It Pays To Be Nice, Sometimes

Everyone in the town saw Kenning's face go red, then purple, a mask of rage driving him across the killing-ground, his weapon held high. And the Lash just waited with a smile.

* * *

Gelsen wormed through the throng after the fight, very conscious that he needed to get out of town. He'd put eleven pence on the girl to win, at odds of two hundred, and now he was very conscious of the heavy, jingling weight of his purse. Every hand, every arm, from every one of Prossfield Fair's confused and excited citizenry seemed to be reaching for that fat purse. He remembered the dark glance as the bookie paid up, the other punters looking on in silence, and his pace quickened.

He'd lost his bet on the over/under, though. The girl had ended the fight in just under a minute.

His mind raced with what he'd just seen: the most unexpected and unimaginable blood-fight result the Prossfields had ever seen. Already the stale air around the Fairground was full of babbling voices, all of them talking of the same thing: of Molley the Lash, of the rapid and spellbinding fight against His Lordship's champion, of how she'd done it.

"She's got to be a sorceress," someone whispered as Gelsen ducked past, "or a priestess. Maybe that revenge-goddess?"

"Got to be," his companion agreed, but Gelsen was listening for something more: the shuffle of quick feet behind him. Lots of people had seen the bookie pour his gold grudgingly into Gelsen's purse.

He flew past the shoemonger's next door to the Tipping Pitcher, relieved to see Ella leaning against the hiring-post outside, already with her hair back up. Slowing, he made sure the smile on his face was a carefree one. "Ella, my dear," he nodded with a wink. "I wonder, can you do me a favor?"

"I can do you, Lord Bigdick," she smirked back, "but my favors cost money, as you know." She eyed his groin. "I'm impressed you're already back for more."

Gelsen chuckled, still listening for footsteps. He had to get away, but he had something to do first. "I'm off to see the seneschal, before I take my leave," he explained. "I wish you'd gather my things and have the ostler get my horses ready. Now, please." He'd brought the packhorse along, the better one which wasn't lame yet, because he'd expected to have supplies to take home. Now, he reckoned he could get what he needed in Jarmon or Westertown, or even way up at Crooked Keep next month: the important thing was to leave Lesser Prossfield as quickly as possible.

Yes. He'd do his shopping elsewhere. Somewhere that nobody knew he was walking around with over a hundred golden quartos in his purse. He reached in now and pulled one out in reply to Ella's scowl. "I'm not an errand-girl," she snapped.

"You will be, though," he muttered, pressing the coin into her palm; when she felt its weight, she gasped. "If I pay you enough..."

"Off I go," she giggled.

"I should be back from the Castle in fifteen minutes or so. If all my shit's ready to go, there'll be another half-quarto." He kissed her. "And maybe I'll grope your cunt, lass."

"No, the gold will be fine," she laughed. "See you soon, then. My lord." She scampered off, eyes alight, in a cloud of green satin, leaving Gelsen to slink back down toward the High Street.

Not for the first time, he decided he'd been a fucking idiot not to wear a sword to the Prossfield Fair.

The Castle loomed high above him as he made his way up the cobbled street between the Baron's dusty lawns, and as he drew close to the bored-looking guardsman at the gate Gelsen tried a severe, haughty expression. "I am Lord Gelsen, Seigneur of Jorlan's Well and Knight of the Silver Cloak, a cousin of Seneschal Silbert. I'm here to pay my respects to his lordship before I take my leave."

Usually, Gelsen had found, an impressive string of titles was just the thing to get a guardsman to step aside. This one, though, just shifted his plug of tobacco and eyed Gelsen doubtfully. "Where's this silver cloak, then?" he demanded in the dry, accusatory tones of the truly stupid.

"It's not a real cloak," Gelsen snapped. "That's just what they call the order. Come now. Stand aside and let me by."

The guard nodded. "Ain't got a sword? Why's that?"

"Because I'm here for the Fair, not to slay orcs." Gelsen smiled then, slowly, and not with his eyes. "Nor guards."

The man shrugged. "I'd need to take it off you anyway, I guess. Go on inside; if you're not who you say you are, Lord Huckin will simply hang you."

"Thank you." Gelsen struggled to avoid rolling his eyes, but only until he'd passed into Huckin's echoing gatehouse and gone striding toward the courtyard. He'd been in this castle before, of course, back in the old days when "Seigneur of Jorlan's Well" was more than just an old claim overtaken by reality, when Gelsen and his father had come to attend court with Huckin's father. The place looked the same now, and even the smell hadn't changed: the Lords of Prossfield were overfond of sheep and underfond of cleaning up after them, with predictable olfactory results.

