Chapter 10: Chapter 10: The Silk Lounge

Chapter 10: The Silk Lounge

Quentin ducked back behind the corner. As dark as it had been the night before, there was no mistaking them. Three men, one with bandages over his nose and two black eyes, talking about finding a whore. Come to think of it, this wasn’t too far from where he and Razia encountered them. This was their part of town.

“Not hard at all, Phil,” said one of them. “That’s the problem. Finding one specific whore, well, that’s when it gets tricky, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said the third man. “Markus is right! If you got a plan, that’s different. We could work with a plan. What if she got scared and left town?”

The voices were getting closer. Quentin looked around. There was nowhere to hide, and no time to run like hell. Plenty of people walked around in a cloak to hide who they were, but even these jackasses would recognize him. With no time left to decide, Quentin let himself drop to the ground. The wound on his leg screamed in protest, but he’d live. No one thought twice about beggars on the street.

“If she was going to leave Orchrisus, she would’ve done it a month ago. Either she’s stupid or she’s got balls that drag along the ground.”

They came into view. Or rather, their feet did. Quentin scrunched up, feigning shivering. They stopped, and Quentin’s heart jumped into his throat. If they suspected or even just felt a bit sadistic, it was all over.

“You think she’s a dusk-girl?” The deepest voice of the three said. Quentin relaxed some.

“What? No, Gregor, it’s just an expression.” The leader let out a long suffering sigh. “Point is, it shouldn’t be too hard to find her. Let’s say Razia slipped up here to avoid Piro, yeah? That narrows it down. She’s a short bald islander. How many of those d’you think are running around?”

“Thing is,” Markus said, “we not only have to find her but get her down there alive. Probably mostly unharmed, given what Christophe said. Is it really worth the trouble? C’mon Phil. Let’s do something else. It’s been a while since we pulled an Angry Lover robbery. Doesn’t that sound like fun, Gregor?”

Markus crashed to the earth. Quentin jerked in surprise and couldn’t suppress the hiss of pain from his leg.

“Forty. Aquilos. I’m not giving that up just because you’re feeling lazy!” Phil yelled.

Markus scrambled back to his feet. “Forty aquilos for a fool’s errand! What about money now, you daft bastard? Let’s make some money now.”

The big one stomped closer to Quentin. “What about this sorry bastard?” Gregor kicked at Quentin’s side. It hurt, but the jolt of fear was worse. “Maybe he’s got a few shards on him.” Quentin didn’t have to feign the violent shudder that passed through him. His hand went for his blade under the cloak but he waited.

“Knock it off, Gregor,” Phil stepped forward and stopped the next kick. “Look at him twitch. He’s probably diseased. You don’t want none of that.”

Quentin let out a low moan. Gregor took a step back immediately. “D’you think?” If he wasn’t so tense, Quentin would’ve laughed.

“C’mon lads, I’ll make you a deal.” Phil turned back towards Markus, and Gregor joined him. Quentin might as well have been invisible at that point. “We get a decent score, a bite to eat, and then we’ll go look for the islander. Yeah?”

There was a chorus of agreeable grunts, and then they were walking down the street away from Quentin. “Mooran noodles, maybe? I’ve got a craving and…” And then they were out of earshot.

A good two minutes passed before Quentin allowed himself to climb painfully to his feet. The wound on his leg throbbed, hot and insistent with pain. He raised his cloak up to look at it and winced. A day full of walking around instead of resting really hadn’t done him any favors, but it was too late to turn back now. Not when he was this close. Not with what he just heard.

Regardless of whether or not Razia was out to get something from him, she needed to know people were after her. What she did with the information wasn’t Quentin’s concern, but she had to know. Quentin tested his weight on the leg. His leg protested, but held. So much trouble, so much of a headache, for one woman. He shook his head. The Silk Lounge was only another mile east.

Even used to walking everywhere, he arrived tired, sore, and wishing he’d given it a day or two before he freaked out and tripped over himself trying to find Razia. Quentin stopped just short of the building, leaning up against the wall of one of the nearby buildings, which was dark and devoid of life. He looked up at the Silk Lounge and grimaced.

In Orchrisus, land was at a premium. Most of the south side was cramped and built on top of itself. Most buildings were two or three stories. Here in the north part of the city, it was more of a sprawl. It was rare to see buildings taller than two stories, and the Silk Lounge had three. It stood a good twenty feet apart from all the buildings around it, the center of its own private square.

