It Pays To Be Nice, Sometimes

Molley was struck at once by the smells: from the chicken run off to one side, from a murky latrine shed in the back, from a low kitchen block where the blue smoke drifted. From a row of stables on the left, with a seedy-looking boy mucking them out. From a low coal-fire in what had to be Lupak's forge, from a stack of freshly-tanned hides by the gate. From churned-up grass by the stables.

It smelled invigorating to a city girl with a taste for adventure. Gelsen gestured grandly around with a cynical smile. "Welcome to Gwederoch." He nodded for her to dismount as the stableboy threw down his rake and stalked over, looking at Molley from below his lowered eyelids. "Hi there, Phurlin," Gelsen said to the boy. "This is Molley. She'll be joining us for dinner. Can you let Raella know to put out an extra plate for Molley, once you've taken our horses?"

"Yes, m'lord." Molley watched him closely. He really was making an effort to look at her without seeming to. She was impressed. He was young, maybe nineteen, and blushing furiously. "Welcome home. Nice to meet you, Miss Molley."

"Just Molley is fine," she replied, sliding out of the saddle, but suddenly everything went still as a harsh, withering yell filled the courtyard. Everyone froze.

Even the horses.

"What the fuck are you looking at, you four-times-damned asslicker of a bitch-boy?" Molley's eyes swiveled slowly to where a short, powerfully built woman had just emerged from one of the doorways ranged around the walls. She wore a fighting kilt and a cropped leather top that left her belly bare, showing muscles beneath it and big, tanned breasts above. Her face was beautiful, marred now by a scowl, framed by beautiful blonde curls. A short sword swung at her hip. "Why are you looking at this little bitch, Slutboy?" She paid no attention to Molley other than a brief, contemptuous flicker of her grey eyes.

The stablehand looked at his boots. "I... I was just curious who she was, Mistress."

"Yeah?" Now the new arrival did turn her attention on Molley, hard eyes missing nothing. "Were you looking at her no-tits, or her no-ass?"

"Hey." Molley forced herself to relax. This had to be Thansy. "That's not polite." Gelsen stood in the corner of her eye, looking amused.

"No?" The eyes hardened. "Lord Gelsen. Welcome home. I see you've found another orphan." She sniffed. "Though whether it's a boy or a girl, I can't really tell now that I'm paying attention."

"It's not wise to pick fights with people before you're introduced, Thansy," Gelsen chided.

"Fine. What the fuck's her name?" The woman rested her hand on her sword-hilt. "And why's she preening around in front of my Slutboy?"

"I'm sure she had no idea about your arrangement with Phurlin," Gelsen soothed. "Thansy, this is Molley the Lash. She and I met in Prossfield."

"Only bitch-ass whores come from Prossfield," Thansy snapped immediately. Her eyes started to narrow: she badly wanted a fight. Molley began to wonder how much she'd have to hurt her.

"I'm not from Prossfield, actually. I was just passing through," Molley smiled. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Lord Gelsen has told me so much about you."

"Did he tell you to come parade your skinny little body around my fuck-toy, whore?" Phurlan stirred off to the side.

"Well, to be honest, no. He didn't."

Gelsen cleared his throat. "You might notice, Thansy, that Molley's got a razorwhip." He paused. "And no scars from it."

"Yeah. So that just means it's for show. Bitch doesn't use it." She tossed her head back, nostrils flaring. "Isn't that right?"

"No, as a matter of fact." She kept her voice low, carefully modulated, in the face of the other woman's bristly wrath. "That isn't right at all. I use it routinely."

"Then you'd have scars." Thansy spat. "Everyone who throws a razorwhip gets cut."

'Well no," Molley went on softly, "not quite everyone." She was aware, suddenly, of more people in the yard, two tall figures standing over where Lupak was unhitching his mule, but she had no time to spare for them now. "Shall I show you?"

The grey eyes widened. "Show me what, bitch? Show me your ass as you run away?" She pulled her sword halfway out, and Molley spoke up quickly.

"Show you what my whip can do." She nodded to herself. This woman was a bully, and needed to be taken down a peg. "Just stay right there, Thansy, and tell me which part you want me to take off."

"Which part?" The warrior-woman frowned. "Like, you think you're woman enough to whip something off me?" She spat again, this time toward Molley's feet.

Gelsen spoke faintly from the side. "We've got a healer here, Molley, but please. Don't maim my valkyrie."

