Majutsu-shi no Chikara Ch. 13

"Aye, I'm just going." Damon pecked Ginga on the cheek before she pulled him into a forceful, teeth-and-tongue laden kiss. "I'll meet up with you both at midnight."

"It's late-enough, I think Fiodr should have my boots ready." The long-suffering sigh of resignation was something Ginga had nearly perfected in such a short time. "Let's go, 'seed-mate'... I could use an escort."

"And a tonguing." Abhilash leered at her, standing on wobbly knees from the table.

"After, perhaps." Ginga made a show of her primacy over the ork by not looking back.

Abhilash growled in irritation, and flushed eagerly with her secret enjoyment of this little bit of taunting that would invariably lead to sapphic enjoyment that satisfied in a way cocks never did... She very much enjoyed human mating to ork rutting, even if it was often too soft, weak, or slow. The threat of her heat was something she'd been keenly aware of during their first days together, even knowing she was carrying Damon's whelps. It was not impossible that Naenia would be mistaken about the mindless fever of lust that would wash over her... for good or ill. So, Abhilash enjoyed every manner of sex she could get each day.

Most of it was becoming routine, especially where Damon was concerned, and that matter bothered her very differently. The other aspects -- whether with Ginga, one of the madam's harlots or even one of the more sporting bouncers -- suited her just fine, for now.

...

"These boots are beautiful." Damon turned the supple leather in his hands, admiring the expert stitching and placement of the buttons. "How'd they make the soles? I don't... what is that? Leather? Cork? No..."

"It's an alchemical sole." Ginga grumbled from the bed, reaching out to him. "It's supposed to last a good long time, and they can re-sole it smartly as any other shoe."

"Is it magical?" Damon awed at the designs on the bottom, not understanding how they were made.

"No." She caught hold of his pants and tugged his hips closer. "Come to bed, I'm tired."

"Wait, were mine ready, too?" Damon looked around, still chewing the last of a very late supper. "I didn't..."

"No, they're not ready." Abhilash lurched up from behind Ginga and lunged for him. "Get yer arse over here."

"Ready tomorrow, early or mid-day." Abhilash snarled, tearing his pants from him and ruining his second pair of breeches since they'd arrived at the Fancy. "Now shut up and fuck us to sleep, Damon."

As the large bed creaked and groaned, Damon's bed mates sighed and moaned -- each crying out in their own way and for very different reasons. When the females lay spent and drifted to sleep, Damon and the bed lay awake, musing over their respective fates and wondering what waited for them on the morrow.

...

Disgusting. It was the overwhelming chorus of everything happening in the slums and outer markets of Renks Cairn -- a place the elf detested near as much as the human species entirely. Working in Renks Cairn was a necessary evil. An order. Duty. A sworn promise more than a century old from a time when the elf nations suffered the ravages of the Ten Crowns War. The machine of Renks Cairn was enormous, and the structure of the Guild made it dangerous to ignore as an economic weapon. A weapon Tsuro had used twice in the last century to make other nations bend the knee to Ser Majesty's banner.

That the Crown of Tsuro had passed from the House of Orso to the House of Hitsuyo less than a score of years ago made no difference. Hitsuyo's displacement of Orso, whether political vendetta or genuine cult of personality that elevated Soraya to the throne made no difference, had split the Guild's support for the Crown and garnered foreign support from across the Narrow Sea to the West.

Standing just at the fringe of the Pilgrim's Road that cut east and west between Renks Cairn and Tsuro, the elf's narrowed brown eyes caught sparks of golden yellow sun. Studying traffic in the lane, the elf melted into the flow and shuffle of filthy humans like a wraith. The impeccable black silks favored were traded for a flat taupe caftan and matching head scarf, with mahogany brown long pants beneath and a pale cream tunic -- a style popular among merchants from across the Narrow Sea, or much further east, over the mountains and into the desert there. The elf's face was painted with pigments also thought to be auspicious or beautiful to those of across the sea, and curling black hair was carefully coiffured as to appear haphazard beneath the headscarf -- all to draw attention from the face and hide the long points of unmistakable ears in a bristling nest of frizzy madness. To complete the disguise, a garish, curled black mustache shining with oil and wax.

