Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

Versen had been with her that morning, but not until she had twirled the pretentious skirt about the shop had he made his presence felt.

It’s lovely.

‘It’s not me, though,’ she had answered in a whisper, fearing the shopkeeper might overhear the one-sided conversation and toss her into the street.

No matter… things are different now. You should buy it. Versen’s voice had been comforting as she fingered the luxurious fabric.

‘You think so?’

I would love to see you in it – the murmur not of a voyeur, but a lover.

‘But you can’t, can you?’

I can’t. No.

Brexan stood still, hoping that if she remained motionless she would be able to hold him a moment longer. She didn’t have to get back to work yet. This day, the whole day, was for her. It was the midday aven now and she didn’t have to be back on Sallax’s trail until tomorrow. She didn’t have to track down and kill the fat merchant until tomorrow. Today was supposed to have been a gift, a moment’s grace, and the fact that Versen had come was all the more reason to make it last as long as possible.

Pressure built up behind Brexan’s eyes and her head started throbbing. She pinched the bridge of her nose and felt a tear on her wrist. The skirt dangled limply from her hand.

Now, as she leaned into the fire’s warmth, Brexan flinched when she recalled what had happened next.

Standing in the shop, a handful of fabric clutched close to her face, she had suddenly become revolted: the print was unnecessary, the lace hem too feminine – it was all too vulnerable. Her knees threatened to buckle and she had dropped the garment as if it had been on fire.

‘Hey, pick that up,’ the shopkeeper shouted, already on his way across the front room.

Ignoring him, she had reached for a utilitarian garment hanging on a rail: the woollen skirt she wore now.

‘Get out of here. I don’t have time for your nonsense. These pieces are expensive-’ His voice faded as he caught sight of the sailor’s silver piece Brexan was displaying. She gave the coin a flip, a gesture that might have said, go scratch yourself, horsecock.

In a breath, the shopkeeper’s demeanour had changed, switching to grovelling obsequiousness as if a second personality had unexpectedly elbowed its way into his head. ‘Sorry, ma’am. It’s just that sometimes… well, you know… with the Occupation-’

Brexan cut him off. ‘I’ll take this one.’ Rubbing the thick fabric across her cheek, she fought to clear the image of Versen from her mind.

‘But that’s just a skirt. Wouldn’t you rather-?’

She cut him off again. ‘This one – and some leggings, something tough, woollen, I think.’

The shopkeeper gave up. ‘Fine, wool.’ The floral print hung over his arm and he waved her towards a shelf.

‘And I need some shoes.’

‘Shoes?’

‘No.’ She changed her mind. Her one day of freedom ended there. ‘Boots. I need boots.’

She paid for her purchases and changed into them before leaving the shop, making the merchant a gift of the sailor’s stolen garments. At the Redstone Tavern, Brexan slept until the aroma of grilling meat and simmering stew woke her for dinner beside the fire.

Now she tossed her head, shifting her too-long hair away from her face. The strange pain had returned, pressing against her sinuses; she felt like a tempine fruit squeezed too hard. She allowed her vision to blur as she looked into the fire, trying to relax.

The clatter of tankards roused her and she held a hand aloft to get the attention of the serving boy; he finally looked over, his eyebrows arching in a nonverbal enquiry, What would you like?

She picked up the empty bottle and he nodded in understanding. I’ll be right there.

Brexan half-smiled. I’ll be waiting.

She had lost enjoyment of her day to memories of Versen, the wrong memories, but she had to take the bad with the good; she couldn’t just have the disarming look of his green eyes, the feel of his legs against hers when they were imprisoned in the darkness of the schooner’s hold, or the way he had dropped his weapons to take her hand when the Seron were upon them: she had to remember his shattered image as vividly as she recalled the brightness of his smile.

In the vertiginous recesses of her mind, the cordoned-off section that remained sensible regardless of how much she managed to drink, Brexan promised not to drown her sorrows every time the anguish grew too grim to face head-on; in return, she silently agreed to get back to the business of hunting and killing at first light the following day.

With her decision, knowing she was not going to spiral into an alcoholic coma every time she felt sad, the weight seemed to ease. She would pick herself up at first light and get back on track – but this evening she would let herself fall apart. The second bottle of wine seemed as good a place as any to get started.

Morning arrived with all the delicacy of a battering ram assault on a stone keep. Brexan made an effort to get up, felt her vision tunnel and fell back into the expensive feather mattress, one of the Redstone’s more luxurious features. When she realised the incessant pounding was going on inside her head, not outside, she rolled to the edge of the bed, hung the offending appendage over the side and waited – when nothing happened, she drew herself into a foetal ball and tried to go back to sleep – but the throbbing pain was too much.

Brexan, realising she would need to extricate herself from the bed, make her way across the room and drink the contents of her water pitcher dry if she hoped to quiet the band hammering away inside her skull, threw back the coverlet – and discovered that she was naked. The events of the previous evening came back to her in a flood of embarrassment: awkward invitations and clumsy drunken sex with the young man from the kitchen. ‘Oh, you whoring rutter,’ she groaned and looked back at the bed, begging him to be gone. Thankfully, all that remained was a lingering aroma of beef and gansel stew. She wrestled her aching body into a sitting position and dropped her head down to her knees until she felt she could breathe without vomiting.

She dragged herself across the room to the armoire and grimaced as she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass: skin the colour of city snow, and her mouth hanging open. Her breasts seemed to sag more than they had the last time she had seen them so thoroughly exposed. Brexan stood up straight, despite the cramp in her lower back, but it didn’t help as much as she’d hoped. Her eyes looked like she’d been punched.

‘You did this to yourself, young lady,’ she said in a hoarse whisper, regretting her decision to engage in improvisational alcohol therapy.

Stepping closer to the glass, Brexan examined herself. Although still sore and discoloured from the deep tissue bruising, her ribs appeared to be healing slowly. Her cheek worried her more; the Seron, Lahp, had cracked it with a vicious punch and then the scarred Seron, the horsecock with the ruined face, had re-broken it, knocking her unconscious and leaving Versen to battle him alone. Brexan hadn’t been anywhere near a mirror in the past Twinmoon, so this was the first time she had seen how crookedly it had knitted together.

‘Damaged goods. No matter.’ She shrugged at the worn figure in the mirror. ‘You were never much to look at, anyway.’ She rubbed her throbbing temples and considered her options. She had new clothes, a pocketful of money and a warm, safe place to sleep; that was a good start. Despite the hangover, she shot herself a grin. ‘Next time try to stay sober enough to have more than just a fuzzy recollection, my little slut. What’s the point of having an encounter if all you remember is falling over while trying to get out of your leggings?’