"Those are beautiful curls, Thansy. But I think you need a trim," Molley went on calmly, her pulse slowing, her awareness expanding like it always did before a fight. It had always been this way, even that one time with the knife, seeming as if everything around her was moving slowly, clearly, telegraphing their next moves so that she could prepare herself. This time it was so obvious what the woman was going to do: she could see it in the way those grey eyes moved, in the flex of her arm as she pulled the sword out, the surge of her legs, driving her hips to her own right. Ah. She was going to come in from Molley's left, diving into a roll across the grass, then coming up to threaten her with the blade.

She'd lead with the point. This woman was not a subtle fighter.

Molley figured all this out in the time it took the valkyrie's steel to clear the sheath, then it was just a matter of planning her response. She'd free the whip from her belt, flicking it just a bit behind her to avoid the dwarf and the other figures to her right, then she'd bring the lash up and across her body, meeting the warrior-woman just as she started her tumble, making sure to flex her wrist enough that the razorwhip would stop short of her neck...

Well, no. Maybe just a wee little scratch, to teach her some manners.

Thansy came up from the grass snarling, her swordpoint jabbing upward, and then she stopped suddenly with an odd look on her face. The sword did not waver as she moved her left hand slowly to her neck, her eyes darting around in disbelief as her curls fluttered like goosedown across her shoulders. The air felt thick with expectancy, everyone stilled by the insistent crack of the razorwhip as Molley pulled it gently back to rest on the ground beside her, glinting faintly in the dusty grass.

Everyone could tell that the swordswoman was forcing an elaborate calm into her voice when she spoke, her fingers brushing the fresh-welling gash at the side of her neck and coming away bloody. "You missed," she said flatly, her whole body frozen.

Molley flicked her wrist, the whip slumping magically into a docile coil at her feet. "You know I didn't, Thansy." She smiled. "It will be a pleasure to work with you, I expect."

"Occasionally, perhaps." The warrior straightened, her swordpoint dipping, blood streaming down into her cleavage in a shining red ribbon.

"Fewnick." The command came from Gelsen, and Molley caught motion by Lupak's cart: one of the two men there, tall and lanky, stepped coolly forward. "Thansy seems to have cut herself. Can you see if she needs patching?"

"Sure." The voice rolled slow and deep, but Thansy simply tossed her hair obstinately out of her eyes. The whole left side of her curly, splendid mane was gone, sliced clean away by Molley's whip. She scowled over at the man.

"No need, alchemist," she spat. "It's not my first scar, and it won't be my last." She ran a hand through her curls. "You give shitty haircuts, girl. What was your name again?"

"Molley the Lash." She nodded, smiling warmly. "I'll even it out, if you wish." She gave the razorwhip a brief flick, and the thing came to life like a writhing snake near Thansy's right shoulder. "Just don't move; I'll have the right side trimmed in a moment."

Thansy, her eyes dripping scorn, drew herself up and stood like a stone monolith. "I'll not move, wench."

"Molley."

"Molley." It came out as a sneer. The trickle from her neck had grown now. "Do it."

The air cracked loudly, its sound echoing off the tower as Molley brought her arm back to her right, the whip a silvered blur in the afternoon sun, and then she was coiling it up with practiced ease as Thansy's curls flickered into the grass. The healer, Fewnick, peered closely at the warrior's head. "It's even, Thansy," he rumbled.

"Very well." She warrior sheathed her sword and, wincing only slightly, nodded at Molley. "Obliged to you," she barked, turning to follow Fewnick toward the kitchen.

"Well!" came a slow, careless drawl from beside Lupak.

"Yep," the dwarf grunted.

Light feet came toward Molley, stirring the dust. "I'm not in need of a trim, girl." The elf was tall, graceful like all his kind, now patting at his long brown hair. "I am Ka-Viti."

"A pity," Molley cracked back, grinning. "Your teeth must be in fearsome shape."

The elf cocked his head, looking severely back at Molley. "I have no idea," he announced, "why you humans insist on making puns about my name. Just call me Jolarion, then. It's a family name."

"Jolarion." She gave a short bow. "I am Molley of Peach Quay."

"A pleasure." The elf nodded politely. "Want to fuck?"

"Um, in fact, no. I've been riding for two days; I'm afraid I'm in no shape for that." She wasn't sure whether he was serious. "I'd love a latrine, though. Can you point the way?"

The elf's eyes brightened salaciously. "I'll escort you," he winked.

"Not necessary," she breezed, nodding politely. "I can find one." She sauntered off, slapping the dust from her legs, with Gelsen and Jolarion watching her go.

"Nice job, Gelsen," the elf nodded, "finding that one."

"I thought so, too."

