Chapter 18
Eighteen
Casimir
The Petal’s Pleasure brothel is one of the subtler establishments dedicated to the carnal arts I’ve observed in my time, at least from the outside.
That isn’t to say it’s outright discreet.
The owner commissioned an illusionist to conjure an image of a woman’s manicured hand stroking along the letters on the sign, and Ardone’s sigil is clearly carved on either side of the business name.
But the face of the building is painted a modest ivory, dulled in patches to light gray, with no additional decoration.
The dark red curtains covering the windows obscure all hint of what goes on within.
What’s going on right now may be more than indulgences in bodily pleasures. Julita’s former maidservant mentioned that she’s seen some of the more authoritative Order of the Wild members coming and going from this place regularly.
It could be they’re simply looking to scratch an itch. But considering that the conspirators in Florian used at least one brothel to hide their sacrificial accomplices, we felt it was worth investigating.
And my observations from the past two days have only increased my certainty that Petal’s Pleasure figures into the scourge sorcerers’ plans in some significant way.
Whenever the man who runs the place steps out in one of his elegant but slightly tatty suits, I can see the stress he’s under in everything from his furtive swipes at his face to the stiffness in his slim frame.
Something is making him nervous. From the looks of his business, he’s been in the trade for decades, so I doubt he’s having misgivings about the official services he offers.
And when a few of the men and women we’ve identified as important members of the local Order stopped by last night, they came and went with attitudes much more resolute than leisurely.
So, we’re taking a gamble, and we’ll see if we can chip away at a little of the scourge sorcerers’ power in Pima.
For a second, the thought of the uprising that’s spread across the entire province squeezes my lungs. I’m used to dealing with people one-on-one, tending to their concerns with a personal touch.
I never expected to find myself tackling a horde of traitors with brutal magic.
My hands clench where I’m standing down the street from the brothel. Dragging air into my lungs, I will them to relax.
A personal touch may be exactly what’s needed here. Hanie questioned whether we’d be able to make a difference, but it doesn’t need to be a matter of bowling the conspirators over all at once.
We can try to undermine them with a few small, swift jabs that might seem minor but will make an impact as the effects ripple through their organization. They’ve only had a couple of weeks to set down roots.
We have to do everything we can to cut those fledgling roots out from under them. All of us working together, no matter how far we are from our usual endeavors.
Gathering myself, I stroll over to the brothel through the thin late-afternoon light. I hold my chin high and my posture straight like the conspirators I watched enter the building yesterday.
The hinges give a faint squeak as I open the door. Warm air washes over me from the hall, thick with the scents of vanilla, jasmine, and roses.
A narrow, cushioned bench sits just inside the hall. A curtain sections the front area off from the rest of the house. Sultry music and a burst of feminine laughter carry from beyond it.
Only moments after I’ve stepped inside, the slim man appears at the doorway of the one room on this side of the curtain, which I assume is his office. He looks me over with a calculating smile. “What can I do for you, sir? It’s early—there are plenty of options.”
I keep my answering smile reserved enough to hide the gem teeth in the back of my mouth that would give away my own status as a courtesan. “Actually, I’m here to do something for you.”
As I speak, I nudge my gift toward him. A tingle spreads through my gums where I sacrificed the eight teeth to Ardone, and a rush of images and sensations floods my head.
Ah. Conveniently, what I can do that would make this man happiest is exactly what I came hoping to do.
His brow has started to furrow. I go on before he can question me. “You have something here that belongs to the Order of the Wild. We need to relocate them. I’ll be taking them off your hands. You will, of course, receive the rest of your due compensation.”
Relief flashes across the man’s face before he can hide it. He bobs his head with the eagerness he’s trying to suppress and motions for me to follow him. “I’m glad I could be of service to those who celebrate the All-Giver.”
But he’s even more glad not to have the responsibility hanging over him anymore. From the twinge of revulsion I caught in the gift-brought stream of impressions, I suspect he’s caught at least a glimpse of what his unexpected lodgers look like under their shrouds.