Looking every bit the petty merchant and moving with the same purse-guarding shrewdness, the elf made way toward the bawdy house called "Your Inn Fancy" - as unsubtle a pun as the excremental imaginings that passed for wit among wretched, drunken, debasing human leavings. The elf made the barest show, for any who might have noticed, of smirking at the sign, patting a rounded belly that was just as carefully embellished and false as the accent that left no doubt as to this merchant's foreign home much further West.

Satisfied that the ruse was received well-enough by the casual and semi-professional observer, the "merchant" entered the Fancy, just as Ginga and Abhilash wedged their way into the flow of bustling traffic from the tailor's shop to bring Damon's newest breeches (which the she-ork promised, again, not to destroy) back to the Fancy.

...

"I've heard rumor, at the port..." the merchant's eyes gleamed with practiced mischief; the look of one used to achieving anything with the proper coin. "That yours is a house with an exceptional and recent attraction."

Having several such propositions a day, the human woman's expression barely flickered -- a change the elf caught but ignored -- and she beamed her smile and gave a proper laugh.

"Ser could only imagine!" She was secretly furious, as it seemed this client was more interested in cock than quim. "But I must regretfully say that ser will not find that particular room... available."

"Certainly some arrangement could be made?" Ser's mustache quivered, and lips quirked and danced -- the prostitute felt those warm hands pressing two silver coins into the palm that had been worming its way toward the merchant's crotch. "I've heard it's... unparalleled."

This caused the whore to flinch. She knew. She knew from her own experiences.

"So it's true?" The merchant smiled gamely. "Might I speak with the madam? Mistress Cosima, if I am to believe my ears."

"I'll fetch her, ser." The whore leapt from the elf's disguised lap, a hand lingering a little on the bulge from which even two coins had not fully distracted. "But do not think me rude to ask that you consider me if... ser's first choice doesn't satisfy."

The elf mimed eager agreeableness, nodding and glinting eyes before grabbing another lusty handful of fatty human arse. The elf hid the shivering rise of bile with a hearty chuckle.

A silver-haired half-orc as big as the doorway entered, followed by what appeared to be a waif of a girl. A trick of the light, the half-orc -- a great beast of a female by the fatty mounds bound across the chest -- had close-cropped hair of a blue-white hue the elf had never seen before. That was jotun blood showing, or a clever job of makeup. They'd mentioned the green-brown pigment, and the elf had thought it to mean uguisucha or something like it. It was, and it was something more green and more brown, depending on whether the skin passed into a crease, over a joint, the crest of a bulging bicep, or the hollow of the tendons at the wrist -- still holding the neck of a new leather frog trimmed cleverly with fur strips to hide the blade in a false sheath. A dark lavender shade covered the callouses of the knuckles, and matched the shade of her lips... the eyes were the last detail to confirm her identity. Yellow, like daisy hearts or the petals of the western seed-flower named for its resemblance to the sun. They had a predatory focus, and the elf found the prospect of crossing such an ork exhilarating... dangerous... likely fatal, if the blade she carried was what the elf had been sent to confirm.

Pity. the elf thought, saluting the two females as they entered and calling out to them in greeting.

"Fuck off." The ork gave a sniff, a snort, and quirked her eyes at the merchant, before grumbling under her breath. "Stupid."

The elf couldn't place the accent, exactly. Some mish-mash between a northern dialect, guttural ork (if it could, in fact, be called a language), and some bastard cousin of the local jargon -- a bit dated or provincial, perhaps.

The ork reached back, linking hands with the human woman, and pulled her quickly down the narrow hall off the main room. They entered the second room on the left... the fourth room, if rumors were more than just limerick.

Presently, a barely-dressed woman was shoved out of the same room, clothes thrust into her arms and the thick arm of the she-ork deposited an unknown sluice of coins into the bundle -- telling the woman sourly to "fuck off". As the door slammed in her face, the woman looked too stunned to complain. One of the other whores offered to help her dress in another room. The elf ignored them, the madam approaching with her thin clay pipe and heavily painted face -- a style the elf recognized as being very antiquated in the region, but recently finding favor in far-flung places to the South and West. If rumors could be believed.

"Madam Cosima!" The elf gave a tenor chuckle. "I was hoping we could make an arrangement."

"I must inform ser that... a contract exists." The madam's face, painted as it was, belied the unease that rippled just below the surface in her voice. "It simply would not do for me to break a contract."

"I see." The merchant frowned, stroking the coil of the waxed, curling mustache. "Can no agreement be reached? Not even... khem... an academic solution?"

