Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1) (57 page)

Mistress Rose looked elegant in her black
and red silk gown. The lace-covered fabric panels on her chest fit
closely making a flattering silhouette, but from the waist down the
fabric flowed outward in a giant bell shape, the hem trimmed with
black braiding.

“Wipe that hateful look off your face,
girl,” Rose snapped.

Brynlee’s eyes darted to the mistress,
fearing she had done something wrong. To her immediate relief she
realized Rose was speaking to Tavia, another one of her courtesans
in training. Tavia was fifteen and was already taking on charges
even though she was, as Rose would say, “slow and clumsy.” Tavia
was the daughter of a poor brick maker in the slums of northern
Perth. She knew little about decorum and table etiquette, an area
Brynlee excelled it, which was probably why the young woman had
developed such a dislike for her.

When it came to physical beauty, however,
Tavia had more than a leg up on Brynlee. She had two actually, and
both were long and beautiful, giving way to shapely hips as well as
other desirable curves.

“You could learn a lot from Emma,” Rose
continued. She reached out and caressed Brynlee’s chin. “She’s
going to be my best girl some day.” She gestured toward an empty
wooden chair. “Sit, my dear.”

Brynlee took the seat, pulling at the
uncomfortable folds of her linen dress, which was little more than
a shift with nothing worn underneath. She felt naked wearing it
outside her bedroom, but Mistress Rose insisted the garment would
help her grow accustomed to the even more revealing clothes she
would be expected to wear in the future.

“Let us talk,” Rose said. “Pretend I am your
man. You have successfully seduced me with your delicious treats,
charmed me with your lovely looks, now stimulate my mind with some
engaging conversation. This, ladies, is the true art of a
courtesan.”

Brynlee’s mind went blank. “Um.”

Rose snapped her fingers. “Never start a
conversation with, ‘Um.’ Never say ‘uh’ or ‘er’ or any other
empty-headed noises. Noises are uninteresting. Use words. Now try
again.”

Brynlee cleared her throat. “I—”

Rose’s fingers snapped again. “Never start a
conversation with ‘I.’”

Tavia snickered.

“You’re not here to talk about you,” Rose
continued. “You’re here to stroke the ego of a man, which is an art
unto itself. Stroke his ego too blatantly and he’ll know you’re
putting on a show. Stroke it too lightly and he won’t feel like
he’s getting his money’s worth. Now come on, child. I thought you
were a well-learned girl. Show me some of those wits of yours.”

Brynlee racked her brain for something to
say, a piece of historical fact, any fact, and said the first thing
that came to mind. “You’re from Aberdour, aren’t you my lord? The
summer must almost be over right now, if I’m not mistaken. I hear
it gets quite humid there in the summer. Tell me, do you know of
any watering holes where a girl might enjoy a cool bath when the
summers get too hot to bear?”

Rose smiled and clapped her hands. “Very
good, Emma. You put the attention on him right away. Asked him a
question to get him talking. And that, ladies, is the easiest trick
in the book. Get a man talking about himself and you’ll be set for
hours. Just don’t forget to bat your eyes and at least pretend to
be listening.”

Brynlee offered a cute little smile, which
was something she had learned to do on cue at Mungo’s.

“And a word of warning, when a man is
thoroughly charmed by you he will likely lavish you with gifts. No
matter how silly or useless they seem, you will treat them like
gold. Understand?”

“And if he doesn’t give you gifts he’ll give
you secrets,” Brynlee said, repeating something she’d heard from
Korah years ago.

Mistress Rose looked pleased. “Quite right.
Most men assume you are too stupid to understand, and so they’ll
talk about many things they should not, but always remember that
secrets are to be kept. Never shared. The moment you lose the trust
of your clients, you’ve lost your reputation and your job.”

Rose stood up and smoothed out the front of
her sleeveless red gown. “Clean this up.” She waved her hand over
the breakfast table. “When everything is finished, meet me
upstairs.”

“Yes, mistress,” the girls answered, almost
in unison.

Rose left the dining room and pattered up
the stairs. Brynlee began collecting plates and dishes and placed
them into a wooden crate to take to the kitchen.

Tavia grabbed a piece of uneaten cake and
lifted it to her lips. She paused, said, “If you say anything I’ll
scratch your face,” and stuffed it into her mouth.

