David Chandler - A thief in the night

“I–I beg your pardon?” Croy asked, turning in his seat.

She had his full attention now. “I’m going with you to the-” She glanced over at the dwarf to make sure he wasn’t listening. “-to the Vincularium. I will accompany you and Morget.”

“I can’t permit that.”

Cythera frowned. She must have known he would say as much. He was sworn to protect helpless women, the aged, and the infirm. There was no way he could take her into a place of danger.

“As your husband-” he began, but she shook her head.

“You are not my master yet,” Cythera said. “Once I sign the banns, you will own me like chattel. That is the law. But until that moment, I make my own decisions.”

“That’s… true,” Croy admitted. He liked this not at all. “Yet I am also leading this expedition, and I will choose who accompanies me.”

“I thought this was Morget’s quest,” Cythera pointed out.

“Aye,” the barbarian grumbled, making Croy jump. He must have forgotten Morget was in earshot.

“Then tell her she cannot come,” Croy insisted. “Questing’s not for women. It just isn’t done!”

Morget shrugged. “In my land, our women accompany us whenever we travel.”

“But you’re nomads! And from what I’ve heard, your women are nearly as big and strong as you.”

“Aye,” the barbarian said, with a wistful look in his eye. “They’re huge.”

“This is completely different,” Croy demanded. “Cythera, this won’t be like a coach ride to the next village over. This is going to be a demanding trek through wild lands full of danger. And then there are the perils of the Vincularium itself.”

“Aye, a place full of ancient curses.” She held up her left arm and showed him the writhing painted vine that wrapped around her wrist. It was longer than when he’d seen it last.

He understood her meaning, of course. Coruth, her mother, had gifted Cythera with the perfect charm against both curse and enchantment. When magic was directed toward her, she absorbed it into her skin in the form of what appeared to be tattoos. Later on she could discharge it as well, once sufficient malefic energy had been stored.

“Cythera, I beg you, forget this folly,” he said. “The place we go to is one of the most dangerous in all of Skrae-in all the world. If something happened to you there how could I go on living? How could I ever forgive myself? I love you more than my own life.”

“I know you do,” she said, “but-”

“Do you not love me?” he asked.

Her face went pale.

Croy was not a man given to manipulation, and preying this way on her feelings made him feel soiled. Yet how could he give in to her mad demand? He could understand why she was angry, but he could only hope she would get over it before he returned.

She took her time framing her reply, yet when it came, it was devastating. “Let me make this plain, Croy. I will not sign the banns until you have safely returned from this venture. I have no desire to be a widow even before my wedding ceremony. To ensure that you return safely, I will go with you, and protect you from threats that Snurrin’s armor cannot. I’m afraid you cannot gainsay me now.”

“I-but-you can’t-” Croy sputtered.

“Morget,” Cythera said, “I am asking you directly. May I join your expedition?”

Morget frowned. “I see one problem with it.”

“Thank you,” Croy gasped.

“We don’t have enough horses,” Morget said. “I suppose we’ll need to buy some more.”

Malden knew if he wasn’t going on Croy’s grand adventure, he needed to get back to work. He wasted little time finding his next assignment, though of course he had to tarry until nightfall before he could begin to work. Cutbill had a lead that took him into the Royal Ditch, the valley just north of Castle Hill that was formed by the course of the river Skrait. The narrow streets atop the ditch were lined with gambling houses and brothels, with drug dens and pawnshops that asked few questions. Old, familiar territory for Malden, though little that went on there was truly lucrative enough to interest him anymore. What the Royal Ditch did possess to compel him was a scattering of old friends.

He found one shortly after dark, exactly where he expected her to be. Every part of Morricent’s face was painted, with the white lead caked so thick around her eyes that it hid all the wrinkles. She’d been at work in Pokekirtle Lane long enough to know all the tricks of her trade: she doused herself in sweet perfumes, she pitched her voice unnaturally high, like an infant’s, she wore her hair down with green ribbons woven amongst her curls, like a twelve-year-old girl celebrating her first chapel ceremony. Yet Morricent was old enough to remember Malden’s mother.

His mother, who had spent some time in Pokekirtle Lane herself, though she died before she needed to start painting with white lead.

Malden had been born in a whorehouse, and spent his childhood inside its walls, working first at cleaning it and then later learning how to keep its books. When his mother died during his adolescence he’d been forced to leave and find his own way in the world-a hard thing for a penniless boy with no family. Yet he had not been cast out without pity. The whores of Ness were a close sisterhood, and they stuck together better than any guild of workmen. Malden was guaranteed a warm welcome now whenever he stopped in at any brothel in the city, and even the semi-independent streetwalkers knew his face and always had a smile for him. Morricent was no exception.

“Malden! You’ve come to keep a girl company on a wretched night,” Morricent cooed as he leaned up against her particular stretch of wall. The bricks were wet with mist, and dark clouds covered the moon. It was indeed a bad night to be out of doors, especially while wearing as little clothing as Morricent did. One more trade secret. “Such a warmhearted fellow. Here, come help me chase away the cold.” Morricent’s hand was already under Malden’s tunic, plucking at the belt that held up his breeches.

He grasped her wrist and pulled it gently free of his clothes. As he lifted her fingers to his lips, instead, and placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand, her eyes grew wide.

“Milady,” he said, “nothing would please me more, save-I have business tonight, pressing business.”

He released her hand. She closed it fast enough to keep from dropping the coins he’d slipped into her downturned palm.

“Gareth sent me to you, saying you might have some information for me.” Gareth was Morricent’s pimp. Not a bad sort, as they went-mostly his role was to collect the money his stable of women earned. He never beat them and was actually just a middleman for a wealthy gambler named Horat, who paid the city watch to stay out of the Royal Ditch. Horat, in turn, answered to Cutbill, whose interests ranged far and wide.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, Malden, of course. You don’t have to pay for words.”

“Ah, but I impose on your valuable time. I understand you had a customer last night, a hairy fellow with a mole on his cheek just here.” Malden indicated the spot on his face. “Talkative cove. Wanted to brag all about something big he had planned.”

Morricent nodded and leaned close to whisper. “He said he would take me someplace nice, next time. A room at an inn, even, with wine and sweetmeats, instead of a bare patch of wall and a sprig of mint to freshen my mouth after, like usual.” She shrugged. “I hear promises from that sort all the time, so perhaps I did not look sufficiently convinced. He wanted me to believe he was about to come into money, so I would fuss over him like a real lover. So he told me about this job he had lined up, told me all the angles, and I had to admit it sounded like a nice bit of work. Simple as sifting flour, he kept saying, and no crew to split the swag with.”