Chapter 25 #2
On one hand, a whorehouse is a perfectly normal place for a man to be sneaking off to that doesn’t indicate any horrifying magical conspiracy.
On the other hand, there’s no way of telling that Ster.
Torstem is here simply to wet his dick any more than that he funds the orphanage only out of the goodness of his heart.
Even if he is here for no reason other than to get his rocks off, men often open their mouths when they’re in the stupor of the afterglow. At least, Milo did—that was how I found out about his horrible side business.
Torstem might have given away something useful to his “ladies” inside.
Well, there’s only one way to find out: go in and ask.
I don’t think I’ll get very far as a supposed patron. Mulling the idea over in my head, I approach the building cautiously and spot a window halfway open past one of the supporting trees.
All it takes is a quick scramble, and I’m landing with a soft thump in a darkened dressing room. Mingled perfumes clog the air, and dresses lie strewn across the settee, chair, and vanity.
The vanity also holds several scattered pots of colored powders. I snatch a couple up.
Esmae would not approve of the garish art I make of my face. Hasty smudges of crimson mark my cheeks and lips; smears of violet coat my eyelids.
I glance down at my dress, hesitate, and then loosen the lacing so I can tug the neckline partway down my shoulders. A pool of shadow forms at my meager cleavage.
There. That should be decently convincing.
Ivy… Julita says in a doubtful tone, but she doesn’t seem to know how to debate this subject with me.
I shoot a tight smile at my tarted-up reflection in the mirror. “Don’t worry. I’m only going to look the part, not act it out.”
In some ways, it’s harder to take on this persona than that of a noble. As a noble, I can be distant and wary, and no one thinks it’s strange, just snobbishness.
As a harlot, I’m supposed to let it all out. To ooze sensuality and confidence.
I’m not sure I have enough sexpot in me to ooze it, but I summon as much as I can and saunter out into the hall with a swing of my hips. As my pulse drums nervously through my veins, I prick my ears.
A couple of children who look to be five or six huddle against the wall farther down, one of them wiping the floor and another folding sheets from a heaping basket. I stare at them for a second before understanding settles over me.
These courtesans of sorts won’t have access to the pure mirewort like Casimir does. An occasional accidental pregnancy will be par for the course for the brothel-workers of the fringes.
Which apparently keeps the brothel set for cleaning staff.
A few feminine voices carry from a doorway closer by. I lift my chin and stroll into that room.
It looks to be a small lounge, presumably for the women to relax between patrons. Exactly what I was hoping for.
Two of the women are sprawled on the armchairs on either side of a small table. Another is perched on a windowsill, holding a slim stick between her fingers that’s giving off a spicy smoke.
All three of their gazes lock onto me the second I enter the room.
One of them shoves herself higher in her chair, her bodice sliding against the tops of her breasts, which are threatening to spill over the faux satin fabric. “Who’re you?”
“Lilac,” I say, in honor of my dress, figuring one plant name is as good as another. “It’s my first day. This—this is where we wait until there’s a client for us, right?”
The hint of hesitation seems to put the other women more at ease. Maybe it shows I’m not a real threat, not sharp enough in the claws to pry their best patrons away.
The woman in the faux-satin dress folds her hands on her lap, one missing its little finger—a common minor sacrifice, like Ewalin’s. What sort of gift would a woman of her calling ask for?
Did she already know what work she’d be doing when she dedicated herself at twelve?
“I doubt you’ll be in here long,” the one by the window remarks. “Madam will want to get you right into the rotation.”
Who knows how long I have before the woman who’ll know she didn’t hire me bustles in? I drift along the wall beside the door, where to my surprise I find a small bookshelf packed with assorted leather- and canvas-bound volumes.
I bring my thumb to my lips. “Is there a lot of business this early in the day?”
The window woman shrugs. “If they’re awake, there’ll be someone wanting it. More once it gets dark, of course.”
“Sometimes the ones in the day are better,” the third woman pipes up. “Sometimes they’re just odd.”
A couple of silver teeth flash beyond her lips—the gaudiest a fringe courtesan can afford to fill in that kind of sacrifice.
Jumping on the opening, I wrinkle my nose. “I saw a man just come in—Tomas, someone called him. It sounded like he takes more than one woman at a time?”
The woman in the faux-satin laughs, rubbing the stump of her sacrificed finger. “That’s hardly the strangest thing you’ll run into around here. But you don’t have to worry about Madam sticking you with Tomas.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Why not? He already has his favorites picked out?”
The window woman takes a drag from her smoke-stick. “You could say that. It’s none of us. Madam has some girls set up in the attic. Pampered bunch. Far as I know, they don’t cater to anyone but him.”
The woman with the silver teeth cackles. “He must pay a pretty penny to make it worth her while to keep ’em.”
“Does he come by every day or something?” I ask, opening my eyes wide as if in shock.
The faux-satin woman waves her hand. “Nah, more like every week. But he never stays away too long. Sweet deal, really.”