If someone had told Quentin that it was funded by Mr. Cicero, he would’ve believed it. Guards sat on stools at the front doors and patrolled the roof. This was going to be more dangerous than he expected. Quentin took a deep breath and approached.

Neither of the guards paid him much mind, other than to grunt and nod at him in the way that all professional doormen did when they judged someone worthy. He opened the door and stepped inside. Instantly he was assaulted by the sweet, acrid smell of smoke. It was exactly as gaudy as he remembered. The foyer was a simple hallway leading up to a front desk, with two paths to either side of the building. One side was modeled after an insulting caricature of Ramali culture and aesthetics, the other Mooran. The common denominator was silk wrappings and robes as their fashion, and paper lanterns of every color hung along the walls, illuminating dancing wisps of smoke. The entire place was hazy with it.

“Welcome, welcome,” a fat man in loud orange and black striped silk robes called out from behind the counter. “Are you part of a party, or alone?”

Quentin’s stomach twisted into a knot. There was no looking around and hoping he ran into Razia this way. He stepped forward, noting the bodyguard to the proprietor’s right. “Alone,” Quentin said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

“Ahh,” the fat man gave a knowing laugh. “And it’s your first time here, no?” He had an oily, jovial quality to his voice Quentin immediately disliked.

“More or less,” Quentin replied, moving up to the counter.

“It’s obvious,” said the woman to the proprietor’s right. She was a tall, lean, knife of a woman. Her smile was sharp and unpleasant. “They always wait and stare like they’re waiting to be let in. Mommy, daddy, can I play too?” As if to demonstrate her point, the door opened and two people shouldered their way past Quentin and headed to the room to his left.

“Never you mind Janine,” the man said. “Unless you break one of our rules. Then you mind. Mind her as if your life depends on it.”

Janine said nothing but smirked. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. Her belt held a number of blades on them, and at least three of them appeared to be steel.

“Noted,” said Quentin.

“My name is Otho, and it’s my job seeing to your needs. Well, not personally, of course.” Otho was all smiles and honey. “What are you interested in tonight?”

“I’m looking for a girl. Bonz pointed me this way,” Quentin added, praying silently that Bonz’ reputation would help rather than hurt him.

“That explains the cloak,” Janice said, looking him up and down. “You as handsome as our dear Bonzales? Give us a peek.” He craned her head trying to get a look.

Quentin turned away from her and faced Otho. The cloak didn’t completely conceal him. Part of his face would always be visible, even hunching the way he did. But more often than not, he could pass himself off as just vaguely sickly and not anything freakish. Just so long as he didn’t give them a chance to look too closely. “Afraid so. My own father can’t stand the sight of me. Is Razia in tonight?”

Janine snickered to herself. Otho shot her a look before shaking his head at Quentin. “I’m afraid not. She’s not one of our girls with a permanent contract. She comes and goes as she pleases, and she hasn’t been here for a couple of days.”

Quentin sighed. Of course she wasn’t. This wasn’t his kind of day. Or week. Or month. He shook his head. “Oh.” He turned to leave, but Otho wasn’t done with him yet.

“She has friends who work here,” he said, “a couple of who might be willing to see you, no matter the physical deformity. And if not them, then we have half a dozen slave girls who can’t refuse any fantasy you may have.”

Quentin’s lip curled in disgust. At this point, he was all but ready to cut his losses and leave this foul place behind. But there was still a chance. “Friends, you say?” He turned back to Otho. “Close friends?”

Otho shrugged. “Samantha seems to be. But our dear Samantha has a tender heart and is friends with most of the girls here.”

“Mostly because she’s too dumb to recognize mockery,” Janine said.

“Well, there’s that. I believe Samantha is finishing cleaning up from her last client and should be ready in just a few minutes. Would you care to wait in a room for her?”

Finally, a bit of luck! Even if Razia wasn’t here, a friend of hers could deliver a message. It wouldn’t do a damned thing for his own problem, but maybe a warning about those muggers would keep her mouth shut about him. After a long day of trudging about town, the smidge of hope was like water to the parched. “Yes.”

Otho coughed conspicuously. He inclined his head apologetically and said in his best supplicating voice, “Ah, see, there’s a little matter of fee. Samantha is one of our most popular girls, and we don’t accept anything under half an hour.”

Of course. Quentin sighed. “Fine. How much?”

“Two castura,” said Otho. “In advance.”

Quentin inhaled sharply. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the shards, but that much for a half hour? “Look, I just want to ask her a couple of questions and have her pass a message on.”

Otho held up his hands. “What you do with our girls is your business. You’re paying for time with them.”

