Astryd found herself in a huge, open room where women lounged in brightly-colored dresses styled to accentuate the bulges of breasts and thighs. A smaller number of men sat, mixed in with the girls. All discussion ceased as Astryd appeared, and every eye turned toward her. She met their gazes without flinching, making no judgments. Discovering the woman she had seen in her location spell, she smiled.
“Wait here.” The man’s tone seemed more suited to a threat than a suggestion. He trotted past the base of a staircase and through a door just beyond it.
As the conversations resumed, Astryd turned her attention to the layout of the whorehouse. The walls of the meeting room were painted a soft, baby blue, interrupted by a pair of doors in the farthest corner of the left wall that Taziar had explained led to matched bargaining rooms. The chambers above them remained in perpetual darkness, and knotholes in the floor allowed their occupants to hear and observe any business being conducted in the rooms below. To Astryd’s right, the staircase led to the bedrooms, and the door the man had gone through opened onto the kitchen and private rooms of the women who lived here.
Shortly, the kitchen door was wrenched open. The man who had met Astryd emerged first, followed by Harriman and his bodyguards. Harriman was wiping his hands on a rag. His gaze roved up and down Astryd with the intensity of a man purchasing expensive merchandise. His expression never changed, but the movement of his fingers on the cloth slowed and became mechanical.
Astryd shivered. Does he look at everyone this way? Does he like my appearance? Does he recognize me? Harriman stepped around the man in front of him and tossed the rag at him. The other man fumbled it, then caught it in a two-handed grip. He sidled out of the way to give Halden and Skereye room to pass.
Astryd looked up at Harriman, studying bland features that appeared more kindly than she’d expected. Taziar’s warning rose from memory. “You’re gathering information, Astryd. Don’t try anything recklessly heroic. If you get Harriman alone in a position where you can easily kill him and escape, try it. But don’t risk your life and destroy your cover for vague possibilities.” The thought of Taziar condemning headstrong courage made her grin.
Apparently thinking Astryd’s expression was intended for him, Harriman returned the smile. “Fine. You can start today. Keep the dust off the walls and furnishings and make sure the beds are made. In return, we’ll give you room and board. Don’t take anything that doesn’t belong to you. I’ll expect you to run errands for anyone here who asks, but you take your final commands from me. Whatever I say, you do. Understand?”
Astryd nodded. Her glance strayed beyond Harriman to his bodyguards. They towered nearly half again her height; a layer of fat fleshed out their muscles, sacrificing definition for girth. Their scarred features and glazed eyes looked familiar. Astryd had known men addicted to the berserker mushrooms and the blood-frenzy of Viking raids who lived in desperate misery between sessions of pirating. She knew they would prove ferocious and unpredictable warriors, undaunted by pain.
Harriman gestured toward the staircase. “Get to work.” He looked beyond Astryd. “Mat-hilde, you come with me. We need to talk.” He spun on a heel and trotted up the steps, Halden and Skereye directly behind him.
The woman Harriman had indicated swallowed hard, and several others flinched in sympathy. With a slowness indicating reluctance, Mat-hilde uncrossed her ankles, rose from a stool, and yanked at the clinging fabric of her dress. Astryd read fear in Mat-hilde’s eyes, and saw the woman shiver as she climbed the stairs.
Astryd seized the rag from the man’s hands and followed, certain of two things. The exchange won’t be pleasant, and I’m going to know why. She watched as Mat-hilde entered a room. Astryd caught a glimpse of Skereye’s back and the corner of a bed before the door slammed shut.
Astryd scurried past rows of bedrooms. The door before the room Harriman had chosen for his conference was closed, but the panel of the next chamber stood ajar. Astryd peeked through the crack into a cramped, pink-walled room with no windows. The bed sheets and coverlet lay rumpled, and a nightstand held a flickering lantern. Perfect. Astryd slipped within, pulling the door closed behind her. Aware that the walls would have been built thick enough to block out sounds from neighboring rooms, Astryd tapped her life energy to accentuate her hearing. She pressed an ear to the partition, but Mat-hilde’s voice wafted to her as an incomprehensible whisper.
Astryd drew more life force to her, channeling it into her spell. Her aura dimmed, then flared back to blend in tone with the half-lit room.
“... and Shylar always said we don’t have to do anything we don’t feel comfortable doing.”
