Nightlord: Sunset (65 page)

“Then off you go.”  And he went.  Behind me, Maggie chuckled and poured water over my back.  I turned my head to her, saying, “You know I don’t really need the help.”

“I like it, m’lord.”

I didn’t ask her what she meant by that; I just let her.  When the bath was done, she held the towel for me and she brushed out my hair.  I needed a haircut, and Maggie offered to give me one; I took her up on it.  I shaved and dressed on my own, though; people with sharp things near my throat make me nervous.

“Will you be staying the night?” she asked, and I could almost believe it was a casual tone.

“I don’t know,” I answered.  “Maybe.  It depends on how many people need to get rid of a rash.”

She snickered.  “If you like, lord, I’ll spread word faster than the plague.”

“That will do nicely.  Yes, I think.  Do so.”

“All it will cost is five silver coins,” she added.

I arched an eyebrow.  “Three.”

“Four.”

“Good enough.  You’ll have your silver when I have mine.  Fair?”

“Done.”

Thus is came to pass that I spent my night on the ground floor of a whorehouse, well-groomed, nicely dressed, and working hard at being the cure of STD’s.  Seem odd?  It did to me.  But I’d had it up to
here
with the trail, the armor, the riding, riding, riding, the feeling filthy every sundown and sunup… I needed to be
clean,
to feel
dressed
, to be the sharp fellow I hope I am instead of the road-wearied guy in metalwork.  And, by god, I was going to dance.

Either the fact of my power and wealth, relatively speaking, or my good looks and charm kept the ladies of the evening making strong eye contact and suggestive gestures.  That may not be much of an indicator, but I’ll take what I can get.  I winked back at most of them and danced with a few.  To music.  Upright.  No, really; I mean it—
dancing.
At least until I started getting a steady stream of clients.

A system developed with Maggie; when I was ready for a client, I sat down at “my” table.  The person in question would slouch over and take a seat with me.  Those that paid in advance—very few—I gave the full treatment; both killing off their disease and giving the body encouragement to heal the symptoms.  The rest just got their cure; recovery was their problem.

The advance payment plan paid off in word-of-mouth advertisement before the night was over.  I’m glad I managed a few dances before the clients started coming too fast.

I also met
Hellas.

Friend, in that place and time, a whore didn’t have to be beautiful to make a living.  It was a military camp, mainly, and catered to men who would be unlikely to see an available woman for months.  All a whore needed was to be willing and capable. 

Hellas met those two qualifications, but only those two.  She wasn’t just unattractive.  She wasn’t just homely.  She was downright ugly.  It wasn’t any single ugly feature, but a collection of mildly unpleasant ones that added up to a repellent whole.  She was short, barely five feet tall, and much too thin.  Her jaw was too wide and too strong, her cheekbones too narrow, her eyes too small, her nose too large… her hair hung in lank locks, even though it was cleaned and combed, and her ears tried to stick out anyway.  She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen at the most, but even the blush of youth only provided a contrast.  She would actually improve with age—someday, she would make a magnificent crone.

Surviving, for her, was dependant on two things: a high volume of
very
eager traffic and the odd jobs she could do in the meantime.  Tonight was busy, but not
that
busy, so she was out of work.  When she came to me, she stood quietly and waited for me to notice her.

“Yes?  Have a seat,” I said, thinking her a client; I’d already treated her the night before, but all it takes is once to get it again…

She didn’t sit, but wrung her hands.  “Sir?” she asked, sounding pitiful.  “I’ve no meaning to trouble you, but… have aught I might do?  Tasks or chores?”

I can be a pitiless bastard when I’m wronged.  But she’d done nothing to me, and female—even homely female—tears trigger some sort of response, way down deep in the primitive part of my brain.  She wasn’t actually shedding any tears, but her tone of voice suggested it could happen.  I wondered just how hard a life she had.

Pretty hard, I reflected.  Harder than mine, certainly.  Possibly harder than I could imagine—or would ever want to imagine.

