The Barrow (10 page)

Stjepan paused at the Fountain of Ymaire, where he would continue down Sea Way toward Low Plaza and the baths, leaving Erim to turn onto Cobble Street to make her way toward her rooms above Fuller Cort's Laundries. His gaze scanned the morning crowd of laborers and artisans heading to work or the markets. He listened to the wind, heard the cries of shop clerks and heralds, the rattle and clang of industry, the call of gull and cormorant. He sniffed the air, smelt horse offal and human piss, baking bread and wafting perfume, hearth fires and the salty brine of the bay.
It's not home, but at least it smells clean
, he thought. He looked up and saw vultures circling in the air, high above the city.

“I wasn't kidding; if you're followed, run,” called out Stjepan.

“I wasn't kidding either; fuck you, Black-Heart,” Erim called back in response.

She watched him angle off down the narrow Way. She was always amazed at how Stjepan could look both completely at ease almost everywhere he went and yet not seem to be a part of the place he was in. He seemed at ease roughing it in the wilderness, with not a soul around for miles, and at ease moving through the busiest parts of the city, as though he was comfortable being in his own skin, and she was a bit envious of that. But at the same time there was always something different about him, and it wasn't just that he was an Athairi in the middle of an Aurian city, or that he was wood-born in the Erid Wold but had a University education.
It's the look in his eyes
, she decided.
That look of judgment, as though he's not one of you; half the world sees that look and wants to get away from him. The other half instantly wants his approval.
She watched him disappear down the street, then turned away.

Though she was city-born, Erim felt like she could hold her own in the country—at least Stjepan had felt she could, which was good enough for her. She might not have Stjepan's knack for sights and sounds, or know the name of the bird making a lovely song, or which leaves from what plant could make a poultice for an infected cut. But she didn't have to have a roof over her head, or a bed under her, to fall asleep at night, though admittedly she preferred it. She liked to look up and count the stars, and see if she could guess which one was a great hero and which wasn't. She didn't fall behind, or complain, or step on the wrong twig at the wrong moment like some city folk might.

But she always felt like she risked doing something wrong, of not seeing the danger signs when they were coming. The country often made her feel lonely, and small. The general lack of human contact, of human structure, of the
man
-
made
, left her at a loss. She didn't understand its rituals and behaviors, the languages and signs of animals and birds and trees, of hunters and farmers, its codes and rules. The deeper she went into the countryside, the more tenuous became the rule of the Middle Kingdoms; so tenuous, so risky, that deviance from its considered norms could bring ruin and disaster. Where Stjepan found freedom and open air to breathe, she found constriction and confusion. In the country, amongst either Danians or Aurians, a woman dressed as a man wouldn't want to be discovered, for in her experience country folk tended to be more fixed in their ways than city folk, and looked askance at anything different. Except the Athairi, perhaps, but they were different than just about everyone else anyway, thanks to their varied ancestries, their
fae
blood and Düréan blood, the touch of magic that sparked within them.

Or unless, as amongst the hill folk of the Manon Mole, or maybe the savage clans that filled the Highlands of Daradja and the Mael Kingdoms of the west, that a traveler was so far outside of civilization that the rules of culture no longer applied, and a descent into barbarism was the inevitable result. But someone like her could hardly think of such wild places, amongst outlaws and brigands and barbarians, as places of safety or refuge.

Cities were where the civilization of the Middle Kingdoms had its deepest roots, where Divine King culture felt at its strongest, and therefore cities were where cracks could appear and be tolerated, where deviance and difference took an honored place beside and within the rush and roar of commerce. Back in a city, her adopted city, she started to feel the many layers of herself again.
I know this
, she thought.
I know what to do.
She knew how to read the street and ken where trouble was brewing, when to step to one side so the ashen-faced herald on his galloping horse missed her, where to buy the best fresh-baked bread in the city (the Date & Plum on Baker Street), how to avoid getting her purse cut on Upland Street. She knew the names of the Princes of the Guild, even if she didn't know their faces, and of many of the Marked. She knew where all the brothels were, and which dancing girls in the taverns on Wall Street and the Street of Furs were willing to give the customers a little extra for the right word and tip, and where the rent boys sold themselves over in the Old Quarter. She knew where, if she were running low on coin, she could earn her next meal, doing something that sent a little shiver of a thrill up her spine.