Astryd heard the unmistakable sound of a slap, followed by a shrill gasp and a stumbling step. Harriman’s voice sounded as loud as a scream. “Shylar’s gone, damn it! I’m in charge now, and I say you do whatever the customer wants. Do you understand that?”
Harriman’s words pounded Astryd’s magically acute hearing, causing pain. She back-stepped, clamping a hand to her ringing ear. Turning, she pressed her other ear to the wall, felt the surface cold against her cheek.
Astryd heard no reply from Mat-hilde. Another slap reverberated through the room, and some piece of furniture scraped across the floor. “I asked if you understand.”
Mat-hilde’s voice held the hesitant, breathy quality of tears withheld. “I ... understand.”
“Good girl.” Harriman spoke condescendingly, the way a man might praise a dog. A moment later, the door opened.
Astryd backed away from the wall, furiously pretending to dust. She heard the heightened stomp of footsteps as Harriman and his guards retreated down the hallway and the clomp as they descended the stairs. Quickly, Astryd dismissed her spell, pocketed the rag, and entered the room Harriman had vacated. Mat-hilde perched on the edge of the bed. The corners of her mouth quivered downward as she fought to keep from crying.
Astryd let the door click shut behind her. Without a word, she crossed the chamber, sat beside Mat-hilde, and wrapped her arms around the prostitute’s shoulders.
Mat-hilde stiffened, resisting Astryd even as she struggled to contain her tears. Then, apparently reading sincere concern in Astryd’s touch, Mat-hilde softened. Her sinews uncoiled, and her tears fell, warm and moist, on Astryd’s neck. Astryd drew Mat-hilde closer, each sob made the sorceress ache with sympathy. Finally Mat-hilde pulled away, and the crying jag died to sniffles.
Astryd hesitated, torn between urgency and the need to take the time to gain Mat-hilde’s trust. The thought of taking advantage of Mat-hilde’s vulnerability repulsed Astryd, but she saw no other way. “Why do you stay with Harriman if he treats you so badly?”
Mat-hilde looked up sharply. Tears clung to her lashes, but she squinted in suspicion. “Who are you?”
Caught off-guard by Mat-hilde’s sudden change in manner, Astryd stammered. “I—I’m a friend of Shylar’s.”
The creases in Mat-hilde’s rounded face deepened. She studied Astryd with the same intensity as Harriman had used downstairs.
Knowing that any simple question would reveal her lie, Astryd amended in the only way that occurred to her. “I’m the friend of a friend, really. I’ve never actually met Shylar, but we’re going to free her.” Astryd held her breath, aware all chance of success now depended on Taziar being right about the prostitutes retaining loyalty to Shylar. And Mat-hilde’s use of the madam’s name when Harriman confronted her suggests the probability.
Mat-hilde continued to stare. The hem of her dress had balled up so it now revealed the edges of a gauzy undergarment, but she made no move to straighten it. “You’re with Taz Medakan, aren’t you?”
Startled by the directness of the question, Astryd answered too quickly. “Who?” She tried to sound confused, but managed only to appear nervous.
“Honey.” Mat-hilde brushed moisture from her eyes, revealing irises the color of oak. “If you’re not going to trust me, how can you expect me to trust you?”
Aware she wa
s outclassed in affairs of subterfuge, Astryd dropped all pretenses and relied on her instincts. Mat-hilde seemed kindly and forthright. “Yes, I’m with Shadow ... I mean, Taz.” She tensed, waiting for a shout or an attack. When none came, curiosity overcame apprehension. “But how could you possibly know that?”
Mat-hilde smiled. “You live among the underground, you learn to pay attention. Taz came back here and got a greeting he didn’t expect.” The grin vanished, and she cringed in remembrance. “We all know he escaped the baron’s guards by crossing the Kattegat. Then a Norse woman shows up here asking for work at a time when most girls would rather take their chances on the street. When you claimed to be a friend of Shylar’s friend, it seemed the only answer.”
Astryd frowned, displeased by the ease with which Mat-hilde had targeted her. “I just hope Harriman doesn’t put the clues together.”
“Men are stupid,” Mat-hilde said in a voice that implied she used the phrase with such frequency it had become habit.
