It Pays To Be Nice, Sometimes

"I'm a woman of many talents," she shot back, "but not all talents. You may pluck, my Lord Bigdick. I'll go see to the horses, maybe take a leak. Are you all right back here all by yourself?"

He laughed quietly. "I think I can manage."

"We'll see," she giggled, vanishing into the blackness of the gathering night.

* * *

"So." She yawned in the early morning air, pulling her blanket close around her next to the dead fire. "I did dinner. You do breakfast."

He chuckled down at her, already up and ready to move. He'd seen to the horses in the blue light before the dawn. "I usually just saddle my horse and vanish."

She snorted. "Seriously? Don't just mount up and ride without saying anything. You do that in a brothel, not on the road."

He shook his head. "You have colorful metaphors."

Molley burrowed deeper into the blanket. "I told you where I came from. Last night."

"Peach Quay." He'd never been there. "I've heard of it."

"The whoring capital of Leinyere, as far as I've been told." She stretched. "Sailors come down the Wound and into Giltan's Port with purses and balls both full. The Quay provides a public service, keeping them from the good people of the town."

"Have you seen the rest of the Port?" he snorted. "There might be two or three 'good people' there, somewhere, but not that I've seen."

"When you're raised in a brothel," she went on, ignoring him, "life holds few mysteries. And yes, your metaphors become colorful." She frowned. "You mentioned someone yesterday. A smith you know. A Dwarf."

"Lupak." He hesitated, scanning her face. "If you keep riding with me, you'll meet him this evening."

"A Dwarf is the one kind of person I've never seen copulating." She giggled when Gelsen raised his eyebrows. "They don't sail often, apparently, or they prefer their own kind between the sheets."

Gelsen rubbed his chin, needing a shave. "If you meet him, and get enough beer into him, I'm sure he'd perform."

She sat up in the blanket. "You've known him long?" Without any sense of shame, Molley threw off the blanket to show a lean, bare body underneath. She scratched absently at her pubic hair. "I'd not want to impose, if I just told him I wanted to see him fuck."

"Again," Gelsen sighed, looking toward the river once he'd seen his fill of her body, "give him beer. He becomes very pliable. We've been together, most of us, since the Year of Lord Harrowes. That's the third Lord Harrowes." He paused as Molley just stared up at him blankly, groping for her leathers in the grass beside the ashes of the fire. "For about six or seven years," he clarified.

"You people have odd calendars here," she groused, pulling her pants up her lithe legs. "Back at Giltan's, they use numbers."

"Well. People here don't usually learn to count." He took another glance at her nipples before she took up her linen and began to wrap. "Each year, a different lord takes it in turn to be sort of an overlord. For the whole area." He shrugged. "We have a lot of lords here."

"And you're one."

"In a way." She shrugged into her tunic. "My father was. I was the youngest son in a family whose older sons were useless; they didn't even die properly. So our lands were taken from us when I was a boy, and... well. I've just never gotten around to getting them back." He sighed. "There'll be no Year of Lord Gelsen, that seems certain. Unless I can take my castle back."

"Or steal someone else's," Molley laughed. "That Lord Huckin seemed like an asshole. Just go take his."

"I have friends, Molley. People I work with, the people I told you of last night. But not an army. Not enough to do a thing like that." He watched absently as she tied herself up. "Anyway. You'll see for yourself, when you meet them."

"When?" She arched her eyebrow, a challenge. "I don't recall telling you I'd come along with you." She hadn't, either, although she'd seemed intrigued by his stories the night before by the campfire: stories of deeds done by the small, cunning band of people Gelsen had put together, the band he hired out to do the dirty work of small lords. She'd listened politely, feigning mild interest, but Gelsen was pretty sure he knew better.

He had an eye for talent, even for talent that pretended disinterest.

"I'm sure you hear this a lot," he began as they nudged the horses down toward the path by the river, "but good gods, you're good with that whip."

She tossed her head back. "I had to learn how to be good with something," she shrugged. "I didn't grow up under the best of circumstances."

"Peach Quay." Gelsen paused, choosing his words with care. "When I was a young man, going into Giltan's Port on business, I can't claim I ever went there."

"Because you were warned away," she snorted.

"Because I usually had gold," he corrected her gently. "Back then, all the whores wore lace."

"Not much of that in the Quay," she agreed affably.

"Besides," Gelsen went on, sighing out the punchline, "I hear the girls there are dangerous. That they're good with razorwhips."

She obliged him with a barked laugh. "Not all of them." She held out her arm, showing a faint scar on the front of the wrist. "My first and only fight with a blade."

