by Carol A Park
Three weeks after she had moved in to the brothel, Lavena handed her a pouch of tanthalia and sent her back to Elidor’s with instructions to take an increasing daily dose until the tanthalia was gone and the bleeding had stopped. Then, she was to report back.
Tanthalia, when used infrequently and in small doses, could safely prevent pregnancy if taken directly after intimacy. When used frequently and in small doses, it would, given enough time, damage the womb beyond recovery. The line between “frequent” and “infrequent” was blurry and different for every woman, so it was a risky herb to take if one wanted to remain fertile.
Of course, when taken every day in large doses in a compressed period, it would destroy the womb within weeks. When Ivana returned to Lavena, she would never be in danger of becoming pregnant again.
Ivana had known this was coming, but she didn’t know how she felt about it. On some days, motherhood seemed such an unattainable objective that it hardly mattered. On others, she remembered that she had once wanted a husband and a family, and she remembered why she was doing this in the first place.
She also didn’t know if it was a relief to be back at Elidor’s or not. On the one hand, she had never experienced such companionship before as she had with that small group of women, and it was a bitter irony that she had found it among a group of whores. Their own little family. They looked out for each other. They took care of each other. Ivana was still an outsider, but they accepted her—far more than the “respectable” girls back home ever had. She didn’t know if it was like that at all brothels, but at Lavena’s, anyway, the women were a close-knit group.
Indeed, because of this, her first reaction had been to protest when Lavena had indicated she would stay at Elidor’s while taking the herb. But Lavena had insisted she would be more comfortable “at home” for what was to come.
On the other hand, once she was back at Elidor’s, he put her back to studying more interesting topics, like lock picking or learning the language of the Yunqi, the so-called heretics far to the east of Setana. Elidor said it was more likely that she would have Xambrian clients than Yunqin, due to the fact that a mountain pass separated Xambria and Setana and a vast, dense forest populated by bloodspiders separated Setana and Yunqi—but it was the next most common foreign language in their part of the world, aside from technically forbidden regional languages, like Fereharian or Donian.
She didn’t know where Elidor had obtained a book on Yunqi, but she supposed he could find anything through his less-than-legal sources.
It kept her mind off what would come next with Lavena’s training—at least until two weeks after she was back at Elidor’s when the cramps started.
Once again, she found herself curled into a tight ball on her cot in her tiny room at Elidor’s—but this time, it was due to physical pain.
Lavena had warned her that there would be cramps and bleeding, but Ivana had never felt anything so horrendous in her life. Even childbirth didn’t compare.
Her entire abdomen was in a vise, and unlike contractions, the pain was relentless.
She hadn’t left her room the morning the pain had started, and about an hour into it, Elidor showed up at her door.
“You weren’t sent home to sleep,” he said.
“I’m ill,” she said into her pillow. “Actually, I feel like I’m dying.”
“That would be unfortunate, after all of the resources I’ve expended on you.”
She had no patience for him and his rude manner today, but she made the effort to roll over and glare at him. “You haven’t the faintest idea”—she gasped—“what this feels like. It’s worse than childbirth.”
He frowned. “You didn’t tell me you have a child. That is a liability that—”
“I don’t have a child,” she snapped. “She…” She grimaced. “She died shortly after she was born.”
“Good,” he replied, then turned. “Lavena told me this might happen, near the end. You may have the day to recover.” He left without another word.
Her physical pain drowned out the sting of his insensitivity—the only positive she had gained so far. “You’re so generous,” she muttered, and then she curled back up to wait for this misery to end.
Chapter Thirteen
“You know, it’s hard for a Fereharian to look pale, and yet you’ve managed it,” Cozama said.
Ivana didn’t respond. She was sitting on the same bed she had first talked to Cozama on, and her stomach was queasy.
Cozama had unofficially taken her under her wing. Ivana didn’t know if the woman felt sorry for her or if she always did that with new workers. But of all the women, she had been the most supportive, the most encouraging. Almost a friend.
A wave of sickness not having to do with her impending appointment that night washed over her. Did life enjoy mocking her? First Boden and the apothecary, and now this group of women she would never be a part of.
Not that she wanted to remain here.
Why couldn’t she have the apothecary, Boden, these friends…all somewhere else, in some other context?
And why did she still care so much? The whole point of this was to stop caring.
She closed her eyes. “I can’t do this.”
“You must,” Cozama said. “Lavena isn’t cruel, but she won’t have you embarrassing her—or tarnishing the reputation of the house.”
“I’m not ready. You can go in my stead.”
“I can’t. Lavena already told the client that you were Fereharian and this was your first appointment.” Cozama pulled her braid back. “She’ll have assigned you someone understanding. He won’t hold nerves against you.”
How did she explain that she didn’t give a damn about what the client thought?
Cozama reached out and dragged a nearby floor-length mirror to the beds and then turned it to face Ivana. “Look at yourself, hun. Go on, do it.”
