The Guild

by Jean Johnson

  “Nine,” Alonnen stated. “The others will come in soon.”

  Someone came down the nearby stairs, so heavily bundled up, swathed in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, Rexei couldn’t have sworn they were fully human, never mind their gender or anything else. From the way the figure avoided her gaze, she thought maybe they were trying to avoid being recognized. Then again, he or she could just be wrapped up against all that snow outside, with a long walk to wherever they’re headed home . . .

  “You only get three. Back stairs, rooms thirty-six through thirty-eight,” the burly man stated, plucking a key from the wall by the door and handing it over without being asked or offered anything—and that was when Rexei recognized him by voice as well as face. He was the fellow who had bruised her shoulder just the day before. She kept her head ducked low, not even daring to peek at him. Thankfully, his attention had switched to letting the other person pass outside.

  Relieved to have avoided another confrontation with the strong-fingered man, she mounted three sets of stairs in Alonnen’s wake. The place was remarkably silent; even the stairs barely creaked as they made the climb, leaving her with nothing to do but follow her guide and eye the rich, brocaded gold and red cloth glued to the walls in place of mere painted plaster. The corridor at the top of the stairs was equally opulent, though up here the predominant colors were gold and lilac, even if the flowerlike pattern was the same. Even the doors were painted pale purple with decorative numbers and trim in polished brass . . . including the one, tucked into the corner of the L-shaped hall, that Alonnen opened.

  Visual opulence wasn’t the only overwhelming factor. The smells inhabiting both the corridor and the chamber behind that panel made her nose itch from the faint but cloying mix of perfume, musk, and . . . Stepping fully into the room, she rubbed at her nose and frowned at the floor, trying to figure out what that scent was. It took her a few moments to realize the smell underlying everything was not musk, as in the perfume; no, it was the scent of sex. She stopped mid nose-rub and blinked, then hurriedly glanced around. Closing the door behind her, Alonnen lifted one brow, catching her bewildered look.

  Rexei focused on the room, not the man at her side; him, she trusted. This place was another matter. Golden wood covered the walls to about hip height and a fancy, carved rail board capped the vertical panels, and above that, yet more silk fabric, this time patterned with delicately woven flying birds, had been glued to the plaster-smooth walls. The front half of the room had a padded divan for seating, a small table with two dining chairs, and a side table hosting a collection of carafes no doubt filled with expensive beverages. A scale sat nearby, suggesting the price of the drinks contained within were gauged by the weight of whatever remained behind. She resolved not to touch a drop, since she didn’t have much in the way of money on her.

  A woodstove on the left and a pleated privacy screen on the right divided the front from the back. On the other side, the far wall hosted a huge bed flanked by quilt-curtained windows and mounded with what looked like freshly bleached sheets and a thick, down-stuffed quilt. To the right of it, partially shielded behind the privacy screen, lay a rounded alcove large enough to host a permanent, polished-copper bath in the middle. More quilted fabric panels had been pulled down over the windows, shutting out the lamplight of the city and cutting off some of the drafts, but from the smell and the furnishings and the shape of the room, Rexei knew what that alcove was. This was one of the famous “turret” rooms of Big Momma Bertha’s Brothel.

  She had heard about it within her first three days here in Heiastowne, in fact. When Big Momma wanted to “advertise” her establishment’s offerings, she instructed some of the ladies of her guild, and even a gentleman or two from time to time, to take a bath with those blinds rolled up out of the way, particularly on the second floor, which gave just enough of a view to titillate the people in the street. The basement hosted a gambling den, and the ground floor catered some of the better meals for sale in the city. The four floors above were all for rent, usually by the hour, and always for a fairly high price.

  Rumor had it the time spent at Big Momma’s establishment was worth it, though. Some of the younger men in the Servers Guild, and even two of the women, had spoken of saving up enough money to visit this place or boasted of having done so in the past. Of all the places Rexei had expected them to go for shelter during a snowstorm, however, this was not one of them. In fact, she had expected somewhere else would have been chosen first.

