Forest Mage (The Soldier Son Trilogy #2)

Forest Mage (The Soldier Son Trilogy #2) Page 180

He opened his hands wide, as if acknowledging the obvious. “Prey to desertion is an understatement.” he added quietly. “And things will only get worse after our ‘visiting dignitaries’ see how we’ve lost our shine.”

“Do you think they’ll rotate us out of Gettys?” I asked him, and felt a vague stirring of hope.

He looked at me flatly. “Never, never, Nevare.” He smiled at his own words. “They may rotate the regiment out, but you and I, we shall never leave this place. The magic lives here, and the magic owns us.”

“Speak for yourself,” I told him irritably. I was getting more than a bit tired of being told I was a puppet plaything. “Where my regiment goes, I follow. I’m at least that much of a soldier still.”

He smiled a different kind of smile. “Well. I’m sure there’s no arguing with you. When the time comes, we’ll see who stays or goes. Right now, I’m the one to go. I’ve a dark cold ride ahead of me, and a warmer one after that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m off to the whorehouse, man.” He looked at me consideringly. “Why don’t you join me? Probably do you good.”

“Thought you said you never paid for it.”

“You know any man who admits that he does? Why don’t you come with me, and you can pay for both of us?”

“Another time,” I said reflexively.

“Pining away for Amzil? Put her out of your mind, man. No one rides that mare, save that she want to carry him.”

“I’m not pining for Amzil. I just owed her a favor in return for her hospitality. That was all.”

“I’m sure it was. So. The whores, then?”

It was a cold dark ride to town, and all the way there, I questioned my own wisdom. But there are times in the heart of winter when a man doesn’t want to be wise, only satiated. If Hitch hadn’t brought up the idea to me, I doubt that I’d have gone. But once it was presented, I couldn’t think of any good reason to turn it down. I was tired of being alone and cold, and I needed something to scrub the shame of cowardice from my soul. So I went.

We rode up to a long low building on the edge of Gettys Town. The snow was well trampled outside it, and six saddled horses waited sullenly in the cold. There were no windows.

I suggested that we enter separately. Hitch told me he didn’t particularly care who knew that we knew one another, but he gave way to my request. So, some moments after he had thumped on the rough wooden door and been admitted, I knocked. They let me stand outside in the dark for a few more moments. The man who opened the door was a big, burly fellow. He wore a white shirt, a bit grimy at the collars and cuffs, and made-over cavalla trousers. He was thick-necked and solidly muscled and scowling. Yet as he ran his eyes over me, his scowl gave way to a delighted grin. “Hey, Glory-girl!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I got a fellow here who’ll match you pound for pound. Here’s finally a man you’ll notice when he’s between your thighs.”

“Clamp your jaws, Stiddick. You know I’m not working tonight. My Auntie Flo’s come calling. Less that’s something you prefer, big man?” A large, heavy woman in a very tight pink gown loomed up from the dimness behind the man. Tall as he was, she looked over his shoulder easily; I’d never seen a woman so tall. She raised the corner of her upper lip at me in a crooked cat smile. “Well. Look at you. Let him by, Stiddick. Mama Moggam, come take a look at this one!”

Sarla Moggam stepped up, seized my wrist, and dragged me past both of them. With both Stiddick and Glory no longer blocking my view, I was finally free to peruse the room.

Erotic tapestries draped the walls. Several scantily clad women lounged on chairs scattered throughout the room. The lamps on the low tables had their wicks turned down, and their glass shades were pink or violet. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness and my nose took in the smells of the place, my expectations dropped. I was still in Gettys. The trappings of the brothel were tired and worn. Smoke had dimmed the florid pink flesh of the preposterous nude in the painting over the fireplace. The dingy carpet that floored the room needed beating. A huge fire roared in the big hearth at the end of the room, but its warmth was feeble where I stood. There were three tables with chairs around them, mostly unoccupied. At one a man sprawled, facedown on the table. His lax hands still clutched at an emptied bottle. Hitch was nowhere to be seen.

There were four other women in the room besides Glory. Sarla Moggam was the one who commanded my attention. She was a small woman, well past her middle years, with unlikely yellow hair that fell in loose ringlets to her bare shoulders. I don’t know what to call the garment she wore. It had a black lace skirt that barely brushed the tops of her knees and a beribboned top that held her breasts up as if they were in goblets. The brazenness of it would have been shocking on any woman; on someone of her years, it was appalling. The flesh of her throat was lined with wrinkles. Even in the dim light, I could see how her rouge was caught deeper in the lines of her face. She held me firmly by the wrist, as if I were a petty thief she’d caught and cackled as she turned to her girls. “Look at this one, sweeties! Who’ll have him?”