A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [20]
The stable turned out to be a big open bam without stalls. As they hitched their horses to a rail near the far side, Branoic noticed Aethan looking over the various other horses, as well as he could in the dim lantern light, anyway.
“There’s a lot of devices and suchlike on this gear. Looks like the marks belong to some free troops. Listen, young ones: watch what you say in there. We’ve got rivals, and I don’t want a brawl. Understand?”
“Just so,” Branoic said. “I didn’t come here with fistfights on my mind, anyway.”
The ale room was stinking-hot from the fire in the hearth and the press of men packed into it—merchants, riders for the local lord, a couple of other silver daggers, and a good-sized mob of men from a mercenary troop that wore a black sword embroidered on one sleeve for a device. Strolling around or perching suggestively on the tables were a variety of young women in varying states of undress while three older women with hard eyes rushed round serving ale. Even though they’d had plenty to drink back at the inn, Aethan insisted on collaring one of the women and ordering three tankards of dark. Once they had their beer they found a free spot to stand in the curve of the wall and eyed the merchandise. Maryn’s face was flushed scarlet, whether from the heat or embarrassment, Branoic couldn’t tell. A little of both, he supposed.
“I rather fancy that redhead over there,” Aethan said. “Either of you want her?”
Maryn merely shrugged and buried his nose in his tankard.
“Not me,” Branoic said. “Go to, lad!”
As Aethan strolled off, a pale blonde who reminded Branoic a bit of Clwna came bobbing over, wearing nothing but a drape of red Bardek silk around her hips. Although she gave Branoic a smile it was Maryn that she sidled up to.
“And what’s your name, lad?” she said, batting eyelashes pitch-black with Bardek kohl.
“M-m-maryn.” He could hardly keep his eyes off her breasts and their nipples, which gleamed an unnatural red. “W-wh-wha—ah c-c-curse it!”
“Oh, now here, don’t let a bit of a stammer bother you! A well-favored lad like you doesn’t have to worry about fine words when it comes to winning a lass’s heart.” She gave Branoic a sly sidelong wink. “As for you, my handsome friend, it looks like our Avra’s sitting all lonely over there.”
By the fire a tousle-headed blonde in a gauzy shift was lounging on a cushioned bench and eyeing him with some interest. Branoic left the prince to the practiced attentions of the young whore and made his way across the room in a hurry, before someone else could claim her. As he approached she sat up and gave him a slow, sleepy smile. The shift was stuck to her back and breasts with sweat. For some reason, that night, he found the sight utterly arousing, and he sat down next to her and kissed her without saying a word. From the sweet taste of her mouth she’d been chewing cinnamon.
“Oh, I do like that,” she said, giving him another smile. “A man who’s got his mind made up. Can I have a sip of that ale?”
Grinning, he handed her the tankard, which she took in both hands so she could gulp like a thirsty child.
“Hot in here tonight.”
“Too hot.” She handed him back the nearly empty tankard. “It might be cooler upstairs. Want to go see?”
For an answer he set the tankard down on the floor and got up, holding out his hand to catch hers and haul her to her feet. Moving carefully through the packed crowd they made their way to the back door and out, where a wooden staircase listed against the outside wall and led up to a doorway and a spill of light from lanterns hanging from the ceiling. At the top, just inside the open door, a toothless old woman, her hair dyed sunset-orange with henna and her gnarled fingers covered with cheap rings, sat on a high-backed chair and made a desultory pretense of spinning wool.
“Take him down to the end, Avra love. The one with the window’s free,” she said, yawning. “Gods, things are busy tonight, eh?”
Soot-stained wickerwork partitions cut the top story of the building up into a warren of tiny cubicles that reeked of