  “If your mouth were as wide-open as your eyes,” Alonnen quipped, removing his cap, “you’d be choking on a bullfrog, never mind a fly. Relax, Rexei. This is a bolt-hole, not an assignation.”

  Blinking, Rexei struggled to regain some of her sense of calm. She swallowed and cleared her throat. “So . . . uh . . . how long do we stay here?”

  “Two good meals with a bit of sleep in between,” he told her. “If it’s three inches down here on the plains, the snow up by the dam is going to be eight or more deep until it’s cleared, too deep to drive in safely with all those hill-hugging curves on the last stretch of the road. I wish the Wheelwrights would come up with a better method of traction in icy, slippery conditions, but until they do, we’re safer spending the night here. In the meantime, I am hungry, and if you’re not, you should be after all that talking. We can check the menu on the little table, there, to see what’s being offered this week.”

  Unbuttoning her coat, she shrugged out of it, then pulled off her winter cap and set her messenger bag on the divan. Belatedly, she removed the heavy gold oval, dropping that into her bag for safekeeping. After adding the medallion-strung chain of her other guild associations, she joined him at the table. Someone had paid the Binders Guild for the use of one of their small printing presses. Made from four sheets folded in half and stitched together down the spine with a bit of ribbon, the menu included a wine list, finger foods, hearty dishes, sweet desserts . . . and a list of jams, jellies, syrups, and “a set of old sheets.”

  That last one puzzled her. “Uhh . . . Alonnen? Why do they offer a set of old sheets on the same list as a bunch of flavorings and preserves?”

  “What? Oh.” His face turned red. It was still altered somewhat by a disguise spell, a little more tanned with not even the hint of a freckle, but the illusion did not hide the rush of blood to his cheeks. Clearing his throat, Alonnen explained delicately, “That’s so you, ah, don’t get the regular sheets stained. It’s all boiled in hot water and bleached clean, but sometimes the fruit jams can still stain, you know.”

  “I still don’t get it,” she told him. “What have jams and jellies to do with old sheets? Or new?”

  Still a bit flushed, he cleared his throat. “It’s for those who like to strip their lover naked, lay them down on the old sheets, and then, uh, coat their curves with sweet preserves or, uh, drizzle them in things like butterscotch or caramel syrups . . . which they then lick off their lover’s body. And, ah, hopefully have the same done to them in return.”

  Her mouth formed a wordless “oh” in reply. Reminding herself to breathe, that the man sharing this room with her didn’t even seem to want her in the normal way—an oddly unsettling thought—Rexei turned her attention firmly to her empty stomach. “Ah, do you know what this stuff is? Natallian . . . pah-stah?”

  “It’s something made from finely ground wheat flour. It’s molded into shapes that are boiled, then drained and drenched in various sauces. It’s hard to explain,” he added at her dubious look, “but it’s just one of those things where once you’ve seen and tried it, you’ll just know what it is from that point on, rather than trying to explain it. I like the Nutty Chicken dish with it. Two or three kinds of nuts, mostly hazelnut, a bit of hazelnut-flavored liqueur, plus a bit of cream simmered with some herbs for the sauce, and it’s done.”

  One of her brows raised. “You’ve never apprenticed to a cook in the Hospitallers or the Bakers Guilds, have you? Becaus
e that was a very bland description.”

  “No, I haven’t. I grew up in the Hydraulics and Mages Guilds, right here in Heias Precinct,” Alonnen admitted. “I know I had a sheltered childhood compared to most mages elsewhere and that I haven’t suffered nearly as many hazards, though I have seen them, and the results of them.” He reached over and cupped his fingers over her hand. “You have my admiration for all you’ve survived, Rexei. You truly do.”

  She looked down at his hand, wondering once again at how he could be such a . . . a touchy person. Just as he started to pull his hand away, she released the menu booklet and turned her palm over, twining her fingers with his. She blushed as she did so, and she didn’t quite meet his gaze, but she held his hand. “Thank you, Guild Master.”

