She had heard about it within her first three days here in Heiastowne, in fact. When Big Momma wanted to “advertise” her establishment’s offerings, she instructed some of the ladies of her guild, and even a gentleman or two from time to time, to take a bath with those blinds rolled up out of the way, particularly on the second floor, which gave just enough of a view to titillate the people in the street. The basement hosted a gambling den, and the ground floor catered some of the better meals for sale in the city. The four floors above were all for rent, usually by the hour, and always for a fairly high price.
Rumor had it the time spent at Big Momma’s establishment was worth it, though. Some of the younger men in the Servers Guild, and even two of the women, had spoken of saving up enough money to visit this place or boasted of having done so in the past. Of all the places Rexei had expected them to go for shelter during a snowstorm, however, this was not one of them. In fact, she had expected somewhere else would have been chosen first.
“If your mouth were as wide-open as your eyes,” Alonnen quipped, removing his cap, “you’d be choking on a bullfrog, never mind a fly. Relax, Rexei. This is a bolt-hole, not an assignation.”
Blinking, Rexei struggled to regain some of her sense of calm. She swallowed and cleared her throat. “So . . . uh . . . how long do we stay here?”
“Two good meals with a bit of sleep in between,” he told her. “If it’s three inches down here on the plains, the snow up by the dam is going to be eight or more deep until it’s cleared, too deep to drive in safely with all those hill-hugging curves on the last stretch of the road. I wish the Wheelwrights would come up with a better method of traction in icy, slippery conditions, but until they do, we’re safer spending the night here. In the meantime, I am hungry, and if you’re not, you should be after all that talking. We can check the menu on the little table, there, to see what’s being offered this week.”
Unbuttoning her coat, she shrugged out of it, then pulled off her winter cap and set her messenger bag on the divan. Belatedly, she removed the heavy gold oval, dropping that into her bag for safekeeping. After adding the medallion-strung chain of her other guild associations, she joined him at the table. Someone had paid the Binders Guild for the use of one of their small printing presses. Made from four sheets folded in half and stitched together down the spine with a bit of ribbon, the menu included a wine list, finger foods, hearty dishes, sweet desserts . . . and a list of jams, jellies, syrups, and “a set of old sheets.”
That last one puzzled her. “Uhh . . . Alonnen? Why do they offer a set of old sheets on the same list as a bunch of flavorings and preserves?”
“What? Oh.” His face turned red. It was still altered somewhat by a disguise spell, a little more tanned with not even the hint of a freckle, but the illusion did not hide the rush of blood to his cheeks. Clearing his throat, Alonnen explained delicately, “That’s so you, ah, don’t get the regular sheets stained. It’s all boiled in hot water and bleached clean, but sometimes the fruit jams can still stain, you know.”
“I still don’t get it,” she told him. “What have jams and jellies to do with old sheets? Or new?”
Still a bit flushed, he cleared his throat. “It’s for those who like to strip their lover naked, lay them down on the old sheets, and then, uh, coat their curves with sweet preserves or, uh, drizzle them in things like butterscotch or caramel syrups . . . which they then lick off their lover’s body. And, ah, hopefully have the same done to them in return.”
Her mouth formed a wordless “oh” in reply. Reminding herself to breathe, that the man sharing this room with her didn’t even seem to want her in the normal way—an oddly unsettling thought—Rexei turned her attention firmly to her empty stomach. “Ah, do you know what this stuff is? Natallian . . . pah-stah?”
“It’s something made from finely ground wheat flour. It’s molded into shapes that are boiled, then drained and drenched in various sauces. It’s hard to explain,” he added at her dubious look, “but it’s just one of those things where once you’ve seen and tried it, you’ll just know what it is from that point on, rather than trying to explain it. I like the Nutty Chicken dish with it. Two or three kinds of nuts, mostly hazelnut, a bit of hazelnut-flavored liqueur, plus a bit of cream simmered with some herbs for the sauce, and it’s done.”
One of her brows raised. “You’ve never apprenticed to a cook in the Hospitallers or the Bakers Guilds, have you? Because that was a very bland description.”
“No, I haven’t. I grew up in the Hydraulics and Mages Guilds, right here in Heias Precinct,” Alonnen admitted. “I know I had a sheltered childhood compared to most mages elsewhere and that I haven’t suffered nearly as many hazards, though I have seen them, and the results of them.” He reached over and cupped his fingers over her hand. “You have my admiration for all you’ve survived, Rexei. You truly do.”
She looked down at his hand, wondering once again at how he could be such a . . . a touchy person. Just as he started to pull his hand away, she released the menu booklet and turned her palm over, twining her fingers with his. She blushed as she did so, and she didn’t quite meet his gaze, but she held his hand. “Thank you, Guild Master.”
NINE
Alonnen felt his heart thump a little stronger. It was an odd sensation, but not entirely unexplained. Between her blush and the way she returned his touch, he wondered if she had unspoken feelings for him. The strings he had pulled during the Consulate meeting had been necessary in his view, because he believed she really was going to be a force to be reckoned with in relation to the coming demonic plague. He didn’t know how, but he wanted to give her what advantages and recognitions he could in preparation for it.
This, however, was much more personal. He knew he tended to reach out physically to a lot of people; it no doubt sprang from growing up in a very loving, protected family. Because of his position, a lot of people did not reach back in equal measure. Those that did, he treasured. But this, the willingness of her hand entwined with his, touched him deeply. Instinct said that showing it, however, would do more to scare her away than keeping silent. So he diffused the moment by focusing on something a bit more trivial, yet still important.
“Nonsense,” he dismissed, waving his free hand. “You’ve never really been in my guild. At least, not very deeply into it. And look at you,” he added, gently squeezing her fingers. “You’re a Guild Master yourself! You’re now my equal, and I’ll have nothing less than that out of you. Call me Alonnen, as my equal. Or call me ‘Tall’ outside of sheltered zones.”
She looked up and around at the sybaritic brothel room. “This isn’t exactly a sheltered zone.”
“Actually, it is,” Alonnen said. He tapped the table. “My predecessors had the wisdom to invest in land in the Lessors Guild, and to involve themselves in the Architects and Masons Guilds, and with the Woodwrights. As a result, there are certain buildings—this being one of them—that are very carefully warded to hide all traces of magic taking place within. Moreover, this building—which has been a brothel for hundreds of years and has from time to time been the seat of the Guild Master for the Whores Guild—has had each of its rooms spell-warded for sound as well as magic.
“We’re almost as safe here as we would be back at the dam, save that there aren’t several layers of sentries on guard. Still, in exchange for keeping up the spells and the wards, this particular establishment lets us use these rooms as a temporary bolt-hole. Not often, and only for a few days or in a few rooms at a time, but that’s the deal,” he told her.