"I can attest to the truth of it, if that is what you seek." The madam didn't smile, and the elf got the distinct impression her guard was prickling.

"I would like to say that I understand. I would assure you that I am most discreet." The elf's sham was balancing on a razor. "I've insulted you, and I must apologize. I meant no offense."

"And no offenses is found." The madam bowed to the elf in the Western fashion.

"But you would still satisfy my curiosity?" The elf changed tactic, making plans to try a different, if considerably less desirable disguise. "Is it true that this whore can make any woman climax on command?"

"I could attest to the truth." Cosima's eyes narrowed, almost unnoticeable. "I could."

"Ah." The merchant beamed, slapping a handful of silver commons on the table. "I do so love a good bargaining."

...

"Fascinating!" The merchant was chortling and saying his farewells to the madam and her staff. "Truly remarkable... I shall make my own inquiries when I return home. My wives will thank me thousand-fold."

"Fortune, wind, and tides favor you, ser." Cosima, the painted-faced madam of the Fancy, bowed in the Western fashion to the elf disguised as a merchant as the mustache-faced fellow left her establishment.

There was a moment when the merchant's eyes skipped over her shoulder, and footsteps were behind Cosima. It was enough. Not enough to tell Cosima more than who was behind her, but enough that she knew the merchant's attention was far from unique. This close to Renks Cairn, a stone's throw from the Bridge... no coincidence could be trusted, where magic was concerned.

The merchant left with only a pair of backward glances, laughing and slapping his round stomach jovially, stopping to sample and insult the wares of local street vendors. Ginga and Abhilash approached Mistress Cosima as soon as the elf-in-disguise was too far away to hear anything happening in the receiving hall.

"What the elf want?" Abhilash snarled, dipping her eyes as the only deference to the madam she had thus far allowed the old human.

"Your stud." Cosima shrugged. "As has almost anyone, the past three days."

"We're leaving tonight." Ginga assured her, bowing politely with her head. "We're just off to see that everything's ready."

"Have your things brought to Nagler, he'll keep it ready for you." Cosima waved absently. "And Damon? His contract is not yet over."

"Midnight. Tonight." Ginga looked up, meeting the madam's gaze. Dark black pools and stony blue-gray storms stared at each other from across an immense difference. "Whatever coin he earns today -- it's yours... that should satisfy the balance of our agreement."

"Agreed." Mistress Cosima flicked her dark eyes up and down Ginga. "A pity all three of you weren't so able -- we could have made a fortune... ah, but the Guild would not smile on that."

"Uh..." Ginga's face gave the game away, and Cosima smiled -- mystifyingly without cracking her painted makeup.

"Yes, I know you are terrified of them. It's good to be afraid of the Guild." she motioned them back into the main hall, just inside the receiving room. "Wizards are a suspicious, jealous, and treacherous bunch, you know? They regulate everything inside the walls of Renks Cairn -- and half of everything else between here and Tsuro... much the same to the north and south, even without the aid of The Serpent's haste. If you're running from them, you won't get far... oh, don't look at me like that, ork -- I'm not your enemy. A secret like his cannot be kept... not in a place like this. You wanted coin; you have it. Now, I expect you'll flee into a net. I only hope that blade you carry and speak so highly of is sharp enough to get you out of it."

"Wait... Mistress." Ginga bowed, lower and with her shoulders this time. "There was an armorer -- by the blanchers just past the cobbler you recommended?"

"Skeels?" Cosima raised a single brow, and her thick makeup defied expectation again. "I know him. Skilled tradesman, if not a master smith, and he knows plenty. Why?"

"He... I think he recognized her sword." Ginga nodded, motioning in the pointless human way which so frustrated Abhilash.

"Of course he did. I said he's a skilled tradesman. If that weapon was forged anywhere on the continent, and a fair few other places I think, he would know the mark." Cosima withdrew from them not even a half step, but it was enough to warn them that she did not like this turn of events. "What did he say of it?"

"Nothing." the she-ork grunted, crossing her arms over her breasts.

"He demanded we leave... told us to keep it hidden, if we..." Ginga hesitated, the hall was empty, and the sounds of whores, patrons, and sex echoed through the walls -- still she whispered. "If we value our lives."

"So, it's stolen." Cosima looked Abhilash up and down. "I could have guessed as much -- you're not the sort to buy such a weapon, or are you?"

