The Road To Vanador

by Terry Mancour

  “You illuminate a pretty poetry, Comoday,” I said, sternly. “I do hope your wares match your words.”

  “My wife has never been overcome by the magnificent virtue of her bedclothes,” Dad scoffed, good-naturedly. “Aye, it usually takes a bottle or two.”

  “Perhaps the quality of her sheets has been so poor as to spare her the inspiration, my lord?” Comoday asked, with practiced ease. “Has your lady wife ever cavorted on the sheerest milled satins from Remere’s famed weavers? Their secret techniques polish the threads to a sheen that will send a shiver up the spine of the most jaded matron – I have testimonials from gentlemen of the highest reputations to confirm that claim,” he added, modestly. “So tell me, gentle lords, what is it you desire most, when you retire?”

  A long, sometimes confusing conversation ensued as Dad and I tried to convey what we anticipated most about going to bed. Comoday listened with far more attention than is granted by most priests to their faithful, and seemed to take note of our particular tastes, augmented by some piercing questions about our sleeping habits. Among others.

  As our second brandies were poured, it occurred to me that this had to be a slow day for Master Comoday and the Perfect Pillow. No doubt he catered to several well-heeled clients every day, but due to the season and the snow we foreign visitors were the focus of his attention. I began to understand that Master Comoday was, indeed, truly concerned about the length and quality of my sleep. And my marital life.

  The discussion careened from the importance of a good pillow to the merits and deficiencies of various mattress-filling material. I amused myself by pretending I had a well-reasoned opinion on such things, and watching Master Comoday shift the way he touted his stock in response was entertaining. The discussion did not amuse my father, however, and when Comoday went to fetch samples and swatches, Dad leaned over to me.

  “Why are you being such an asshole?” he snarled, under his breath. “There’s no need to treat an honest artisan like that!”

  “Relax!” I urged, in a calm tone. “If I didn’t act this way, he wouldn’t think we were serious. This is the way all of his good customers act toward him,” I explained.

  “Are we serious?” he asked, surprised. “About sheets and pillows?”

  “Why not?” I countered. “I’ve got a new hall to outfit, and I’m sure Mama would appreciate a nice gift when you return. Why not bedding?”

  Comoday’s return prevented Dad from listing the reasons we should pay for overpriced bedware, and in a moment our senses were being assaulted by a pile of tiny, pretty pillows, each made of a different fabric and filled with a variety of stuffings. Each one had the sign of the Perfect Pillow embroidered on it in a variety of stylish needlework. And each was perfumed with a different floral or herbal scent. It was a highly effective presentation.

  For the next hour Dad and I rubbed each and every one of those tiny pillows on our faces and hands as Comoday extolled the virtues and discussed the origins and manufacture of each one. Price was never mentioned – as I expected. The types of people who purchased fine linens were unconcerned with price. Each new basket of samples was accompanied by a fresh round of brandies, so our discussions about softness, fabric weight, threadcount, and fullering became increasingly animated and interesting.

  “I think I like the Cormeeran medium-weight linen over the Benfradine light cotton,” Dad said, his authoritative manner undercut by how he was starting to slur his words.

  “Really?” I asked, surprised. “Over the Unstaran double satin? How can you resist?” I may have been slurring a bit, myself. It was really good brandy.

  “Oh, it’s far too soft and slippery. I’d feel like I was sleeping in the mouth of some horrible creature all night,” he said, absently scratching his chin. “No telling what my dreams would be like. A man feels more secure in his sheets if they aren’t devouring him,” he said, philosophically.

  “The Unstaran satins are oft favored for wedding gifts, or for bride sequestrations,” he informed us.

  “For bride what?” Dad asked, confused.

  “Ah. You gentlemen are Riverborn,” he realized. “You do not have that custom, I don’t believe. In Gilmora, during a dowry negotiation between noble houses, occasionally conflict will arise between the parties and one side or the other will . . . well, they essentially kidnap the bride. Usually to stuff her in an allied temple or abbey, until negotiations are successfully concluded. It’s customary to send gifts to her, through intermediaries, to make her sequestration more comfortable. And in anticipation of a speedy conclusion to the negotiations. Hence, the satins are especially cherished,” he explained. I didn’t see how that followed at all, but I trusted the man to know his business.

