Chapter Fifty-Four. An Offer Made.
Fifty-Four
An Offer Made.
I leave the room with my head uncovered, and as I walk down the hall, the men who are dallying around the doors by the stairwell sober up and look away or become busy with their mead-soaked clothes. The women who linger in the doorways with them watch me. The blond one that Merc was with—
Well, she’s nowhere to be seen. And I have a stupid paranoia that they’re together again, but of course that’s ridiculous.
Because he’s killing someone for me.
I’m cursing myself and Anathos in general as I descend the steps.
The din in the pub reminds me of the Gauntlet, but I feel no nostalgia.
I’m too busy practicing what I’m going to say.
When I reach the bottom, I turn toward the flap door into the kitchen.
Then I look out into the crowd. I don’t see the short-haired maid with the bruised face and the beautiful voice.
I worry all this is too late. In the event it isn’t, I have to press on.
A feeling of disassociation overtakes me as I walk into the sea of patrons, the smell of sweat, mead, and mud dimming along with the sound of the voices.
The brief looks of surprise I get are as if from a great distance, and when chairs are shifted out of my path, I judge harshly the gamblers and degenerates for their pathetic need for drink and sexual distraction.
They’re nothing but a herd of cattle wandering their pasture of short-term pleasure.
And I hate them.
I proceed all the way to the back, to the trestle table, and the hard, sober men who line its far side, facing out at the patrons, the working women, the barkeeps, and the maids.
Top Hat is there, presiding over everything at the head of the group.
I can’t read his face, of course, on account of that brim. All I see is the unforgiving cut of his jaw, and his dark sideburns.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” he says in a low, smooth voice. “But where is your husband. Busy?”
His attention seems to go out to the floor, and I have a thought that he knows Merc went to see one of the women—and is taunting me on purpose.
“If that’s why you’ve come,” he drawls, “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m a businessman, not a preacher to address the morality of husbands gone astray—”
“I need to speak to you. Alone.”
Top Hat leans back in his chair, which is bigger than all the others. A throne, for a despot who rules by the fist, no matter his fine clothes.
“Now, why would you want to do that? Speak to me.” Then he drags out a last word, as if it’s the final line of a song: “Alone.”
“I have a favor to ask.”
The chuckle that comes back at me reminds me of his smile at that stream, a warning. Like a snake’s rattle.
“This should not surprise you,” he counters, “but I am not a man who’s inclined to charity.”
“I have something to offer you in return.”
I feel his eyes travel down me slowly, and I wonder what he makes of my borrowed outfit, the one that matches the clothing of those who live here.
I do not meet his gaze. Instead, I’m focused on the diamond tiepin that secures the cravat at his throat.
It’s the size of a marble. And then my eyes move to the pinkie ring on his right hand.
I don’t recognize the blue and green stone, but I’m sure it’s very valuable.
His crew of men are silent and still, and given that I’m used to the masculine urge to pile on when it comes to grinding down something inferior, I’m surprised none of them taunt me.
For sure they are soldiers of a sort, and like any regiment, they have a uniform: They’re all dressed in versions of what Top Hat is wearing, the finely tailored suits in dark colors accented with waistcoats and golden pocket watches that are obvious—and undoubtedly, weapons that are not.
The one closest to him, who sits at his right elbow, has a beard.
The others have mustaches or muttonchops.
“I am intrigued—to a point,” the man in charge says. “What of you, then.”
“I will meet with you alone.”
“These are my men.” As he indicates the assembled, his pinkie ring glitters in the low light. “There is naught which they do not know.”
I don’t believe that for a moment. “What I have to offer is only for you.”
“Are you trying to get your husband killed, then?” Top Hat drums his fingers on the table as if he’s getting bored.
“For what he did upstairs with my daline? As I just told you, domestic disputes are not something I am interested in entertaining, and if you try to put me in the middle of one, I warn you, I may well settle things.”
“This has nothing to do with him.”
I can feel his stare hardening on me, and hold my ground at his tiepin.
“If we are ‘alone,’ I do not believe that will be his opinion.” Top Hat rises out of his throne. “Suit yourself, though. Far be it from me to turn down a lady’s request.”
Bending to the side, he lowers his voice and speaks to the bearded one. Then he indicates for me to come around to the wall behind the table. Something is triggered, perhaps by where he puts his foot, and a section slides back to reveal a shallow hall lit by a single lantern.
“After you.”