"I took it by right of blood." Abhilash frowned, seeing nothing wrong with the admission.

"A murderer, then? No surprise. Why are you shocked, girl? Surely you knew this when you threw your lot in with this... mountainous warrior?" Cosima smiled shrewdly at Ginga's aghast gawping. "No matter. Say nothing more. Not to me, not to anyone."

"But..." Ginga was silenced with a curt wave of Cosima's wrinkly, spotty hand.

"Gather your things. To Nagler. Speak to no-one." Cosima turned her back on them as she walked toward her own apartments at the very back of the Fancy. "And when you have gone, do not darken my door again. I will not shelter you... but I won't set hounds on you, either. My coin is at least that loyal."

"Hmph." The ork's acknowledgment wasn't speaking, strictly, and Cosima made no indication against it.

Abhilash and Ginga shared a look between each other... the human full of fear and apprehension, and the ork looking irritated and slightly bored.

"Come on." Ginga sighed. "Fucking hell, come on."

They left "Your Inn Fancy", just as the afternoon crowd was thinning in the lanes. Just as a brace of clients were dumping their semen into their hired companions. Just as Damon was wondering what kind of magic he could manage in the short time between clients that might help them on the road north.

...

The magic was slippery as a greased eel. Every bit as difficult to manage as Nurcan had warned. Just as he thought he had something, it slipped away. In fact, the magic that had healed his fingers and allowed him to sexually perform repeatedly had seemed to flee his mind. It was as if the rhythm of the music had changed and he no longer knew the steps of the dance.

He served two more clients that afternoon. Between those clients, he tried again to replicate the spell he'd cast on his loins, hands, mouth and throat. By the early evening, he was dispirited from the failed attempts and not looking forward to his last client.

When the knock at his door came, he almost told them to leave. A harlot by the name of Destiny (or Fate, he couldn't honestly tell the two apart and they'd both ridden him that morning when Abhilash and Ginga first left) leaned in and asked if he was ready to receive his next patron.

"Yes, show her in." Damon felt far more world weary than he had any right. The sex felt fantastic. Being able to orgasm successively, already an incredible magical feat so far as he knew, seemed the pinnacle of male sexual achievement. It required more regular food and drink, in greater amounts than he might have otherwise needed -- but that could hardly be considered a curse. It was the transaction, maybe... the business-like attitude of at least half the clients he served, the nigh-addicted behavior of a significant remainder of the rest, and the almost absurd infatuations of the few like Mateja (for she had not been the only one to offer him a coin-heavy escape from the dreadful clutches of Mistress Cosima)... Damon wondered how often any prostitute had to face such delusions... and whether the sex trade itself saw this as an unfortunate consequence or deliberate feature of the craft.

"The Serpent, I'm told?" the voice was delicate, airy, and issued from the bell of a perfumed bosom -- through the flute of a gracefully thin neck, and formed between pearly teeth and glistening red lips.

"Dubiously, I assure you, ser." Damon bowed courteously, his hair falling to hide his face as the woman entered more fully and was able to set eyes upon him.

She had turned to thank Fate, who stewarded her back to a room whose door was marked with the number 4 in several different styles. As Fate bowed away, Damon's patron had swept her slender fingers through her brilliantly gold-blond hair to tuck a few strands behind a beautiful round ear. Her profile was, as the word happened into his mind just before he bent low at the shoulders: statuesque. She had skin the hue of palest peach and cream, so faintly blushed as to suggest she rarely took sun and never worked out-of-doors. Likely from a line prominent in the North, with small, exquisite bone structure in her face with high cheekbones just visibly pink with rouge or natural blush, and a barely upturned nose.

As she looked at him, he had already doubled-over forward and his face was hidden from her in his response to her greeting. He stood up, his impenetrably dark brown irises meeting the deep azure of a clearly wealthy human woman. She paled, which he noticed only as quickly as it was replaced by a deeper, almost painted pink flush of embarrassment for her staring.

"Forgive me." She curtsied him... a formality utterly alien to Damon.

His face. It took nearly everything not to scream in terror at the hideous black lines crawling on his face as he smiled at her... the shining, fathomless orbs that seemed to be drinking the candlelight of his room, and the noticeably crooked, yellowed teeth of a pauper... a farmhand, by the look of his naked torso, which was adorned with a lopsided, five-pointed star with a similar artist's lines and whorls inked into his chest.