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King Umfray had to do something about this. How could he sleep soundly, high in his keep, knowing he had subjects that were forced to live like this? That he had subjects forced to die like this? I was going to raise the issue to Lord Castemont.
A wail split the air. “Please!” I whipped my head around, but I seemed to be the only person disturbed by the cry. I turned to where it was coming from, tried to listen for the voice again. “Please!” I heard. It was a woman’s voice, frantic and pained. “Please!” Still, no one on the street so much as flinched.
I turned off of Gormill Road, following the sound of the woman’s cries, acutely aware of the dagger stashed in my boot. More cries came from more voices, a mix of pain and pleading and…pleasure? But above all other cries, I could hear her. “Please!Please!”
Bumps raised on my skin as I beheld a derelict structure standing over the seedy side street. A crowd of visibly dirty men milled around outside.The Painted Empress.
Oh,a brothel.
I’d heard of the Painted Empress. It was always spoken about in hushed tones, as if the very name of the establishment was poison on the tongue. Now that I was staring at the building, I think I understood why.
I crouched to the ground, leaning against a building on the other side of the street, trying to match my position to the ten other people around me hunkering down from the punishing cold. My eyes were fixed on the men outside the brothel, my ears listening for the woman’s cries. “Please!”
Not one of them flinched at the sound of her voice. A few of them passed around a bottle, taking turns swigging from it and belching loudly. Every few seconds they’d erupt in laughter. The sound grated on my nerves like metal on stone. It was the kind of laugh that only followed a crude joke. A joke that would bring a blush to the face of anyone with a lick of conscience.
A constant stream of men flowed in and out the door, and it wasn’t just Inkwellians. There were people dressed in everything from dirty, patched clothing to Prismanian finery. I narrowed my eyes, looking to see if I recognized any of the Prismanian men, all the while listening for the woman’s cries. They’d seemed to stop. Nausea hit my gut, sour and heavy as I watched. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Didn’t know what I was hoping to–
Lord Castemont suddenly emerged from the front door, hands straightening the lapels of his coat, Tyrak close behind him.
Motherfucker.
I was frozen as I watched him raise a hand to the men outside the brothel, all of them giving a nod or wave in farewell. The Lord and his guard descended the steps, turning up the street, heading out of Inkwell.
The dagger was already in my hand and I was moving before I knew it, the heat in my chest so intense that I wondered whether it was possible for a human to catch fire. With each step that brought me closer to him, the flames grew. The rage was all-consuming and unfamiliar.
In one fluid motion I had him pinned to a rotting wooden building, his coat fisted in my grasp, dagger aimed at his chest. Tyrak’s own blade was drawn in a split second, the soldier in him emerging as his sword quickly found itself resting against my throat.
“What thefuckdo you think you’re doing, Castemont?” I screamed in his face.
He raised his hands in front of him in defense. “Cal, what are you doing here?” he asked, bewildered.
I saw red as I stared into his eyes, my teeth gritted. “I should ask you the same damned question.”
“Release him, Cal,” Tyrak urged quietly, and I knew that for my sake, he was tamping down the protective instincts he had for his Lord. He was ignoring the oath he’d taken to protect him. If I were someone else,anyoneelse, my throat would be slit. I would have been a feast for the rats the moment I laid a hand on him.
“I’m not a patron of the Painted Empress,” Castemont blurted, and though the fear in his voice seemed genuine, I didn’t believe him.
“Bullshit,” I seethed, nostrils flaring, and my grip grew tighter on his coat, the force with which I pinned him increasing. I was stronger than him — much, much stronger than him, and I watched his face blanche as that very fact dawned on him. I could kill him where he stood, and he knew it.
“Release. Him. Cal,” Tyrak repeated, his voice more authoritative, his blade shifting against my neck to remind me it was there. “Let him explain.”
“It’s quite alright, Tyrak,” Castemont sputtered. “It would make sense that the boy would be angry, given what it looks like.”
“Itlookslike you’re being unfaithful to my aunt.” My words were clipped, my vision spotty with rage.
“It’s a part of my outreach,” he stammered. “The other lords are too proud to enter the brothel to help the women inside. It’s a task I undertake on my own.”
My eyes moved to Tyrak, his face hard set and jaw locked as his gaze met mine. His expression didn’t change as I stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable as they always were when he took on the role of guard.
“Tell him, Tyrak,” Castemont urged.
Tyrak continued to stare at me, his chin dipping in an almost imperceptible nod. “The other lords will not accompany him.”
I turned back to Castemont, his panicked eyes meeting mine. I inhaled, my jaw squeezed so tightly shut that I thought my molars would crack. I released my grip on him, lowering the dagger to my side and taking a step back. Tyrak’s sword found its sheath and he, too, stepped back. The Lord visibly relaxed, but I hadn’t. Not internally.
Humor entered Lord Castemont’s eyes and his face broke into a smile as he slapped a hand against my arm. “A mix-up!” he joked.
I wasn’t laughing.