  NINE

  Alonnen felt his heart thump a little stronger. It was an odd sensation, but not entirely unexplained. Between her blush and the way she returned his touch, he wondered if she had unspoken feelings for him. The strings he had pulled during the Consulate meeting had been necessary in his view, because he believed she really was going to be a force to be reckoned with in relation to the coming demonic plague. He didn’t know how, but he wanted to give her what advantages and recognitions he could in preparation for it.

  This, however, was much more personal. He knew he tended to reach out physically to a lot of people; it no doubt sprang from growing up in a very loving, protected family. Because of his position, a lot of people did not reach back in equal measure. Those that did, he treasured. But this, the willingness of her hand entwined with his, touched him deeply. Instinct said that showing it, however, would do more to scare her away than keeping silent. So he diffused the moment by focusing on something a bit more trivial, yet still important.

  “Nonsense,” he dismissed, waving his free hand. “You’ve never really been in my guild. At least, not very deeply into it. And look at you,” he added, gently squeezing her fingers. “You’re a Guild Master yourself! You’re now my equal, and I’ll have nothing less than that out of you. Call me Alonnen, as my equal. Or call me ‘Tall’ outside of sheltered zones.”

  She looked up and around at the sybaritic brothel room. “This isn’t exactly a sheltered zone.”

  “Actually, it is,” Alonnen said. He tapped the table. “My predecessors had the wisdom to invest in land in the Lessors Guild, and to involve themselves in the Architects and Masons Guilds, and with the Woodwrights. As a result, there are certain buildings—this being one of them—that are very carefully warded to hide all traces of magic taking place within. Moreover, this building—which has been a brothel for hundreds of years and has from time to time been the seat of the Guild Master for the Whores Guild—has had each of its rooms spell-warded for sound as well as magic.

  “We’re almost as safe here as we would be back at the dam, save that there aren’t several layers of sentries on guard. Still, in exchange for keeping up the spells and the wards, this particular establishment lets us use these rooms as a temporary bolt-hole. Not often, and only for a few days or in a few rooms at a time, but that’s the deal,” he told her.

  Rexei could see how that would be a good deal. Before she could say anything, however, her stomach gurgled. Alonnen smiled wryly.

  “We don’t get more than one meal a day for free, but the food’s worth paying for. Let’s order a Nutty Chicken and a Creamed Salmon,” he proposed, squeezing and releasing her hand. “That way, if you don’t like the one, you can try the other. They serve a really good barley soup, too, and there’s a greenhouse on the roof so they have fresh greens to go with it. Big Momma swears by fresh greens for reinvigorating the libido in winter.”

  Rexei narrowed her eyes, watching him rise and head for what she realized was a small, wire-connected talker-box by the front door. Just like that, he had gone from being labeled nearly sexless to being very male once again in her mind. “And just how would you know what Grandmaster Bertha claims about . . . you know?”

  Swinging around to face her, Alonnen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. The movement ruffled the curls tied into a short tail at his nape. “You know, Longshanks, I’ve seen this in other female mages, and I can understand why so many think this way, but I was hoping you were smart enough to think past the fear. Rexei . . . there is a whole spectrum between gelded asexual male on the violet side of the rainbow, and bestial, brutal rapist on the red side.

  “Most men are somewhere between yellow and blue. I’m about as green as they come—I have a libido, I have an interest in sex, and I find many women to be attractive. My brother happens to find both women and men attractive, but he’s green in hue, too,” Alonnen explained. “Neither of us are going to grab and violate any partner, but neither are we going to castrate ourselves, literally or otherwise, just to pretend our need to be touched, held, and pleasured doesn’t exist. It does.

  “Your needs exist, too,” he said, pointing at her, wanting her to understand that, and that they weren’t anything worth fearing. “They might be smothered by the many problems you have seen so far, but you have every right to know what it feels like to be hugged and held, to be kissed and . . . and so forth.”

  This time, he blushed, trailing off for a moment. Rexei didn’t look very feminine, but then again, a lot of women around the Heias Dam tended to downplay their femininity, simply because it meant less hassle for them in the public areas whenever the priests came by to collect mandatory tithes and such. But there was something about her that . . . Sighing, he dragged his mind firmly back into safe territory.

