A Thread in the Tangle (29 page)

Their eyes were fixed upon her, but they found it difficult to wrap their minds around her presence, so it came as a shock when she stopped in front of the tobacconist’s shop.
 
The motivation behind her action was as much of a mystery to the townsfolk as that of the seagull, which abruptly turned away from the market and flew towards the sea.
 
Their confusion was perfectly understandable, because dreams are for the sleeping; not for the minds of waking men.

Isiilde Jaal’Yasine huddled against the porch of the tobacconist shop, watching the building across the road, or rather those who came out of the building.
 
Isadora’s
Closet
was the only pleasure house on the East side of Coven, and as such, it ran a good business, day and night, benefiting from its location along the main road and its proximity to the Wise Ones’ stronghold.
 
Isiilde blew a fiery tendril of hair away from her face as she watched the patrons coming and going, but unfortunately, there were eyes on her as well.
 
She glanced nervously at one such pair, and secured her warm cloak about her body, hoping that the fine wool fabric would deter their lingering stares.

A gust of wind threatened to blow her cowl back.
 
She reached up to pull it down, concealing her face and ears, but the meager bit of cloth did nothing for the shock of vibrant curls that refused to be confined.
 
The cloak was well made, and therefore expensive, which attracted far more attention than she liked.
 
Isiilde vowed to wear a less conspicuous cloak the next time she undertook an errand of secrecy, but this one was warm—a gift from Marsais after she burned down the cottage.

The accident seemed like a lifetime ago.
 
But at other times, it felt as if she were stuck in the moment when the fire had surged from the hearth to consume her body.
 
The memory was both breathtaking and terrifying, and the nymph pushed it out of her mind, focusing on the task at hand.
 
Trouble had found her yet again, or rather, she had found it.

Isiilde sighed, running her thumb over the rune-etched flagon hidden beneath her cloak.
 
The sort of trouble she had found this time was an entirely different sort than she had fallen into before (perhaps not as serious as killing Miera Malzeen).
 
Regardless, there was no going back now.
 
She had already skipped her lessons, slipped past the guards, out of the castle, and into town.
 
Since it was only a matter of time before the guards alerted Oenghus that they had lost the nymph (again), she was sure he would be furious if she didn’t have a proper excuse.
 
She desperately hoped her excuse would be Marsais (if he ever came out of the pleasure house).

By the Jack of Fools, what could possibly be taking him so long?
 
She muttered under her breath, cursing her foolishness, and wished her troubles would disappear, however, they remained, and so she stood on the muddy street, willing her master to appear.

Her luck had went sour an hour before noontime, while she was tinkering with the Gnomish Crystals in the Spine.
 
She had been spying on the town from her private perch when she happened to see Marsais walking through the streets of Coven, in the rain, without a hood.
 
Amused with this bit of luck, she had followed his progress through town—first to the tobacconist shop and then directly across the street where he had disappeared inside the pleasure house.

Surprised, she had watched the building for a time, eventually growing bored.
 
She’d moved on to other amusements, which had unfortunately landed her in this current predicament.

Doubt wiggled its insidious suggestions into her thoughts, and she had to admit that they held considerable merit.
 
While she was getting into mischief, Marsais might have slipped out of the building.
 
And despite the direness of her situation, a part of her hoped he had already left, because her errand might garner his wrath.

But what choice did she have?
 
Marsais was the only one who could help her.

Two men, Kamberian traders by the look of them, staggered out of the pleasure house.
 
She watched with mild curiosity as one of the men sauntered over to a nearby wall.
 
He slumped against the sturdy stone for support, unbuttoned his trousers, and began pissing on his boots with all the stoic pride of a drunkard.

Isiilde wrinkled her nose at the brute and leaned closer to the porch, huddling in its shadow.
 
The two men continued on their drunken way, bellowing the latest verse about the Bastard of the Seas.
 
Isiilde listened to their tuneless slurs, memorizing the new verse.
 
She had to agree with Oenghus—the songs were clearly intended to be sung by the inebriated.

The nymph chewed nervously on her lip as she searched the sky for the sun that was lurking behind the clouds.
 
It was well past midday and she was running out of time.
 
Tightening her grip on the empty flagon, she jammed the steel cork into the top, and gathered courage around her like a cloak.
 
With the dedication of a soldier, she strode across the muddy street towards
Isadora’s Closet
and
charged the doors.
 
However, once inside, her resolve faltered.
 
Unfortunately, the common room was so choked with patrons that she was jostled away from the exit like a twig caught in a river.

The common room was packed with jeering revelers who were behaving as if it were the Feast of Fools.
 
Barmaids wove in and out of the chaos as surefooted as acrobats, balancing heavy trays and dodging groping patrons with flashing smiles.
 
The air was thick with pipe smoke, the floor covered in nutshells, and Isiilde’s eardrums pulsed with the tune of bawdy songs that sparked her curiosity.
 
As chaotic as the common room was now, she wondered what the evening was like.

Isiilde froze in mid-step, gawking at a pale woman who wore a few strands of silk over a body that glowed with ethereal light.
 
The woman stood on top of a table while men elbowed each other out of the way, fighting for her attention.
 
When one had caught the pale woman’s eye, he eagerly opened his mouth.
 
She put her toes between the chosen’s lips and poured a shimmering red liquor down her leg.
 
The man drank eagerly, licking every last drop from her skin.

A group of sailors knocked the nymph over, tearing her attention from the odd game.
 