Brynlee noticed dark welts across the back
of Tavia’s hands. “What happened?” she asked.

“Nothing,” the girl said, grabbing for the
forks and spoons. Then, considering, she added, “Mistress Rose
caught me drinking milk from the cellar again.”

Brynlee exhaled and shook her head. “I told
you not to do that. Milk is costly, and you know the mistress saves
it for the clients.”

“Shut up,” Tavia said. She slammed the
silverware down into the crate and closed her eyes. For a moment
Brynlee thought the girl was going to cry. “Some of the other girls
say I’m too skinny. They say none of the men will love me if I’m so
skinny. They tell me to drink more milk, but the mistress won’t let
me have anything except water.” She looked at Brynlee. “So what in
all the hells am I supposed to do, huh?”

For a moment Brynlee didn’t know what to
say. Tavia’s sudden revelation was jarring and made her pity the
poor girl.

Her eyes wandered to the welts on the back
of her hands again, which were not the first the young woman had
ever received. Mistress Rose used a long leather switch, about as
thick around as her biggest finger and as long as her arm. It
whistled through the air when she swung it and landed against flesh
like a sharp sting, hard enough to leave a mark, but not to break
the skin. Brynlee had seen the mistress whip Tavia across the feet
for tripping over a customer, and once across her back when she
broke a plate.

“Why do you have to be so perfect, Emma?”
Tavia asked, toweling off the table.

“What?”

“I mean, where did you learn to do all this
stuff?”

Brynlee shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I
just watch how others do it.”

Tavia threw the towel in the crate and
heaved it off the table.

“You’re like a little princess,” she said.
“Sweet and spoiled, big brown eyes like a little fawn. Just wait
until you start taking on charges. See how you like it.”

The thought of taking on male clients hung
over Brynlee’s head like a dark gray cloud. Mistress Rose reminded
her of it almost every day. The whores of her brothel talked about
it like it was a great honor, but to Brynlee it was a terrifying
prospect. She had three more years of waiting and training and then
she would know what it was like to sleep with a man.

“Tavia?” she asked just as the girl was
about to enter the kitchen.

She stopped and huffed. “What?”

“What’s it like? The first time?”

“What do you mean ‘the first time…” Tavia
started to ask, but she stopped when she realized what Brynlee was
referring to. She shrugged. “It is what it is.” She disappeared
into the next room where Brynlee heard the rattling of dishes and
trays.

Disappointed that she didn’t get a more
definitive answer, Brynlee went back to cleaning the kitchen by
swiping crumbs off the wooden table. She should not have expected
Tavia to answer her seriously anyway. The young woman hated
Brynlee. Ever since that day when she spilled a tray of cakes all
over Sir Dunmore Waters and received a whipping for it, she’d been
haughty and spiteful.

Tavia remerged from the kitchen, her bruised
hands hugging her waist. “It hurts,” she said. “The first time. It
hurts.”

Brynlee felt the nervous knot in her stomach
clench a little bit tighter. At the same time, however, she saw the
pain in Tavia’s face and her heart filled with compassion for the
poor brick maker’s daughter.

That afternoon they served Rose and her
guests during a small, private gathering of wealthy knights and
high-ranking noblemen. The femininity of Rose’s establishment
shrunk behind their charade of polished armor, decorative swords,
the scent of oil rubbed leather, and rugged virility. The exclusive
party, which was by invitation only, coupled with fine wine and the
popularity of Rose’s girls, made the gathering a much talked about
affair. Even the stout-waisted Mungo attended, his balding head
wreathed in green leaves.

Brynlee was thrilled with the new gown Rose
had given her for the occasion, the first red dress she’d ever had.
The top was delightfully soft, a velvet fabric that hugged her
torso with the help of a gold and black ring belt. Silk-lined
tippets let her hands and forearms work unrestricted while the
brocade skirt allowed lots of room for her legs to move.

And move she did.

Brynlee and a couple of Rose’s less
experienced courtesans spent their time hurrying up and down the
stairs to and from the kitchen serving cakes, wine, fruit, and
spiced cheese. Hustling without looking like one was hustling,
Brynlee knew, was the key to looking desirable. Rose insisted upon
gracefulness at all times, along with an unending smile, and, when
it came to interacting with potential charges, a sweetness so thick
it was almost suffocating. Pet names like “Honey” and “Deary” were
to be peppered all throughout their conversations.