  “Unfortunately, this conversation is heading in a direction I don’t believe you’re ready to discuss in a calm state of mind,” Alonnen said. “I do think you are cute as a button and as smart as a piston engine, but unless and until you should feel the same, whether it’s with me or with anyone else, that’s as far as it should go. I will repeat that you’re as safe in my company as if . . . as if one of us were a pet dog, worthy of a few pats and a cuddle-hug and some positive attention, but that’s it. And if you fear anything more than that, just say so. As it is, as soon as Gabria gets free of the Consulate and comes over, she’ll swap places with me, and I’ll share a room with one of the other lads.”

  Turning back to the door, he moved up to the talker-box and began turning the crank-handle to charge it.

  Rexei watched him place their dinner order, face warm and mind racing over his words. She could not remember the last time she had been complimented by someone who knew she was female. A couple of times her gender had been uncovered, but the comments made during those moments of discovery had been insults, not compliments. Multiple times someone had complimented her as a male . . . but some of those had been just as awful in their own way. The rest of the time, she had ignored the good ones, since underneath her attitude and her disguises, she was still very much a female at the end of each day.

  And here I am in a brothel with . . . with the first man I’ve been interested in, as a man, woman to man, since . . .

  A knock on the door startled both of them. Caught in the act of hanging up the cone-shaped earpiece that allowed a talker-box operator to hear what the person on the other end was saying, Alonnen fumbled it onto its hook, then glanced at her. He opened his mouth to say something, then the rhythmic rapping was repeated. Relaxing, he nodded.

  “I didn’t catch the pattern the first time. That’ll be Gabria.” A step to the right allowed him to grasp the doorknob and pull the solid panel open. The blonde woman smiled at him, opened her mouth to speak . . . and her gaze drifted to Rexei beyond his shoulder. She froze, eyes widening in fear.

  It was the first time anyone had looked at Rexei in fear, and Rexei didn’t know what to make of it.

  “Is something wrong?” Alonnen asked his assistant. He glanced over his shoulder at Rexei and the rest of the room, but he couldn’t find anything alarming in it. Looking back, he watched as Gabria shrunk in on herself, huddling
in her knit tunic. “What’s wrong?”

  Swallowing, Gabria looked down the hall, as if she’d rather be anywhere else.

  He stepped back from the door, giving her room to enter, guessing that she didn’t want to talk about it in public. “Come inside.”

  That only made her eyes widen further. She shook her head and moved back. “Uh . . . I’ll . . . just go find another room . . .”

  Frowning, Alonnen stepped into the hall, letting the door almost close behind him. Mindful of the potential for eavesdroppers, he spoke under his breath. “Gabria, what’s wrong? You’re acting like you’re afraid of Longshanks. You’re supposed to be sharing this room with her tonight.”

  “She . . . she’s with one of them,” Gabria hissed, eyes still wide and wary.

  On the other side of the door, inside the room, Rexei ghosted up to the panel as quietly as she could. She had seen the other woman’s fearful stare and wanted to know why she was upset.

  “What do you mean, one of them?” Alonnen asked.

  “A God,” Gabria hissed, shuddering inside her coat. “I can’t even think about . . . about Him, and you want me to . . . to spend the night in a room with her?”

  “Gabria . . .”

  “No! I’m going to Marta’s,” his part-time assistant asserted. “I’ll spend the night with her. Where I’ll be safe!”

  Movement by the stairwell resolved itself into the faces of two familiar men. Alonnen lifted his chin in brief greeting, but he kept most of his attention on the woman in front of him. “Gabria, Guildra isn’t the same as Mekha.”

  “You don’t know that. And frankly, I don’t want to know. I’m going to Marta’s, and that’s that.”

  “Then at least let me and Ohso walk you there,” Alonnen compromised, meaning one of the other men who had accompanied them to town. Hearing his name, the fellow raised his brows and headed their way.