Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

“And it’s always true.”

Lia gave Wren a kiss on the cheek. “What brings you here on such a miserable night?”

“I need a favor.”

“Sounds intriguing.” She glanced at Torin. “Who’s your embarrassed friend?”

“This is Torin. A more redoubtable character you will never meet. I want you to be nice to him.”

Torin’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Wren?”

Lia took Torin by the arm. “I’m always nice to my clients.”

Torin glared at Wren. “This is why my wife doesn’t like you, Wren. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course she likes me. I keep you out of her hair. Now, here’s what I want you to do.”

Wren tossed his cards onto the table and tapped his fingers impatiently. How long had they been up there? Over half an hour, surely. Torin wouldn’t be-

No, not Torin. He was fanatically faithful to his wife. He wouldn’t even consider such a thing. Wren was in awe of people who could make that kind of commitment. To promise yourself to one person for the rest of your life …

He couldn’t get his head around it. It was like trying to comprehend the number of stars in the sky, or count the grains of sand on a beach. His brain wasn’t built for the task.

The dealer swept his cards away and flicked seven more onto the table. This time, she placed the first and fourth cards face up. Interesting. She had been watching Wren’s tactics and had adjusted her own mode of play. This could be quite an interesting game.

A high-pitched scream from the rooms above whipped everybody’s eyes upward. Wren watched the players, noting those who took advantage of the distraction to check out their opponents’ cards. He yawned and stood up, nodding at the shocked dealer.

“Excuse me.”

He left the gambling room and turned to the right. A wide staircase led up to the bedrooms. Another scream echoed through the brothel. A half-dressed man stumbled past Wren, looking over his shoulder in fear. Wren winced. Savia wasn’t going to be happy with this. She’d want compensation.

A small crowd had gathered outside one of the bedrooms. The bugbear from the front door was gripping the handle, getting ready to break down the door.

“Wait!” shouted Wren. He hurried over to the room. Courtesans looked at him, fear clear on their faces. Wren felt a twinge of guilt. This was one of the things courtesans feared the most-psychotic customers.

“Wait,” he repeated. “Is that Lia’s room?”

The bugbear frowned at him. At least Wren thought he was frowning at him. It was hard to tell.

“It is,” said one of the girls.

“Then I know who is in there with her. An ugly little dwarf. I saw him come up here. He was drooling and muttering to himself.”

“I heard that!” shouted a voice from inside the room. “Don’t make me angry! I don’t want to hurt her, but I will if I have to!”

Wren shouldered his way past the bugbear. “What do you want?” he asked. “Just tell us. We can work something out.”

“I want to talk to Savia. Right now.”

Wren turned to the closest girl. “You heard him! Fetch Savia. Hurry!”

“But she’s sleeping-”

“Are you mad? You have an insane dwarf rapist in there! I think she’d want to know about it.”

The girl let out a squeal of fear and ran up the flight of stairs to the next floor. Wren leaned on the door and looked up at the bugbear. The creature looked upset. Probably because his brain was having to do a bit of work.

“Don’t worry about it,” Wren told him. “Once Savia’s here, you can beat him around a bit.”

This seemed to cheer the creature a bit. Wren turned his attention to the girls clustered around in various states of undress. “Better be careful, ladies. This kind of weather, you’ll catch a chill.”

A few moments later, the courtesan appeared at the top of the stairs, followed closely by Savia. Wren watched her appreciatively as she descended the stairs. The woman was tall, her dark hair showing flecks of gray that somehow enhanced her looks. Wren usually liked his women younger than Savia, but there was something about her. She had an air of confidence about her, an aura of intelligence. Not to mention an incredibly fine body.

Savia hurried past the girl, pulling a robe around herself. She reached the bottom of the stairs and caught sight of Wren. Her eyes narrowed. Wren could see numerous emotions flashing across her face. First relief, then anger, then a touch of amusement, and finally calculation as she tried to figure out what Wren was up to.

She walked up to them. “You can go, Baras,” she said to the bugbear, touching him lightly on the arm.

“I promised him he could beat up Torin a bit.”

“Did you now?”

“Just a little bit.”

“False alarm,” Savia said to the girls. When they looked doubtful, she raised an eyebrow at Wren. “If you’d be so kind?”

Wren knocked on the door. “You can come out now.”

The door swung open to reveal a contrite Torin. Lia sat on the bed behind him, filing her nails. She looked up and smiled.

“I’ll deal with you later,” said Savia. “I hope you made it worth her while, Wren.”

“Of course!” said Wren, offended.

“Good. You can go now, Lia. That goes for all of you. Get back to your rooms.”

She waited until the corridor was empty before turning her attention back to Wren. “I suppose you’d better come up to my chambers and tell me what this is all about.”

Despite his best efforts, Wren had never been inside Savia’s rooms. For some reason, the woman consistently managed to resist his charms. He looked around the gently-lit sitting area. She definitely had good taste, so she should be drawn to Wren like a Khyber worshiper to a hole in the ground.

Torin stood uncomfortably by the doorway while Wren breezed around the room, picking up small carvings and examining them, bending down to study the porcelain inlay on a small black table. It looked dwarven to him. He came to a stop before a series of stone sculptures depicting a warrior in various poses of prayer. He reached out to touch them, then drew his hand back.

“Are these real?” he asked, seeking out Savia.

“They are.”

Wren turned his attention to the carvings. They were Valenar in make. The statues represented the seven deep prayers the elves recited to their ancestors before going into battle. But the statues must have been over five hundred years old. No new ones had been made since the Valenar left Aerenal. They were passed down through the generations and treated with the utmost reverence.

“How did you come by them?” he asked.

“They were a gift. For a favor.”

“A gift! Host, woman! What did you do for them?”

“None of your business. Now, tell me what’s going on.”

Wren’s gaze lingered on the statues, then he tore himself away and joined Savia on a small couch. On the table in front of them were papers and files, some marked important. Wren realized they must involve the city council.

Savia saw him looking and gathered the papers together. “Focus, Wren. Come now.”

“Sorry.”

He went on to tell her of the night’s events, ending with a description of the assailant and the name they had found in the professor’s diary.

“How bizarre,” said Savia.

“Does the description strike you as familiar?”

“Well, yes. But that’s what I find so strange. The description perfectly matches a man called Cutter. He works for the Boromar clan watching over some of their girls. The establishment isn’t far from here, actually. It’s called the Tufted Feather. And ‘Red’ … I can only assume that to be Rowen. She’s a courtesan, but she and Cutter are an item. The girls think it all terribly romantic.”