Ivana raised her eyes reluctantly to the mirror. Her hair was curled and pinned up, aside from some locks left down to brush the side of her neck. Her face was painted: cheeks rouged, lips full and dark red, eyes shadowed in blue cream. And the dress—oh, the dress. It looked remarkably like the one Airell had bought her, though it hardly needed altering to make it more indecent.
She could not think of her father, her mother, her sister. So instead, she wondered: What would Boden think if he could see her now? “I look like a whore,” she whispered.
Cozama nodded. “Exactly.”
Ivana looked back at Cozama. “What is this supposed to prove?”
“That you look the part,” Cozama said. “You’ve been training for what, now, six weeks? Two months? You know what to say. You know what to do.” She pushed the mirror out of the way and leaned forward. “You know how to play this role, Ivana. But at the end of the night, that’s all it is. A role. It doesn’t affect who you’ll be once you wash that gunk off and put on something more comfortable.”
And who am I? she desperately wanted to ask. She looked into the eyes of this kind woman and felt the urge to divulge it all. Instead, she drew in a deep breath. “So, what, look this in the face and laugh?”
Cozama chuckled. “Sure. As long as you’re not laughing at the client.” She winked. “They don’t tend to like that.”
That finally elicited a smile from Ivana.
The door opened, and Lavena popped her head into the room. “Ivana? He’s downstairs. Come. Now.”
Cozama squeezed her hand and then Ivana went to join Lavena at the door.
She looked back at Cozama, who pounded her chest once.
I must gain control of this, she thought as she descended the stairs. I can control this.
A well-dressed middle-aged—and balding—Setanan man stood waiting at the counter downstairs.
She didn’t know what she had expected. Airell?
Somehow, the stark differences between them made it easier.
He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “My dear, you look lovely.”
She met his eyes and gave
him a charming smile. “Thank you, Dal.”
He offered her his arm, and she accepted it gracefully.
“I thought we might start with a private dinner,” he said as he guided her out of the consort house’s front door. “And then take a tour of my wine cellar. I currently have twenty-three vintages.” Pride swelled in his voice, and she took note of it.
I will control this.
“Perhaps we could open one tonight?”
And I will excel at it.
“That would be lovely,” she said. “I’m partial to sweet reds, though they’re so hard to find.” She moved in closer to him and lowered her voice. “I don’t suppose you have anything…exotic?”
He beamed down at her. “Oh, yes. I take great pleasure in collecting as wide a variety as I can.” He gave her a meaningful look, which she took to mean, whether legal or not.
She could see why Lavena was excellently positioned to be an informant for the government.
Ivana murmured a trite compliment that would stroke the man’s ego, and he launched into a detailed discourse on bouquets and fermentation. Midway through, he halted, as though he realized he had forgotten something important.
“Ivana, is it?” he asked.
Not tonight. “Yes, Dal.”
Two months later, when Lavena finally sent her back to Elidor’s for good, Ivana bought a jewelry box with some of the money she had earned at Lavena’s, laid her sister’s necklace in it, and shoved it as far under her bed as she could.
Far enough that by the time she stumbled on it again, she had high hopes that the Ivana who cared would no longer exist.
Chapter Fourteen
“No,” Elidor snapped, his dagger pointed toward Ivana’s chest. “You are still too hesitant. If I had actually been a threat, you would already be dead.”
Ivana sheathed her own dagger with a snap. “If you had been a threat, I would surely be dead because your decades of experience trump my, what, less than a year?”
Elidor lowered his blade and glared at her. “That,” he said, “is beside the point.”
“In fact, it is very much within the point,” Ivana said, folding her arms across her chest. “If I were attempting to assassinate you, I would not succeed by engaging in a face-to-face confrontation.”
Elidor grunted, which was likely as much as she would get by way of a concession to her point. “But this is not as much about training you to fight your targets head on as it is about training you to react confidently and without hesitation. Which you cannot seem to do!”
Ivana sighed. She was tired. Since she had returned from her temporary stay at the brothel three months back, Elidor had been relentless. In addition to Lavena still occasionally calling on her to handle a particular client in order to teach her some nuance or other of manipulation, Elidor had her making him poisons, studying languages, continuing her combat training with him, and—the last was new—planning her course of action in response to hypothetical jobs or scenarios that Elidor invented.
The challenge with the last was whether she could produce a plan that Elidor would approve of and then field any supplemental questions that he had to his satisfaction.
The former had happened, once or twice, but even if he didn’t find an obvious flaw in her initial plan, he usually managed to invent a follow-up scenario that could stump her.
It was almost entertaining—like a puzzle to be solved—as long as she didn’t ruminate over much on the intended outcome of the non-hypothetical puzzles these were preparing her for.
But it all amounted to the same result: she was exhausted, mentally and physically. The only positive was that she hardly had time to feel emotionally exhausted. The knife hidden in her room saw less and less use as she fell into bed each night utterly drained.
Still, less use was not the same as no use.
“Again,” he said, jerking his head toward her sheathed dagger.
Ivana drew her dagger back out. There was no use in arguing with him. He was deaf to all complaints of any and all physical ailments, whether it be fatigue, hunger, thirst, or illness. The fastest way to get him to let her go was to comply.