Quentin fished out two castura pieces and all but slammed them on the counter. “Fine.”

“And...” Otho continued.

“Hood down, pretty boy,” Janice finished for him, pushing off from the wall and coming around the counter beside Quentin. “And declare whatever weapons you have on you.”

“What? Why?”

“We aim to provide a safe, secure environment for all of our patrons to let their guard down and enjoy themselves,” said Otho. “We’ll never tell a soul who comes or goes, and we keep the Watch out. But such discretion means no anonymity from us. Either show your face or Janice will show you the door. Painfully.”

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It was then that Quentin realized what he instantly hated about Otho. For all the little man’s honeyed words and borderline fawning over a potential customer, it was all an act. The place was decorated with a thin veneer of class and beauty for its clientele of mercenaries, murderers, and slavers. Absolute scum, and the idea that he of all people wasn’t good enough to be here? As a couple more guards peeked their heads out from behind a corner, Quentin found himself getting angry.

“Yeah. Sure. Fine.” Quentin said, heartbeat pounding in his head. He was too close to leave now, and if he refused chances were they would rough him up anyway. So why not? He pulled his hood down and was rewarded with an instant sneer on Otho’s face. “Here. This what you wanted to see? I’m fuckugly and looking for a girl. This good enough for you?”

Janice let out a low whistle. She shook her head, but looked impressed. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this. Otho, on the other hand, turned bright red. “C-certainly not,” Otho seethed.

Quentin bared his teeth in a fierce grin. Men came out from around their corners, all but surrounding him. If he booked it he could still leave, but they were ready, hands on their weapons and waiting for an order from Otho. “Why not?” Quentin demanded. “My money spends the same as anyone elses’. Show me this Samantha.”

“Easy there,” Janice warned, drawing out the first two inches of a curved knife. “Keep your head on or lose it, pretty boy.”

“We may serve all kinds here,” Otho said, drawing himself up and crossing his arms over his chest, “but we don’t serve your kind. I will not risk one of our best girls on a moonkissed, of all people! If you want a girl, find a slave market and pick one up cheap. I don’t want to have to clean up whatever’s left after you sate yourself.”

There it was. The same disgusting belief Quentin faced his entire life. It didn’t matter how cautious he was, how polite he was, or how non threatening he presented himself. The moment someone knew what he looked like, they expected the worst out of him. They expected bloodlust and violence. They expected death. Maggie’s Den was an outlier, likely avoided all because Razia distracted them with a stupid story and made people forget to be afraid of him.

“If I had that kind of hunger for flesh,” Quentin said through clenched teeth, “I can think of better targets than innocent women. Believe me.”

One of the men to Quentin’s right drew a long bronze dagger from his belt. Janice held out her hand to stop him. “Wait,” she said.

“Wait? No, don’t wait! He threatened me!” Otho yelled, spittle flying. “Remove him at once.”

Janice leveled a cool stare at Quentin. He met it with his own scowl, daring her to act. This wasn’t a fight he would win, but after avoiding several fights in just one night, he almost craved the action. To his surprise, Janice smiled. She leaned over and whispered something in Otho’s ear, never taking her eyes off of Quentin.

Indignant rage disappeared from Otho’s face, replaced by mirth and even excitement. He nodded to her and cleared his throat. “My employee has presented me with a better idea. I’ll allow you to see Samantha, provided you give me your name and agree to pay her weight in castura when you lose control and kill her.”

“I’m not planning on killing anyone you fat, stupid bastard,” Quentin snarled.

The guards took another step closer, but Otho waved them off. “Your name,” he repeated, “and a guarantee of paying her weight in castura should she die. And one additional castura for insulting me.”

Even Quentin knew that was likely as good a deal as he was going to get. He couldn’t imagine any reason for hurting the girl, no matter what these bastards thought of him. Quentin took a deep breath and nodded, willing himself to cool down. He withdrew two more castura and threw them onto the counter.

Otho raised an eyebrow. “My name is Quentin Quintius,” Quentin said. “And you can take my money and go fuck yourself.”

Janice burst out laughing. “Oh I think I like you, pretty boy. Go to the right, last door on the left, around the corner. We’ll send her out shortly.”

Quentin turned and headed that way, slamming his shoulder against the man still in his way. The guard didn’t stop him. As soon as he was in the hallway, he instantly regretted losing his temper. He had better control than that. For all he knew, they’d take his money and send in men with bolters and kill him before he even had a chance to stand.

Gods, how he hated this place. Quentin trudged down the hallway, not bothering to put his hood back up. Let them all see the freak if they wanted. He was past caring.