He looked closely, surprised he'd missed it before. "I usually have an eye for scars. Most people get cut up worse in a knife fight."

"Well, I don't like getting cut up at all," she snapped. "You figure out really fast whether you're safe to handle yourself with a dagger, and I'm not." She let the horse pick its way carefully through some marshy shit where a stream trickled into the broad Whitelinen on their left. "So? The whip seemed like a good option, especially when it turned out I could handle it."

"That you can," he nodded. A farm appeared on the other side of the river, the house dwarfed by a nice stone-built barn. "So, what? You roamed around, getting into fights?"

"No," she smiled. "Fights are two-sided. It wasn't long before I realized I could do damage. That's when I got my nickname." She scratched at her armpit. "So after that, I ended up back in my aunts' brothel, where I'd been raised. That was three years ago now. I was eighteen."

Gelsen laughed. "The family business?"

"Nope. I didn't spread my legs there. I was the bouncer." She joined him in his laughter. "You might not be shocked to hear that the whorehouses of Peach Quay sometimes attract the rougher class of men." She shrugged. "It was bad for awhile, but once I whipped a couple of hands off, people started being a lot more polite."

Gelsen's heart leapt. "So. You're a protector."

She cocked her head. "When I can be. But sometimes, I'm just a bitch."

Gelsen nodded over the river. "That farm there. It was the first job we did."

"Was it?"

"The man who lives there is called Murtin, Murtin of Smallhold. Wife, three children. He was having some trouble with some ruffians. Stock killed, crops trampled, pigs fucked, that sort of thing. The usual."

"Pigs fucked?"

He shrugged. "Ruffians. What do you expect? So back then it was just me and my friends Fewnick and Jolarion."

"That's a weird name."

"It's only part of his name." Gelsen shrugged. "He's Ka-Viti Jolarion."

"Oh!" She perked up in the saddle. "An elf? I've never met one." She chuckled. "Outside of the brothel, that is. They come often, as the whores say."

"I'll bet they do."

"Well. They're not popular, though." She shrugged and bit into a chunk of jerky. "A lot of them can control when they cum. So they say. So, they tend to wear out their welcome, if you know what I'm saying."

Gelsen gave a dry grin. "Well, that wasn't Jolarion's problem that day. The three of us headed over there and took care of the problem with a short fight and a couple of alchemy tricks from Fewnick." He winked. "Guess we saved the day."

"Oh." They rode on in silence for a bit, Smallhold receding behind them, and then the girl spoke again with that exaggerated disinterest that told him she was very interested indeed. "You do a lot of that sort of thing?"

"Saving the day? Rescuing the innocent?" He smiled at her. "All the damn time. We're heroes for hire."

"Interesting," she muttered, and Gelsen congratulated himself; he was well on his way, he knew, to getting her to enlist with them. He sent a silent thanks over the river to the little Smallhold farm, which wasn't owned by anyone named Murtin and hadn't, so far as he knew, ever had any trouble with ruffians, whether the kind that fucked pigs or the kind that did not. The lie had worked, though, which was fortunate: in reality, his band's first job had been mucking out a donkey stall for Lady Polder. He doubted that would attract the interest of a fighter as fearless as Molley the Lash.

In time the road bent around the big rocky outcropping of The Wizard's Nose, then over the little Free Bridge there, past the inn, and after that the road was paved for the last league before Westertown. The land in this part of the Dale was a little too wet for farming, but from the smell of the turds in the fields the sheep seemed to love it.

"You mentioned a watchtower?" she ventured as they passed the first gatehouse. Gelsen nodded warily at the guard there; they'd hired Baster Watress and his gang to man the towers over here, at the east end of town, and from the looks of that guard the town was ripe to be overrun from that side if any up-Dale lordling had a mind to do it.

"I did." Gelsen had been scanning the side of the road for a bush he could piss behind. "Gwederoch. It's past the western edge of town, maybe nine furlongs? Around half a league, anyway." He glanced ahead over the hill at where Westertown was staining the sky, as it always did. "We'll skirt the town to the north. You have to pay a toll to get through, and then there's the smell."

"Smell?"

"They tan hides on the south side of town, next to a dam. But they burn sheep shit to do it, so."

"Ah."

"Yes. Being the Leather Capital of Whitelinen Dale is not all roses and unicorn farts." He shrugged, then simply undid his breeches and hitched himself up in the saddle to piss off the side of the horse.

"You're doing that now?" The girl sounded disgusted.

"What?" Gelsen smiled at her over his shoulder. "I'm pointing it away from you. Be glad."

