‘There are men who get rich in wars,’ Vach Sala said, holding onto his arm as they walked through the kitchen, ‘just as women do.’
‘They aren’t the ones who hold a sword,’ Bueralan said. ‘The ones who do just die poor and young, if they’re not smart.’
The ground floor of The Last Courtesy opened before him. The low light mingled with the music to hide the bloodstains on the floor and the bodies that murmured to each other in booths. One voice could be heard over all that, and it belonged to a large brown man at the bar. Inen stood resolutely before him, listening to the man ask for more wine and for a woman by name, but Inen’s face remained tight-lipped. On either side of him were the two young guards, but they seemed unable to shift the man, and Bueralan wondered if he was in for another fight. Fortunately it was not to be. Once the large man saw him – he wore Echoes’ insignia – he put up his hands and said he didn’t want trouble, none at all, and let Bueralan push him outside. He walked away, with a slump of his meaty shoulders, towards the dark shadows of the water towers.
Time passed slowly after that. Inen left the bar and returned to the kitchen. The two guards thanked him and went back to their corners. Sabine finished her second set, took a break, and began her third. The flow of customers was sluggish and none of them looked to be trouble.
Vach Sala was not bothered for the rest of the night. She took one of the booths to Bueralan’s right and entertained a steady stream of men and women until the early morning. She was, he thought, one of the youngest prostitutes in the brothel. No more than sixteen, probably fifteen. Her brown skin was too smooth to be any older. The intricate make-up she wore did its best to add a few years, a lie that both she and her customers allowed. She did her best to hide the bump around her larynx too, but once Bueralan had noticed it, he knew why the lie was so important. A younger woman wouldn’t have her height, or the slight broadening of her shoulders beneath the slim orange dress she wore, and the men and women who paid for her did not do so for the company of what she had been born.
‘We all want to be rich, but we can’t start in command,’ Vach Sala said to him later, after the last of the customers had left and the lights were raised. Sala waited until he’d checked the booths and locked the doors before taking his arm and walking up the stairs to Bueralan’s room. ‘Surely you don’t object to working for Captain Khoury’s Scratch because you are not in charge?’
‘I may have some privilege, but I know my place.’ He nudged open the door to his room and led them both inside. ‘I just try to be smart, and I’m thinking Lady Jaora might be a good place to start asking for work. Echoes’ll need every bit of help they can get, when Scratch pushes them – and that push is coming soon. You can tell Captain Gertz I said that, when you report to him.’
‘Gertz?’ Sala took a step into the room, putting herself an arm’s distance from him. She offered him a smile. ‘Is that a name I am meant to know?’
‘You’re just his type. Did he ever tell you about Fia?’
She laughed, but he could tell he had caught her off-balance. ‘I don’t even know a Gertz!’
‘Fia was fourteen when Gertz met her in Tinalan,’ Bueralan said, leaning against the door frame, blocking the exit. ‘From what I heard, Fia had skin like yours, but her hair was longer. Gertz told her he would show her all the secrets of the world. He was true to his word, so long as those secrets were the words of soldiers in tents and the whispers of lords and ladies in rooms they paid for. It was said that he liked that. Liked the idea that she was with others. He was quite loyal to her until she was seventeen. At seventeen, Fia was too old. She started wanting things. She was a mercenary, after all, not a prostitute. She wanted to fight like the others in Echoes. She wanted the respect the others had. But Gertz – well, rumour has it that he buried her up on the northern coast of Gogair somewhere, but I don’t know for sure. One of his crew would know. Kaala probably. He was the drunk downstairs you had me throw out, after all.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, either.’ Her smile faded. ‘Now, you’re blocking the door, and I have worked hard tonight. I must have my beauty sleep.’
‘You don’t need that,’ he said, stepping aside. ‘But when you see Gertz and tell him about me, say I am looking for work.’
She brushed past Bueralan without a reply.