by Jackson Lear
She blew out a long, thoroughly bored blast of air. “Could be Temana, I guess. She’s a madam now, works down there. I shouldn’t really talk about it, you know? Different groups an’ all.” She held her hand out, palm up, expectantly.
“Do you have something else for me?” I asked.
“Depends how much you offer.”
I gave her an extra penny.
She pointed in the other direction. “She works that way. A couple of streets over, down an alley. A narrow door with no name on it.”
“Thank you.”
I headed the way the young lady suggested. After several wrong turns and a lot of doubling back, I found one such alley with a narrow door at one end. The windows above were mostly shuttered with a sliver of lantern light seeping between the edges to all rooms. With that many occupied bedrooms, it didn’t take much experience or guess work to tell me what I was likely to find inside.
The door swung open with ease. A narrow waiting room greeted me. The dim light and lack of reflective surfaces gave the room a distinctive bedroom vibe to it. A fine stream of incense smoke danced from its housing, startled by me opening the door. A narrow stairway stood to my left. The bulk of the premises led forward. Directly above me was the rhythmic squeak of floorboards grating against each other.
I closed the door. Called out. A woman of elegance strode into the room, draped in a silk robe with a belt loosely holding everything together. She ran one finger against her thumb, drying it from the dab of perfume she had just applied to each side of her throat. Skin the color of caramel that she covered with necklaces and bracelets to gave her a distinctly exotic feel, like she was an imported jewel herself.
“Welcome. Is this your first time here?” I couldn’t place her accent.
“It is. I’ve just come from Verseii and I was recommended to come see Temana.”
She smiled, stepped in close to take my hand as she lured me in, pressing my fingers against her naval. “You found her.” She kept a hold of my hand, turned, and led me to a seat. “We have four women to choose from tonight. If you’ll wait right here …” She turned again, guiding me down with a gentle palm against my shoulder.
“It’s you, actually.”
She paused, thrown off course by a resurgence of interest, a battle between being flattered and ‘something isn’t right.’
I dropped back into being a closer. “I need you to get a message to the governor. The deal he set up in Verseii … it was an ambush.”
She shifted, the façade of her profession broken.
“It’s important. Right now all of my guys are dead. The money’s gone. The goods are gone. I want a meeting. Somewhere quiet. And I want it to be respectful. Can you pass that on for me?”
Temana’s eyes sunk with resignation, no doubt as a burst of, ‘is this really what my reputation is like?’ washed over her. “I’m sorry, I don’t do that anymore.”
“Of course. Still, can you get that message to Gustali?”
She hesitated, trying to find the right combination of words that would resolve this situation easily before someone overheard her. “I haven’t seen him in some time. And even then …”
I nodded with her, trying to win her over. “I get it. You want to keep some distance between you and whatever he’s involved in. That’s fine. Who’s a better person for me to speak to?”
“The governor, really. If he’s–”
“He won’t want to be seen with someone like me in public, would he?”
“I guess not.”
“Who can I speak to? Tonight?”
She shook her head, annoyed at me for dragging her back into something that she had left years ago. “I don’t really know who’s still around.”
“It’s about money. That person is still around.”
Temana nodded, sighing as she told me. “Caton Pelus. As far as I know he’s still involved.”
“He’s the one who pays off the ladies?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s the one who resolves problems as well?”
Another nod.
“Thank you. There’s usually one of two people who will come to my hotel on behalf of Gustali. One is the public persona, the face, nice and friendly, has no problems being seen out and about. The other doesn’t move around in daylight all that often. Every governor has one of each. Who’s Gustali’s shadowy one?”
She shook her head. “I’ve long been gone from that world.”
“I understand, but characters like that are rarely chaste and even rarer are they married. He’ll be one of the best paid men in the province.”
Her eyes shifted, going from a gentle glaze of regret to straight-up authority. “My business relies on discretion.”
“Your business also requires me to leave without causing a fuss.”
“I’m protected.”
“It’s not you or your company I want to hassle. My people are dead. I saw someone who moves around the shadows while in Verseii. It was either the guy the governor sent or it was the guy who hit my people. If it was Gustali’s man then you won’t be seeing him again. If it wasn’t then he’s innocent and I will need his help to track down the people who ambushed the governor’s people and mine. So. Gustali’s man. The shadowy one. Who is he?”
Another sigh. “They don’t exactly use their real names here.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s short. That’s the main thing. He’s always polite. He’s always well dressed.”
“How old?”
“Your age.”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Mid-thirties. He’s fast. Not with the ladies, of course. He takes them out, wines and dines them, talks with them for half the night. At least, that’s with the ladies we have here.”
“He’s different elsewhere?”
“Word travels. He doesn’t have just one taste. With us he’s after elegance and a wife on an anniversary. With the others it will be revelry and sore throats come morning.”
I stared back at her, blankly.
“From cheering,” Temana added. “I’m sure you’d find him at an underground fight, shouting with the best of them.”
“How short is he, exactly?”
“I could see over his head, if I ever saw him.”
