The Quartered Man was an angry boil on the arse of the city of Curst. Sour ale and cheap pipe-weed smoke weren’t the worst of it – it was the clientele. Cutthroats and anarchists rubbed shoulders with deposed nobility, all complaining about their misfortunes. A small group of demons played dice in a corner, hissing at patrons who drew too near. The tavern didn’t even have music.
Janna felt ill-at-ease in the Quartered Man. It wasn’t that other patrons watched her – they watched everybody. Something about this place kindled distrust and paranoia in a berk’s heart. No, her discomfort was more of a dreaded anticipation of the task before her.
A few tables down, she could hear a group of conspirators centered around a thin-haired man with stories to tell. He spoke of his former glories as a duke (“duck” was how the word sounded to Janna), and the seat of wealth he no longer had. A terrible betrayal at the hands of his cousin had led to his exile in this godforsaken city. And of course, there were riches to be had, if only he could recruit more honorable men to his cause. Honorable? Here?
She wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. The middle-aged man, Rickard Portnoy, had repeated his tale four or five times since she had been there. She could recite it for him. Hells, she could improve it for him if needed. At this rate, she was surprised he had five bashers steadily listening to him speak.
Slowly exhaling the breath she had been holding, Janna looked down at the leathers she was wearing. Adjustments were needed. She fiddled with the cords along the front of her jacket, easing them to allow more neckline to show. Her neckline, and a little more. She tried not to imagine the disapproving look in her mother’s eyes, but failed. A means to an end, that’s all. She downed the last of the watery ale and rose to stand.
From her pack, she pulled out a dark wooden lute. A few eyes watched her actions, but more turned to her when she plucked at a few strings. She walked by a few tables, asking “Care for a song?” The responses were predictable: open derision from most, while others turned their gaze away from her in silence. She made her way to Portnoy’s table. He was explaining how his only needed a force of two-or three hundred men for some easy work.
“Care for a song, milord?” She smiled, looking across the seated men and women, ending her gaze on Portnoy himself. He wore fine clothing, but his tailored coat was stained and an errant thread poked out from his collar. His lip curled, followed by a dispassionate “No.”
The man to his right, a dark-skinned brute with long-tangled hair, looked her up and down with appraisal. “Lord Portnoy, maybe you’d rather she warm your bed?” She smiled, inwardly wanting to drive her knee into his face. Portnoy took her in as well, but his eyes lingered on her hair – clean-shaven on the sides and stained a shade of fiery orange.
“I don’t lay with low-born women.” This earned laughs from the sycophants around him, a heavyset woman included. Janna maintained her smiling demeanor while changing her tact.
“You never know how delicious the fruit,” she said, strumming a specific chord on her lute, “if you don’t have a taste.” With her eyes focused on Portnoy’s, she could feel the twist of magic. There was a momentary connection, a hint of suggestion carefully woven into her words, and then it was done.
As the group pondered her quip, Janna turned and moved towards the back of the room. She made half-hearted offers of song as she passed other groups. A sodden drunk asked her to play, but she ignored him and casually moved to other tables. A few steps, past the pair of grey-skinned demons, and she was at a door to the outside. She glanced back and smiled. Lord Portnoy had risen and was following her path.
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