Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

The woman sitting across from him was trying to remain nonchalant. But she knew that Lothar was in the catbird seat. She hated the fat jailor, but her brothel in Bargainers’ Square needed fresh replacements. Unless she got them, she would soon be out of business altogether. Her remaining girls would have no place to go, and for that she would be sorry.

Worse, Lothar understood her plight. He was a regular visitor to her house of ill repute. He knew how few girls remained because of attrition from the orb, and that she had lost many customers. In turn, she knew his price would be even higher than usual. Even so, she refused to be bullied.

“I might not want all eight,” she countered. “It will depend on their ages, general appearance, and how outrageous your price is.”

Smiling, Lothar reached out to pour two glasses of wine. Just then they heard a distant scream filter down the hall and through the office doorway.

Soon begging and sobbing started, their sounds so faint that neither she nor Lothar could tell what the victim was pleading for. Then they heard a harsh slap. Things went quiet again. The woman across the desk looked hard into Lothar’s face.

“That had best not be coming from one of my prospective purchases,” she said skeptically. “Are you sure that your guards aren’t taking liberties?”

“Quite sure,” Lothar answered. “But they are interrogating a lady debtor who refuses to give up the last name of her family’s opposite side. She’s rather attractive, as it happens. Anyway, once we have the name, only then may the guards use her as a pastime. My rules about such things are specific. Any guard who breaks them is subject to death. But they also need to feed the inner man occasionally. You of all people should know that a slice off a cut loaf is never missed, eh?” Taking a sip of wine, he smiled at her like he commanded the entire world.

Ignoring her wine, Mary of the House of Broderick glared back at Lothar with hatred. She was a madam-that much was true. But she was no killer, torturer, or extortionist. Unfortunate conditions dictated that she must do business with him, so she would.

If there was such a thing as a madam with a conscience, it was Mary. Sold by uncaring parents into the trade at the tender age of twelve, over the years she had learned firsthand how to run a prosperous bordello. But even when times were good, it was a closely run thing. Her personal turning point had come six years ago, after being cruelly abused by a customer.

As she lay in bed fighting for her young life, the doctor summoned to her side had told her that although she would live, she would never bear children. Her madam had taken pity on her. She allowed her to stop servicing clients and took her under her wing, teaching her the trade firsthand.

Mary had sworn a solemn vow right there and then. Whenher girls had earned enough to pay off the price of their purchase, they could leave freely. Years later in her own establishment, some of her girls chose to leave, and some did not. But no matter their preference, she was always fair with them. In her own strange way she loved them like they were the children she’d never had.

She could have gotten her girls directly from the street, as did her competitors. But she knew how badly Lothar’s prisoners were treated. She wanted to help as many as she could, before they met even crueler fates at his hands. So she did business with the greasy jailor, despite how much she loathed him. His high prices cut deeply into her profits, but it was worth it.

At forty Seasons of New Life Mary was still a handsome woman, even though her previous years in the trade had stolen the bloom from her cheeks. Dark red ringlets fell to her shoulders. A stylish hat sat cocked to one side atop her head, its diaphanous veil hanging down before her face. Wishing to keep as much of her anonymity as possible, she wore it every time she visited here. Her conservatively tailored dress and equally fashionable shoes made her look more like the wife of some respected burgher or barrister than a bordello proprietor. She liked it that way.

Lothar took another sip of wine. Bluish cigar smoke left his wide nostrils to drift toward the ceiling.

“Now then, do you want to see them or not?” he asked.

Always wary where Lothar was concerned, Mary thought for a moment. “Eight girls taken in one fell swoop?” she asked. “Who are they? Where do they come from?”

Lothar scowled. He had had enough of this choosy, retired whore.

“Since when do you care about pedigrees?” he shot back. “You’re not running a charm school! Sometimes I believe you’re going soft! I don’t know who they are, and I don’t care! Stop wasting my time! Do you want to see them, or do I contact your competitors?”

Knowing she had no cards left to play, Mary nodded.

“Good,” Lothar said. “Let’s go.”

Swinging his feet off the desk, he stood. Mary retrieved her heavy purse from the floor. The kisa inside it jangled together enticingly. Mary winced. The fat jailor smiled.

Lothar escorted her to the doorway. Mary squared her shoulders and started following him down the dark hallway. She had taken this walk before, and always for the same reason.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to prepare herself for the kinds of things she would encounter along the way.

From her place near the cell’s far wall, Mallory looked down at the empty dishes. Although the food and water had been evenly divided, there had been very little for any of them individually. The bowls had all been licked clean; not a drop of water remained. If their sustenance didn’t improve, what magical powers they had remaining would soon be gone.

She suddenly winced as the pain came again-sharp, stabbing, humiliating. She still hurt in secret places where the guard had probed her. Even so, her exhaustion was so great that it easily rivaled her discomfort. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the dank wall.

She suspected that the hour was late, but there was no way to be sure. All the girls other than she and Ariana were huddled together in one of the cell’s corners, fast asleep. A brutish guard paced back and forth on the other side of the barred door. Other than his footsteps and the squeaking rats, this part of the prison was quiet.

Mallory trudged across the room to join Ariana. Her friend was again sitting on her knees, staring at the latest symbols and numbers she had scrawled across the wall. The piece of charcoal she held had become much smaller, prompting Mallory to wonder what they would do when it was gone. She gently placed one hand atop Ariana’s shoulder. Ariana turned her dirty face up to her.

“How goes it?” Mallory whispered.

Sighing, Ariana ran one forearm across her brow. “Don’t get too excited,” she warned, “but I may have it.”

Mallory eagerly went to her knees to look at Ariana’s calculations. Then she groaned inside when she saw that the tightly spaced numbers and symbols stretched for more than three feet.

“Can it be shortened?” she asked.

Unsure of her answer, Ariana pushed her tongue against one cheek. “Perhaps,” she answered. “But I’m not the one to do it. Only a fully realized wizard or sorceress could shortcut this mess. For our use, I’m afraid it must stand as is.”

Mallory understood Ariana’s concern. In order to master a spell, one had to commit the formula to memory until recalling it was second nature, and then activate it in a split second. Ariana’s work would be difficult for Mallory to absorb, and time was running out. The other way to perform a spell was to recite the formula verbatim, in the form of an incantation.

Hearing footsteps, Mallory looked to the door. The guard passed by without looking in. She turned back to Ariana.