by Max Keith
“See?” Drinn spread his hands helplessly. “Almost everything Cash says could be turned into a pun at his expense.” He turned to the bard with a savage smile. “I just wish you to know, Cash, that at this point I could make a fascinating joke about you not knowing anything about a woman’s screams. But out of respect for you, I’m choosing not to.”
“Bastard.”
“What are you thinking about, Alorin?” Franx was starting intently at the valkyrie, who frowned as she twirled her hair around a precise finger.
“I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I think we might be pursuing a woman. And I think that the woman might be from Lammorel.”
Cashel blinked at her. “Alorin,” he explained patiently, “she’s called the Blade of Langmyre. Because she’s from Langmyre.”
“In the Empire,” Drinn shrugged.
The valkyrie scowled. “I could claim to be Alorin Kaye of Langmyre; it wouldn’t make it so, any more than you are really a monk of Crownport. Or you,” she nodded at Cashel, “a shit-stained drunk, or me Mistress Lyria of the Thirteen Pleasures.”
“That’s what you call yourself here?” Cashel chuckled as he eyed her tunic and skirt. “Huh. Mouth, asshole, cunt. So where are the other ten?” But Alorin only tossed her orange hair and let her eyes flash, just a little.
“You’d need to pay to find out.” And Cashel grinned slowly, wolflike, as he held the golden merganser in the candlelight. Alorin blinked. “Where the fuck did you get that?”
His grin reached as far as it could go. “It’s part of my ‘pittance.’”
Drinn made an audible strangled noise, then abruptly left clutching himself and muttering about the privy; Franx sat back on his cheap wooden stool, stroking his chin. “What else is on your mind, Alorin?”
She stuck her tongue out at Cashel and then sighed. “It’s the other thing we know about the Blade of Langmyre. The thing about the balls.”
“The balls.”
Alorin nodded soberly and glanced around the room. “Who else do you know that castrates her kills?”
The uncomfortable quality of the silence spoke volumes, the two men shifting in their seats. Drinn was wise to be gone. When the mage spoke, he sounded unusually subdued. “Umm, you.”
“Exactly.” She cocked her head curiously. “Wait. You’ve never wondered why I do that?”
Franx shrugged uncomfortably. “I thought you just really, really didn’t like men,” Cashel admitted.
“No.” Alorin frowned and bit her lip. “Well, sometimes yes. But no. That’s not why.” She leaned back and studied her nails. “The Huntresses of Lammorel often castrate their prey. It’s a religious thing.”
Drinn chose that moment to return, which might not have been wise. “Wait. We’re talking about the gods now?”
The valkyrie ignored him. “Long ago, when the world was young, the gods met in council to decide where the soul was. Some said the head, others the heart; still others claimed the belly, or the loins, or the back, for its strength. Long they argued, and at the end of the council they were no closer to agreement.
“But the god Lammorel did not need to argue, nor did he need agreement. He knew the truth, you see. And late into the night, as the other gods sat bored or frustrated or sleepy, he remained serene. And when the King of the Gods asked Lammorel why he was so glad even amidst all their strife, the god Lammorel laughed. ‘For it is clear, is it not’ said he, ‘that a man’s seed is a man’s soul.’
“And the other gods gaped at him, but then he laughed long and loud and pushed himself back from the table. And lo! for Genna, goddess of the River Fleen, was on the floor before him with his cock in her mouth. All day. So Lammorel shrugged and grinned. ‘Surely my seed is my soul,’ he went on, ‘and why it should be any different for a man, I cannot guess.’
“And then he came, and his seed was like to choke Genna, but she was brave and steadfast and swallowed it all. And from that day to this, we the followers of Lammorel have held it a sin for any man to die unspilled. For, see, the soul must escape before the body can die.” She shrugged as if it all made perfect sense. “It’s about balance. When a man dies unseeded, we go to take the seed from another man to keep the gods balanced. I’ve often wondered,” she went on gravely, “what a god’s sperm tastes like. I suppose I’ll never know.”
The silence this time was nearly as thick as the last until Franx, speaking in the tones he used when he was trying to be scholarly, asked, “So, then women have no souls?”