He glanced about as soon as he emerged into the bright sun of the courtyard; nobody in here would mug him for his purse, but Gelsen was a man who preferred to know what was around him. The stables lined the far wall, just beside the kitchen (an arrangement Gelsen thought in poor taste, literally as well as figuratively) with the Lord's Chambers on the right. He was just about to head inside when his attention went to raised voices on the near side of the courtyard.

"It's quite impossible!" The voice was loud, pompous, and very familiar: dear Cousin Silbert. Gelsen, thinking of Ella hurriedly having his horses made ready, didn't waste time; he turned right for the Seneschal. "It's a violation of the law!"

"I beat him in single combat. I'm clearly innocent." The reply was sharp and sure, as quick and final as her razorwhip. Her voice took on a hint of mockery. "Your own Goddess Kelthala obviously thinks I'm innocent. Right?"

"It's a blood fight!" Silbert raged. "That means death!"

"Yes, so you said at the time." Molley was arguing with Silbert around the corner of the granary, in the shadow of the barbican. A guardsman on the walls above leaned dangerously over, gawking at the girl's tit-linen as Gelsen stepped quietly around the building. "That's why I whipped his ear off."

"That's not killing him!"

"Of course it is, silly." Molley sounded like she was having fun. "Actuarially, he'll die in forty more years or so; who the fuck are you to say it wasn't my wound that caused it?" She took no notice as Gelsen leaned on a pillar, standing easily with her arms crossed casually. "What, did you want me to kill him? Your own lord's guard captain?"

"It's the law!" Silbert spat.

"Well, whatever. I'll take my money, anyway." She bent to the grass, all lean muscle, to pick up her leather shirt. "And then I'll be going, if you'll do me the favor of an escort." She winked. "Footpads, you know. They'll know I've got money."

"They'll know you can take an ear off, too," Gelsen put in quietly, stepping into the shadows. The seneschal at once drew back, scowling. "Dear Cousin Silbert. So nice to see you. I was looking to pay my respects to your master before I leave his fair domain."

"He's busy." Silbert glared back and forth between Gelsen and Molley, eyes narrowing. "As am I, Gel."

"Sounds that way." Gelsen was pondering, calculating, wondering. Planning. He smiled at the girl, a genuine one. "Hi. I'm Gelsen. I was most impressed by your performance at the square."

"Thanks." She was lacing her shirt over her little breasts, her face bright and open. "You know the seneschal?"

"Somewhat." Silbert no longer existed, though, not really. Gelsen's mind raced. "Pardon me, but I couldn't help overhearing... you desire an escort? I'm just leaving town myself, and if you like, I'm happy to volunteer."

"I'm sure you do," the girl snapped, smirking. "'Volunteer,' eh? Are there no whores in this town, then?"

Gelsen laughed, easily, guilelessly. "Now now. I'm sure there are, though obviously I'd never know." He winked at the seneschal. "Is prostitution legal here this week, Cousin? I can never keep track."

"You can leave now, my lord Gelsen," the seneschal grated. "Pray let me get on with my business with this thieving bitch."

Gelsen's eyebrows shot up. "What's that, Cousin? It was a legal fight. The blessed Lady Kelthala herself has passed her judgment on this young lady, no?" He smiled unctuously. "I think terms like 'thieving bitch' are a bit harsh at this point, surely. Not to mention inaccurate. Or..." He cocked his head. "Were you thinking of going against the judgment of the Goddess of Justice?"

"Yeah, Silbert," Molley chimed in. "Were you?"

The seneschal's face had already been red; now, it went scarlet. "Damn you both," he hissed.

"I mean, we could ask your Captain Kenning." Gelsen's fingers were spread, the picture of reason and restraint. "I'm sure he'll admit she beat him."

"Once he's gotten stitched up, anyway," Molley snickered.

Gelsen joined in her giggle, still hoping she'd leave with him. His mind swirled, thinking what use he could make of such a confident fighter. "No, he's going to need a sorcerer or something," he shrugged. "You took that ear clean off."

"I did, didn't I?"

"If you two are quite finished," the seneschal interrupted loudly through their laughter. He glanced around at where a crowd of courtiers had begun to gather, pointing and whispering. He sighed loudly, running a thick hand through thin hair. "Shit," he allowed at last, digging into his own embroidered coin purse. "Take your damn money, wench. But you're to leave now, and never come back."

Molley nodded, gazing thoughtfully over at Gelsen. "You said something about escorting me then, sir?" She arched an eyebrow. "Without a sword, I'll point out."