* * *

Juices sizzled into the fire off a spitted side of beef just inside the kitchen door, beneath a wide louvered skylight. The meat glistened, red and black and savory, in the faint light from a hearth by the table.

"Raella!" Gelsen nodded, smiling, at the cook. "Smells delightful."

The crone glanced back, her eyes hooded as usual. Molley squinted into the dim room, startled; the crone's robes almost looked like the ones she'd seen back in Giltan's Port outside the temple of Kitara-Behind-The-Blade, the goddess of vengeance. But her eyes seemed uninterested, even vacant; the woman must've scrounged hem somewhere. Those eyes passed without expression over Molley and Jolarion, who'd trailed Gelsen into the kitchen. "My lord," she nodded, her voice soft. "I'm expecting Parnes for supper, too."

"Parnes!" Gelsen's eyebrows shot upward. "Why?" She just shrugged and went back to her pans. "How did he tell you he was coming? Did he send a messenger, or... you know. That thought thing."

She did not turn around for a long moment. Raella did not like talking. "I'm expecting Parnes for supper," was all she said, repeating it quietly and at length.

Gelsen nodded thoughtfully, peering out of the western window. "Thank you, Raella," he shrugged, leading his companions back out into the courtyard. "I'm glad I rescued her all those years ago, but she's an odd one."

"Parnes." Lupak spat on the scraggly grass. "Coming here."

"Must be important," Gelsen agreed. He cleared his throat and shouted to the top of the tower. "Guard! Show yourself!"

A few heavy moments passed before a head appeared in one of the crenels. "Yeah? What the fuck?"

"We're expecting a visitor before supper up the West Road, from Giltan's Port," he explained patiently. Molley gazed up at the guard, who looked like he was about fourteen. "Ring the bell when you see him."

"Whatever," the youth sighed back. "Horse or foot?"

"Foot," Gelsen called, "but from a distance, it'll look like a horse. Moving fast."

"Parnes is an anocot," Lupak explained in answer to Molley's doubtful look. "He finds work for us."

"Oh. Fine." Molley frowned. "Is that 'guard' old enough to have hair under his arms?"

Lupak chuckled. "Guard duty is boring. Gelsen knows we hate doing it, so he hires local kids."

"So, basically, a quick dust cloud," Gelsen finished, the youth shrugging. "Thanks!"

"Parnes is not his real name," Lupak was saying. He seemed to have taken quite a shine to Molley, and she realized he'd been a lot warmer since she'd whipped Thansy.

She smiled down at him. "I'm a city girl. I know anocots. A lot of them don't use their real names."

"He's an agent for a group of mercenaries doing dark things," the dwarf continued. "He wouldn't be using it anyway. But he doesn't usually enjoy coming out here to the sticks." Lupak rubbed his hands together. "Must be a big job."

"Do you guys get many... jobs?" Molley had understood Gelsen wanted her to come work for him, and knew that the fight with Thansy had given her a golden opportunity to show everyone how useful she could be. Now she was trying to figure out if she was interested in joining them. "How much do you guys get paid?"

The dwarf frowned. "I'm not the one to ask about the pay. I stay here at Gwederoch." He patted an impressive belly. "My days of riding around Leinyere, killing dragons and rescuing maidens, are long past. Sometimes I take a wagon and follow the action, but in general Gelsen pays me to work leather and metal. Being a hero isn't my thing. Ask Fewnick," he shrugged, nodding to where the alchemist was just ducking into a doorway in the corner. "He's been with Lord Gelsen since the beginning, I think, and he's usually honest."

"Thank you!" she replied with a smile, debating about whether she should wink. She could tell the dwarf liked her, and wasn't sure whether it was because of her legs or her whip. Not that it mattered. "I'll see you later."

"If I'm lucky," Lupak nodded, stumping off toward his forge. She hopped over a puddle by a weapons rack as she steered toward Fewnick's doorway, eventually peering into a dark room.

"Hello?" she called, hearing the echo: there was no window, but this just seemed to be a vestibule of some sort. Faint light filtered through another doorway on the left. "Got a minute?"

"Come in," a cranky voice replied, "but leave your boots out there." Molley cocked her head, squinting into the shadows on the far side of the little space: a low shelf squatted against the wall, loaded with neatly-ranked shoes and boots. All of them seemed huge to Molley; the alchemist was a tall man. Her boots soon joined his as she cautiously pushed the other door open.