Alorin rolled her eyes. “You’re being obtuse, mage, as you seldom are. Of course women have souls. But when we die, our souls depart on their own. It’s much cleaner that way. Men, you see, are controlled by their balls,” she pointed out primly. “It is the duty of the Huntresses of Lammorel to liberate them from such tyranny.” She shrugged. “That’s why we geld our enemies.”
“Before killing them.”
“Why, of course,” she shrugged. “What man would want to live without balls?” She shook her head at such nonsense. “For a man to die with balls full of seed…” Alorin shuddered. “It’s a sin that doesn’t bear thinking about.” She nodded in satisfaction. “On the whole, you men should be glad we’re here to prevent such a horror. We’re doing you a favor, letting you die free of your base lusts, while balancing the universe.”
The men all looked at each other, disquieted as they always were when the valkyrie talked this way. Drinn cleared his throat. “Don't do me any of those kinds of favors, Alorin.”
“Oh, but I would!” There was certainty in her grey eyes, genuine concern. “If you were about to die? Of course I would! It would be a mercy to you, and as your friend I would be proud to cut your balls off.” She gave every impression of sincerity, and it was hard to deny she at least cared. It was, after all, the thought that counted.
Cashel tried next. “So, if you saw us dying,” he began slowly, “and it would be sinful for us to die with full balls…” He left the thought unsaid until confusion clouded the woman’s fair face. He sighed. “Well, there are other ways to empty a man’s balls,” he went lamely on, his face reddening, “than to cut them off and pour them out.”
“Right.” Drinn was leering again. “You could give us some ‘upper service,’ say. You know, a little suckle to ease our going.” He thrust his hips forward slightly. “Or even, if you prefer, some ‘lower service…’”
The valkyrie frowned. “You’d want me to fuck you to death?”
The warrior grinned. “Well, as long as you’re offering.” His hands went to his waist ties.
Alorin clucked and rose, smoothing her skirt. “Well. I suppose that if two of you are offering to fill me tonight, I must look properly whorish. So I should go out and get paid for it. Unless you were serious about that merganser, Master Bard.” She flapped her eyelashes at Cashel. “That’s if you can tear yourself away from Poildrin’s pillow.”
The mage stirred as Cashel’s eyes went wide. “What?”
“Can you not smell it?” She hovered over Franx’ cot and wrinkled her nose. “Drinn goes out to the latrine to pull on his cock, and you? Well, who knows where you put your seed. But no man would shoot his load all over his own pillow, surely.” She grimaced. “I’ll bid you farewell, then. If you need me,” she added, “send your owl.”
Cashel saw Franx’ eyes narrow in fury, and he knew he’d be on the night shift to keep watch on the house above the metalsmiths’ district.
Three
Cashel dragged himself into the garret the next morning, Drinn having arrived in the dawn to relieve him. Franx was looking fresh and happy in the tavern below, nestled before a nice-looking breakfast of marinated boiled eggs. “Good morning, Cash!” he grinned. “I trust you passed a comfortable night, even without your pillow.” He took a pointed sip of his tea. “Which I am now using. Anything new at that house of yours?”
Cashel scratched irritably at his crotch. He had, as promised, burned the soiled clothing he’d worn at the waterfront, t
rading for stealthy black leather while on watch. He thought it looked stylish, but it was somewhat too tight. “You know better,” he groused. “I told your fucking owl I had nothing to report at midnight. Nothing since, either, unless you want me to tell you what a window looks like with the lights off.”
The mage waved an airy hand. “No need. I’ve told Drinn to provoke them if he sees nothing before noon, and I don’t believe he will. We’ll all be there to join the fun, but you should get some rest first. Have you been upstairs yet?”
The bard stared. “You watched me walk in here off the street, you prick,” he hissed. He irritably took one of Franx’ eggs and bit viciously, the yolk bubbling down onto his chin. Franx shrugged good-naturedly.
