Саймон Хоук: The Broken Blade

“Let it go, Ryana,” he said.

She stared at him, uncomprehending. “Why?”

“Because I am not a king,” he said. “And legend or no legend, the blade is broken.”

“But it still could have been a symbol!”

“Of what? Of the elven prophecy? Defilers could just as easily claim that with Galdra broken, the prophecy has proven false. I may not have much faith in it myself, but neither do I wish to see defilers twist it to their own ends. If there is to be another elven king someday, then let it be my grandfather. The avangion will have the strength and wisdom to rule well. I find it challenging enough to rule myself.”

“But think what you have thrown away!” Ryana said with chagrin.

“I have,” said Sorak, staring into the pool where Galdra had sunk out of sight. “I have discarded the reality, and in doing so, I have preserved the legend. I do not regret my choice. Come, let us fill our waterskins. We still have a long way to go.”

They were out there tonight, waiting. Waiting with their sweaty hands and leering faces, with their tongues moistening their lips and their eyes gleaming with anticipation. Cricket could hear them, shouting and laughing boisterously, pounding on the tables and calling for more drinks. The caravan from Balic had arrived in South Ledopolus that afternoon, and tonight the place was full, packed with traders, travelers and mercenaries. The humans were the worst. Ordinarily, only a few humans frequented the house, but when a caravan was in town, they came in droves, with money clinking in their purses and hands reaching, feeling, pinching…

“All right, my lovelies, we’ve got a full house tonight,” said Turin, pulling aside the beaded curtain as he came into the dressing room. The squeaky-voiced dwarf paid no heed to the various states of undress of those within. “They’ll want their money’s worth, and I know you’ll give it them, won’t you?”

“Because when the customers get their money’s worth, they’re happy, and when the customers are happy, Turin’s happy,” Rikka chanted, imitating his high voice. Turin gave them the same speech every time a caravan came through town. Just once, thought Cricket, it would be nice to hear a different sermon.

“Don’t worry, Turin,” Rikka said, sashaying to him with a bump and grind, her large breasts bouncing as she moved. She stopped in front of Turin, who came up to about her waist. She reached down and tousled the dwarf’s thick red hair. “We’ll part them from their money, then you’ll part us from ours, as usual.”

Turin took the casual impertinence in stride. “Just remember, my dears, the more you make—”

“The more you keep,” the other girls said in unison as they continued getting dressed in their dancing costumes and applying their makeup.

“That’s absolutely right,” said Turin, rubbing his pudgy little hands together in anticipation. “And it’s a fine, rich caravan this time, from the House of Jhamri. They’re fresh from delivering goods to Balk, and they’ve got plenty of money in their purses. It’s our duty to ease their burden a bit on the return trip. So let’s have a good show tonight, and be sure to circulate among the patrons when it’s not your turn on stage. We want them drunk, diverted, and delighted.”

“Wasted, wanton, and wiped out,” said Rikka with a grin, kissing Turin on the top of his head.

“Exactly,” said the dwarf. He patted her rear end affectionately, and his hand lingered a bit too long.

Turin was like an old woman shopping at a fruit stall, thought Cricket. He had to feel everything. He had his favorites among the girls, and the. ones who indulged him the most were allowed the most leeway. Nevertheless, Cricket had not followed their example, and whenever Turin reached for her, she adroitly moved away.

Turin had not pressured her, at least not on his own behalf, but on several occasions, he had drawn her aside and made a point of telling her she ought to be more friendly to the patrons. Being “friendly” meant sitting at tables, or better, on laps, allowing certain intimacies as patrons bought her drinks—which were no more than colored water—and asking if they would like a private show upstairs. For a fee, patrons of the Desert Damsel could rent a room, paying by the half hour, and receive a private dance. Any other transactions that occurred there, behind closed doors, were extra. That was how the other girls made most of their money.

Cricket was the exception. She had never gone upstairs with any of the customers, and she would sit at their tables only so long as they kept their hands to themselves. The moment any of them tried to touch her, she would politely excuse herself and leave.

“A word with you, Cricket, if I may?” said Turin to the half-elf, coming to her side as the other girls filed out of the small dressing room.

“If it is the same word, then it is the same reply,” said Cricket, checking her makeup in the mirror. Even sitting, she was the same height as he.

Turin shook his head. “Cricket, Cricket, Cricket,” he said, petulantly. “Why must you be so difficult?”

“I am not difficult at all,” she replied, carefully applying a bit more rouge to her cheeks. “I always come to work on time, and I never short the house on its share of the tips, as some of the other girls do. I am never rude to any of the customers, nor do I sit on their laps to pick their pockets. I was hired to dance, and that is what I do. If anything more was expected of me as a condition of my employment, you should have made it plain in the beginning.”

The pudgy dwarf sighed with resignation. “You take unfair advantage of me,” he said in a whining tone. “You are the most striking-looking girl I’ve got, and the best dancer, too. You know I could not afford to lose you… By the way, which of the girls short me on the tips?”

Cricket smiled. “That would be telling tales.”

Turin grimaced. “Well, I expect most of them do,” he said with a shrug. “Why should you be any different?”

“Because I do not break my agreements,” she replied, turning to face him. “If I compromised on my agreement with you, it would be only a short step to compromising on my agreements with myself, and I do not wish to lose my focus.”

“Your focus?” he repeated with a smile. “That is a dwarven concept. What would a half-elf girl know about focus?”

“I know what dwarves have taught me,” she replied. “It is a very useful concept, and I am a quick study.”

“And what is your focus?” Turin asked with a condescending little smile.

“You of all people should know better than to ask a thing like that,” said Cricket, raising her eyebrows.

Turin nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “One’s focus is a private thing. I see that you have learned at least that much. Forgive me for my rudeness.”

“No offense was meant, and none taken.”

Turin smiled. “Spoken like a dwarf,” he said, “Whoever taught you, taught you well.”

“I live in a dwarven village,” she replied. “I try to learn the customs, as a courtesy.”

“You are an unusual young woman,” Turin said. “You are not like the others.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “that is a large part of my appeal.”

“And some of the other girls resent you for it.”

“They all resent me for it,” she said. “But I did not come here to make friends, only to make money.”

“And only on your own terms,” said Turin.

“The other girls are already busy out there, circulating, yet you always remain backstage until it is your turn to dance. You could make a great deal more if you were more forthcoming with customers, you know.”

“On the contrary, I would make a great deal less,” said Cricket.