"I don't need one," he winked nodding at her whip, "but I do have two good horses, already being saddled at the Tipping Pitcher. You're welcome to one of them, if you can ride."

"Are they fast?" She watched greedily as Silbert counted out her gold, grudging every coin. "I've got reason to avoid people, now."

"So have I," Gelsen nodded, shaking his own purse. "I think we both want to avoid any... trouble. So sure, they're faster than a footpad."

"Most horses are." She shrugged. "Well. I'll accept your offer, then, at least as far as the road to Westertown."

"Not Jarman's Well?" Silbert sniped, rolling his eyes at Gelsen. "Still dragging your feet in taking back your inheritance, Cousin?"

"I'm a busy man, my lord Seneschal."

"Must not be bothering you much, being poor," the seneschal snickered.

Gelsen bit his tongue and made a show of staring around at the keep's unchinked kitchen, at the weeds sprouting from the walls. "Looks like Lord Huckin might be heading that same way," he observed softly.

"Lord Huckin," Silbert snapped, "has prospects. Important prospects." He slid his eyes around the courtyard. "There might be news soon. Of a wedding. With the Lady of Penfold."

"Poor woman," Gelsen sighed. He tipped his cap as Silbert's face darkened. "You tell Lord Huckin I said hi, won't you? This young lady and I have a horse to catch, I think."

"Fuck you, Gel."

"Someone else already did that today, Silbert." He nodded pleasantly to Molley, unable to believe his luck. "Shall we?"

* * *

There was no pursuit from the Prossfields while the day stayed bright, but now the sun sank toward the distant hills of The Stews and shadows lengthened across Whitelinen Dale. Gelsen wanted to put distance between them and the town. He reckoned the thieves would be following them on the Westertown road. The girl had ridden in silence, straight-backed, doing an excellent job of concealing what a shitty rider she was.

Only once had she spoken, just after they'd reached the river. "So. Just why am I going with you, Lord Gelsen? And where are you taking me?"

He'd turned in the saddle. He knew he needed to be careful here. He wanted this girl to enlist with him, but sensed she could be prickly. "Well, my packhorse is going toward Westertown tonight. We dwell in a watchtower just past, at Gwederoch. You're going that way too, as long as you're choosing to ride that horse." He said nothing more; he'd chosen his words carefully, and he waited for her to pick up the hint. She did not disappoint, as quick with her wit as with her whip.

"We."

"Hmm?" He didn't turn this time.

"'We dwell in a watchtower.' You said that." She paused. "You don't mean yourself and your horses."

He'd just ridden on, letting her mind work, the horses picking their frisky way among the tussocks. The pack animal had not been happy to see Molley, but then Ella had been even less so. The whore had eyed her coolly as the two of them made their way over the courtyard wall, clinking as they landed. "Well. Not the usual entryway," she'd groused to Gelsen, but her eyes had never left the girl.

"We're avoiding the streets." He'd swept his pack up from where Ella had placed it underneath a trough.

"You know, Lord Bigdick, that you didn't need to bring a whore of your own," she'd continued. "I'm right here."

Molley, girl from Peach Quay that she was, had understood at once. She'd held her hand out briskly. "You're in no danger from me," she'd grinned. "I'm Molley. Molley the Lash."

"The Lash?" Ella had raised a sketchy eyebrow. "What the fuck's that mean, then?"

"My lash makes me dangerous," the girl had explained as she'd nuzzled Gelsen's packhorse. She patted her whip.

"Oh." The whore had brightened. "In that case, I'm Ella. Ella the Cunt." She winked, patting her mound. "As your new friend Gelsen knows." She'd turned the eyebrow on him. "My remaining half-quarto, please."

He'd given her a whole piece, in the end, the gold glinting in the noon sun, and then the two of them had been off. Horses were good because they were fast, but also because they could shove through a crowd, and they'd fled the town gate in a flurry of dark glances and shouted curses.

The sun sank lower now before them, the horses tiring. Gelsen heard Molley clear her throat. "Were you planning on riding all night, then?"

"No. You met Ella, back in Prossfield; that's what she does." He chuckled lightly. "When I'm riding back through the Dale, I usually take shelter in a cave just ahead here, another few furlongs."

"You make this journey often?"

"Prossfield Fair happens twice a year. I normally find steel there. I've got a dwarf who makes useful things out of it." He shrugged. "I'd been planning on stopping at the ironworkers' just as you started your show with Captain Kenning, in fact."