“Just be careful not to make too much noise. Alorin only got in about two hours back.” He drained his tea. “She seemed tired, and you know she can be stabby if she’s woken up rudely. I’m off to the magistrate,” he continued. “No disguise for Poildrin today. I’ll be back here before noon.” Tall and gaunt, the mage slipped to his feet with that weird silence he always seemed able to conjure at will. “It’s time for me to let the Lord Mayor know I’m here. Ta ta!” He nodded affably as he glided toward the door, his grey hood sliding over his lank hair as he disappeared out into the busy street.
Cashel crashed, then, into a dark mood. The egg had tasted sour, its salty sugar seasoning ravaging his belly, and of course Franx had slurped up the last of the tea. So, sighing, the tired bard hauled himself up the stairs.
He was very careful as he opened the door, for the mage had been right: everyone remembered poor Welliver, gasping on the ground after a night of boozing. He’d been too loud stumbling into their campsite late one autumn night, and in the quiet dark near the town of Scarsack the valkyrie, waking in alarm, had produced her shortsword by reflex and run it neatly across his throat. As Drinn said later, it had been a slick move, a bit of bladecraft to admire if only it hadn’t left their friend writhing as he choked on his own blood. Coming fully awake with a muttered apology and a pained grimace, Alorin had stooped to slice off the little bearded man’s scrotum before she’d run the sawbacked blade up under his jaw and out the top of his head. Cashel had only heard the story later; he’d slept through the whole thing.
He stole across the dusty floor, the sun now high beyond the curtains, and he peeled out of his leathers with difficulty. Alorin lay sprawled in her bedding, a firm series of smoothly muscled limbs bare among the sheets, the remnants of old scars sketched across her slender ribcage. Without emotion Cashel noticed she hadn't neglected her bush when applying the orange dye. Of course not; Alorin Kaye was nothing if not thorough.
Naked and clammy with the sweat of the night before, the bard collapsed onto his cot. And it seemed only three or four minutes later that the valkyrie woke him, shaking him urgently by the shoulder. “Cash,” she muttered softly into his ear. “Cash. Time.”
“Shit.” The bard saw through narrowed lids that the sun was very high in the sky, the morning nearly gone; Alorin was a hazy shape before him. “Alorin. The fuck did you do to your head?”
A blurry hand went up to adjust a bright pink cloth. “It’s just a veil,” she explained. “I can hardly roam the streets with orange hair. Let's just say there are a number of gentlemen who would greet the limber Mistress Lyria with some enthusiasm. We’re to arouse no suspicion today.” She tweaked the cloth again. “I’m hoping my days as a whore are over, in truth. It’s making me quite sore, and I fucking hate my hair like this.”
“Shit,” Cashel replied automatically. His belly was gurgling loudly, and the Valkyrie gave him an impatient kick.
“And cover yourself,” she ordered in disgust. “You’re indecent.”
“Gods.” The bard sat up irritably. “What are you, a maiden of twelve? You know men often wake up with a stiff prick. It’s your own fault for looking.”
“Not so.” She shrugged and turned away. “I would say, rather, that it took me some time to notice something so small.” She crossed to the mirror and peered within, and he saw now that she was in a set of cross-strapped leather pants with a cinched tunic. “In any case, we’re wanted below. Poildrin says it’s time to go see what Drinn has in store for the people in that walled little house of yours.”
“Are we to bring weapons?”
“Small ones. He spoke with the Lord Mayor at the magistrates’ court and told them he was here on an errand for the Princess, but claimed he was alone. So he couldn’t get us permission to carry.” She frowned at that; she hated being far from her shortsword.
“What does Drinn have planned?” Cashel pulled on a bright silk shirt, but he had to wait for his cock to droop before pulling on his breeches. “Any idea?”
“None. The mage knows.” Satisfied by the mirror, Alorin straightened and glanced back. “He mentioned he had a special chore for you. So be quick.” She smirked once more at his cock, then strode for the door.
Cashel found her at a table, loudly cracking peanuts with Franx. “There you are,” the mage grated. “You take forever to get out of bed.”
“Perfection takes time.” Cashel felt like a new man; he was dressed in his usual barding clothes, complete with the traveling harp over his back. A new hawk feather sprouted from his hatband. “I’ll take some lunch before we leave,” he insisted.
“Take it to go,” the mage suggested; Alorin was already sidling out the front door. “We’re late, and you know how I feel about being late.”