“I think so,” I said, speaking slowly and thinking rapidly.  “I’ll be wanting my armor and other clothes before I go back to the keep.  Check and see how long they’ll be—but don’t rush them!  Just find out; there’s no hurry.”

“Right away, sir!”  She was off like a shot.  I got through another client and was waiting on the next when Hellas was back.  “Another hour, lord; chain is a bugger to clean.”

“Good, good.  Is there a tailor in town?  And a smith who can do fine work?”

“Yes, lord.  Both.”

“Excellent.” I drew my dagger, the gift from Baron Baret.  It still had a magical charge in it I hadn’t used, but… oh, well.  “See this?  I will want another like it, I think.  Can the smith make its like?”

Hellas stared at it for a bit, chewing on her upper lip.  “I know not, my lord.”

“Then take it to him in the morning,” I said, sliding it across the table.  “If he can, then commission it; if not, bring it back.”  I dug into my pouch and produced money.  “Three silver for you; the rest is earnest money to the smith.”

I didn’t know if she was honest or not.  I thought so, from the flickers in her aura.  But if she wasn’t, this would make a fine test.

“I will do as you instruct, my lord.  And the tailor?”

“I just want to know where he is; I’ll visit on my own.  You’ll show me, later.”

“Yes, lord.”

I handed over four more silver.  “And give these to Maggie; she’s earned them.  That will be all, until I need you for a guide.”

She did a wonderful job of going away.  Considering the going rate, I’d paid her for two hours of her professional services; she should be good for a while.  To say nothing of the rest of the money she was carrying.

Why did I do it?  I don’t know.  I didn’t really need another dagger, and I surely didn’t need a professional prostitute—and one as ugly as a blob of spit, to boot.  Maybe it was pity.  There probably was some pity.  But not all of it, not even the greater portion of it.  She was a woman, and in her own way, she asked for help.  She wasn’t begging for alms, but for work.  I have to respect that.  And, I guess, I have to answer it.

Sometimes, I’m so weird even I don’t understand me.

I fixed a lot of people with nasty diseases, and even a few with bumps, cuts, and lacerations.  Someone with a festering arm-wound asked me to help it, and I did.  I was reminded of my Wizard’s Day in Baret; I find I miss those days.

Later, after she’d collected my clean clothes and polished armor, Hellas did show me to the tailor’s shop; it wasn’t much as such things go, but I’d be able to find it again when he was open.  I gave her another silver for her time and for the walk in the icy cold; the weather had turned for the worse.

She gave me a free kiss on the cheek, and I didn’t try to duck.

I went back to the Keep before dawn and pretended to sleep in my little monk’s cell for an hour or two.  I did strip for dawn, though, not wishing to dirty my clothes.  I washed with the basin before putting them back on.  Brrr!

No fighting today, I decided.  Not if I can avoid it.  So I went to breakfast in civilian clothes.  I’d seen others do it, so I knew I wasn’t too out of line.  Besides, I had an interview with the Duke this morning, of which Raeth reminded me.

“It’s good to see you dressed well,” he noted.  “I’m not sure it will help.”

“The Duke’s a canny old guy,” I reflected, sitting down with my soup.  Some sort of vegetables floating in broth.  I can’t say I liked it.

“That he is.  He has defended the northern border for fifteen years.”

“Who did it before him?”

“His father.”

“Family tradition, eh?”

“It is the reason his ancestor was granted titles and lands.”

“Good at it, too?” I asked.

“No major force has ever crossed the river within his lifetime.”

“Here’s hoping the streak remains unbroken,” I offered, lifting my cup of watered wine.  Raeth and Bouger joined me in that toast.  As we drank, Sir Dele approached our table with a bowl of breakfast and a cup.

“May I join you?”

“Certainly,” I offered.  “We were just toasting the Duke’s success at defending the border.”

“Indeed!”  Dele seated himself, lifted his cup and drained half of it. 

We ate for a bit, then I mentioned, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about our bout.”

