Lily cast an ice-cold glare at everyone, probing them. After all, she had to live next to those people for a few weeks.
The captain was short of stature and had a face resembling a baked apple. He seemed good-natured, but his eyes gave him away: cold, cruel, and dead. Usually, brown eyes seemed warm, but he was an exception, like an autumn leaf frozen in ice.
"Captain Jock Arran," Anthony Lofrayne spoke up, starting the introductions.
"Your Grace," the captain said and stood up, making an awkward bow. Lily slowly lowered her head but didn't say anything.
"Gaston Revier, navigator."
A man in his early thirties, somewhat rakish. He had black hair, sleeked down enough to blend with his skull, slightly bulging eyes, a thin mustache, and a fervent look on his face. Did he think himself a lady-killer?
Lily looked at him as if he was nothing, making a point of it. If he really was such a ladies' man, the worst thing she could do was show weakness. Ignoring was the only way to treat such people. Men loved women who acted disinterested. Lily had often witnessed that at court.
The point was not to overdo it: not make him angry and also make it clear that while the fortress was strong and formidable, everything was possible with the right siege.
It seemed to work. His dark eyes flashed with interest. He didn't say anything out loud, of course, but the baron was close. Later, however, when he would leave...
"Sen Relar, the ship's doctorus."
Lily looked at him with a measure of interest. When he had visited her, she didn't care about any examinations or conversations. She was so busy puking her guts out that she felt that her liver was about to fall into that bucket together with her gall bladder.
The doctor remembered her, however, and pretty well. He clearly wasn't happy to get a new patient, even a potential one.
Most of all, he resembled a withered string bean. He was in his fifties, all crooked, shriveled, and seemingly uninteresting.
What about his professional skills? Maybe she had just insulted a good man with those thoughts?
Lily decided to ask him for a checkup later. Or she could do it immediately. Did it really matter when her reconnaissance would start?
"I hope you have something for my headache. All this rocking is making me crazy..."
The doctorus glanced at Lily the same way she had looked at the navigator.
"Women shouldn't sail. It's bad luck."
Lily snorted. No, she hadn't insulted a good man. If anything, she hadn't insulted a bad one enough.
"It's not like I asked to be here. I'm ready to go ashore any place, any time, preferably alone."
The baron squeezed her fingers.
"Your Grace, you'll have to put up with it a little bit longer."
"Yes," Lily agreed grimly. "Aldonai only knows how I'm suffering."
She threw a sidelong glance at the fingers clenched around her elbow. Her eyes were so expressive that Anthony almost jerked his hand back, afraid she would bite. Still, he pulled himself together, escorted the lady to her place, and sat down next to her.
"I hope you won't mind gracing our meals with your presence."
"What if I do?"
"I'm sure you won't," the baron stressed.
Lily snorted once again.
"Prisoners can't pick their cells, can they?"
"I prefer the term 'dear guests.'"
"Oh, those guests will cost dearly," Lily snapped back.
The dinner passed to a snide banter between the countess and the baron. The captain and the doctor kept quiet, while the navigator kept trying to clumsily compliment her.
The pater barely said anything, other than consecrating the food and blessing everyone after the meal.
Lily couldn't resist.
"Your Holiness, tell me, what's your view of abducting people?"
The pater looked at her from under his eyebrows.
"Everything done by Aldonai is for the best."
"I hope you'll still be thinking that while hanging on the gallows," she replied, baring her teeth. Then she went back to her cabin.
Really, what else had she expected? She was among enemies.
Whatever. The worse for her enemies. Let's start with the simple things: clothes and footwear.
Chapter 9
The Rosebud brothel was an elite establishment with a select clientele. Hans had never once visited it—not when he was a leir and not after becoming a baron. At first, he didn't have any money, and then, any desire. He had a wife he loved; why would he want to walk out on her with some harlots? Not to mention the risk of catching something. Plus, he felt a bit squeamish.
On the other hand, that brothel had a doctorus, and the girls were treated well enough. There were all types—some well-educated and well-mannered. Some were even virgins... They all had different circumstances. Some had been starving and decided that death could wait, deciding to earn their living in a very specific way.
After that, their fates varied. The smartest girls became kept women. That was also prostitution, but only for one master at a time, and after changing a few in a row, you could make a small fortune and leave the city. Life was cheaper in the countryside, and nobody knew how the money had been made.
Those who weren't as smart might gradually go downhill, switching an elite establishment for a plainer one and ending up in a waterside brothel. The last stage was looking for clients on the streets and servicing them right there for a glass of cheap liquor or a piece of bread.
Scary? Such was life. Hans had witnessed that time and time again, and that's why he treasured his house so much. He had never talked to his wife about his work. Her work was different. He loved listening about the business in Castle Taral, about the lace, about Countess Earton, about the house and the children. Yet he would never drag home the filth he had to bathe in every day. He simply couldn't, physically. Even imagining bringing up that...woman...while talking to his wife felt impossible.