The gallant way he indicates forward is nothing to be fooled by, and I shouldn’t be as composed as I am while I step into the hidden hallway. I’m not frightened of him, though, for I know what I have to offer is invaluable, even though he thinks it’s just something as irrelevant as my body.
The panel slides back in place with a thump, and when he stays where he is, I turn around to face him.
“It’s customary for me to search for weapons.” He steps in close, and he smells clean and fresh, nothing of mead or sweat upon him. “You understand that women get no dispensation from this.”
His hands move around my waist and proceed upward until he meets my underarms. Then he leans in very tightly to reach around the small of my back and go up and over my shoulders.
“Nothing yet,” he says in a seductive way. “But let us see what we have here.”
I am without the red felt coat, wearing only a small white blouse that buttons up to the throat. He takes his time with the fastenings, revealing my camisole bit by bit.
Pulling apart the shirt’s two halves, he lifts up the lace and stares down at my bare breasts. “No weapons, yet. But we have to be sure.”
His fingers skate over what only Merc has touched, and I can’t keep my grimace to myself.
A chuckle ripples through his chest. “What did you think was going to happen with this offer of yours?”
I shove his hands away and pull the camisole back into place. “You are checking for weapons, remember.”
There’s a pause. “So I am.” He sinks down to the floor. “Spread your feet. Please.”
As I do so, he kneels before me and goes under the red felt skirting. I focus on the panel and breathe evenly as he feels the outsides of my ankles, my calves, my knees. He continues up to my hips before returning to the floor and repeating the ascension. On the inside of my legs.
He goes all the way to my sex, and he lingers with his hand there. “Oh, look. I’ve found something.”
When I stay silent, he frowns. “If you have a favor to ask of me, you’d do well to provide me with an enrichment worthy of the request.”
“My body is not what I am offering.”
The hand between my thighs retracts and he straightens to his full height.
“I am not the kind of man you want to toy with,” he says in a low, threatening voice.
“I have something else you need, something far more valuable than what you can easily find elsewhere. With a woman who holds enthusiasm toward you.”
There’s a pause. Then the man stomps on the floor and a different panel opens beside me.
Clamping a hand on the back of my neck, he all but throws me into the black hole on the far side. I stumble, but catch my balance, and as my eyes adjust, it’s obvious that these are his private quarters.
With another stomp of his boot, he shuts us in and then strides over to a side table set with crystal decanters and delicate glasses.
“Care for a drink?” he drawls. Then he glances over his shoulder. “Before we get down to business?”
There’s a bedding platform in the center of the space, and the padded handcuffs that hang off the headboard gleam in the light of the lanterns that simmer from various hang points.
On the far wall, a wardrobe is locked up tight, but has a line of top hats resting on its top, and beside the monolith, a fan of swords is mounted on a freestanding wheel.
“No?” he says as he pours himself some whiskey and downs it in one swallow. “How ladylike of you.”
The man leaves his glass behind and comes at me slowly, like a cat with a mouse. When he stops, he reaches out and touches my exposed collarbone, running his finger back and forth.
As he continues down the lace to my sternum, I straighten my spine and say, “If you think you can shame or intimidate me by another fondling, you have the wrong woman.”
That chuckle rumbles out of him. “I can do anything I want with you in here. No one will hear you scream.”
“You don’t strike me as a man who considers being endured a compliment. And if you kill me, then you won’t know what I have to offer, and you will miss out on the single most important piece of information someone such as yourself can possess.”
He taps between my breasts, right on my heart. “You have an overinflated opinion of your value.”
“No, I don’t. I know exactly what I have to offer.”
As he assesses me, I continue to stare at the diamond on his cravat, and in the silence that follows, I think of the number of times I have run from people back at my village.
I’m not running now—or hiding. And with this other part of me awakened, I don’t believe I’ll ever run away again. From anybody.
His finger continues downward, to the waistband of the red skirting. “Tell me, what is your name.”
“Sorrel.”
“You may call me Thale.” He drops his hand to his side. “I’m curious, what is this favor you’re willing to risk your life for.”
I start to do up the buttons he’s released. “I want your protection.”
The top hat tilts to the side. “I would think your husband does a fine enough job of watching over you.”
“It’s not for me.”
“Interesting.” He indicates himself. “So you come here, to a man you do not know and should not trust, and offer yourself in exchange for protection for somebody else.”
“I told you, I’m not offering myself.”
“Oh, that’s right. Information.” More of that chuckling. “Tell me, fair lady, what can you possibly tell me that I don’t already know—”
“How you’re going to die.”