“Some,” Astryd agreed. “But I can’t count on my enemies being the feebleminded ones.” Astryd pulled her knees to her chest, watching lantern light flicker through the misty-gray remnants of her life aura. “Don’t you believe Taziar is a traitor? No one else we’ve met seems to have the slightest doubt.”
Mat-hilde snorted. “Taziar Medakan a traitor?” She snorted again. “Men are stupid,” she repeated in the same tone as before. “Taz has got more morality in him than any ten people together. The men in the underground get so used to constructing evidence and changing circumstance that they fall prey to it if someone does it better than they can. I think it’s pride.” Mat-hilde straightened, finally tugging her dress back into its proper position. “Besides, men say things and show sides of themselves to women they wouldn’t ever let anyone else see. And they brag.” Mat-hilde rolled her eyes. “When we girls put enough stories together, we learn a lot. Sure, the evidence against Taz is overwhelming, but there’s other things besides evidence to consider. Instead of ten percent, Taz used to donate fifty, sometimes ninety percent of his paid heists to Shylar. Then he’d go out on the streets and hand most of the remainder to street orphans and beggars. Does that sound like the kind of person who would turn traitor?”
“Of course not.” Astryd savored her rising excitement. I’ve found a friend. “But I’m biased.”
Mat-hilde gave Astryd a knowing look that implied she guessed more than Astryd had revealed. “I don’t think you came to listen to me ramble on about men. What do you need?”
“Mostly information. First, you never told me why you’re still working for Harriman. Second, I need to know which people are loyal to Harriman and which ones would forsake him if the old leaders returned.”
All sadness seemed to have left Mat-hilde’s face. Only a fading red mark on her cheek remained as a reminder of the ordeal. “We stayed because Shylar told us to follow Harriman just before they arrested her. We assumed it would be temporary. Shylar’s got a lot of connections. As for loyalty ...” Mat-hilde considered. “Harriman brought those two ugly, blond monsters with him. They follow his every command, and they’re always at his side.”
“Always?” Astryd prodded.
Mat-hilde loosed a short laugh. “Always,” she confirmed. “They eat with him. They sleep in his room. When he goes off to relieve himself ...” She trailed off.
Astryd crinkled her mouth in disgust. “They go off with him?”
“Always,” Mat-hilde confirmed.
Astryd made a mild noise of revulsion. So much for an easy opportunity to kill Harriman and escape. “What about the rest of the underground?”
“Harriman pulled in some of the ‘fringe guard.’ Shylar kept in contact with a few strong-arm men she called on when some rare circumstance required violence. Harriman brought those men to the forefront of the underground. They’ve got more power and money than they used to, so they’ll probably remain loyal to Harriman.” Mat-hilde traced a floorboard with her cloth shoe. “There’s twelve or fourteen of them. Taz should know who they are. As for the others, they’d be thrilled to abandon Harriman for Shylar and the imprisoned leaders. Careful, though,” Mat-hilde warned. “I have no doubt they’ll welcome Shylar back, but they still believe Taz informed on her. If they see him, they’ll turn him over to Harriman or kill him. And, honey, it’s possible even Shylar believes Taziar is the traitor.”
Relief flooded Astryd, despite the fact that she wasn’t out of danger yet. I’ve got the information I came for, and it was easier than I expected. “Thanks, Mat-hilde, for your trust and the facts. We’ll do all we can to free Shylar and the others, I promise.”
“I’m not certain it’s possible,” Mat-hilde admitted. “Then again, Taz had done a number of things I didn’t think possible.” She took Astryd’s hand and squeezed encouragingly.
Astryd felt the warm flush of jealousy. Surprised by her own reaction, she tried to override emotion with rationalization. She knew Shadow for years before I met him. She’s a friend; she’s not trying to take him from me. We’re on the same side. Astryd returned the handclasp.
Mat-hilde released Astryd. “When do you expect to try this prison break?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“More specifically?” Mat-hilde pressed.
“I don’t know.” Interest replaced rivalry. “Why?”
Mat-hilde shook back a mane of dark hair. “Because, if I’m careful, I should be able to send information about the escape to the right people and have them here to help depose Harriman. But he’ll get suspicious if I have a large group of people sitting around all day.”
