Of Truth and Beasts

A slender woman stepped out of the parlor. Delicately built, she was far taller than Wynn. Her teal silk gown, embroidered with curling vines of white blossoms, was so smoothly fitted that it moved with her, revealing her subtle curves. Shining black hair hung in long, faint waves that sparkled in the foyer’s lamplight, though her bangs were held back with a band of polished silver.

She had skin the shade of soft ivory, perhaps a bit warmer, and eyes so deep blue, they mesmerized Wynn at first. Her lashes were long, and her eyelids were powdered to match her gown.

She was ... unreal. Even Ore-Locks appeared stunned at the sight of her.

“Is there some confusion?” she asked.

Her tone didn’t imply a true question, but her voice was almost a breathy echo of the flute’s resonance. This was a woman who could stop almost any man in his tracks at twenty paces—maybe fifty.

Unfortunately, Chane was not one of those men.

“I will not relinquish my swords,” he said.

“I am Delilah, owner of this establishment,” she answered, and her gaze passed over Ore-Locks with polite interest.

Wynn felt Chane’s hand settle on her shoulder.

“I do apologize,” Delilah went on, “but all patrons, regardless of what they come for, must leave their weapons before entering. Do not be concerned. Your safety—your needs—are secured and assured by my staff.”

Wynn glanced nervously about. Their needs? Shouldn’t that be obvious?

“How,” Chane challenged, “when your interior guards do not carry weapons?”

“Mechaela requires no weapon,” Delilah answered.

Her eyes traced a smooth path from one newcomer to the next, perhaps assessing who truly made the decisions, and a smile spread across her small mouth.

“And what needs bring you to us ... sage?”

Wynn was a bit stunned. She wore only her short robe over her elven travel clothes, yet this woman knew what she was, and that she was supposedly in charge. Wynn glanced through the parlor arch at the lounging furniture, and into the room beyond that, and at the other woman in the revealing gauze dress....

Chane sucked in an audible breath and exhaled. “Domvolyné!”

Before his meaning sank in, Wynn felt his fingers clench her cloak’s shoulder and tunic. He jerked her backward toward the front door.

“We are leaving,” he said.

“Oh ... oh ...” she stammered, flushing red in the face.

A domvolyné was a house of leisure in Chane’s country. Wynn had just walked them all into a high-line brothel in the middle of a pit called Drist.

“What is wrong now?” Ore-Locks asked, and stared blankly at Chane.

There were no brothels among the dwarves.

“Oh, please, please,” Delilah called, suppressing a brief laugh with delicate fingers. “Forgive me. I meant no offense—only a playful jest. We can accommodate you.... We care well for all our patrons, by their own needs.”

Behind the counter, even Mechaela was hard-pressed not to smile.

Wynn grabbed the doorframe before Chane could haul her into the street.

“Chane, stop it. It could be the same—probably worse—everywhere here.”

“Yes, there is worse,” Delilah added, no longer amused. “Mechaela, they will need the quieter and more peaceful of our accommodations.”

He nodded. “I will place them properly in the east side of the second floor.”

“But,” Delilah added, “you must leave your weapons.”

Wynn looked to Ore-Locks, hating to turn to him for support. He sighed and handed over his iron staff before beginning to unbuckle his sword. A startled Mechaela fumbled a bit under the weight of the staff. Wynn looked back and up to Chane, his expression curled in a silent snarl.

“Chane?”

With a seething, unintelligible rasp, he released her and headed for the counter. He unlashed the shorter, ground-down sword, then did the same with the new dwarven blade.

“This is everything?” Mechaela asked politely, eyeing the sheathed end of Wynn’s staff.

She pulled off the sheath, displaying its long crystal, and Delilah nodded approval. After a brief hesitation, Wynn pulled Magiere’s old battle dagger out from behind her back, as well. Delilah watched in interest as Ore-Locks began tugging steel and copper slugs off his lanyard.

Much to Wynn’s relief, neither Mechaela nor Delilah balked at payment in dwarven slugs, and Wynn tried to count her own mixed blessings. At least she’d reached Drist and found safe, if questionable, accommodations.

Now if she could just get Chane to calm down. 

Entering the lavish rooms, Chane thought that, aside from the fact that it was no place for Wynn, the whole interior smelled wrong. The room itself stank of too much perfume. On their way up, they had passed three young women and an effeminate young man of exceptional beauty, who were obviously not patrons. But they met no one else as Mechaela led them northward down a long corridor of sumptuous carpets on the second floor.