“Better late than pregnant,” Cashel chuckled automatically. “Though, of course, your disinterest in such things is well known. Keeper!” He drew the barman’s attention. “A sandwich?”
“Fuck off,” the barman replied in genial hatred. “I can give you a cold sausage and some sour ale, if you’ve got a cup. Anything else and you’ll have to go to a soupman. They’re on every street corner, selling broth made from cow shit.”
“Whatever.” He had not been lying; the sausage was big, but chilled and slippery with old grease. Cash devoured it and flipped the tiresome man a silver. “A roight in change?” he called hopefully.
The man laughed nastily. “Your optimism is noted,” he grinned to the general amusement of the rest of the house. Cashel thought of continuing the exchange, but Franx was growing angry.
“And a hearty good day to you, too,” he smiled, showing a middle finger in case the man thought Cash was being polite.
“You brought your harp,” the mage noted as they moved off up the hill. “Good. I’ve got work for you.”
Cashel was balancing his ale carefully. “You want folk music? A show tune?” He spat. “You normally just want me to put my harp away.”
“You sing like I fart,” Franx snapped. “You cannot blame me for having decent taste in music. No, your tunes won’t be for me. You told me of that Guildmage that was following you? I asked the magistrates about him, and it seems he works for a trader’s widow named Tallora Wennowes.” The mage watched Cashel’s face carefully as he spoke. “Ah. I see the name has some meaning for you.”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, the mage was interested in your interest in the priest yesterday, which means I’m interested in his interest. So you get to go make friends with Lady Wennowes.”
Cashel realized gloomily that he might as well not have waited for his dick to get soft; it seemed it was destined for loftier heights today. “Friends.”
“If the priest is Farrick, and Alorin is right that his apprentice is Langmyre,” Franx whispered as they turned toward the metalsmiths’ district, “then it means this Wennowes is probably involved as well. You did tell me last night that the blue mage seemed to know what you were about.”
“I’m right about Langmyre.” The valkyrie walked tall and spoke with assurance. “She’s the apprentice.”
Cashel shrugged. “The blue fellow is a mage. They’re all smug assholes.” He smiled thinly. “Present company excepted, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Alorin agre
ed.
“Get buggered,” Franx advised. They moved past the clanging forges, shouldering through the crowds like locals. “Keep your eyes and ears open, play your fucking music, talk to the household, sleep with some of the women, and see what you can find out. She or her mage may very well be the spy Farrick is looking for. You’re listening for details about ships, captains, payments…”
“I’m not a child,” Cashel frowned. “I’ve done this before, and well enough.”
Franx grunted ambiguously. “Sometimes.” They turned at last onto the street of the green gate. “You’ll leave as soon as we’re done here. Stay out of sight, but watch what we do. If Alorin is right, Farrick or his ‘apprentice’ will go quickly to let Wennowes know what happens. If not?” He shrugged. “She lives in someplace called Oaktree Street.”
“Which lies where?”
The mage flapped a languid arm. “Keep your eyes down. Once you find acorns, I’d imagine you’ve arrived.” He snickered. Cashel glared over at him.
“Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice,” he began, “that I’ve already been seen by her, her mage, the lot of them?”
“Nonsense.” Franx was looking around at the low walls of the street. “They’ve seen a filthy vagrant with dung-matted clothes. You’re a bard.” He chuckled. “You’ve got a harp and ringlets in your hair. Nobody will ever think you’d be caught dead on a seashore with a beggars’ bowl.” Cashel looked unhappy. “Be cheered, Cash. You can do this. Indeed, it’ll probably be right pleasurable for you.” The poplar loomed ahead. “We’ll wait here. Alorin? Why don’t you go and tell Drinn we’ve arrived.”
She smiled grimly and glided off in a flutter of pink. Franx rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Reckon she’s got four knives? Three at least.”
“Three.” Cashel stretched his arms well above his head and sat cautiously on one of the neighbor’s walls, shaking off his gloom. “I saw her finish getting dressed.” He paused and licked his lips, then drained the last of the ale and put the cup away. “Oh, and I owe you those two silvers. From the other day.” He waited for the mage to remember. “The wager.”