The rooms along the way were more nooks than formal rooms. The first few were hidden from sight by curtains made of, what else, semi-transparent silk. Three men sat on cushions around a short table, all smoking something sickly sweet from a hookah. A couple nooks down, a tanned, middle aged woman with her top off sat in a man’s lap and drank deeply from a drink while he laughed, arm around her waist. Right at the corner there was a tall, slender, dark skinned woman standing on a table, gyrating to drumming from one of the men watching her. As he passed, she turned around and Quentin could see her cock through translucent silk leggings. A dusk-girl, then. The men were rapt with attention. Quentin turned the corner and lost sight of her.

Around the corner, they were actual rooms with doors that were largely closed. The last room on the left was just past the stairs leading up to the second story. Quentin stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The floor was covered in pillows and cushions, surrounding a small table identical to the rooms he passed. He frowned. This was going to hurt. He went to the far wall and let himself slide down it, wincing as he worked his leg into a comfortable position. The wound throbbed relentlessly now, reminding him what a terrible idea this all was.

He didn’t have to wait long. Just long enough for Quentin to imagine the series of horrible ways he could be killed if they were setting him up and there was a knock at the door. “Did someone order an evening snack?” A high, bubbly voice called out.

“I...I guess?” Quentin called back.

The door opened. There stood Samantha, he presumed. His jaw dropped. Quentin promised to pay her weight in castura if she died while with him, and now he understood why the bastard agreed so quickly. Samantha was, in a word, plump. At a quick glance, he’d guess that she weighed nearly as much as he did. That wasn’t a bad thing.

Two pieces of clothing were all that kept her from being naked, if you could call them that. A tiny bright green skirt flared out impressively around her wide hips, stopping just shy of being indecent. Her midriff was bare, and she didn’t seem even a little ashamed of her belly. Her top was, of course, silks that wrapped around and struggled to contain her bust. Just as much flesh spilled over the thin material as was contained. She had a round, friendly, guileless face with a button nose, and curly red hair that fell down to her shoulders.

“Oh. Hi,” said Quentin, staring and already turning red. He made to stand up, but Samantha didn’t let him. She closed the door behind him and crossed the pillows, lowering herself to straddle his lap without missing a beat. Quentin found himself pinned against the wall, face practically pressed into her cleavage.

“Otho said you requested me by name,” Samantha said. Her hands went to his shoulders, fingers sliding down his chest slowly. “You’ve got some good taste, but I think I’d remember seeing you before.” She let out a giggle that by all rights should’ve been annoying, but from her it seemed genuine. “Who recommended me?”

“Um.” He tilted his head back. She was all smiles, with none of the playful wickedness Razia had shown. He squirmed against her, but she wasn’t budging. Every move he made was met with a wiggle of her own. “The guy up front. He said you --”

“He was right.” Samantha’s hands ventured lower. She took Quentin by the wrists and guided his hands up to her breasts.

“I’m here to ask about Razia!” Quentin pulled out of her grasp and gently but firmly pushed her away. “I’m not interested in you.”

Samantha picked herself up from the pillows, looking hurt. “Oh.”

Quentin took a deep breath. He shifted in the seat, and with a second thought grabbed a pillow and put it in his lap. He wasn’t fooling anyone, let alone Samantha, but it made him feel better. “I’m sorry for pushing you,” he said. “I’m not here for that. I was told you know Razia.”

“It’s not me, then?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. To Quentin’s surprise, she looked serious, and seconds away from tearing up.

“No, no, it’s not you. You’re very…” Quentin searched for the words. He looked down to the pillow in his lap. Samantha laughed. His face burned. “Yeah. It’s not you.”

That did the trick. Samantha crossed her legs and sat up. She leaned forward, hands on her ankles and watching him. She reminded Quentin of an overgrown kid finally starting to pay attention after being told off. “Why d’you want to know about Razia?” An overgrown kid, spilling out the front of her top.

“See, I met her last night and…” Quentin started, then stopped, thinking how to word it. In the end, he decided to be as honest as possible. “I met her last night and she found out an embarrassing, dangerous secret of mine. I want to find her and ask her to just...Keep quiet. I’m willing to pay, if that’s what it takes.”

“Ahh,” Samantha said knowledgeably. “You’re into weird shit and afraid it’s gonna get out.”

“No!” Quentin protested, but it fell on deaf ears.”

“It’s really pretty common,” she said, shrugging. “And you got nothing to fear. Everyone is into something weird. It’s perfectly normal, Mr. Q.”