“What does that mean?”
“Professionally. It means even he has people who are off-limits.”
“Because of your time with the governor?”
She nodded, pursing her lips as she gave me a calculating look. “You didn’t see him in Verseii.”
“No. I guess I saw someone else.”
“You didn’t see anyone in Verseii.”
“No?”
She shook her head at me. “All I had to say was ‘he’s short’. That should’ve ended your questions completely but it didn’t. You have no idea who he is, yet you’re actively looking for him.”
“Yes I am. Was he here last night?”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”
“That’s not for me to say.” She smiled politely at me but it was clear that our time together was coming to an end. She lifted her hand towards the door and nudged me towards it. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“Certainly. If you do mention me to someone else they’ll be interested to hear this part: Artavian sent me a letter. Ten thousand marks or the letter goes public.”
She grimaced a smile. “Even if you’re as good as you think you are, you’re still an idiot for taking them on.” She pushed me towards the door.
“One last thing. Who’s the brains of the operation: the governor or his son?”
Her smile shifted to an ‘I’m not answering that.’ “I wouldn’t cross any of them if I were you. Not unless you want everyone you’ve ever known to die or suffer because of you. Now don’t come back.”
Chapter Twelve
The streets of Torne took on an interesting vibe at night. The majority of residents
in Erast were on a strict dawn-to-dusk schedule. The rare few who were wealthy enough to keep unusual hours often wiled away their time by drinking themselves stupid, fucking their brains out, or making a racket in the street by holding an obnoxious conversation at the top of their lungs. Torne was all of the latter rolled into one: an endless party of mayhem and noise. Perhaps it was the return of the army but given how many taverns were bristling with fiddles and drums, it seemed like this was a city built on desire and sin.
Wafts of smoke drifted into the street from every doorway. Some tobacco, some incense, some opium or the like. A peculiar mix of youngsters and fifty year olds staggered from alley to alley, holding one hand against the wall to help their balance, turning every now and then when the journey was farther than they expected. A sleepy grin crossed most of their faces, their heads lolling from side to side, up and down, as some induced euphoria took them over. There didn’t seem to be anyone in their thirties or forties amongst the crowd. Groups of women clung to each other, the grace found in their day-time shuffle now a thing of the past as they hobbled forward, their hips and knees wide for extra balance, each of them buckling down at some point to laugh hysterically – their asses thrusting backward, a quick inhale of air, then upright again as they cackled to the clouds above. A clan of young men, their locks soaked with sweat and beer, called out to one and another, whistling as a pair of elegant women hurried by, wishing they had taken another route home. The fifty year old men strolled with ease, surrounded by women half their age as the young women took turns to rest a hand on the gentleman’s chest as she smiled, reminding him that she was his favorite.
I passed several dens of debauchery, gambling halls, and alleys that stank of urine and vomit. The returning troops were out in force. Hundreds of them, spending their money, reuniting with friends and loved ones, then moving on to the next venue for all of their drunken excess. There would be hangovers in the morning, even for the young ones who claimed to be impervious to such things. Then there would be a slow trudge to the fields. Some would be working with their families, others wanting to earn a little extra coin, while more still hoped that an honest day’s work would keep them out of trouble.
The good news was that the crowd of misfits allowed me to stay hidden from the prying eyes of above. A group of soldiers came along, most of them staring at me crossed-eyed and struggling to figure out which of my many eyes they should focus on. I asked if they had just come back from the frontier. They cheered. I congratulated them. Asked if there were any problems. None! – they declared. When did they get back? Today!
I probed around, which wasn’t easy with half a dozen shit-faced kids who couldn’t remember their previous answer.
“You’re in Commander Gustali’s army?”
“Yes! No. No, wait …” The guy threw his arm around me, kindly letting me hold him up while he slurred into my face. “We’re in Governor Gustali’s army.”
“Really? Shit. The governor gets only the best, doesn’t he?”
“The very best!” Lots of cheering. Lots of celebrating.
“How’s his son doing? Commander Gustali? I hear he’s something of a war hero.”
A momentary fracture among half of them. Pause for thought, if you will. “He’s fine! He’s good.”
“The best,” one admitted, even though he was one of the fractured three.
“He must be a pretty good commander, huh?”
“Yeah. Wait, no.”
“No?”
“No, I mean … it’s Commander Lavarta, not Gustali.”
“I thought Gustali was the commander …”
I got such a mix of weird answers that I had to move onto a new group. None of them were hard to find since they were loud, cashed up, and high on life. After taking the slobbering census of twenty three drunken kids I had learned the following:
Their most recent tour involved a lot of building fortifications and waiting around. The cavalry – led by Lavarta – were the only ones to see combat;
Nothing memorable happened four months ago when Artavian supposedly found an incriminating letter;
None of the grunts had much contact with Lavarta and thus had nothing bad to say about him;
None of them liked Sergeant Muro. It wasn’t that he was cruel, he was just a heavy-handed boss;
There were heavy pauses among them all when I asked if Lieutenant Gustali was a good guy;
And finally: the governor’s reputation seemed to be clear of any scandal or nefarious rumors.