  “They kidnap . . . a bride?” Dad snorted.

  “Technically she is not yet a bride, my lord,” Comoday explained. “In Gilmora such unions often involve the transfer of great estates and large sums of coin. It is not a matter to be taken lightly. And the comfort of the bride is of paramount importance. If she’s been mistreated in any way, that can ruin the negotiations. Thus, ensuring that she is kept in the greatest of comfort . . . with Unstaran satin sheets. Shall I prepare the samples then, my lords?” Comoday asked.

  “One of each,” I stated, decisively. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “I will attend to it at once, my lords,” he assured, happily, and scurried away.

  “You have to admit, Dad, the service here is outstanding,” I pointed out, as a trio of lovely young ladies in revealing gowns retrieved the baskets of samples, smiling coyly at us as they left.

  “I’ve never felt so well-attended when buying sheets before,” Dad agreed, finishing his brandy. “Of course, I’ve never actually bought sheets before. That’s your mother’s purview.”

  “I’ve mostly left such things up to the castellans,” I admitted. “I doubt they get this kind of treatment at Chepstan Fair.”

  “We are ready for you, my lords,” Comoday announced, when he returned a moment later. “I have you in the east chamber, and you in the north, Excellency,” he said, bowing to me.

  “We need to be in a chamber?” Dad asked, confused.

  “To inspect the wares before final purchase,” Comoday explained. “If you gentlemen will follow me . . .”

  I looked at Dad and shrugged, and then pulled myself awkwardly to my feet. As I stood I realized just how much brandy I’d had. “Let’s go inspect the sheets,” I agreed.

  A moment later, I realized just why the Perfect Pillow was such a popular and opulent vendor: there was a bed in the small chamber Comoday escorted me to, a thick down tick the aristocracy favored, covered with the Unstaran satin sheets I’d selected, along with a small, elegant pillow. And a smiling naked maiden.

  I stared at her, slack-jawed, as Comoday carefully pulled aside the top sheet to expose the sheer luxurious sheen of the splendid white satin expanse that draped the bed. In doing so he also exposed a fair amount of the maiden, who was wearing only a headband and what Trygg had gifted her upon her birth.

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” I mumbled in confusion.

  “Most of our patrons insist on trying out our wares before they make a final selection,” Comoday explained, as smoothed the sheet over the pretty girl’s shoulders. “Due to the nature of our product, it is difficult to accept returns, so all of our sales must, regrettably, be final. We want our patrons to be absolutely certain of the selection before delivery . . . and we would not want you to have a poor experience with our product. Thus, we have created these little demonstrations as a means of allowing our patrons to give our bedware a thorough trial before a purchase is made. I find it keeps both merchant and patron happy with the transaction.”

  “And the girl?” I asked, as the maiden smiled at me invitingly.

  “Oh, she’s here to represent any potential bedmate my lord might have. And to assist you in making a purchasing decision. I think you will find that Maid Muria, here, is extremely kn
owledgeable about our stock,” he said, proudly.

  “And so . . . you want me to . . . sleep . . .”

  “I trust my lord’s discretion to come to a decision on the product,” Comoday assured me, as he retreated out of the chamber and closed the heavy curtain. “Now let me see to the older gentleman, and then I will return in half an hour to hear your decision, my lord.”

  “Of . . . course . . .” I said, to myself and the nubile young girl staring at me from under the satin sheets.

  “Will my lord disrobe?” she asked in a polite, businesslike manner. “Most of our patrons prefer to sample the wars in the nude. It gives you the best opportunity to determine the comfort of the sample,” she said, patting the mattress next to her.

  “Well, that just makes sense,” I agreed, blearily, as I began removing my tunic. “I mean, you can’t very well know what a sheet will feel like on your backside by just rubbing a swatch on your face.”