“I don’t know,” the silver-toothed woman says. “Sometimes the sounds from up there are kind of… funny. Not sure it’d be work I’d like if it’s worth that much to him.”
I knit my brow. “What kind of sounds?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” the window woman says. “Cherille just has a wild imagination.” She shoots the other woman a quelling glance.
It doesn’t sound as if they know much more than they’ve already said anyway.
I run my finger idly across the spines of the books. The volumes are slim, but they’re not all in Silanian—some are Veldunian, a few Darium, a title that looks Icarian—and one in Woudish.
I can’t resist sliding that one off the shelf to peek at it. As far as I can make out from my layman’s knowledge, it’s a book of love poetry.
“What are all the books for?” I say, to avoid looking as if I’m specifically there to pump them for information about Ster. Torstem—and also because I’m honestly wondering.
The faux-satin woman yawns. “Oh, Madam collects some, and some the men bring. They can help set the mood if you need it, with the right type who thinks books are something exotic.”
The one in my hand is relatively exotic. I curl my fingers around it and risk another prying question. “Haven’t you ever asked the girls in the attic what’s so special about Tomas?”
The silver-toothed woman shakes her head. “Hard to do it when we never see ’em. They’re always up there. Madam brings their meals and all.”
“I say they’ve got some sneaky secret path to go scurrying through the city at their whim,” the faux-satin woman declares.
The woman at the window doesn’t seem to appreciate my continued questioning. She adjusts her position on the sill, her voice turning brusque. “You’ll see how it all goes fast enough.”
I can feel my safety here slipping through my fingers—and it doesn’t appear these women know more that would be useful.
Surreptitiously tucking the Woudish book into the folds of my skirt, I let out a hasty giggle. “I think I’d better relieve myself before Madam comes with a client. Where’s the privy?”
“Out back.” The window woman jabs her thumb toward the hall.
As I duck out, the woman in faux-satin peals out another laugh on my heels. “Some of ’em will like it if you get ’em wet.”
I’d rather not think about that.
I dart down the dim hall, past the children at their chores, all the way to the door at the back and into yard beyond.
Weeds sprout up between cracked limestone tiles of the modest courtyard. Spinning around, I peer up at the roof.
Ladies in the attic. That’s who Ster. Torstem comes to see—ladies no one else seems to see.
How very odd indeed.
Nobody appears to be paying much attention to what’s going on outside the brothel. Maybe I can take a peek from out here.
As I slink around the building, considering my options, a few raindrops patter onto my hair. By the time I’ve made my decision and am clambering up the more scalable of the two trees, a steady drizzle flecks my skin with a chilly layer of moisture and streaks across the silk of my gown.
“Casimir’s going to have to get me another new dress,” I mutter in an undertone.
Julita laughs, though a thread of nervousness winds through her voice. Somehow I don’t think he’ll mind. He’d dress up the other men too if they’d let him.
I manage to brace myself in the crook of a branch by the slant of the roof. The attic holds no windows or other openings that I can see.
And there are multiple women stuck in that closed-off space day in and out?
The mismatched shingles dappling the roof look particularly uneven farther along the stretch of the branch. I edge along it, setting my hand on the roof for balance.
If only I could peer right through the mottled surface, make my own little window—
My magic springs up inside my chest, jerking this way and that.
I can. I can, if only I let it.
I shut my eyes and grimace. Fuck, no. When will it get the message?
But my power really isn’t accepting my reluctance now. I can’t say I’m in any immediate danger, but at the gritting of my teeth, pain spikes through my chest. The riven magic lashes at me from throat to gut like I’ve got a feral cat scrabbling to break free of my flesh.
I gasp and bow over the roof, groping for balance.
Ivy? Julita asks frantically as the agony sears deeper.
It’s attacking me because I wouldn’t give myself a magical view into the attic on a whim? Gods save me, what will it feel like the next time I really am in danger?
I press the side of my face against the cold, rough shingles, damp now with the thickening rain. The solid sensation grounds me a little.
The turmoil raging inside me ebbs by increments. When it’s more a rabid mouse than a feral cat, I ease myself up and slip the knife from the sheath on my thigh.
It only takes a few furtive movements to pry up a couple of the shingles, revealing the boards beneath. There, no wretched magic needed at all.
Bending close again, I rest my ear against the thinned surface of the roof. Muffled voices reach me through the wood.
There’s a soft murmur of blurred-together words, ending with, “—without you.”
Then a gruff voice I recognize as Ster. Torstem’s. “I understand. But you’re doing so well. I’m proud of you.”
The next murmur sounds more pleased.
Another feminine voice speaks up, this one huskier but louder. “It’s always our pleasure to serve.”
“I know it has been,” Torstem says. “And our plans are so close to coming to fruition. Soon you’ll be able to do everything I’ve promised.”
Their plans? His promises?
I strain my hearing, the wood rough against my cheek, but only silence follows.