She felt a nervous excitement, her skin alive and tingling with the possibilities of a city, her city. The city made it so easy, dangled every vice and temptation in front of her, and promised to look the other way. It
rewarded
her when she gave in, when she said
yes, please
. She could see it in the moon-eyes that young serving girls were giving the knights prancing by on their finely caparisoned steeds, hear it in the wolf whistles that ne'er-do-wells hanging on the corner gave to a young strumpet strutting by, in the occasional long glance that a man or a woman would send her way.
The city is calling you: we're all going to Hell, you fit right in here, so come along with us for a fine fucking ride.
She swallowed and pressed ahead for home.

She found herself almost short of breath, flush with excitement, when she arrived in front of Fuller Cort's Laundries, and dismounted and led Cúlain-mer into the rear courtyard, greeted by the familiar sight of laundry lines hanging with sheets and shirts, the smell of soap and bleach and perfumes, and the singing voices of the washerwomen. The mute young stable boy, Giles, came and took her horse with a grin and a short bow. His silent greeting was followed by a long
meow
from a large calico cat, one of the yard cats the house kept for ratting, and she bent down to scratch its head. She'd nicknamed it The Countess, after the notorious Countess Uthella, wife of the Earl of Uthmark, though she didn't dare use that name out loud. She slung her satchels and bags over her shoulder before stepping into the back halls. It didn't take long for the mistress of the house to spot her.

“Ah, Master Erim, you've returned!” the plump, shiny woman called out.

“Lady Cort, it's good to be back,” Erim said with a slight bow. Everyone called her Lady Cort, even though she didn't have a drop of noble blood in her.

“Fuller's over on the other side of the laundries, he'll be so very glad to see you,” Lady Cort said, and Erim blushed and nodded. She headed off through the laundry rooms, past the huge vats of steaming water, ignoring the giggles and glances of the women working. She found Fuller Cort paying out some coins to a deliveryman near the front doors of the laundry.

“Young Master Erim,” said Fuller, glancing over at her.

“Your wife said you'd be here, Master Cort, and I am glad she was right as usual,” replied Erim with a stiff bow. Fuller looked her over once with his beady eyes, long and slow, and smiled, dismissing the deliveryman with a nod.

“You owe me thirty shillings, Master Erim,” said Fuller when they were more or less alone. “We held your rooms like you asked, while you were gone, with the promise of payment upon your return. That's two months of winter you owe us for, and now spring is upon us a full ten days.”

“I have the money, Master Cort,” she said huskily, looking up at him from under her dark bangs. She fished out one of the gold crowns that Stjepan had given her, and dropped it in Fuller's open palm; he looked surprised and almost disappointed. “The expedition didn't go as we thought, and a full return on our efforts might take a little while longer. But I'm told it will be considerable.”

“Well done, Master Erim,” said Fuller, with a smile that seemed forced. “I've been very patient, and have kept this a secret between you and me. I have had to deceive my wife, and tell her that you are up to date in your payments.”

“For which I am eternally grateful, Master Cort,” said Erim quietly. “I hope to be able to leave some small coin on deposit, should I have to leave again soon.”

They looked at each other for a bit longer in awkward silence.

“Well then, I assume you'll want a bath, after your long journey,” said Fuller finally. “I'll have some of the girls bring up hot water to your rooms. So you can get nice and clean.”

“Thank you, Master Cort,” said Erim, with a short bow. She felt his eyes on her backside as she left.

She was happy to wend her way up several flights of old wood stairs to the loft room she let up on the top floor of the laundry building, followed by the softly padding paws of The Countess. It had taken her a while to find the right place to live in the city; the building was old and made of plastered stone, and often the odors from the laundry downstairs were a bit overwhelming, but the Corts largely let her alone and didn't ask too many questions, though she was certain Fuller Cort very much wanted to. The loft was quiet, and isolated, and the building, being a laundry, had lots of pipes put in, and most importantly her space came with its own copper bathtub. Stjepan could head off to the public baths, but she couldn't. She opened the shutters to let in light and air, glancing about at the rooftops and balconies nearby, then unpacked and stowed her things and checked on the odds-and-ends she'd left behind while some of the washerwomen brought up buckets of hot, steaming water to fill the tub. Some of them would giggle and blush and smile, and she eyed a few speculatively, but most were plump, and plain, and looking for something she couldn't offer them.

