The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [80]
Awa could not.
“To open my own brothel,” Monique whispered conspiratorially. “An’ with this last bonus a von Wine’s I’m set. Got me a beard named Dario, a game little dandy who’ll sign the papers an’ lease an’ all, an’ o’er my travels I planted enough seeds in the heads of enough ’ores that ifin we stop in a few towns along the way ta the new digs we’ll ’ave us a regular caravan of cunt rollin into Cathar Country, an’ then we’re set. I pony up the cost so I run the show, Dario’s the frontman an’ gets a small take an’ a room for his part, ’ores get a bigger cut than they’s accustomed ta keep’em ’appy, an’ you, Sister Gloria—”
“Me?” Awa was not sure if this was the worst idea she had ever heard, or the greatest. “Me?”
“You, Sister Gloria,” said Monique, “are resident cunt-cleaner. See, I got it all worked out—ifin my ’ores is clean all the time, an’ I mean, really clean, word’ll spread, and that’ll give us the edge to justify payin the ’ores better, an’ any other costs we might incur by dent a bein a real classy fuckin venture.”
“But Paracelsus says that most people don’t know the pox comes from, from that, they thinks it’s the water or the gods or—”
“Word’ll spread on all counts, mark me there, an’ then my ’ores legs’ll be spreadin like brains on bread.” Monique licked her lips at the thought. “Sides, havin a house wholly free of the pox’ll be good for morale an’ establishin a certain, whataya … ambiance. A certain fuckin poxless ambiance. Ifin ya got capital ta help start us off I’ll give ya a cut of the cunny-money, an’ even if ya don’t you’ll have private fuckin chambers, three meals a day, four bottles of wine or two of stronger stuff a week, an’ the free ass of any ’ore willin to give it. An’ mind what I said—I’ll assure ya got a choice of no less than three different obligin fannies, kind of girlies what’d teach the devil’s own stable how ta properly service everythin from blackamoors to blacksnakes.”
“I … don’t … I.” Awa had never considered anything remotely like what Monique was suggesting, and told herself that any interest she might possess had everything to do with gainful employment far removed from Paracelsus—who grew creepier by the day —and not the promise of carnal relations with women who drew little distinction between her and a serpent. Awa had wanted to find a way to distract herself for the next few years, to enjoy life instead of surrounding herself with death, and to restore any tipped internal balance in the event the nigh-forgotten beliefs of her mother came to be true. While she had decided tending to the afflicted pox victims would be a more fitting and fulfilling occupation than washing Manuel’s laundry in Bern, it sounded like in purpose working for Monique would be essentially the same as working for Paracelsus, only with a rotating choice of women and drink. This seemed more and more appealing as the young necromancer considered it. A wet shriek came from just beyond the curtain to her left, the sound deteriorating into a gurgle as the patient gagged and vomited on the stench of his own putrefying body, and that settled it.
“Alright,” said Awa, though she had learned enough of the ways of men and women to avoid putting up her own substantial fortune of grave-gained treasures she had acquired over the years since leaving the mountain. “I don’t have money to spare but I’ll be your, your … I’ll tend to your girls, and I thank you for your offer.”
“Least I kin do, right?” said Monique. “But you’ll be tellin me your real name fore we go any further, less your Infidel fuckin parents thought Gloria sounded proper in their Turk fuckin tongue.”
Awa frowned, not having considered this condition, but of all the people she had ever met Monique seemed the least likely to exploit something as subtle as the power a name gives a person. “Awa,” said she.
“Right enough, Awa,” said