"I really should go back to the city," she sighed. "They piss in the streets there too, but at least they face a wall."

Westertown soon smudged the Dale before them, the track staying down by the river on their right hand now. Gelsen let his horse pick up its pace, the beast smart enough to want to pass the leatherworks as fast as possible. The sloping plain up from the river bottom showed the hard angles of rooftops in slate, wood, and thatch, nestled behind a low city wall that sprang from the castle at the top of the hill, right next to the tannery.

"Smelly location for a lord's house," Molley observed.

"I think the castle was there before the leather business," Gelsen guessed, "and probably influenced by other factors. Guess who owns the tannery?"

"Ah," she nodded after a pause.

"Yes. Lord Noldegar and his family have a long and mutually beneficial relationship with cows, in every stage of their lives."

"You mean..." When he turned to her, her eyes were wide. "I mean, I grew up in a whorehouse, but I guess I'm pretty sheltered."

"Your aunts were good to you. We'll just say that the Noldegars really, really, really enjoy their meat," Gelsen said diplomatically. "They're cousins of mine, too, from way back. On the distaff side."

"Fuck. Is there a lord in the Marches that you're not related to?"

"Very few," he chuckled. "What's the point of being noble if you can't have sex with other nobles?" He squinted ahead, frowning. "Sex with nobles is not underrated, Molley, let me tell you."

"Spoken like a true noble. I hope the cattle agree." She followed his gaze to a small cart ahead, hauled by a mule, with a dwarf perched atop the load. "Something interesting about that wagon?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Gelsen had spurred forward, the pace making her wince as her horse kept up.

"Is there an innocent there that needs saving?"

"No, just a friend." The mule was plodding along, mournful like a being on its way to an abbatoir, but powerless to avoid it. The load, Gelsen soon saw, was a long and rusty pile of iron bars, heaped next to a pile of #4 coal. He cleared his throat and called out as they drew up. "I thought your boss went to Prossfield the other day, to find some steel for you!"

The dwarf straightened on the little seat, his head not even turning. "My boss," he began in a voice deep as a cavern, "never does what he says he's going to do. When he says he's going to bring me steel, I head for Westerfield and buy some iron and coal." He spat over the side. "He did say he was going to Prossfield for steel, and I don't need to turn around to find out he's got no steel." He cocked his hooded head. "Do I?"

"I've got something better, perhaps," Gelsen laughed, grinning down as the dwarf's head swiveled suspiciously around. "Observe. I found a damsel in... well. Not 'distress,' really, but in need of transportation at the very least. Meet Molley the Lash, late of Peach Quay."

The dwarf twisted in his seat and grunted. "She's riding the horse I sent you to carry back my steel," he accused.

"I'm sure she's pleased to meet you too. Molley, this is the renowned Lupak of the Iron Hand, the best smith in all the Marches."

"That's not saying much." The dwarf spat again. "Don't be too glad you've been taken in by Lord Gelsen, girl," he sighed. "It's done none of us much good."

"See?" Gelsen smiled. "He's got a great sense of humor, too."

"He's spoken of you," Molley told the dwarf, making a clear effort to be friendly. "He says you're fond of beer."

"He understates the case," Lupak snapped. "I'm not fond of beer. I need beer. Why? Do you have any?" he added hopefully, his deep-set eyes searching her gear.

She laughed. "I'm told that if I find you some, you might show me how dwarves fuck."

"I have no idea how the esteemed Gelsen, Lord of Nowhere Much, would know anything about fucking," he groused, but he did chuckle briefly. "Still. You find me some beer, girl, and you might be surprised at what happens." He turned back toward Gelsen. "I like this one," he announced loftily. "Let's keep her."

"I keep no one," Gelsen nodded, "who doesn't want to be kept. But with any luck she'll join us for dinner tonight and, perhaps, make up her mind to stay for breakfast."

"Gods!" she scoffed, looking past the dwarf. "Most men are a little more subtle than that."

"I didn't mean sex, Molley." He winked. "Just food. And maybe some money, too, if you want to stay around and help us save the day."

"Me? A hero for hire?" She laughed. "That's not quite what I was expecting when I stole those quartos."

"Plus seven silver pennies. From the Lord's own coffers," Gelsen reminded her. "We've had jobs in the past that have needed a thief. Usually we've sent in Thansy, but she's getting a little bored with that shit."

"Thansy," Lupak put in, "is a little bored with anything that doesn't involve fighting or fucking."

"I'm not a very good thief, my dear Lord Gelsen," Molley chuckled. "I got caught, after all."