All told, it wasn’t a surprise that the lowest of lowly soldiers were clueless about their senior-most officers. The two sides of camp would rarely have a need to mingle. Doing so would only ruin your adoration of the ruling elite if you’re a grunt, whereas someone like a commander might suffer a crisis of conscience if he had to order his friends into battle. No surprise there. Even after six hundred years of Ispar being the center of the world we still have an astronomical divide between the rich and poor. Somehow the privileged few have convinced the rest that the only way up is through service and waiting your turn, and they point to the underclass heroes who have made a name for themselves. Those names are usually formed in battle, either as a gladiator or a one-in-a-million actual hero from war who was able to save his general’s life, and even then he has to hope that his general isn’t a dick about sharing the glory.
I headed into a couple of the taverns. Got reasonably drunk as I pestered the tavern staff on one of the busiest nights of the year. I played up the praise for Lavarta and the Gustalis, trying to judge the lay of the land. I came away with a gurgling stomach and unsurprising information: everyone was worried about the mercenary threat from Arlo, the governor was right to bring the army back to scare the mercenaries away, Lieutenant Gustali had risen through the ranks quickly because he was a good strategist, and somehow Commander Lavarta had also risen through the ranks quickly because he too was a good strategist. Considering I heard that description in three different taverns I was going to take everything I had learned with a grain of salt.
After some scrounging around I found a merchant’s balcony. Two stories up. No doubt locked in place. I readied my silk hook. Sprung it into action. Climbed up.
Gentle snoring came from within. A splutter or two, then silence.
The balcony would have to do. Four feet wide, six feet long, and with a brick wall now on all sides of me, shielding me from company eyes. I rolled my coat into a pillow, laid down, closed my eyes.
Sometime during the night came a sharp, “Ooomf!”
“Are you okay?” A woman’s voice.
Grunting. “No.” A little bit of stamping as well.
“What happened?”
“Fucking stubbed my toe.”
The merchant sighed, grunted some more, then came a long groan as he pissed into the chamber pot located two feet from my head.
Only when he moved away did I ease my grip around my blade.
Chapter Thirteen
I woke up with a headache. Two nights in a row of trying to sleep on bricks while suffering an earache caused by the celebrating troops. At one point I sat up, used my coat as a cushion and leaned back against the merchant’s wall, but that didn’t last long. No matter what I did I just couldn’t get comfortable. I had done bricks before. I had done outside before. The problem didn’t seem to be external. Instead, it was a tension in my stomach, like I had eaten something and my gut was still trying to work out if it was foul or not.
Martius’ warnings still echoed through my skull: if anything happens to Artavian they would go after the commander next. Considering that Artavian was dead I wasn’t going to hold too much faith in him being completely paranoid.
The merchant was up first. Started on breakfast. Roused his wife. They ventured downstairs. I ventured into their bedroom. A nice room with an actual bed. Yesterday’s clothes were draped over a waist-high beam. A latticed cupboard dominated one side of the room. I peered inside. Helped myself to some clothes. Left.
An hour later I was having a light breakfast in a tavern. Some of the staff hadn’t slept all night and had only just managed to shove the last of the drunken soldiers out the door so they could clean up the inch of sticky beer that practically glued everyone’s feet to the floor. I enquired again about Gustali and Lavarta. I was met with immediate hesitation.
“Where are you from?” asked one of the servers. About my age. Knew the locals and had been happy enough to chat to them for a while.
“Northport,” I said. “I heard the governor was bringing the commander’s army back from the north to scare away the Arlo mercenaries.”
A hesitant nod followed. “Well, I wouldn’t hold your breath on that one.”
“Why not? Are the troops heading back up north?”
“Nah, not for another couple of months, and then it might be with a new commander.”
“Commander Gustali?”
“Possibly. Not sure. Either way, it seems as though the current commander was a little in over his head up north.”
“How so?”
He shrugged with a half shake of his head. “I wasn’t there.”
“Did he lose a battle or something?”
“Not quite. There were something like two thousand northerners heading towards Anglaterra on another raid. Lavarta ignored his scouts and walked into an ambush. One of the other lieutenants had to take command or they would’ve all died up there.”
“Wow. Hair-raising stuff.”
“No kidding.”
“I guess he didn’t run much of a tight crew, considering that his aide-de-camp died in Verseii.”
“Maybe it was for the best,” muttered the server. “Poor bastard drank himself to death. Anyway, good to meet you, but I gotta get back to work.”
I ate. Went to another tavern. Ordered a morning ale. Chatted to one of the women who was moping up a similar inch of stale beer from the floor. She seemed relieved to stand up and stretch her back for a minute.
“The commander nearly screwed up whatever truce we have with the northern king,” she said. “He crossed the border and walked straight into an ambush. He was lucky to get out alive and was too scared to leave his fort after that to counter any of the raids the northerners committed. I mean, that’s supposed to be his whole job up there and he couldn’t even do that right.”