Though short a significant amount of life energy, exhilaration lent Astryd a second wind. Information and allies. What more could we ask for? “I need to take what I know back to Taziar and try to find out a time for you.” That means I need the freedom to come and go from here as I please, hopefully without having to resort to magic each time.
“Go,” Mat-hilde encouraged. “Tell Harriman I sent you out for combs and food. He’ll believe that, and I’ll back it up.”
A sudden knock on the door startled Astryd. A muffled female shout followed. “Mat-hilde?”
“Go on.” Mat-hilde indicated the door. “Let them in on your way out. I’ll take care of things.”
Astryd rose. She pulled the panel open, and was immediately confronted by five prostitutes with worried faces. They stared as she slipped past, then entered the room in response to some gesture from Mat-hilde that Astryd did not see. As she reached the top of the stairwell, the sorceress heard the door snap closed behind her.
Astryd took the steps two at a time. Her mission had turned out more successfully than she’d ever expected. Though dingy and partially spent, her life aura remained strong enough for a few spells at least, more than enough for an emergency transport escape. Still, a sense of foreboding tempered Astryd’s joy. In spite of greater numbers, the peaceful members of the underground might not hold out against Harriman and his warriors. The prison break would require a skill even Taziar might not possess, despite the help of a garnet-rank sorceress. And when it was all over, they might still have to face Harriman’s master.
Engrossed in thought, Astryd nearly collided with Skereye at the base of the stairs. Startled, she skittered sideways and stumbled over the last step. A hand seized her forearm, steadying her. She glanced up at her benefactor, recognized Harriman’s placid features, and a shiver racked her. A burst of surprise nearly caused her to trigger the transport escape, but Astryd held her magics. A spell cast in panic always cost more energy, and the need to break Harriman’s grip would have increased the toll on her life force. Besides, using sorcery now would certainly reveal me and destroy any chance of returning. Instead, Astryd showed Harriman a weak smile. “Forgive my clumsiness.” She tossed a glance around the conference room, noticed six large men with callused hands and scarred faces, and felt even more certain of her decision not to depart with magic. Something’s going on. I think I’d better
know what.
Attentive to the gathered warriors, Astryd missed the nonverbal exchange between Harriman and a stout, greasy man who stood before the door to the entry hall. Harriman’s grip tightened, and Astryd twisted back to face him. “What’s your name, Missy?”
“Linnea,” Astryd replied, choosing the name of one of her sisters for convenience. She trained her gaze on Harriman’s hand on her sleeve as an obvious suggestion that he remove his grasp.
To Astryd’s surprise, Harriman released her. “Well, Linnea. This is Saerle.” He beckoned to the man by the door who trotted forward. “Take him upstairs and do anything he asks.”
Dread tightened Astryd’s throat. She knew better than to protest; that could only earn her Harriman’s wrath. Casting an escape before one man must be safer and less conspicuous than in a crowd. She maintained her composure. I may even have enough life energy to evade Saerle and still listen in on Harriman’s meeting. So long as I keep enough for a transport, I’m in no danger.
Astryd studied Saerle. His round face sported a day’s growth of beard. A receding semicircle of sand-colored hair revealed a moist forehead, and his green-gray eyes regressed into sockets deep as a skull’s. Three bottles of wine swung from between his fingers, the color of the vintage obscured by the thickness of the glass. “Come on,” Astryd said. Though revolted by the thought of touching Saerle, she caught his wrist and pattered up the staircase.
Plans swirled through Astryd’s mind as they ascended the steps. A natural ability to conjure dragons had biased her repertoire toward summonings. Most of her other spells were basic shields, wards, and defenses against magic, none of which would serve in this situation. But as Saerle and Astryd crested the landing, a distant memory drifted into focus. She recalled her early years as a glass-rank sorceress when she and her peers had spent half the day fashioning wards for the outer walls of the Dragonrank school. Then, boredom had driven her to seek entertainment. By shorting the Dragonrank defenses a few spells each day, she retained enough energy at night to pull pranks on the glass-rank mages who shared her quarters. She recalled a friend sputtering over ale laced with salt and another awakening in the middle of the night, tripping and stumbling over furniture silently rearranged with magic. The remembrance made her smile. This might prove the most amusing challenge I’ve ever faced. The idea made her laugh aloud. Amusing challenge? Thor’s hammer, now I’m starting to think like Shadow.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm Page 18