  “My lord understands entirely!” the girl giggled, as I struggled with my hose. “After a goodly trial, my lord can make a purchasing decision confident that he has tested the wares to his satisfaction.”

  “And you’re going to help me with that . . . how?” I asked, unsteadily. “I mean no offense, but . . . you’re not a whore, are you?”

  “I merely assist in the sale, my lord,” she said, demurely. “I am here to answer any questions you might have, and act as a surrogate for your lady wife. You do have a lady wife, do you not?” she asked, conversationally.

  “Indeed, I do,” I agreed, with a pang of regret. I stopped, one boot in my hand. “I am not certain she would approve of this . . . sampling,” I said, struggling with how to phrase it.

  “My lord, if you are faithful to your vows before Trygg, rest easy,” she assured, sitting upright . . . and allowing the sheet to fall from her shoulders. “I would never tempt a man so devoted to his marriage.”

  “And . . . if I wasn’t so devoted?” I asked, my mouth suddenly dry.

  “It has been known for maids to help a gentleman explore all aspects of his potential bedware,” she admitted, her eyes darting away for a moment. “Usually in return for a generous tip. But I leave that to your discretion, my lord. Sometimes we merely assist a patron in replicating the slumber he enjoys at home. Particularly our older patrons.”

  “And just how do you help persuade such older patrons?” I asked, as I sat my naked arse down on the smoothest, most luxurious expanse of the weaver’s art it had ever been privileged with.

  “Discussion, explanation, perhaps a light massage,” she considered. “I have a passing fair voice, my lord, if you would like me to sing to you while you slumber.”

  “This,” I announced, as she pulled the satin sheet over both of our naked bodies, “is the single greatest sales technique in history.”

  I swear to Trygg All-Mother, guardian of marital fidelity, that I did not seduce the girl. She gave me a gentle massage and the opportunity to paw her through the satin, but I made no attempt on her virtue. I don’t know how I managed that – perhaps I’m just getting old – but in ten minutes I found myself dozing off in a warm brandy-fueled haze, my head against the two most perfect pillows in the place, while my skin was delighted by the superior caress of truly high-quality satin bedware.

  When Master Comoday discreetly coughed outside of the curtain, Maid Muria gently urged me to awaken by tenderly scratching my head. “My lord,” she murmured quietly in my ear, “our trial is at an end. Master Comoday will speak to you about your selections, but I do hope you will mention if I gave superior service.”

  “It exceeded my expectations,” I agreed, groggily, as I rose and reluctantly started dressing. “You were . . . most persuasive.”

  “Thank you, my lord!” she said, smiling broadly. Her teeth were a bit crooked, but her dimples more than made up for it.

  I don’t know how I got back out into the main chamber, but soon Master Comoday was taking our detailed orders on a sheet of parchment, his short pen making quick, neat strokes in the gloom. My mind was spinning as I ordered bedding for Alya and my new bedchamber in Vanador, as well as sheets for guest beds and some for the children. Pillows and blankets were also added to the order. Dad quietly ordered a full set for his home in Talry, as well as a few additional sets, presumably for my sisters.

  The bill was substantial – if I’d shown it to Dad, he would have fainted dead away at the extravagance – but I was paying for it, and I was rich. What’s the point of being rich if you couldn’t buy quality linens? I added a generous tip for both sample girls, and had the entire lot shipped to my apartments at the Arcane Order motherhouse in Castabriel, where I could have it delivered by hoxter to Vanador and Tudry. Then I impressed Master Comoday by producing a purse from thin air with just over the amount on the bill, and bid him keep the rest.

  As we left back out into the cold, the taste of one last brandy on our lips, Dad and I studiously did not look at each other.

  “I’m a married man, you know,” he said, accusingly, as we trudged back to the townhouse through the snow.

  “As am I,” I agreed. “I love my wife.”

  “I do, too,” Dad assured. “Near forty years, now.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I don’t want to hear a word,” Dad interrupted with a snap. “Not a godsdamned word, Minalan. What happened in the . . . sample chamber is between you and Ishi, and that’s where it should forever remain. And as far as your concerned, all I did was discuss threadcount. You understand?”