“Yes?”

“Well, there are some who claim I cheat.  I’m a wizard and a knight, and it’s been said I use magic against other knights.”

Dele shrugged.  “It matters not to me what they say.  You fought me, you bested me.  I know more of your prowess and the same way will not be so easy, next time.  Whether you use magic or no is of little concern to me; a man can be killed by many things, and I am pleased to know one more so that I may live through it!  If you used magic to lend strength to your arm, what of it?  There will always be stronger men than I.”

“Good point,” I said.  “A very good point.  I doubt most people would see it that way.”

“Then that is their loss,” he said, and shrugged.  “For my part, though, I do not believe there was magic; you are strong all the time.  I have seen you move, and there is a strength to all your movements.”

“It gladdens my heart to hear you say so,” Raeth replied.  “Would you do us the honor of saying so to his Grace, the Duke?  We are to come before him in answer to these slanderous mouthings.”

Dele frowned.  “Rumor is one thing, despicable as it is.  Baseless accusations are unpardonable.  Tell me, who is it that bandies about such lies?  I’ll give them a taste of the stick, and no mistake!”

“His Grace hasn’t mentioned a name,” Bouger answered.  “But it was very likely someone who… has been bested by Sir Halar.”

“Are you implying—no, or you would not ask my help,” Dele started-and-reconsidered.  “Then I must needs think it is someone who brings no grace to his title.”

Raeth and Bouger nodded; I just sat there and pretended to be interested in my soup.  I don’t mind my friends defending me, but… well… it’s kind of embarrassing.  I don’t know why.  Maybe I just wanted it all settled quietly and without fuss.  I only like to make a scene when I’m in a really good mood, or when I’m really pissed off.

I was also thinking about Travis.  Raeth and Bouger remind me of him in some ways.  I miss him.

“I will come with you and bear my witness,” Dele agreed.

“I don’t know if it will be needed, but I’m glad,” I told him.

“It will be an honor to assist you.”

I thanked him, and we ate with better appetite until a house guard came to urge us away.

The audience chamber is larger than the living room of the Duke’s private quarters.  Easily big enough for a dozen horses, it was spotlessly clean and smooth-floored.  A five-step dais bore a heavy chair at one end, and there were seats along the sides of the room, alternating with braziers full of glowing coals.  Doors faced the Duke’s chair from the other end.  There were no tapestries on the walls, except behind the Duke’s chair; that one was the crest of his house: a silver diagonal on a field of black, with a rampant dragon in gold, facing left from the lower-right half.

Six guards showed us in.  It was more of a formality than anything else; we were allowed to keep our arms.  The chairs to either side were filled, and I spotted Peldar among the twenty or so who occupied them.  The magician was standing at the Duke’s left hand, a few steps down.

As a note, the dais for the Duke was five steps; around here, that’s a signal of his rank.  The King, I later learned, is accorded seven steps, and the Heir’s Seat has six.  Other nobles have lower seats.  An interesting tradition, and one whose origins I’m curious about.  But that’s just me.

“I see you have come,” said the Duke, once we were standing before him.  Sir Dele stood to one side, out of the way, but Raeth and Bouger took up station on my right and left, a pace behind me.  “Do you know why you are here?”

“My lord the Duke requested it,” I replied.

He smiled, slightly.  “In a manner of speaking, yes.  You are here to face charges that you are no true knight.”

I stood mute and waited.  It wasn’t a question, after all.

“Let any who would deny his claim stand forth,” the Duke called.  And, sure enough, Peldar stood up.

“I call him false,” he declared.

“Approach,” the Duke instructed.  Peldar did so.  “State your claim.”

“I have a letter from the Baron Baret detailing the deeds of this that was once his court wizard,” Peldar said, “and the Baron’s description of such acts as must mark this man as unworthy of knighthood.”  Peldar drew out a letter from his father and began to read it.  He skipped over some sections, obviously personal, and then hit the high points of his father’s description of my… exodus from Baret.