The mistress of the Rosebud was charming, even twice as much for her age. She was already in her forties—a venerable age—but there were barely any wrinkles on her face or grey in her hair.
Lily could have easily explained to Hans the magic of make-up, but she wasn't there. And really, what did it matter what a madame looked like? Whatever her appearance, she was a nasty creature that dealt in human goods. A wretch and a murderer. Or do you think it's possible to avoid bloodshed in a trade like that? One cannot live in a cesspit without soiling themselves, and Hans almost felt a certain reek coming through the expensive perfume.
Logic told him it was impossible, but the impression stayed. If interviewing a witness didn't require certain finesse, Hans would have ignored politeness and used a flask of smelling salts.
On the other hand, if that viper had something to do with the murder, he could send her to be interrogated...maybe even by torture. That thought cheered him up. Hans gave her a wide smile and bowed slightly. Not too low, after all, he was a nobleman, but she was still a lady. The lady appreciated his gesture and bared her teeth in response, vividly resembling a rabid rat or a fox.
"Madam Emma."
"Sir Tremain, I'm glad to see you in my humble establishment. What girls do you prefer?"
Hans glared at the madame. Was she trying to bribe him? Or did she think that he really could...
He barely managed to suppress the desire to retch, but not the following flash of anger, which left a burning sensation in his stomach.
"The talkative ones, Madam Emma."
The madame quickly got the hint. But who would ever like that?
"Unfortunately, Baron Tremain, the girls in my establishment aren't taught to talk."
“Oh, really?
"Customers prefer servile girls, not mouthy ones."
That made sense.
"Then how about you talk to me, Madam Emma?"
"What do you want to know?"
"The truth about the girl you sold at an auction."
The madame shrugged.
"Trust me, Baron, we don't do this kind of thing here..."
Hans was already at the end of his rope, and those words made him finally fly off the handle. He bent over the table toward the madame and hissed furiously enough to make all the cobras of the Vari Khanganat jealous.
"Do you really think I'm joking, woman? In two hours, I'll get His Majesty's permission to close your fleshpot down Maldonaya's nethers, and send you running through the streets while getting lashes, shaved and with a bare ass!"
His words were convincing enough to make Madam Emma waver. Just for a second, but still.
"I'm not doing anything illegal."
"I don't care about your small business," Hans said, having calmed down a little. "I'm just interested in one specific customer—the one who bought the girl. You must know which one."
The lady nodded. Hans stared at her like a cat watching a very fat mouse.
"If we can come to an agreement, I'll leave you alone. If not...nobody will stop me from questioning the girls and sending invitations to your clients to watch you run. They, by the way, have wives and families. You'll be buried in a trash heap, wretch."
It was a serious threat. Visiting a brothel was routine; it was almost expected of a nobleman. But making that public?
Those men really did have wives, children, business partners... Some things were considered simply indecent. And if a gentleman's secret predilections were divulged to the entire world...
That's what the brothels were for: hiring girls to do the things a man couldn't do with his wife in their bedroom. After all, he would have to live with that wife for years after. She had a family to complain to and a dowry... Really, lots of hurdles.
With a whore, he didn't have to restrain himself. He could do whatever he wanted, and her opinion didn't matter.
The madame turned pale. Hans let out a slow nod.
"Let's talk."
"Let's talk, Baron," the lady agreed. As a former prostitute herself, she knew very well that every act had an expiration date, or she risked her own wellbeing.
No need to push the man over the edge.
"Wonderful. Tell me about the auctions, then."
Madam Emma sighed and started talking.
***
In a time like this, it's really to make a living for an honest woman. You must realize that.
A dishonest woman didn't have it much easier, either. What was the difference between them, though?
Just a little piece of skin in an intimate place, which was somehow highly valued by men. Rumors had it that having sex with a virgin could restore a man's virility, cure certain illnesses, maybe even prolong his youth. It was silly, of course, and there weren't enough maidens for everyone, in any case. But why not make use of a superstition?
That's what Madam Emma was doing. Sometimes, she procured girls for her auction herself, and sometimes, one of her helpers did that.
"Don't get me wrong, Baron," the broad complained, all but wringing her hands bedecked in rings and bracelets, "life is so hard. The taxes are rising, and so are the prices. You need to buy a house, your husband might be drinking, or your mother sick... Things happen, and you always need money. I'm doing Aldonai's work for those girls. What's waiting for them in their home village? Nothing good. At best, they might get to marry some fat slob. Giving birth every year, early aging, a quick death..."
"I'm giving them a chance," she continued. A chance to meet men they might never get to meet otherwise. A chance to make a life, to escape poverty, to help their families, to help their loved ones, to provide for their future! If they aren't stupid, they will make use of this opportunity, definitely."
"How noble of you!"
"I'm glad that you realize it," the madame replied, a serious expression on her face. "It is noble. Yes, not all girls might make it, but I'm trying to be honest with them. I warn them that their success depends on their effort and the ability to learn."
Of course, it did. Hans imagined that nasty woman getting her hand on his wife or daughter and almost gritted his teeth. Lilian Earton deserved a monument for getting the girls out of Altver. That bitch, however...