"So sorry I disrupted your shopping," she laughed. "So. A cave, you say?"

"In a bank above the river, yes."

"And what were you planning to do with me?" She didn't sound apprehensive, just curious.

"Do with you?"

"Yes." With an effort, she urged the horse up to ride alongside him with the river chattering alongside. "I was assuming you'd try to fuck me."

Gelsen laughed. "Were you?"

She shrugged easily. "A young woman, traveling alone. A man offers her... what, protection? An 'escort?' And he does this out of the goodness of his heart?" She smiled. "I've been wandering nearly six months now, sirrah. I'm familiar with the sorts of expectations men have at times."

Gelsen nodded, calculating. He needed to play her carefully. "Call me Gelsen."

"Not Lord Bigdick?"

"If you wish," he chuckled, but she was still smiling. So he continued. "Would you believe me if I told you I had no plans to fuck you?"

"I saw that whore back there. Ella, was it?" She attended to her horse as the thing lurched, tired. "She clearly emptied you out. So maybe, yes. I'd believe you on that score."

"She did," Gelsen agreed, "but that's not quite why." He hesitated. "Again, I'll be honest: I do have something in mind for you that I wanted to bring up. Six months of wandering... can I ask where it is you're wandering to?"

"You can ask," the girl shrugged, "but the answer won't matter. I don't know it myself." She paused. "I... needed to leave Peach Quay. Fairly quickly. The nature of my destination was not as important as the fact that I left."

He held up a hand. "Please, I don't wish to pry. I was just curious whether you had... a place to go? To lodge, or eat, or... whatever?" He watched her eyes closely, big and blue and unflinching as they stared back at him. "Or if you even felt the need for such a place?"

She nodded now. "I see. You don't want to fuck in a cave. You want me to come with you to, let's say, a watchtower? In a village outside Westertown? Where you can, I don't know, let me cook and clean for you?"

He halted his horse; the beast began pulling up the grass at once. The sun hung very low. "Not exactly," he admitted, "though it does involve the watchtower near Westertown. But cooking? Cleaning? Not a bit of it."

She cocked her thoughtful head, looking back at him now. "You said 'we,' earlier. There are others at this watchtower."

He nodded quietly.

"And they don't cook or clean, either."

He nodded once more.

"And you'd like me to join you. And them."

Gelsen stirred. "We should be getting to shelter, Molley. If I may call you that."

She tucked her hair behind her ears. "You may. Lead on, Gelsen. You've piqued my curiosity."

"I'm relieved to hear that." His brain was singing now, the harvest of this trip to Lesser Prossfield far, far better than any steel he might have brought back for Lupak's forge. "We'll need to move quickly, unless we want salt beef; it will be difficult to find fresh game this late."

"I can help there. If you don't want my cunt in payment for your services as escort and your use of this fucking horse, then I'll get us dinner."

"Splendid!" The hills on their right began to mount above the swaying beeches at their base, in the river bottom. The caverns underneath there would be nice and dry, he decided. There'd been no rain in the Dale all week. "I'll ride on and make sure nobody else is using my caves," he announced, nudging his horse; he didn't bother asking how she planned on getting food. She'd clearly been surviving all right on her own, and she still had that air of sublime confidence that had drawn his attention in the first place. "Just come find me where you see the fire."

If she said she'd find dinner, she'd find dinner.

The sky was still bright above as he climbed from the river, but the meadow below was grey and the trees ahead black-shadowed with the sun below the long, sloping valley in the west. Gelsen paused a moment, his horse going at once to the grass, listening for voices in the trees; when he heard nothing but the sigh of the wind in the leaves, he slipped out of the saddle and stretched his arms, stepping in through the beeches, eyes low, sweeping up likely-looking branches as he went.

Twice the razorwhip snapped behind him down by the riverside, sharp and sudden on the evening air: twice, and no more. Gelsen was still getting the embers to catch the branches when he heard her coming, the packhorse stepping heavily at the end of the quick jostling ride down the Dale. He caught the sound of her quiet feet just as his flames at last licked up at the branches. "Roasted, or stewed?" she asked softly. "Two ducks," she went on, emerging through the trees. "I took them on the wing, just as I startled them out of the water."

She knelt beside Gelsen, laying two sleek piles of feathers on the leaf-mould beside his fire. He started when he saw the state of the birds, remembering those two cracks of the razorwhip; both heads, he saw, had been sliced clean off. On the wing, she'd said! He smiled, sparing a glance over at where her eyes shone in the firelight. "Roasted. It would have been best if you'd plucked them on the way, though," he smiled.