d found another place to live. For a while. The women had thought they might find someplace to all live together, just like at the Wounded Bird . . . but they’d be their own bosses this time.
“Tosh is up there talking to Mother now,” Prinn said. “He might have a solution to our problem. It’s . . . interesting.”
“Tell me.”
Prinn shook her head. “Better if Tosh explains.”
“Fine,” Darshia said. “I’m open to anything. As long as I’m not working for Mother anymore.”
Prinn grinned. “Hold on to that thought.”
CHAPTER SIX
They day had begun with the killing of an assassin.
It hadn’t gotten better.
Running a castle was a huge pain in the ass. As a spoiled girl, Rina had simply enjoyed living in the castle and gave no thought to how the laundry was done or who prepared the meals or fixed the damage on the roof after a long winter or how the servants were paid or what needed to be done to prepare for important guests. She was abysmal at all this and completely fed up with being a duchess.
Rina sat at her desk and massaged her temples.
I need a goblet of wine. No, a hot bath.
Okay, both.
A knock on the door. It creaked open, and Arbert stuck his head inside. “Tosh to see you, milady?”
Rina nodded. “It’s okay.”
Arbert stepped aside. The door swung wide, and Tosh entered. A handsome middle-aged woman followed him in. She wore a fine dress. Her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Both of them stopped in front of her desk. The woman didn’t curtsy. Somehow it didn’t fit her. Instead, she clasped her hands in front of her and offered Rina a half bow.
“Thank you, Tosh,” Rina said. “If you’ll excuse us, please.”
The expression on Tosh’s face made it clear he hadn’t expected to be dismissed. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”
He bowed perfunctorily and backed out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Would you like to sit?” Rina asked.
“Thank you,” Mother said.
She pulled up a chair, sat with her hands in her lap, waited for Rina to start.
“Tosh says everyone calls you Mother,” Rina said. “I hope you understand I need more than that.”
Mother nodded. “My name is Stasha Benadicta.”
“An exotic name,” Rina said. “The Scattered Isles?”
“The Red City,” Mother—Stasha—said. “Obviously.”
Obviously—the Red City was the only place of civilization in the Scattered Isles, a place of trade and culture. The other inhabitants of the Scattered Isles were all primitive savages. At one time, the Isles had been united, but some catastrophe had occurred in the ancient past. Only the Red City remained, a feeble remembrance of a once sophisticated and mighty empire.
“You’re far from home,” Rina said.
A smiled flickered briefly to life on Stasha’s face then died away almost as fast. “My husband was the fifth of five sons. He asked for his inheritance early, determined to travel as far away from home as possible and make his fortune. He died our first winter here.”
“That’s when you started the brothel?” Rina asked.
Stasha let out a long sigh, shook her head. “No. There were a few false starts. I finally discovered there were girls who would rather whore for me than for some man. The Wounded Bird was a safe haven for them, in an odd sort of way. But I circulated the rumor I was running the place for some man. That seemed easier for everyone to believe, and most left us alone, thinking they’d have to answer to some mysterious stranger.”
“Tosh thinks you might make a good chamberlain.”
Stasha shrugged.
“We’re all busy people,” Rina said. “There’s no time to spare for false modesty.”
“I see.”
“I don’t mean to give offense.”
“None taken,” Rina said.
“Tosh told me what you needed. I can do it.”
“I know,” Rina said. “But there’s more. I need somebody I can trust.”
The silence stretched between them.
“I knew your father,” Stasha said. “I organized the effort to avenge his death. If I can’t serve him, I will serve his daughter.”
Rina stood, bowed, and said, “I accept your service gladly, Lady Chamberlain.”
***
Darshia and Prinn led the other women into the barracks. It was a floor below the castle’s main level but not quite at the depth of the dungeons. Low ceilings. Two rows of narrow bunks, ten on each side, a wide path down the middle. A wooden chest at the end of each bunk for personal possessions. Dim embers glowing in a sunken brazier provided the room’s warmth.
At the Wounded Bird, each of them had had a private room. For obvious reasons. It would be odd for all of them to sleep in a group like this.
But I’m not a whore anymore, Darshia thought. I’m a soldier.
Was that even true? She hadn’t signed on to any army, hadn’t taken any oaths. Tosh had told them they were charged with guarding the castle and protecting the duchess. It wasn’t ceremonial. Darshia and Prinn and the others weren’t here to be ornamental. Tosh had made it clear. There were real dangers, even here in the castle.
That’s soldiering as far as I’m concerned.
Prinn sighed, looking around the barracks. “What do you think?”
Darshia tossed her pack onto the nearest bunk. “I think it’s home.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alem and Brasley rode side by side north up the mountain from the village of Crossroads. They’d stopped to check in on Alem’s grandmother and endured the gossip of the small fishing village on the north shore of Lake Hammish.
How can people have so many different stories about fish?
Listen to yourself, thicko. Alem from the stables. When did you get so worldly?
He rubbed his temples again and moaned.
“First hangover?” Brasley asked.
“And last,” Alem said. “I’m never doing that again.”
Brasley threw his head back and laughed loudly.
“Now why the hell is that so funny?” Alem asked.
“Dumo keeps a long list of famous last words,” Brasley said. “And never again after a long night of drinking is in the top three.”
“What’s number one?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”
Alem frowned. “Hilarious.”
Upon hearing that a royal suitor was en route to Klaar to sweep Rina off her feet, Alem had decided to try the Brasley method of problem avoidance, which involved crawling into a bottle and diving deeper until you found the bottom. They had ended up drinking long into the night, singing the filthiest tavern songs Alem had ever heard.
Around dawn there had been some earnest vomiting.
And the worst part is that I’m just right back to where I started anyway. Did I really think I had a chance? Of course Rina will marry somebody important, not some jerk from the stables.