I don’t think he wants to know what the Order of the Wild plans to do with these mutilated people.
The brothel owner leads me down a flight of stairs at the back of the building, where the perfume smell gives way to dust and a trace of mildew. He unlocks the door to the right of the stairs and motions me toward the room beyond without stepping into it himself. His stance has already tensed.
Oh, he’s definitely unnerved by what he’s seen of the scourge sorcerers’ sacrificial accomplices.
Keeping my expression mild, I cross the threshold into the dim space.
The room has no windows and barely any furniture. Four cots stand along the walls, a small table between them with plates still scattered with scraps of food.
Without arms to hold their food or eyes to see it, do the sacrificial accomplices simply lower their mouths to the plates and eat like animals? Have my supposed colleagues ordered the brothel owner to assist with their meals?
The shrouded figures look eerie even beneath the dove-gray cloth that conceals most of their mutilations.
It’s obvious to the eye that the fabric falls too smoothly across their heads, too narrowly along their bodies, where they’ve given up so much for whatever gifts they received that the scourge sorcerers are now exploiting.
I’ve been taught to see the beauty in every scar life can leave behind… but there’s nothing beautiful about sacrifices made through manipulation. The scourge sorcerers cajoled these people into carving themselves up when they were mere children of twelve, with promises of divine glory.
That knowledge tells me how I need to cajole them myself without any need for my own gift.
The four of them turn their heads toward me where they’re perched on their cots. They won’t be able to see me, but even without the outer shells of their ears, they’ll still be able to hear.
“It’s time for you to contribute to our cause,” I say, speaking steadily despite the twisting of my gut. “You can serve our purpose in an incredible way tonight.”
“Of course!” one of the shrouded figures says in a slurred voice, lurching to his feet.
The woman beside him bows her head. “We welcome the chance.”
They all stand except the one figure whose shroud falls unevenly across his knees. He’s missing the lower part of one leg, only the stub of a crude wooden prosthetic protruding from beneath.
I touch his arm so he knows I’m there and help him leverage himself upright. He sways but catches his balance.
“Our wagon will have drawn up right out front,” I tell the brothel owner. “Thank you for your own contribution.”
He trails behind us as we form a wobbly procession up the stairs and back down the hall. Without arms, the sacrificial accomplices sway even walking straight ahead.
I stay in the lead to guide them with my footsteps, watching to ensure there’s nothing to trip them up. With every rasp of breath they emit and every hitching motion, horror swells inside me.
Do the scourge sorcerers tell themselves what they’re doing isn’t a crime because they haven’t killed the people whose sacrifices they use to boost their power? Because it seems to me they’ve traded the brief cruelty of murder for a lifetime of torture.
I reach the door first and lean out to make a swift signal. Down the street, Rheave taps the horses to draw the wagon we commandeered from an abandoned farm in front of the brothel. The canvas arching over the cargo area will hide the accomplices we’re stealing from view.
As I guide the shrouded figures out of the brothel, the canvas flaps at the back of the wagon part. Alek holds one side open while I usher the four figures inside.
He wanted to join us for this venture, but not out in the open while we travel through the city streets. The makeup I painted over his scars isn’t a perfect cover.
He shoots me a quick, tight smile of welcome. Neither of us are happy about the state of the people we’ve come to free, but we’re glad we can free them at all.
Even if I’m taking the lead role in this operation, I couldn’t pull it off without both him and the daimon who’s become such a devoted ally.
Once the sacrificial accomplices are settled on the benches within, I close and tie the flaps. Alek’s even voice filters through the canvas as I come around to the driver’s seat. “I want to make sure we position you properly for the best impact. What are each of your gifts?”
I pull myself onto the seat beside Rheave, who takes that as his cue to set the horses trotting forward. The brothel owner has already disappeared back inside his establishment, no doubt thinking, “Good riddance.”
I pitch my voice low to murmur to the daimon. “We should keep a conservative pace until we leave the city so we don’t draw suspicion. Once we’re on the open road, we’ll push the horses harder. We don’t want to take so long that the accomplices start to worry.”