As tired as she was, it was no surprise that she lasted less than a minute. The skirmish ended when he managed to slap the flat of his blade against her wrist bone, causing her to drop her dagger in pain and surprise.
“Dead,” he said, shaking his head.
She ignored him, instead examining her wrist, which throbbed. A bruise had already appeared, and a thin line of red was blossoming on the skin right above it. “You cut me.”
They had started with blunt blades, but when Elidor had not been satisfied with her progress, he had switched to his normal dagger in the hopes that a sharp blade would provide better motivation. There had been no mishaps until today.
She would receive no apology from him, so she didn’t wait for it. She bent and picked up her dagger.
When she straightened, she caught him looking away from her—or more accurately, her wrist.
An idea sprouted in her mind. She ambled in his direction, ostensibly toward the door. “Lavena says that my training with her is coming to an end.”
“And what do you think?”
“I don’t care one way or the other.” She was surprised to find that it was true. Five months, how many men? She had lost track.
It didn’t even matter anymore.
“Good. Then your training with her is done. I have more than enough to fill that time with.”
“I’m sure.” She stopped next to him. “Also, if I was attempting to assassinate you, I would not do it when I was already beyond exhausted.” She held up her arm so that he could see the cut his dagger had made. “You can see the results yourself.”
He didn’t reply. His eyes were on her arm.
She moved behind him, as if to leave, and then she spun and dug the point of her blunted blade against his lower back, pushing on his kidney. “If I were attempting to assassinate you,” she said, “and had no other option, I would do it like this.”
He whirled around to face her, and for a moment she was certain he was going to backhand her.
He didn’t. Instead, he met her eyes.
She smiled sweetly. “We all have our weaknesses, don’t we?”
His jaw jumped once. And then, finally, finally…
“Well done,” he said. “You may go.”
She nodded and moved to leave.
“And you may have the rest of the week free from other duties.”
She turned, shocked.
“Except.” He held up a finger. “One week hence I will leave for a job.” He gave her one of his mirthless smiles. “You will spend that time planning our execution of the assignment, and you will accompany me.”
Over one week later Ivana crouched in the empty stall of an inn’s stable.
In the stall kitty-corner to her, a stableboy grumbled about the early hour. Ivana concentrated on slow, even breathing, to calm her pounding heart. All the stableboy had to do was walk away from where he was preparing the target’s horse, and he would see her.
There wasn’t supposed to be a groom here yet. This wasn’t starting well.
“Don’t know why it’s always me,” the stableboy grumbled. “Damn messenger can get his own tack. ‘Adie’ll get your horse ready, Dal, no matter the hour.’ Sure he will.” The stableboy spat into the straw and turned his back on the stall where Ivana was hiding. He flexed his fingers, blew into them once, and then crouched down to tighten the girth on the saddle.
The saddlebags still lay in the middle of the stable walkway.
Now was her chance.
Ivana gritted her teeth, imagined what form Elidor’s ire might take if she messed this up, and slid out of her stall. With one eye still on the stableboy, she pulled the canteen out of the saddlebag and dumped a vial of white powder into it. She then put the canteen back and slipped back into her hiding spot.
Ivana breathed out.
Just in time. The
stableboy turned, picked up the saddle bags, and fastened them to the saddle.
When he crouched yet again to check the girth, she slipped out of the stable and made her way to the edge of the woods outside the inn’s courtyard, settling down in the trees to wait.
The sky had not yet begun to lighten, though it would soon. Here, fifteen miles out from Carradon, the chances of encountering a roving bloodbane were slim during the day. But only a messenger with the most urgent of messages would dare to ride long distances while still dark.
Their target probably didn’t have the most urgent of messages, but it was urgent enough—or he was being paid enough—that he was leaving while stars could still be seen in the sky.
She looked up at those stars. The Eagle was clearly visible at this time of year. It was one of the more important constellations of her ancestors—native Fereharians—though truth be told, she didn’t know why. The Setanans called it Temoth’s Dice, so she assumed whatever symbolism it had once held, the Conclave disapproved.
Whatever the name, she hoped Temoth’s Dice rolled in her favor tonight.
The hard thud of horseshoes against packed dirt drew her attention back to the courtyard. The same stableboy was leading the horse out into the middle of the courtyard. He stopped, one hand holding the reins, the other shoved in his pocket, his chin tucked into his upturned collar, and waited.
At least she was wrapped in more appropriate clothing given the time of year.
It was hard to believe that a little over a year ago, she had instead been huddled against a cold city wall with that scrap of cloth she had called a cloak. Now, her cloak was thick, her hands gloved, and her feet warm in fur-lined boots.
Finally, after what seemed like far too long, the messenger himself strode out of the inn, right as the stableboy was in the middle of a yawn.
The messenger spoke one sharp word to the lad, who handed him the reins of the horse and dutifully provided his own knee as a stepstool for the messenger to mount.
The boy sagged once the messenger had prompted his horse forward, and then the boy scurried inside.