Glass was her overriding first impression, a thicket of glass, a grove of glass, no, a forest of glass, tubes and vessels and bottles stacked floor to ceiling on a series of tables and counters. The light from high windows on the courtyard side admitted late afternoon sunlight that glimmered and prismed in a million shining rays, gleaming through colored liquids and little sprays of steam all over the room. Her nose picked up something odd, a heavy floral muskiness, vaguely sinister. Her bare feet slapped against broad flagstones as she eased past the door. "Well," she called out into the shining maze, "that's certainly an interesting smell."

"It's a poison," the voice rasped back, "or it will be someday. Don't touch anything." The alchemist suddenly appeared from around the corner of a table where she hadn't seen him before. She blinked at the bottles and tubes there, frowning, wondering how she'd missed him. "It's harmless at this stage. Why are you here?"

She smiled up at him. He was lanky, even stringy, standing tall above her in a grey wool robe with a leather apron. His age was hard to tell, certainly past forty. "I had some questions, and Lupak said you could answer them."

"No," Fewnick snapped, "that's not what I mean. I mean, why are you here?" His eyes had a slightly malevolent look, she realized, her mind sorting through the fact that using her whip in here would be very risky if he meant her harm. "At Gwederoch?"

She eased her hip up onto a nearby table, leaning, feeling the ache of the long ride. "Your Lord Gelsen brought me."

"Why?" The voice was not at all friendly.

She arched her eyebrow. "Because he saw me choose not to kill a man, when I easily could have."

Fewnick paused with a scowl, then nodded. "Ah. Yes. That's the kind of thing he likes." He stepped back a bit with a grudging nod. "Did you know he was watching you?"

"A great many people were watching me," she shrugged. "It was a trial by combat in the Prossfields, up at the top of Whitelinen Dale."

"Not too far from the Witch's Tit." Now the alchemist's eyebrows rose. "What was your crime?"

"I won the trial," Molley pointed out smugly, "so there was no crime."

"That's not what I mean, girl."

"I know that, boy," she shot back. She had him now, his mannerisms, his attitude. He was a man who would not respect politeness. Being courteous or funny was not the way to go. "You ask stupid questions."

"I ask necessary questions," he pressed. "We've had problems before. Spies." He ran a hand through thick hair. "One of the things you'll learn if you stay here is that the things we do make enemies." He looked her carefully up and down. "Just the whip? You carry nothing else?"

"Do I need to?" She smirked. "The stupid questions continue. You saw me in the courtyard." She stepped up to him, drawing herself up. "You may search me. I wouldn't mind."

"Why wouldn't you mind?" It was an odd question, asked softly.

"Would you mind?" she asked after a long pause. She knew she needed to tread lightly with this one. No courtesy, no humor, but no foolishness either. She could tell he had a finely-honed sense of when he was being lied to, and she suspected she wasn't a good enough liar to fool him. "Are you afraid you might find more than a whip? Something more dangerous?"

He stared hard at her. "What was your crime?" he repeated quietly.

"Getting caught." The smell dug at her nose.

He sighed. "You're aware of what we do."

"You're heroes for hire. It's been explained to me. Tell me something new."

"I'll tell you that when heroes for hire are doing things in dark, shadowy places, getting caught is not desirable." He stared hard at her. "Get it?"

She nodded slowly. "How much do you get paid?"

"Enough, and then some." He cocked his head. "There are frequent risks."

"I'm okay with frequent risks." The smell was getting to her now, trickling into her brain, insisting she notice. It soothed her, dulling her at a time she sensed she needed to be alert. "Are you?"

He smiled slowly. "I'm still here, working." He glanced to where she'd perched her butt on the table. "Why did you say you wouldn't mind if I searched you?"

She took a breath. "I was flirting," she confessed. "I often flirt."

"And then you realized it wouldn't work." It wasn't a question, but Molley nodded anyway. "Took you longer than it should have, girl."

"Call me Molley."

"Molley. You'll need to learn to read people more quickly."

She tossed her head back, fighting the smell. "I read Thansy well enough."

"This is true," the alchemist mused. "Thansy the Wroth. She's an easy read: she always attacks. Always." She nodded, fighting to concentrate. "Do you want some tea? Maybe some fresh air?"

"You know I do," she blurted.

"But you weren't going to tell me?" His smile gentled now, and he beckoned her past him. "Honesty matters in a band of heroes for hire, Molley." He reached for a lever on the wall, a complicated series of linkages opening one of the high windows with a shriek of iron. At once the steams and smokes wavered, tasting the new air, before they began drifting obediently out into the courtyard. She moved past him, her head clearing, hearing him follow as she moved among the glass.

"If honesty matters," she said softly, "you should answer my question."