Tosh, and they’d watched furtively through the cracks in shuttered windows as the Perranese troops had swept through Backgate. Many of the fallen were regular customers of the girls of the Wounded Bird, men they had known and serviced for years. Helpless women save for the two enormous bruisers with cudgels Tosh had met earlier. They were a pair of brothers and served as the brothel’s bouncers. He’d forgotten their names as well.
He drank half the beer in a gulp.
So the Perranese were not loved at The Wounded Bird. In the minds of the prostitutes, Tosh’s desperate act of self-defense against a lone Perranese warrior who’d merely wanted to relieve himself was nothing less than a defense of the honor of Backgate itself. Or at least that’s how it seemed to Tosh, the way the women were fussing over him. It may simply have been that the brothel was empty of patrons, many of whom now lay dead in the streets. And now here was Tosh, a soldier of Klaar, fighting for their pride.
Sort of.
He decided to retell the bit about falling off the horse. That seemed to be a crowd-pleaser, and he launched into it with the enthusiasm of a carnival jester. He exaggerated his clumsiness this time, the terror of the incident almost forgotten after four flagons of beer. When he told about crawling along the ground after the horse had thrown him, he pantomimed covering his head with his arms, his ass sticking high in the air as he scooted along. The woman clapped and laughed.
Another mug of beer appeared.
During a lull in the laughter, a lean, hawkish brunette with a shawl wrapped around herself leaned in and asked, “Did you happen to pass the guard station on Temple Street?”
The others turned to her, and she lowered her head, embarrassed. “My … my brother is posted there.”
Then he’s dead . “I’m sorry. I didn’t pass Temple Street.”
That started them all talking at once.
“Did you see Tailor’s Row? My uncle—”
“My sister lives in East Side—”
“Was Boar’s Head hit hard? I have friends who—”
“My aunt is a maid in one of the manor houses on High Point—”
“My father—”
“My cousin—”
“My priest –”
“Okay, that’s enough,” said the blonde whom Tosh had identified as the little girl’s mother. “Let the poor man be.”
Tosh was grateful. Reality had come crashing back down on him, the earlier whimsy obliterated. He felt suddenly exhausted. He sipped the last of the beer slowly. “I’m sorry, ladies. I guess I don’t really know too much.”
“I just wonder if they’ll shut us down.” The brunette pulled the shawl tighter around her. “They’ll get around to us sooner or later.”
“They won’t,” the blonde said. “Armies need brothels. Even foreign savages.”
“Don’t know if I like the idea of that,” spoke up a chubby one with frizzy hair. “Men folk from strange lands might have odd … needs. All perverted like.”
“What’s it matter which sweaty bastard is riding you?” said the red head. “Long as he pays up.”
That set off everyone talking at once again, speculating about living under Perranese rule and giving detailed accounts of just exactly what some men expected for their money, which made Tosh squirm in his seat. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the face of the blonde.
“You must be tired.”
“Yes.”
“Darshia will show you to a room,” she said. “You can rest. You’ve earned it.”
The red-haired woman lead him away from the others, down a dim hallway. Darshia, the redhead’s name is Darshia .
She opened a door and gestured him inside.
The room was small but clean, a double bed with a small nightstand and a whale oil lamp next to it. He pulled off his boots, thought about removing the rest of his clothes, decided he didn’t have the energy and fell face first onto the bed. It was soft. Fresh sheets. He heard the door click shut, raised himself on one elbow and turned to look.
Darshia was
He drank half the beer in a gulp.
So the Perranese were not loved at The Wounded Bird. In the minds of the prostitutes, Tosh’s desperate act of self-defense against a lone Perranese warrior who’d merely wanted to relieve himself was nothing less than a defense of the honor of Backgate itself. Or at least that’s how it seemed to Tosh, the way the women were fussing over him. It may simply have been that the brothel was empty of patrons, many of whom now lay dead in the streets. And now here was Tosh, a soldier of Klaar, fighting for their pride.
Sort of.
He decided to retell the bit about falling off the horse. That seemed to be a crowd-pleaser, and he launched into it with the enthusiasm of a carnival jester. He exaggerated his clumsiness this time, the terror of the incident almost forgotten after four flagons of beer. When he told about crawling along the ground after the horse had thrown him, he pantomimed covering his head with his arms, his ass sticking high in the air as he scooted along. The woman clapped and laughed.
Another mug of beer appeared.
During a lull in the laughter, a lean, hawkish brunette with a shawl wrapped around herself leaned in and asked, “Did you happen to pass the guard station on Temple Street?”
The others turned to her, and she lowered her head, embarrassed. “My … my brother is posted there.”
Then he’s dead . “I’m sorry. I didn’t pass Temple Street.”
That started them all talking at once.
“Did you see Tailor’s Row? My uncle—”
“My sister lives in East Side—”
“Was Boar’s Head hit hard? I have friends who—”
“My aunt is a maid in one of the manor houses on High Point—”
“My father—”
“My cousin—”
“My priest –”
“Okay, that’s enough,” said the blonde whom Tosh had identified as the little girl’s mother. “Let the poor man be.”
Tosh was grateful. Reality had come crashing back down on him, the earlier whimsy obliterated. He felt suddenly exhausted. He sipped the last of the beer slowly. “I’m sorry, ladies. I guess I don’t really know too much.”
“I just wonder if they’ll shut us down.” The brunette pulled the shawl tighter around her. “They’ll get around to us sooner or later.”
“They won’t,” the blonde said. “Armies need brothels. Even foreign savages.”
“Don’t know if I like the idea of that,” spoke up a chubby one with frizzy hair. “Men folk from strange lands might have odd … needs. All perverted like.”
“What’s it matter which sweaty bastard is riding you?” said the red head. “Long as he pays up.”
That set off everyone talking at once again, speculating about living under Perranese rule and giving detailed accounts of just exactly what some men expected for their money, which made Tosh squirm in his seat. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the face of the blonde.
“You must be tired.”
“Yes.”
“Darshia will show you to a room,” she said. “You can rest. You’ve earned it.”
The red-haired woman lead him away from the others, down a dim hallway. Darshia, the redhead’s name is Darshia .
She opened a door and gestured him inside.
The room was small but clean, a double bed with a small nightstand and a whale oil lamp next to it. He pulled off his boots, thought about removing the rest of his clothes, decided he didn’t have the energy and fell face first onto the bed. It was soft. Fresh sheets. He heard the door click shut, raised himself on one elbow and turned to look.
Darshia was
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