RFC-Mini Arc 4: Night Life-16 (Patreon)

After far too many drinks, we leave the bar drunk and happy, climbing into our respective carriages. After a bit of convincing, I manage to coerce Alana into sharing a carriage with me, shuffling her with Geneva. Maxine is dragged off by Cynthia, leaving me with Kierra, Alana, Cloud, and Bell.

My wife and I are in pretty good condition, having rode this particular horse before. Cloud is interestingly a quiet drunk. Gaze unfocused, she slouches on the opposite bench with a happy little smile, responding to any probing with half words and monosyllabic grunts. Kierra is amusing herself prodding her, her fingertips glowing green as she examines Cloud thoroughly.

Alana is the exact opposite.

“Oi, Lou! Are you, hic, listenin’ to me?”

I sigh as she pokes my cheek with a finger, uncomfortably close to my eye. “Yes, yes,” I say, batting the finger away, only for her to latch onto my arm. Saints, she’s a terrible drunk and she never knows when to quit. An hour of indulgence has left her ruddy cheeked and belligerent.

“Good! Cause I gotta tell you some things. Important things!”

“Uh-huh.”

“You gotta, hic, follow the rules.”

“What rules are we talking about?”

“The rules!” she shouts, glaring at me. Hey, I’m not purposely being obtuse. I genuinely have no idea what she’s talking about.

“Why not remind me of these rules just to be sure?”

She gives me a squinty-eyed glare as trying to see through any tricks. “My teacher said it to, hic, all of us.” She sits up, her attempt to don a serious expression ruined by her compromised by her poor control of her body. “She washes before, you wash after, never take any free drinks, and always, always, pay the madame.” She nods when she’s finished, as if she’s just given us the answers to life itself.

I stare at her, dumbfounded. Even Kierra looks up, lips quirked and pressed tightly together in an attempt to smother her obvious amusement. “And these rules are for…”

“For w…wh…” She punches me in the arm. “You know!”

I have a guess but my brain is stalling trying to accept that my future saint of a friend who falls apart at the slightest hint of impropriety is giving me advice on dealing with ‘working women’.

“You have to follow them. My teacher says men who don’t, hic, follow the rules are askin’ for trouble. You have enough trouble so you don’t need any more. Hey, you hear me, Lou?”

“Alright, Alana.” I shake my head in disbelief.

“And don’t spend the night! If you stay over, they’ve got you.”

“Alright, Alana.” Saints, she makes them sound like bandits. Or monsters.

“I mean it!”
“If I forget, you’ll just have to carry me out.” I’m starting to question this girl’s opinion of me. What does she think is going to happen? It’s not like I’m walking into a den of succubi.

“But you’re heavy…”

Heh. That’s something she learned during our spars. I’m heavier now after my changes. Maybe she could do it with proper leverage but I don’t like her chances when she can’t even walk in a straight line. “You calling me fat?”

“No. You’re good…”

Saints. I know she means I’m in good shape for a fighter but that is going to be easy to tease her about. I really, really hope she remembers this.

“Perhaps you should be the one keeping an eye on her,” Kierra says with a chuckle.

I nod in agreement, murmuring platitudes to the drunk blonde constantly giving me warnings and delivering her ‘rules’.

-

One day, when I was just a little Tome, my father came into my room at an unforgivable hour in the morning, sat me up, and told me my mother was gone.

I was far too young to understand the complicated explanation he gave me. All little Lou knew was that mommy was gone and I searched for her, toddling down the long halls of our estate. When I couldn’t find her in the house, I started searching for her in other places, like the many maids my father hired to raise me as he dealt with his grief and ineptitudes of being a father. Thinking about it, that might have sparked my initial fascination with the fairer sex. I craved their attention and then I simply started to crave them. Of course, I barely understood my burgeoning desires. There was no one around to help explain the strange longing in my chest when I saw a pretty woman.

I gained my first clue while sneaking into my father’s study on an unassuming night. In an effort to entice me to commit to my etiquette lessons, my father withheld my lessons in summoning, the one thing he knows I have an interest in. I pretended to be cowled by his authorities figure as usual and at night, I attempted to sneak glances at his summoning records. I had just stuck my head around the corner to check if the way was clear when I spotted one of our maids escorting a woman I didn’t recognize toward my father’s study. I could barely see her but I could clearly make out the maid’s expression. She seemed uncomfortable, so much so that she abandoned decorum by rushing away after guiding the woman to the door. The mystery woman adjusted her appearance before knocking and entering the room.

Thoroughly intrigued, I crept over to the door, carefully easing it open just enough that I could see inside. That was the first time I saw a ‘working woman’.

It was the first time I’d seen a woman openly flaunting her charms, wily and seductive while every woman I’d met prior had been demure and tactile. I watched her wrap my emotionally clumsy father around her finger, drawing a smile out of him where even his daughter couldn’t. The clothes she wore, the faint traces of her perfume that lingered by the door, every word she used. All of it was designed to entice and it worked wonders on a young me.

Then, the moment came. She was bent over, giving my father an eyeful of her ample chest, when she happened to look up. I stiffened as our eyes met. Any moment, she would raise the alarm and I would be carried off to my room, likely chained in this time.

But she defied my expectations. Her smile stretched wider and she winked at me, before boldly kissing my father’s ear.

The young me gaped at her. I knew little about those kinds of things at my age but I understood what was happening when my father kissed her, one hand fondling her breast. She was seducing my father and every other moment, she would glance back at me, smirking and chuckling, sharing the moment with me. Who shares that kind of thing with a child? Granted, I was thirteen and sixteen is the age of majority in Summer Spire, but that would hardly work as justification to anyone of common morality. And with my own father, no less. Dropping her dress while under candlelight without a care who saw her, she was absolutely brilliant.

I’ve had a small fascination with courtesans ever since. Not the desperate women looking to make a little more money to support their families or the pitiable souls forced into disgusting circumstances by even more disgusting souls.

I mean the women who flit through the night like fairies, bewitching those fortunate enough to catch their gaze. Those who lure the unaware and the weak-willed into their webs of silk pillows and perfume. Women who can make men worship them with a glance, turning them into devoted subjects who ply them with treasures and gold fit for a queen in hopes of attracting more of their favor.

Brazen, shameless, beautiful devils.

Which is why the Courtesan Hall of Quest is a dream come true in many ways.

I gape at the large building in front of me. I expected it to be an unassuming place, tucked into the shadows of the city where people could easily ignore its existence. In a poorer neighborhood, with shady types lingering on the streets, watching our coin purses.

It’s the exact opposite. Rather than being secreted away, it’s in the middle of the city, a wealthy part of the city, with fancy stores around a square with an ornate fountain. Rising several stories, it takes up the same space as three buildings. A large balcony wraps around the front, several women dressed in evocative clothing leaning against the railing while calling to anyone who passed. Instead of thugs and lowlifes hanging about, the street is well-patrolled by guards with watchful eyes. The front doors are thrown open, music, laughter spilling out.

“Well.” It’s all I can manage to say.