Exile's Children by Angus Wells Page A

been a terrible blow for Flysse, and she had elected to seek work in the city before burdening her family again.
    At least, she told herself, she had been able to save a few silver crowns, and Bantar was surely a wondrous place, even though working in a tavern was not the life she had envisaged. One day, she promised herself, she would find more congenial employment. But for now, theFlying Horse was the best she could find, and she would make the best of it.
    If only the inn’s patrons did not assume she was as available as most serving wenches, forever praising her beauty.… Flysse supposed she
was
pretty, but almost wished she were not. It would make life easier.
    She studied her face in the mirror she shared, like the room, with the other seven girls. It seemed to her an ordinary enough face—round and framed with blond curls, the eyes and nose a little too large to her mind, the mouth too wide. But men told her it was a sight to behold, especially Lieutenant Armnory Schweiz of the God’s Militia, who seemed quite deaf to her reiterated protestations that she did not—most definitely and unrelentingly not—wish to become his mistress.
    Most men, their advances once rejected, accepted they’d not have her and contented themselves with flirtatious comments, laughing at her blushes. But not Armnory Schweiz, who appeared determined to break down her resistance and ignored her honest avowals that she wished only to be left alone. He would be there tonight—he was there every night—and Flysse sighed unhappily at the thought. It seemed to her that the lieutenant’s watery blue eyes pierced through her clothing to study the naked flesh beneath with gloating anticipation; and no matter how she tried to avoid his hands, they always found a way to her waist or thigh or backside. She had believed the officers of the Autarchy above such behavior—before she came to Bantar. Now she knew better: since Armnory found her, she knew the men of the God’s Militia were not much different from ’sieur Shaxbrof, or any other men—save in the powers they held. Were he not a lieutenant in the Militia, she thought, I’d spill a tankard over his grinning head, or dent it on his skull. But he was, and she’d been warned of the consequences.
    With a last long sigh she finished the tidying of her hair and readied herself to go down to the taproom. She was already late, and Master Banlyn’s patience was not inexhaustible.
    When she entered the long, already smoke-filled room, the first thing she saw was Armnory Schweiz. He looked to be in his cups, but even so his eyes were focused on the door and a lecherous smile stretched his narrow lips as he spotted her. Instantly, he raised his tankard, and Flysse had no choice but to nod and go to his table.
    His smile grew broader as she approached, exposing uneven teeth stained brown by tobacco, and he brushed at his moustache like some gallant on the stage of the playhouse. As Flysse came near and reached to take his empty mug, he seized her hand, gazing earnestly at her face. She forced herself to stand, and if she did not smile, at least she did not recoil in disgust.
    â€œFlysse, dearest Flysse.” He raised her trapped hand to his lips. “Have you thought on my proposal, my dear?”
    â€œSieur, you’ve had my answer,” she told him not for the first time, repeating the lie that seemed her best defense: “I’ve a sweetheart awaiting me in Cudham.”
    â€œPah!” Schweiz dismissed with a careless wave the notion of a patient sweetheart. “Some yokel stinking of dung and sweat? Flysse, I tell you, you’ve captured my heart and I’ll not rest till I have you.”
    Flysse glanced round, hoping Master Banlyn—anyone—would come to her rescue, but there was a space about Schweiz’s table, as if his scarlet uniform created an aura that defied approach surely as any hex. There was no