Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

If the establishment hired standing mercenaries, it would not be cheap.

Wynn seemed to realize this, too, and cast Chane a troubled glance.

“I will pay,” Ore-Locks cut in, perhaps guessing the problem. “We should stay here.”

Chane warmed with discomfort but did not argue. He should have procured more money by now. The commander nodded to Ore-Locks.

“Be certain you carry a lodger’s voucher whenever you plan to leave and still return.”

Chane nodded and reluctantly ushered Wynn in.

As Wynn followed Ore-Locks through the weatherworn, hand-carved front door, she tried to stifle her growing annoyance with Chane. Much as she was accustomed to his overprotective nature, tonight he was dangerously close to overbearing. He’d known from the start that this journey would hold surprises. True, Drist was worse than even she’d expected, but they were here. They—he—had better make the best of it. But once inside, she stopped thinking about Chane at all.

A huge oval rug of deep brown with a circular pattern of white flowers and light green, leafy vines was spread under her feet. The foyer walls were stained a rich shade of cream, with amber curtains on the windows from the high ceiling to the polished wood floor. From somewhere unseen, the soft, resonant tones of a skillfully played wooden flute filled the air, which was scented lightly with sandalwood.

“Oh ... no,” she said softly.

Unlike the old guild hotel in Chathburh, the interior here was in its prime. This was going to cost more than she’d first feared.

She half turned left to see a solid walnut counter with gold inlay. The young man behind it was well dressed in a white linen shirt and black satin vestment. His face was oval, and his skin was as olive toned as hers. His hair and eyes were both light brown, like hers.

Chane stared at him.

“May I help you?” the young man asked politely, and his gaze dropped briefly to Shade. “I am Mechaela. What do you seek this evening?”

The question seemed odd. What would weary travelers seek besides lodging?

Two men, dressed similarly to this host, walked past Wynn and into a wide parlor on the right. Neither was armed, and Wynn took a few steps, peering after them.

Low couches of plush padding filled that room. Small tables held crystal vases loaded with fresh flowers, though where such came from in late autumn, she couldn’t guess. Seascape oil paintings of unimaginable clarity graced the walls.

She spotted an archway at the far side that led into another room of similar decor. Three men sat playing cards at a polished obsidian table. Their finery might have marked them as nobility, if this had been any city but Drist. A willowy girl appeared from out of sight and poured wine for the gentlemen. Her gown of overlaid gauze was a bit revealing.

To the far left of the nearer room was a tall set of closed doors. Closer still was a curving staircase that stretched upward. What kind of place was this?

“Three rooms,” Ore-Locks said.

Wynn turned back to find him at the counter with the young host. He was already untying a lanyard strung with punched dwarven coins, or slugs.

“Two rooms,” Chane corrected, and looked down at her. “You are not staying here alone. I will sleep on the floor.”

Wynn bit the inside of her lip, not wishing to make a scene.

Mechaela raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, though he did glance at Chane’s and Ore-Locks’s sheathed blades. He reached out with one finger to tap the long iron staff leaning against the counter.

“Of course, you’ll need to relinquish your weapons. You can retrieve and return them upon coming and going.”

Chane blinked. “No.”

Ore-Locks appeared equally surprised.

Shade rumbled, perhaps sensing the sudden tension.

“Chane!” Wynn whispered. Would he ever stop being so difficult?

“No,” he repeated.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” said a smooth voice from behind them.

Wynn spun around.

A slender woman stepped out of the parlor. Delicately built, she was far taller than Wynn. Her teal silk gown, embroidered with curling vines of white blossoms, was so smoothly fitted that it moved with her, revealing her subtle curves. Shining black hair hung in long, faint waves that sparkled in the foyer’s lamplight, though her bangs were held back with a band of polished silver.

She had skin the shade of soft ivory, perhaps a bit warmer, and eyes so deep blue, they mesmerized Wynn at first. Her lashes were long, and her eyelids were powdered to match her gown.

She was ... unreal. Even Ore-Locks appeared stunned at the sight of her.

“Is there some confusion?” she asked.

Her tone didn’t imply a true question, but her voice was almost a breathy echo of the flute’s resonance. This was a woman who could stop almost any man in his tracks at twenty paces—maybe fifty.

Unfortunately, Chane was not one of those men.

“I will not relinquish my swords,” he said.

“I am Delilah, owner of this establishment,” she answered, and her gaze passed over Ore-Locks with polite interest.

Wynn felt Chane’s hand settle on her shoulder.

“I do apologize,” Delilah went on, “but all patrons, regardless of what they come for, must leave their weapons before entering. Do not be concerned. Your safety—your needs—are secured and assured by my staff.”

Wynn glanced nervously about. Their needs? Shouldn’t that be obvious?

“How,” Chane challenged, “when your interior guards do not carry weapons?”

“Mechaela requires no weapon,” Delilah answered.

Her eyes traced a smooth path from one newcomer to the next, perhaps assessing who truly made the decisions, and a smile spread across her small mouth.

“And what needs bring you to us ... sage?”

Wynn was a bit stunned. She wore only her short robe over her elven travel clothes, yet this woman knew what she was, and that she was supposedly in charge. Wynn glanced through the parlor arch at the lounging furniture, and into the room beyond that, and at the other woman in the revealing gauze dress....

Chane sucked in an audible breath and exhaled. “Domvolyné!”

Before his meaning sank in, Wynn felt his fingers clench her cloak’s shoulder and tunic. He jerked her backward toward the front door.

“We are leaving,” he said.

“Oh ... oh ...” she stammered, flushing red in the face.

A domvolyné was a house of leisure in Chane’s country. Wynn had just walked them all into a high-line brothel in the middle of a pit called Drist.

“What is wrong now?” Ore-Locks asked, and stared blankly at Chane.

There were no brothels among the dwarves.

“Oh, please, please,” Delilah called, suppressing a brief laugh with delicate fingers. “Forgive me. I meant no offense—only a playful jest. We can accommodate you.... We care well for all our patrons, by their own needs.”

Behind the counter, even Mechaela was hard-pressed not to smile.

Wynn grabbed the doorframe before Chane could haul her into the street.

“Chane, stop it. It could be the same—probably worse—everywhere here.”

“Yes, there is worse,” Delilah added, no longer amused. “Mechaela, they will need the quieter and more peaceful of our accommodations.”

He nodded. “I will place them properly in the east side of the second floor.”

“But,” Delilah added, “you must leave your weapons.”

Wynn looked to Ore-Locks, hating to turn to him for support. He sighed and handed over his iron staff before beginning to unbuckle his sword. A startled Mechaela fumbled a bit under the weight of the staff. Wynn looked back and up to Chane, his expression curled in a silent snarl.