Quentin grit his teeth. “I didn’t...It wasn’t...Look,” He said, covering his face with his palm and rubbing at his temples. “It’s something more private than that, even. Something...Something like a lot of people here. A job I did.”

“Ohhhh,” Samantha said. “Yeah, no, you have nothing to worry about. We learn to be veeerry discreet here, Mr. Q. If we got caught telling on our clients, Mr. Otho would take a belt to us!”

She sounded so chipper about it. Quentin shook his head. “You can call me Quentin.”

Her eyes got wide. “Your name is Quentin!? I didn’t know! That’s how discreet we are!” Her shocked expression snapped back to normal and she let out a full body giggle.

Quentin looked away before his face could catch on fire again. “Pardon me for not trusting the place. Between threatening me and offering your head up on a platter, it seems a bit dodgy.”

“Wait, they what?” Her laughter died in a hurry.

“They thought I was going to kill you. You know, while we…” Quention waved his hand. “To get off. You know, because I’m a murderous freak and all. He demanded your weight in castura if I killed you.”

While he felt a bit bad at the mix of shock and anger on Samantha’s face, Quentin couldn’t help but feel he was doing her a favor letting her know. She seemed too...Peppy and upbeat to be allowed to be hurt like that. She had to know.

“They WHAT?” Samantha’s voice dropped to a whisper and her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, but...Oh no. No, please don’t cry,” Quentin said, holding up his hands. It was too late. Big, full bodied sobs wracked Samantha’s body.

“How could he?” she moaned.

Quentin reached over, hesitant before gingerly patting her shoulder. That’s all she needed. Samantha turned and dove into Quentin, throwing her arms around him. Quentin froze, trapped against the wall once more in a very soft, surprisingly strong grip. She sniffed, but the sobs tapered off.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Quentin had to try.“I’m really, really, sorry to have to tell you that,” he said carefully. “But I need to know where I can find Razia. Can you tell me?”

Samantha sniffled. “No,” she said. “We don’t tell strangers how to find each other until we know they’re safe. Sorry. And thank you,” she added, pulling away. She reached for Quentin’s cloak and dabbed her eyes with it. He didn’t try to stop her.

After all of this, his search was done and he had nothing to show for it. Quentin wasn’t about to try to push Samantha further. Not when he got the crying to stop. Well, that wasn’t true. He had one thing to show for it. If Samantha was to be believed, Razia would keep his secret. Maybe she was just tweaking his nose to show how clever she was.

Razia certainly seemed to be that friendly, and that warm. And if she was friends with this cream puff of a woman, maybe it was genuine. Maybe he had nothing to worry about at all. Well, one thing.

“Would you say you two are close friends?” Quentin asked. At Samantha’s nod, he continued, “Then I’d like you to pass a message along to her, if you’re willing. Tell her Quentin ran into the muggers from last night, and they’re after her. She could be in danger.”

Samantha nodded as he spoke. Her face lit up in a warm smile that made her red, puffy eyes almost disappear from the crease. “No problem. You’re really nice, for a moonkissed. I don’t believe for a second that you would’ve killed me while we fucked.”

Anger and surprise flared, instantly sputtering out. She didn’t know any better. “Thanks,” he said. “And you shouldn’t be sad at them being willing to let you die. You should be angry. You shouldn’t have to worry about being sold out like that.”

“Yeah!” Samantha climbed to her feet and helped Quentin up. “I should let Otho have a piece of my mind!”

“You should.”

“I’m gonna chew him out so bad, he’ll...he’ll…” She thought about it. “He’ll have bite marks!”

Quentin forced a smile and clasped her shoulder. “He won’t know what’s about to hit him.” If nothing else, the night let him have a conversation with someone new that didn’t think he was a horrible monster. Samantha seemed sweet, if a little ditzy. Together they walked back to the entrance. Before they made it, Samantha stopped them.

“Hey, do you want to tell me how to find you and I’ll tell Razia to look for you?” Samantha asked.

Did he? Quentin wasn’t sure. This had been a complete pain in the ass night, and it could be worthless if he didn’t confirm that Razia would keep her mouth shut. But when it came down to it, did he even care if people came after him? Either he’d enjoy the thrill of a struggle and win a fight for his life or he’d die. That was his life, and would be until it suddenly wasn’t.

“No,” said Quentin. “No need to bother her for that. Just tell her that warning and…” Quentin sighed. “Thank her for a lovely evening.”

Samantha cupped his cheek and pinched it. “You got it, Mr. Q."