  “Yes, of course,” I agreed in a mumble.

  “Good. Because your mother wouldn’t. Nor would Alya.”

  “Dad! We just bought sheets!” I insisted.

  “Damn right, we did,” he agreed, grimly. “That’s all we did. We bought sheets. I’d swear that before the throne of Trygg,” he assured.

  “And pillows,” I added.

  “Ah, yes. The . . . pillows,” he said, smirking at some joke he didn’t bother sharing with me. “Big, soft, fluffy pillows.”

  “Amazing pillows,” I agreed. “The softest of pillows . . .”

  We walked awhile in silence, save for the crunch of our boots through the snow. It had stopped falling from the sky, for the moment, but it wasn’t done yet, I could tell. Dad started looking up and around at the architecture of the town more, the further we retreated from the Perfect Pillow, and by the time we were within sight of the townhouse we had both nearly returned to normal. Whatever sins Dad committed in the sample chamber were his, alone, to contend with.

  I really had no doubts, I reflected as we headed inside. Dad had been completely devoted to Mama forever, and I’d never seen him pay more attention to another woman than was reasonable for a married man. Oh, he would flirt with his female customers outrageously, if Mama wasn’t around – but it was part of his charm, not a serious attempt at seduction. To my knowledge Dad had never been unfaithful to her. Nor did he ever express any desire to.

  But Dad was a man, and any man is going to be tempted by an attractive naked girl in a pristine, astonishingly comfortable bed. I’d like to think he had the fortitude to resist his maiden’s charms as much as I did, but I could be wrong. Men are notoriously weak.

  Whether he did or didn’t, it wasn’t my business. Nor did I feel compelled to ever relate the episode to anyone. We hadn’t gone to a brothel, or a dancing hall, or any other den of iniquity, I consoled myself. But anytime a man is confronted with the fact that his father is, too, a man, it can become uncomfortable. I eventually concluded that it was a harmless indulgence in sensuality, and didn’t require further thought. Dad and I both liked pretty girls. That was hardly newsworthy.

  The rest of our stay in Barrowbell was spent in closer vicinity to the townhouse, where we rode out the storm with the servants and some games. Dad didn’t usually have much time to play more than a few games of chess or rushes, and I’d seen him play at dice with the charcoal burners a few times in my youth, so it was the first time I’d s
een how he played. Not well, as it turned out.

  “So do you think we’ll be able to leave, tomorrow?” he said while we were playing on the third day, after the storm had passed. Though six inches of snow still clung to the rooftops around town, the streets were already beginning to melt. “This is a nice place, but I’m getting antsy,” he confessed.

  “More than likely,” I agreed. “The road west should be clear by then, I think. Barrowbell devotes a lot of labor to civil projects like that. Have you had enough of the city?”

  “I’m a villager,” Dad nodded, proudly. “This place is too much like rats in a cage. Where do we go, from here?”

  “We’ll hire a barge headed north, through Gilmora. Up the Poros, actually, for a ways. That’s the river the Dead God froze a few years ago.”

  “So we’re essentially just revisiting the sites of your past military victories,” Dad said, dryly, casting his dice.

  “It’s purely a coincidence,” I assured him. “This is just the most expedient over-land route, if we want to avoid more snow like this.” That was true, but I didn’t mind that the route would take us through the recovering heart of Gilmora. I wanted to see how the land fared, after the invasion and recovery. “We’ll stop briefly in Losara, to see my friend Astyral, but then we’ll be headed back overland to Vorone, and thence to Vanador.”

  “Looking forward to it,” he admitted. “I’m starting to think I need to get sheets for your nieces and nephews.”

  I looked at him thoughtfully. “Yes, we can leave in the morning,” I decided, earning a grateful look in return.

  Because I’d been thinking the same sort of thing. I’m faithful, as much as I can be, but the allure of quality bedware was just too great. We needed to escape.