“Poor thing,” the large woman shook her head sadly. “You know if she needs a place, I’m sure we could put her on the roster. She’d get a bed to sleep in, three meals a day, and with her looks she could do well for herself.”
“Something tells me she’s not a prostitute,” Hadrian told her.
“None of us are, honey. Not until you find yourself sleeping under the Tradesmen’s Arch that is. You shoulda seen her at breakfast. She ate like a starved dog. ’Course she wouldn’t touch a thing ’till we convinced her that the food was free, given by the Chamber ’a Commerce to visitors of the city as a welcome. Maggie came up with that one. She’s a hoot, she is. That reminds me, the bill for the room, dress, food, and general clean up comes to sixty-five silver. We threw in the make-up for free ’cause Delia just wanted to see how she’d look on account she says she’s never worn it ’afore.”
Royce handed her a gold tenent.
“Well, well, you two really need to drop by more often, and next time without the girl, eh?” she winked. “Seriously though, what’s the story with this one?”
“That’s just it, we don’t know,” Hadrian replied.
“But I think it’s time we found out,” Royce added.
Not nearly as nice as Medford House back home, the Bawdy Bottom Brothel was decorated with gaudy red drapes, rickety furniture, pink lampshades, and dozens of pillows. Everything had tassels and fringe, from the threadbare carpets to the cloth edging adorning the top of the walls. It was old, weathered, and worn but at least it was clean.
The parlor was a small oval room just off the main hall with four bay windows that looked out on the street. It contained two loveseats, a few tables crowded with ceramic figures, and a small fireplace. Seated on one of the loveseats, Thrace waited, her eyes darting about like a rabbit in an open field. The moment they entered, she leapt from her seat, knelt, and bowed her head.
“Hey! Watch it, that’s a new dress,” Hadrian said with a smile.
“Oh!” she scrambled to her feet blushing, then curtseyed and bowed her head once more.
“What’s she doing?” Royce whispered to Hadrian.
“Not sure,” he whispered back.
“I am trying to show the proper reverence, your lordships,” she whispered to both of them while keeping her head down, “I’m sorry if I’m not very good at it.”
Royce rolled his eyes and Hadrian began to laugh.
“Why are you whispering?” Hadrian asked her.
“Because you two were.”
Hadrian chuckled again. “Sorry, Thrace—ah your name is, Thrace, right?”
“Yes, my lord, Thrace Annabell Wood of Dahlgren Village,” she awkwardly curtseyed again.
“Okay, well—Thrace,” Hadrian struggled to continue with a straight face. “Royce and I are not lords, so there is no need to bow or curtsy.”
The girl looked up.
“You saved my life,” she told them in such a solemn tone Hadrian stopped laughing. “I don’t remember a lot of last night, but I remember that much. And for that you deserve my gratitude.”
“I would settle for an explanation,” Royce said, moving to the windows. He began closing the drapes. “Straighten up for Maribor’s sake, before a sweeper sees you, thinks we’re noble, and marks us. We’re already on thin ice here as it is. Let’s not add to it.”
She stood up straight, and Hadrian could not help but stare. Her long yellow hair, now free of twigs and leaves, shimmered in waves over her shoulders. She was a vision of youthful beauty and Hadrian guessed she could not be more than seventeen.
“Now, why have you been looking for us?” Royce asked, closing the last curtain.
“To hire you to save my father,” she said, untying the purse from around her neck and holding it up with a smile. “Here. I have twenty-five silver tenents. Solid silver stamped with the Dunmore crown.”
Royce and Hadrian exchanged looks.
“Isn’t it enough?” She asked, her lips starting to tremble.
“How long did it take you to save up this money?” Hadrian asked.
“All my life. I saved every copper I was ever given, or earned. It was my dowry.”
“Your dowry?”
She lowered her head looking at her feet. “My father is a poor farmer. He would never—I decided to save for myself. It’s not enough, is it? I didn’t realize. I’m from a very small village. I thought it was a lot of money; everyone said so, but…” She looked around at the battered loveseat and faded curtains. “We don’t have palaces like this.”
“Well, we really don’t—” Royce began in his usual insensitive tone.
“What Royce is about to say,” Hadrian interrupted, “is we really don’t know yet. It depends on what you want us to do.”
Thrace looked up, her eyes hopeful.
Royce just glared at him.
“Well it does, doesn’t it?” Hadrian shrugged. “Now, Thrace you say you want us to save your father. Has he been kidnapped or something?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. As far as I know he’s fine. Although I have been away a long time looking for you. So, I’m not sure.”
“I don’t understand. What do you need us for?”
“I need you to open a lock for me.”
“A lock? To what?”
“A tower.”
“You want us to break into a tower?”
“No. I mean—well yes, but it isn’t like—it’s not illegal. The tower isn’t occupied; it has been deserted for years. At least I think so.”
“So you just want us to open a door to an empty tower?”
“Yes!” She said nodding vigorously so that her hair bounced.
“Doesn’t sound too hard,” Hadrian looked at Royce.
“Where is this tower?” Royce asked.
“Near my village on the west bank of the Nidwalden River. Dahlgren is very small and has only been there a short time. It’s in the new province of Westbank, in Dunmore.”
“I’ve heard about that place. It’s supposedly being attacked by elven raiders.”
“Oh, it’s not the elves. The elves have never caused us any trouble.”
“I knew it,” Royce said to no one in particular.
“Leastways I don’t think so,” Thrace went on. “We think it’s a beast of some kind. No one has ever seen it. Deacon Tomas says it’s a demon, a minion of Uberlin.”
“And your father?” Hadrian asked. “How does he fit into this?”
“He’s going to try and kill the beast, only…” she faltered and looked at her feet once more.
“Only you think it will kill him instead?”
“It has killed fifteen people and over eighty head of livestock.”
A freckle-faced woman with wild red hair entered the parlor dragging a short, pot-bellied man who looked like he had shaved for the occasion, his face nicked raw. The woman was laughing, walking backward as she hauled him along with both hands. The man stopped short when he saw them. His hands slipped through hers and she fell to the wooden floor with a hollow thud. The man looked from the woman to them and back, frozen in place. The woman glanced over her shoulder and laughed.