"Yeah, but saving maidens is another thing we do a lot of," Gelsen shrugged, "so no big deal. We'll just fight our way in and grab you."

The town sank slowly behind them as the afternoon sun sank before them, until presently they saw a tall, broken-topped tower ahead with a low wall surrounding a courtyard at the base. Gelsen sighed. "My family was once Seigneurs of Jorlan's Well. Now? I'm in charge of a busted-up guard tower that doesn't even cover an invasion route."

"Only by lease," the dwarf pointed out helpfully. "You don't even own the fucking place."

"Yes, Lupak, thank you."

"Just saying." The shadows grew behind them as the tower grew closer, showing details: clothes on a line, and horse-shit on the road, and a wisp of blue smoke etching the sky. "Raella said she was cooking ox loin tonight."

"Yeah?" Gelsen arched an eyebrow. "How did she afford that?"

"How would I know? I'm a fucking dwarf. Food isn't my area of expertise." Lupak sniffed.

"There's no marketplace around here?" Molley asked.

"On High Days there is, just off to the right by the river." Gelsen shrugged. "Otherwise, it's a trip into town, and if that's where she planned to get her food, she'd have ridden with our good dwarf here."

"I'll give her a ride," Lupak muttered, and Gelsen rolled his eyes.

"She's a crone, Lupak. You can do better."

"I was teasing." Lupak sniffed critically. "You asked about me fucking, girl?" he grunted at Molley. "You'll need to find me some sweeter pussy than Raella's."

"Is that a proposition?" Molley laughed. "You're more direct than your master, I'll say that."

"Calm yourself, Molley," Gelsen sighed. "I told you, I don't want to fuck you. I'd have done it last night, wouldn't I?"

"You almost did," she mocked him. "I woke up in the middle of the night with the fire down low, and there you were, fast asleep. Spooning me."

"Well. I was trying to keep warm, I suppose." Gelsen affected a nonchalant air. "You can't possibly blame a man for what he does in his sleep. What's next? Will I need to explain away my snoring? I don't even hear it!"

"Was he hard?" Lupak snorted.

The girl winked broadly. "Take a look at me," she murmured, "and just guess about the answer to that." She straightened up, tall in the saddle with her slim, perfect body lit by the full sun. The dwarf grunted.

"I'll have to tell everyone else that you want to fuck the new girl, Gelsen," Lupak snorted with a low, gravelly gurgle. It took Molley a moment to realize he was laughing. "Not that you're the only one. Just wait 'til Jolarion gets a look at you, wench. He'll be creaming those little elf-panties he likes to wear."

"You told me you had a band of heroes, my Lord Gelsen," Molley snickered. "Little did I realize I'd left one brothel and entered another!"

"Dwarves," Gelsen said primly, "are well known for their exaggerations."

"Fuck off." Lupak spat, missing Gelsen's horse by a whisker. "She'll figure it all out for herself." He eyed Molley. "If Thansy doesn't kick her ass first."

"Thansy," Gelsen sighed. They were on the last part of the road, sloping gently down to the gate. "Yes."

"You mentioned her," Molley prodded. "She got a nickname? Everyone else has one; what's hers?" She noticed when Gelsen and Lupak exchanged a veiled glance. "What? Did I say something weird?"

"Thansy... well. Thansy can be a little bit moody," Gelsen began.

"A lot bit," the dwarf snorted.

"She often overreacts, which can be really useful sometimes. Annoying other times." Gelsen smiled brightly. "I'm sure you'll get along with her. Eventually."

"She's a fucking hazard to anything around her," Lupak added helpfully.

"She's got definite opinions, our Thansy," Gelsen nodded, "and she doesn't mind... ah, encouraging others to agree with her. Sometimes she goes overboard with that, but she means well. Mostly."

"She also fucks anything with a dick," the dwarf finished, nodding.

"Well, yes. There's that, too."

Molley arched an eyebrow. "What's her nickname, Gelsen?"

The lord shrugged. "Thansy the Wroth."

Molley blinked. "'The Wroth?'"

"She's usually angry," Gelsen admitted. The gate drew nearer. They could hear the snap of the laundry in the breeze.

"I marvel at the joys of the world you seem to have created here, my Lord Gelsen." Molley hoped her voice was dripping with as much irony as she thought it was. "Your ability to attract interesting people is... impressive?"

"Hey," he smirked, "I got you here, didn't I?" The gate swung open before them, squealing a bit, and they reined up to let the dwarf take the cart in first. "We're back!" he announced loudly through the low archway.