Kellanved's Reach

She turned, blinking anew, and squinting. A huge number of bravos now faced her though their number kept changing. She waved at them too. ‘Stop all this damned changing!’

Someone grasped her arm from behind. She slammed her free palm into that person’s nose, and turned in time to find someone else charging her; she planted her foot into his stomach. Two grabbed each arm. She kicked each in turn in the head.

Then she had to pause to hold her own head. It was throbbing as if a knife had penetrated it. And everything kept wobbling from side to side – why wouldn’t it just stop?

Someone took her in a bear-hug. She threw her head back, smacking into his or her nose with a crunch. A kick to her leg brought her down to her knees. She grabbed her assailant’s crotch and pulled him down with her.

A blow to her head darkened her vision momentarily. She leaned down to her hands and lashed out with one leg, taking that attacker in the stomach. Another blow to the head and she grasped that foe’s shirt to pull herself up, taking him in a headlock and driving his head into a timber post.

She spun to face any others, but that was a mistake as the inn would not stop spinning and spinning, faster and faster, and she blinked, her vision darkening, until the floor hit her face and that was all she knew.

She awoke in a bed. A bed that stank of sweat and puke – unless that was her – in a room decorated garishly with hanging silken wraps and paintings of nudes. Rather like, well, a bordello. Her head ached abominably and her mouth tasted vile.

A carafe of water sat next to the bed, along with a glass. She sat up, gingerly, and gulped down a glassful of water. Her clothes were dirty and sticky with sweat, and her knuckles were crusted in blood. She felt her head – her hair too was matted in blood, over the lumps.

She staggered to the door, opened it, found a narrow hall lined by numerous similar doors.

She was now certain that, yes, she was in fact within a bordello.

A door opened across the hall and she was surprised to find herself facing not a woman but a slim young male, his eyes heavily shadowed, his lips painted. Caught in mid-yawn the fellow nearly choked, staring. ‘Burn’s mercy, lass, but you’re a mess!’ he exclaimed.

‘Thank you so very much. How the fuck do I get out of here?’

He pointed up the hall. She went, thinking, well, they must cater to everyone here.

She found stairs that led down to a sort of salon, or parlour, call it what you would. Here the girls and boys were gathered, relaxing, clearly off duty. All conversation stopped and everyone stared.

‘I’m leaving,’ she announced. ‘Where’s the door?’ Several pointed. ‘Thank you.’ She headed that way and found another hall leading to a sturdy exterior door.

‘You owe me!’ came a harridan’s screech. Iko paused, her hand inches from the latch. ‘Or shall I call the authorities?’ She turned. A bent ancient, as garishly made up as the premises, faced her.

‘I have no coin to pay you,’ she said.

The old woman gestured impatiently. ‘I know. I had you searched.’

‘So?’

She crooked a bent finger. ‘Come. Let us talk business.’

She was led through a series of narrow, private staircases to what proved to be a verdant roof garden. Here Iko shielded her eyes, blinking; it had been some time since she’d been outside. The ancient picked up a jug and began watering large, oddly shaped flowers of a sort Iko had never seen before. ‘Very rare, these,’ the old woman told her. ‘I sell them for a good price – not unlike those downstairs.’ She gestured to chairs round a low table. ‘Sit.’

Iko did not move. ‘Why?’

‘Because you have nowhere else to go.’

She crossed her arms. ‘And how is it you know so much about me?’

The ancient sighed, set down the jug and crossed to sit in one of the chairs. She picked up a long-stemmed pipe from the table and began the rather laborious process of preparing d’bayang powder for smoking. Doing so, she gestured to a pot. ‘Tea.’

Iko dropped her arms and sat. She poured herself a cup and sipped – quite good. An expensive cut. ‘I’ll not serve in your whorehouse,’ she said.

The woman gasped on a lungful of smoke. ‘Gods no! I should think not! That would not end well for the client, I imagine.’ She shook her head. ‘No. Not that.’ She relit the pipe with a long sliver of wood from a brazier on the table. ‘You may call me Wen. I am quite old and have seen many people come and go. I know your type. You are from the military – an officer perhaps. But now you are out, discharged or otherwise. Some scandal no doubt.’

Iko drew breath to object but the woman waved for silence. ‘I care not. All that matters is that you have talents. Gods, you can fight, girl! Those are the talents I want.’

She curled her lip. ‘Bloodsports.’

A shake of the head. ‘Goddess, no. A waste, that. No, keeping the peace. Sometimes there is trouble and I need someone who can quietly, and efficiently, restore order.’

‘I’m sure you have all sorts of bravos and arm-twisters available.’