As I watch, he finishes and swats her bare ass, then steps away fastening his breeches. He’s barely three steps away before another man takes his place, gives the woman a coin and undoes his pants. Part of me is sickened, anguished by the memories stirred within my breast, but another part is sympathetic. I understand one must do what one must to survive.
I divert my attention away from the dispassionate coupling and head toward the public house where light spills through loosely shuttered windows, and conversation, shouts and music bubble through the doorway. I pull my cloak tight around my shoulders and against my cheeks. Better I fool some into thinking I’m a man for a while.
At the doorway, I’m uncertain if I look upon a party or a riot. Bodies press together, their sweaty heat keeping the chill night outside the room. A man stumbles past and vomits on the porch outside the door, some of his spew splashing unnoticed onto the bare calves of the man more concerned about getting his money’s worth from the disinterested whore.
In a corner of the room, a scared-looking musician strums a lute and sings words no one hears above the noise of the revelers. To my right is a long bar, its surface nicked and splintered by years of misuse. People dance on it, kicking over others’ drinks; one such incident sparks a fight, but the crowd swallows the combatants and I can’t see the outcome of the skirmish, so I move toward the bar, hoping to gather information.
It’s impossible to tell if the man dispensing drinks is the barkeep or just another inebriated partier. He’s at least as drunk as everyone else and spills more liquor on the stained wooden surface than he pours into the chipped cups. There’s no point asking questions of any of these people. If I interrogated and threatened until the sun rose, I wouldn’t receive coherent answers.
Resigned to wait until the morrow, I take a cup from the bar and carefully choose an edge from which to drink to avoid cutting my lip. The strong liquor burns my throat. It doesn’t refresh me but leaves a warmth in my stomach that’s not uncomfortable. Too much would certainly leave a pain in my head.
I push my way back through the throng toward the door. A man grumbles as I force my way past, another simply topples at my touch, his drink spilling down his companion’s front. The man looks like he’ll make trouble over it, but my stern expression changes his mind.
Halfway to the door, a hand catches my arm, spins me around. I grab the hilt of my dagger and free half an inch of steel, expecting to see the man with the wet shirt, but it’s not.
“I knows you,” this new man says, the lanterns’ light gleaming in the line of saliva running from the corner of his mouth. He might be attractive if not for that and the missing teeth. And the bulbous nose. And the patchy beard. “If I don’t knows ya, I sure wants to.”
His hand finds my breast at precisely the instant my blade finds his belly. I pull him close, burying the steel all the way to the hilt, enjoying the surprised look on his face.
“You don’t know me,” I whisper. “You never will.”
I pull the blade free and step away, holding it in front of me to counter any retribution from him or his companions. His hand falls away from my chest and goes to his belly. He stares at the blood on his fingers, then looks up at me before the writhing crowd absorbs him. I don’t wait to see if he survives or if his friends care what happened. I push my way through the drunken mob and stumble out the door into the cool night, leaving the smell of stale beer and vomit behind. The whore still leans against the railing cleaning her nails; her skirt is back in place, covering her ass. No men are standing around awaiting their turns. I go to her, lean against the railing beside her, facing the other direction to avoid showing my back to the door.
“If’n you wants a turn, you gotta pay,” she says without looking away from her fingers.
“I don’t want a turn.”
At the sound of my voice, she turns her head and appraises me.
“Half price for the ladies,” she says and smiles.
All of her front teeth are gone and I wonder if it happened in a brawl or if she removed them herself to offer special services for her clients. This close, I can tell she’s seen no more than sixteen years.
“Not interested. I’m here to find a man.”
Her smile disappears. “If’n you undercuts me, I’ll slice you.”
She bounces the knife she used to clean her nails in her hand, a lazy threat. Now it’s my turn to smile.
“Not just any man, a man named Khirro.”
She snorts a laugh through her nose. “Ain’t no heroes in Poltghasa, darlin’.”
“Not ‘hero’, ‘Khirro’, with a k.”
“Ain’t none of them here, neither.” She turns and leans with her back against the rail, her shoulder brushing mine. “If you ask nice, I might consider givin’ you more of a discount. Maybe even a freebie.” She shows her gap teeth again.
Memories of nights spent with my nose buried in perfumed hair come to me, bringing with them sadness and anger. The man called Khirro is responsible for taking it from me. Nothing matters but finding him.
“Thanks anyway,” I say and move toward the steps. “I’ll be in town. If you hear of a man called Khirro, find me.”
I feel her eyes on me as I stride down the steps and consider turning back to tell her that life doesn’t have to be this way, but I don’t. We all have to choose our own lives, for better or for worse.
“Come back and see me anytime. I’m right here every night.”
My boot has just touched the dirt at the bottom of the steps when I hear the clamor of people bursting out of the public house, the wooden door slamming against the wall.
“That’s the one, there,” a voice yells, words slurred by drink. “That’s the one what knifed Creeg.”
I turn slowly, without bothering to pull my steel yet. There are five of them leaning drunkenly on one another. One of them points at me, his face twisted into a scowl made humorous by the amount of ale he’s consumed. I can’t help but laugh at him, and my laughter serves to anger them further.
“Your man deserved what he got,” I say knowing my voice will give away the secret I hoped to hide with my cloak. If they know they’ve been slighted by a woman, perhaps it will insight them more.
I can only hope.
The first one stumbles down the stairs, falling onto my sword as I draw it. I spit on him as he slides to the ground, showing his friends I’m disappointed by the ease with which he gave up his life.
Two more come at me, blades bared, and in the wan light of the lanterns hanging on the patio, I see the rust of misuse on their swords. One lunges at me. I step aside and the hilt of my sword shatters his jaw. The woman leaning on the railing hoots and claps despite the man who’s taken up position behind her. I determine that when I’m finished with these ones, I’ll kill him, too.
The second man takes his time, stalking me like he wants me to think he knows what he’s doing. Another man has come down the stairs behind him, but the fifth is gone, disappeared back into the saloon, either scared off or gone for help. I care not either way.
The man circles behind me so he and his companion are on either side. I draw my dagger in preparation for the simultaneous attack they’d be fools not to attempt. They don’t disappoint, at least not from a strategy point of view. In terms of skill and challenge, they offer little more than their dead friends. Dodge, stroke, parry, thrust. In less than fifteen seconds, they are both lying in the dirt, their blood draining to feed the worms and I haven’t broken a sweat.