The mariners were engaged in a battle of sorts, one mounted atop his partner’s shoulders, fighting an equally arranged pair.
 
They careened around the room with wild shouts.
 
She scrambled to her feet and ducked through the crowd, still puzzling over the men and the woman’s foot.

This, she decided, was no place for her.
 
She searched frantically for an exit, but the door was nowhere in sight.
 
The press of bodies pushed her relentlessly towards the long bar as if that were the natural place for any twig to end up.
 
The crowd shifted, a raucous cheer rose to deafening heights.
 
The mass opened, and she darted through the opening, stumbling through an archway that had been carved to depict a mass of entangled limbs.

The room beyond was less populated, and therefore quieter.
 
A foreign smoke hung in the room—thick as a sea’s fog, leaving her confused and drifting.
 
Shapes moved in the murky air, slow and seductive.
 
Gradually her eyes adjusted, picking out details in the intimate setting.
 
She pushed her cowl back and blinked, gazing around with dreamy wonder as silken voices and throaty moans tickled her ears.

Patrons lay on mounds of cushions, writhing in perfect imitation of the limbs carved on the archway.
 
She tried not to stare, but as usual, curiosity triumphed.
 
Unabashedly, she watched two women wrapping themselves around a moaning man.

“Pull your hood up and get out of here, girl,” a voice hissed in her ear.
 
Isiilde jerked in surprise.
 
A massive shape with two pale blue eyes filled her vision.
 
For a startling moment she feared it was Oenghus, but where her protector was dark and stormy, this man was fair and calm with a shock of blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard.

“This is no place for you.
 
If you’re lookin’ for work, then take my advice and find another profession.”
 
Isiilde took a hasty step back, staring up at the Nuthaanian.
 
His words registered, and she quickly did as he suggested, tugging her cowl up to conceal her distinctive features.

“I’m looking for a man,” she explained, glancing uneasily at the men in the room.
 
Many of whom had surfaced from their pleasures to take note of her.
 
An iron hand locked on her shoulder, but before she could squirm away, the hand steered her down an empty hallway.
 
The pale blue eyes that loomed above her were hard.
 
A memory surfaced.
 
She remembered Oenghus mentioning a Nuthaanian who worked as a pleasure house guard in Coven: Breeman, a fellow countryman.

“Take my advice, girl, this is no place to find a man.
 
I’m sure you won’t find it too difficult to catch a decent fellow with eyes like yours, but you’re a bit young yet.
 
Give it a few years, all right?”
 
The Nuthaanian snapped his head up, growling at a man who had come to leer from the doorway.

“No—” she said, but her tongue was numb and the word slurred.
 
“I need Marsais.”
 
It was all she could manage to say.

“Don’t know who you’re talkin’ about.”
 
Breeman produced a vial from his trouser pocket and waved the sharp scent under her nose.
 
The fog parted and her head instantly cleared.

“Breeman,” she swallowed, meeting his gaze.
 
“I need to speak with the Archlord.
 
I know he’s here.”

“The
Archlord
doesn’t accept visitors, not even women, so scat, before you get yourself into trouble.”

“But—”

“No one disturbs the Archlord,” Breeman rumbled, dangerously.

“—I’m his apprentice from the tower,” she finished, unperturbed by his threatening posture.
 
After all, she had had ample experience with disgruntled Nuthaanians.
 
Breeman crossed his thick arms, rubbing his chin in consideration.

“You’re his apprentice?”
 
She nodded in answer.
 
“Lucky bastard,” he muttered.

“It’s extremely important that I see him at once,” she pleaded, gazing up at the giant with large, pleading eyes.

Breeman stiffened, and then after a moment’s consideration, relented.
 
Nuthaanians were ever susceptible to a woman in distress.
 
“Fine, but if he doesn’t know you—it’s my neck on the line and you’ll pay, girl.”
 
Isiilde smiled brightly, recognizing an empty threat when she heard one.

“Come on then,” he growled, sensing that his bluff had been exposed.
 
He turned and marched down the hallway without a backward glance.
 
She hurried after the giant, hoping that Marsais was not having one of his forgetful days.

Breeman led her through a maze of corridors and finally down a narrow stairwell.
 
The slick stone steps descended farther than she estimated.
 
Eventually, the narrow passage widened, revealing a large chamber with curtained alcoves along its walls.
 
Candles flickered in the darkness.
 
The air was heavy with exotic scents, both sharp and sweet, that twisted her stomach with queasy discomfort.

Tall, hourglass shaped pipes sat upright, bubbling contently around the chamber.
 
Tubes were attached to the sides, one for each alcove, snaking outwards in crude imitation of an octopus, before disappearing beneath the curtains.

Bodies moved sluggishly beyond the threadbare cloth, as many as two or three, sometimes four to an alcove.
 
Soft cries and low groans throbbed in the air and Isiilde glanced nervously towards her guide, feeling a sudden urge to bolt.

Breeman paid her no mind, marching across the dark chamber to one alcove among many.
 
Isiilde shook herself, tightened her grip on the flagon beneath her cloak, and hurried after the guard.

“Marsais,” Breeman murmured, pulling the edge of the curtain back.
 
He made sure to block her view.
 
She stood restlessly by, nervously wringing the neck of the flagon between her moist hands.
 
“Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a young woman to see you—”

“I do not, nor will not, or ever have required company, Breeman,” a familiar voice interrupted.
 
It was definitely Marsais, only—distant sounding.