She waited until they were done and gone, then slipped the latch on the door, and undressed as The Countess prowled about the loft, reclaiming her territory. She slid into the hot water with silent thanks, and brought soap and sponge nearby so she could begin her bath. Soon soapsuds covered the surface of the water and she was scrubbing the dirt and filth of the road from her body. Like her face, her body was lean, hard, almost boyish; sword work and fight training had given her strong shoulders and arms, a limber back, long muscular legs. She was the opposite of the soft, curvy ideal so prized by Danian and Aurian custom, which suited her just fine.

Her fingers slipped between her legs, and she started to clean herself, and as she did her mind wandered. She could feel pressure in her chest and the back of her throat, a slight shortness of breath. Her mind drifted to Stjepan, and poor handsome Guilford, and to a pretty young Danian woman who had smiled at her on the High Promenade. Her breath grew quicker, and her fingers were no longer engaged in cleaning.

She didn't allow herself to finish, but stood up after a bit, the water slicking off her warm skin. She dried off with a towel, and slipped a long, fresh, clean linen shirt over her head that came down to almost mid-thigh, and went and sat down on her bed. She could smell bleach and flowers from the fresh sheets.

There's so much to do today
, she thought.
The whole city beckons, and I've got fresh coin in my pocket
.
And then Gilgwyr's tonight, and the start of our new adventure. Gladringer, the sword of the High Kings. One for the history books, indeed.
Despite her excitement, she could feel the lids of her eyes growing heavy, her breath slowing as she lay back against the goose down pillow. She didn't want to fall asleep; she was picturing herself wandering the Grand Promenade, and perhaps eating some fried fish down at the food stands at the Plaza of the Bay, thinking of all the ways she could get herself into a bit of trouble, but the soft bed felt very good beneath her. The Countess leapt up onto the bed, and curled up next to her and started purring and licking herself. Erim scratched her behind the ears, and stroked her soft fur.

And soon Erim was fast asleep, softly snoring as the temple bells rang the call for mid-morning prayers in the distance.

Gilgwyr walked down the street, his cock freshly sucked and the world his oyster. He didn't just walk, no; he
strode
, he
sauntered
, he
strutted
. He whistled a jaunty tune, a self-satisfied smirk playing across his long, narrow features.
Today is a great day
, he thought.
Truly, a blessed day
.

Having a freshly sucked cock was not the cause of such joy. Indeed, for Gilgwyr, being the owner of a brothel, a freshly sucked cock would hardly have been something to brag about. He took great pride, however, in not sampling the wares of his own shop needlessly. He considered it beneath him, the mark of a poor pimp, to demand services from the women in his employ—or for that matter from the handful of men, and those in between, that called his establishment, the Sleight of Hand, their home, for Gilgwyr was well known as a genuine libertine willing to cater to just about every predilection, despite the threat of the holy writ of the Inquisition of the Sun Court. Gilgwyr considered himself an expert in the many varieties of female flesh that crossed the city from the corners of the Known World, and at one point or another had sampled them all. The local women—dark-haired, fair-skinned Danians and blonde-haired, fair-skinned Aurians, or those who mixed both lineages—could certainly be beautiful enough, though they tended to be soft and perhaps a bit plump for his tastes and, given the teachings of the Divine King that most had been brought up with, given to more conservative sexual habits. Dark-haired Maecite girls from the Watchtower Coast and the cursed hills of the west tended to be short and scrawny and a bit underfed, but were usually wild in the sack. The Athairi were rare in an establishment like his; their
fae
-born looks and lithe bodies made them an exotic treat, but their culture, steeped in the Old Religion, was quite liberal, and the notion of charging money for sexual favors was somewhat alien to them. But every now and then he would luck out and an Athairi dancer from a traveling troupe would spend some pleasant hours entertaining his customers on her back just for the fun of it. Or even better an Athairi man, as the blood of satyrs often ran deep in their veins.