“He could be hideously ugly,” Brasley said. “And then maybe Rina would send him packing, eh?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No?”
“If it’s not this guy, it’ll be somebody else,” Alem said. “Rina’s a young, unmarried duchess. Do the math.”
“You’ve got a point there. Sorry.”
“What about you?” Alem asked. “Are you going to marry Fregga?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Brasley said. “I mean, think about who I am. A drunkard, a gambler, a womanizer. Who’d want that for a son-in-law?”
“An excellent point,” Alem said.
“Well—ahem—yes. The point actually being that it’s likely old Becham doesn’t want me to marry his daughter at all. He probably just wants some sort of compensation, a bag of gold or something. I mean, it happens all the time, doesn’t it? They pack the girl off to have the baby with some distant relatives and give it to a farmer to raise or something and then the girl returns home after some extended traveling to see the world and everything is back to normal.”
“You’re kidding yourself.”
“I just want a little hope to hang my hat on,” Brasley said. “You don’t have to throw brutal reality in my face.”
“I am too hung over to throw anything except up.”
Brasley laughed. “Look, your problem isn’t so bad really. You’ll feel bad for a time, but there are other women. I promise you, there are lots of other women out there. I mean, okay, they’re not all duchesses, but that’s—”
Brasley reined in his horse suddenly, looking off into the woods. “Who are they?”
Alem followed Brasley’s gaze and caught the movement, a flash of metal. He recognized the style of armor, the overlapping bands of metal, the helms that flared wide.
“Perranese!”
The two Perranese warriors saw they’d been spotted and turned their horses into the woods, the beasts breaking into a run.
Brasley spurred his horse into motion. “After them!”
Alem blinked. “After them? Run toward the men with swords?”
“If they’re spies, we’ve got to shut them up.” Brasley called back to him.
Alem rode after him.
What could spies tell? The details of the Long Bridge repairs. That more traffic was coming up the Small Road. Was that useful information for another Perranese invasion force? Maybe. It didn’t matter. Brasley was right. On the chance they knew something, they needed to be silenced.
Alem leaned low and rode hard, ducking tree branches. He was a much better rider than Brasley, and he caught up and passed him in a few seconds, keeping the two Perranese in sight ahead of him. The forest grew thicker, and Alem deftly dodged trees as he closed on the warriors.
He reached behind him for the light crossbow hanging from his saddle and brought it around one-handed. He’d practiced shooting the thing from horseback, but he hadn’t practiced reloading. He’d get one shot.
Alem aimed, held his breath, tried to compensate for the bouncing motion of the galloping horse, and squeezed the trigger.
The bolt flew and struck one of the Perranese warriors in the meaty part of the thigh. The man screamed and tumbled from the saddle.
Alem rode past the fallen man a second later. He turned his head to grin back at his work, absurdly proud of himself.
Okay, yeah, that was lucky, but the practice paid off too. Maybe I’ll enter the crossbow competition at the spring fair and—
When he turned back, he barely had enough time to get his hands up to keep the low hanging branch from smacking him in the face. He was knocked backward out of the saddle and landed hard in the snow.
Alem lay groaning as Brasley reined in his horse next to him. “Anything broken?”
“I don’t think so,” Alem said. “The other one?”
“Too far ahead.”
He got away. I was gloating over a lucky crossbow shot and got my stupid self knocked off my horse, and the other one got away.
“I wounded one,” Alem said. “We can take him back for questioning.”
“That’s something at least,” Brasley said.
They retrieved Alem’s horse and backtracked to the spot where the Perranese warrior had fallen. They found him sprawled awkwardly, head cocked at an odd angle, neck broken.
“Well.” Brasley sighed. “That’s a damn shame.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Prinn lived by one governing thought: Whenever life seems
to be going surprisingly well, just wait ten seconds and everything will go back to shit like normal.
A warm, safe place to sleep in the castle. A good job that wasn’t whoring. Respect and friends. All too good to be true, obviously. And so she wasn’t really surprised when the man came along with the message, both an offer and a threat. She’d been given instructions and warned that if she didn’t follow them to the letter, then the worst possible people would take great delight in carrying out the threat.
On the other hand, if she was a good girl and did what she was told, she’d be given a bag of silver and a horse, and she could take off and start life anew wherever she pleased.
It wasn’t difficult to decide which option she liked better.
Prinn padded down the stone steps to the dungeon, where she found the little jailer’s room. There was no jailer at the moment, and as soon as they’d found somebody trustworthy, they wouldn’t have to send one of Tosh’s women down to guard the place.
Tosh’s women. That’s what the castle folk called the new female guards. We really do need to think of a better name, Prinn thought.
No. It won’t matter. I’ll be gone.
She knocked once and then entered.
Viriam looked up from where she was sitting on the jailer’s bunk against the wall. She was sharpening a dagger with a whetstone. The woman had plain brown hair and bland skin but also the large soft curves that many of the Wounded Bird’s patrons preferred. Those curves had lost some of their softness since she’d taken up the sword.
“I thought Carrine was my relief,” Viriam said.
“She’s got a man in town,” Prinn said. “I’m doing her a favor.”
“Sit back and prepare yourself for six hours of solid boredom,” Viriam told her. “Not sure why we have to guard this door. It can’t be opened from the outside.”
“Do you want to take that chance?”
Viriam shrugged. “I guess not. Have fun.”
Prinn counted to a hundred after Viriam left before shoving the bunk aside and depressing the stone on the floor that triggered the unlocking mechanism. There was a dull clunk from the depths of the dungeon, and a four-foot-high door swung open in the stone wall.
The Tattooed Duchess (A Fire Beneath the Skin Book 2) Page 4