Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga by Regina Watts (red queen ebook .TXT) 📕

It was fair to say that not every woman there was of exceeding beauty, but it was true that each had her charms, and most were, at best, half-dressed. They perked to see me fill the doorway. After taking in my face, a fair few looked a way I can only describe as hopeful. Preening, smiling, batting eyelashes, these interested saleswomen leaned forward or recrossed their legs to fix the hem of their skirt a bit higher. Only one, however, spoke up to me: a splendid redhead, a woman perhaps fifteen years my senior who was as beautiful as Weltyr’s bride ever made her chambermaids. With a foxy smile fluttering past her crimson lips, the woman looked me over and said from where she leaned beside the hearth, “Are you looking for a room, soldier?”

“And someone to take me to it, yes. You look like you might be willing to help.”

“Oh, for a visitor like you? Always.” With a sly wink at the disappointed ladies who sank back into their couches and resumed their conversations at a more subdued murmur than before, the redhead pushed herself upright and smoothed the fabric of her long slip. The extraordinary sky blue of her thin gown was one of the things that drew my eye to her (aside from her many other natural qualities, of course) and, as she slunk past me, she smelled of rosewater and myrrh. I took a liking to her instantly: whatever her profession, the aroma of her hair and body reminded me of church. This seemed to me as fine a sign as any that I had made the right choice.

Indeed, I discerned she may well have been pious. In the hallway into which she led me, she asked, “Are paladins of Weltyr permitted the leisure our rooms afford, sire?”

“Please, miss, ‘Rorke’ is fine…and, unfortunately, I must confess I am not here on leisure, though if I were I do not think Weltyr would have the least qualm were I to spend leisure time with you. Only priests and monks need to turn their attentions away from women…we paladins are so much of the world already, and so much in tune with Weltyr’s dynamic power as the All-Father, that it does us no harm to indulge in other worldly pastimes.”

Having paused upon the first landing of the stairs to listen, one foot poised on the step before her and the other still supporting her slight weight, the woman looked at me curiously. “If it is not leisure that brings you, then what?”

“That would be a far longer story than to just give you a few coins to get me into a certain room…a story that might get you into trouble, too, depending how this goes.”

With a crooked sort of grin and a twinkling light to her strange green eyes, the prostitute folded her arms over her ribs. “I never get into trouble that I don’t cause…believe me.”

“Weltyr has sent me here,” I decided to say, the coins already rattling in my hand evidently not sufficient to buy the businesswoman’s compliance. “I am on a mission from the All-Father to retrieve a missing relic of his. The man in the third room on the left should have information as to its whereabouts.”

“What relic would that be, sire?”

“Please, ‘Rorke’ really is perfectly fine—I don’t suppose you’d be wiling to accept that this is a private matter on behalf of the Church?”

“For all I know, you’re not a servant of Weltyr at all, ‘Rorke.’ You could be anyone…a slave to Oppenhir.”

“Then this tattoo”—I indicated the black sun upon my neck—“would have faded; and this sword would have broken, no longer serving any purpose in my master’s name.”

“I suppose that’s true…” Considering me thoughtfully, the woman at last extended her hand for the coins. I filled her palm and let her count before, smiling, the prostitute crooked a finger and continued up the stairs. “Very well, Paladin. Come along, follow me…let me give a moment to get my colleague out of the room. You said he was staying third on the left? With Cloyenda?”

“I believe that’s just the case.”

“I saw him come in…a dwarf, was he? Red hair?”

“The very man.”

“Well, be careful…he brought an axe with him, much as you brought along your sword.”

I had been counting on that—that some altercation would occur regardless of whether or not Gimalkin was armed—but I don’t think I anticipated the struggle that awaited me. The greatest problems had previously been the matter of how to get into the room, and how to get the prostitute named Cloyenda out before any collateral damage could be done to her person.

The woman I hired solved that for me, both matters simple with her at the task. I walked softly with her and, at her gesture, waited against the wall. She paused before the door and rapped lightly upon it, calling, “Cloyenda?”

A bit of muttering was audible from within the room. Footsteps creaked along the wood and the door cracked open. My guide through the house smiled at her colleague, asking, “Could you come out here please, Cloyenda?”

Brushing a few blonde locks behind her elfin ears, Cloyenda stepped into the hall with her arms folded over her robe. She left the door unlatched but closed it nearly all the way. From her periphery, she caught a glimpse of me and turned to face me, her breath almost hitching, her eyes certainly wider. Her mouth opened but, before she could speak, my guide pressed a fingertip her lips and shook her head. Glancing between us, the elf then looked with reluctance at the door to her room. My guide slid her hand into Cloyenda’s and led her away, the elf going without argument but with a few more furtive studies of my admittedly looming person.

Alone in the hall, I gripped Strife in its scabbard and approached the open door.

Luckily, if Grimalkin could discern a shift in the footsteps of the woman he was with, he did