The most exclusive clientele had pseudonyms
that the girls were to use as often as anything else. The seasoned
knight Dunmore Waters, for example, was known as Sir Dimples. All
the girls knew if they ever called him this outside of Rose’s
brothel he would probably beat them to death, but when they purred
“Sir Dimples” into his ear while tickling his beard he became
butter in their fingers.

Rose’s girls worked the bawdy crowd with
enthusiasm, filling the stomachs with wine and teasing them with
flesh, all while stroking their egos with incessant flattery.

A crash, like a door breaking off its
hinges, sounded from one of the bedrooms down the hall. A moment
later a lean man with a tuft of hair circling his bald dome
stumbled down the hallway, half dressed and red in the face. Sir
Dunmore Waters came stalking after him, fists clenched and ready to
fight.

Rose Gown emerged from the crowd of
prostitutes and half drunk nobles. “What is this all about?” she
demanded. Upon noticing the skinny man, she gasped. “Brother
Placidous? Are you all right?”

The quivering priest stopped in the archway
and faced the room of gawking party guests. He finished roping his
pants around his waist. “Yes, m–my lady. I–I think there’s been a
misunderstanding.”

Tavia hurried down the hall, naked save for
a bed sheet that she clung to her chest. She punched Sir Dunmore in
the shoulder, a blow the knight didn’t even appear to feel through
the leather padding of his torso. “What is the matter with you? He
is my charge. We were—”

Dunmore turned and slapped her so hard she
spun to the floor. He looked at Rose. “You’ve got a wolf in sheep’s
clothing here, my lady.”

Rose was fuming. “Sir Dunmore, you better be
glad we have such a lengthy friendship otherwise I’d have you
thrown out for this disruption.”

“My apologies, mistress.” He pointed to
Placidous. “This charlatan is no longer a priest. Seems he is still
taking your money to support the church, however.”

Placidous lifted his hands. “N–now, hold on
now. Mistress, I’ve known you for many years, and the church
greatly values your support. You must believe—”

“You are not a priest?” Rose said.

“He was exiled from a monastery called Halus
Gis on Efferous more than three years ago,” Dunmore said. “Seems
there were questions about his morality.”

A few chuckles sputtered up from the
guests.

Rose cocked an eyebrow at Placidous. “Is
that so? And the donations I’ve given you?”

Without his shirt on it was easy to see the
shiver that ran up the man’s torso. He opened his mouth to speak,
but in his distress it appeared that words had escaped him.

“He probably kept the money for himself,”
Dunmore said. “How else could he afford to frequent such a lavish,
respectable brothel such as this?”

The room had gone silent. Brynlee didn’t
even dare to breathe as she stood in the crowd of guests watching
the scene unfold.

She saw Tavia on the floor nursing the left
side of her teary-eyed face while trying to cover whatever dignity
she could with the thin sheet.

“You lied to me for three years,” said Rose
as she stepped toward Placidous. “You took money from me, money you
said would go to keeping your religious leaders out of my
business.”

Placidous had begun to cry. “Mistress,
please. I—”

“YOU LIED TO ME!” Rose screamed. She threw
her goblet of wine at him, which bounced off his shoulder and
spilled down his chest.

Placidous fell apart. “I–I’m s–s–o sorry,
mistress. P–please forgive me. I will pay you back. I will pay you
back, I swear it!”

“Pay me back with your life, dog.”

Rose snapped her fingers and Dunmore, along
with a bodyguard who had been hired for the night, grabbed
Placidous by the arms.

“Take him to the window and hang him from
the eaves,” she said. “By his feet,” she added. “Then set him on
fire.”

The people in the room made noises of
agreement, some even clapped.

“What?” Placidous screamed. “Mistress, I beg
you!”

Rose lifted her hand and silence descended
upon the room again. “But first,” she said contemplatively, “take
his prick.” She slipped a shiny narrow dagger out from her sleeve
and handed it to Sir Dunmore.

The fervor of the crowd erupted and drowned
out the panicked screams of the former priest. He kicked and fought
against the strong arms that held him to no avail.