But not every girl could be saved. Lilian had rescued some, he saved Yda, but how many girls had been caught by those vicious claws? How many were lost forever? How many ended up in the hands of perverted bastards?
Yes, she was telling the truth. She simply ignored such trifles as the tastes of men buying women. Those weren't natural. No woman would ever agree to that willingly. Some of those hobbies...
Hans had seen a lot while traveling the country, and he would have loved to forget a few things, but he couldn't. Total dependence on the buyer, complete obedience in life and death... And yes, death was often quick in coming.
More often than not, those men hid an iron fist in a velvet glove. Still, Hans didn't say any of that. He just asked her to continue.
The girls sold could be examined right on stage by a doctorus or any volunteer. The money went either to the girl herself or to her family, at her discretion. Sollie—that was her name—hadn't come there to carouse. She didn't need the money, either. Or, rather, it wasn't her who needed the money.
Her father had died two years before, and her mother and siblings were on the breadline. Sollie couldn't bear it anymore. She made the decision to be auctioned off. Yes, that was a big risk, but the money, except for the fifty percent fee taken by Madam Emma, went straight to her family. The mother was very happy; it would allow them to fix their house and buy a cow. They would survive, and they wouldn't even have to buy any of the youngest ones. You can see for yourself, Baron.
Hans nodded. He was going to do that anyway. If the girl had truly done that to help her family, the least he could do was to make sure that they would be all right. He felt sorry for the girl. She hadn't gotten the chance to truly live.
Auctions were usually held once a month on a full moon. Everyone knew about that.
An invitation?
Why, Baron, there are no invitations to such events. The men who wish to take part come unannounced.
Not everyone was welcome, however—only those who looked presentable. It was a respectable place; nobody needed a scandal.
Of course, everyone wore masks and cloaks. No need to reveal their names and faces. Their money was always checked, though. Even one fake coin, and you could kiss goodbye your chance to buy a girl. The prices were different, too.
You could pay to take the girl right on stage and pass her on to the others, to buy her for a night or a month, or to lead her away forever—the last option cost the most. It was best not to think how much money that customer had given for Sollie.
It was a fortune. As for the rest...
No, Madam Emma didn't see or touch anything.
Had she met that client?
She probably had. He had come a few times before, buying time with Lollie. They played something, and then he left. What did they play?
Why did it matter?
The girls didn't need treatment afterward, that's what counts.
Call Lollie?
Of course, she will, and if Baron Tremain didn't mind, she would never stay for the interview...
The baron didn't mind...well, maybe just a little.
***
Lollie came almost straight away.
In the light of day, the girl was a miserable sight. She had a plump body, round cheeks, dark hair, and brown eyes.
Was she beautiful? Hans wouldn't call her that; the look in her eyes spoiled everything. It was haunted, timid, pliant...
"Sit down, Lollie," he said. "We need to talk."
She threw a glance at Madam Emma—actually, two glances, as Hans noted, and the madame sighed deeply. Then she nodded to the girl.
"Lollie, answer the truth to any of Baron Tremain's questions. It's important."
"Yes, Madam."
"Lollie, Madam Emma said you had a client..."
Hans spent an hour on the interrogation. Madam Emma
hadn't lied. The girls were present at the auction, helping to rile up the customers and relieve their stress. They served drinks and food and were quiet and obedient.
Well, not every girl was like that, of course, but Lollie was a good worker—that's why she had been allowed into the inner sanctum. She knew the man who had bought the girl. He had visited her several times over the last year...ten, maybe more.
She wouldn't call his tastes especially perverted. He did like it a little bit rough, but it was nothing compared to some of the other clients. He didn't have any specific inclinations.
She never saw his face, but that wasn't surprising, either. Masks were handed out at the entry to the brothel. Wearing them wasn't mandatory or anything, but that client made a point to always put it on.
He had pepper-grey hair, and judging by his body, was in his forties. Still, he was well-groomed: expensive underwear, silken breeches, even perfume. The man clearly took good care of himself and spared no expense.
As for distinctive marks, he had two scars: a long one on his left thigh and another on the left shoulder. The lower one seemed like a chop mark; the upper one seemed to be caused by a stab. The girl had never asked where they might come from; that wasn't a proper question in her line of work. Curiosity killed the cat.
Bracelets? Rings? He definitely wore some, going by the pale spots on his hands, as if he removed them before visiting the brothel. His voice seemed ordinary.
Hans wanted to howl in despair. How could he find a man with a description like that? It seemed impossible.
But what about his carriage?
Yet his final hope was ripped away. The murderer's carriage was boarded shut and was inconspicuous otherwise. Any man could own such, rich and poor alike.
No, that wasn't the right approach. Hans decided to look for the coach and headed straight to the stable. Another dead end: the man had usually come to spend the night and simply let the carriage go. Nobody at the stable ever got to talk to the driver. At dawn, the carriage came back to take him home. Its arrival was always prompt.
A New World Page 25
