Chapter 65

As the madam led them through the foyer, Baron's mind drifted to scraps of trivia he had absorbed in his previous life. A brothel, he recalled, was sometimes called "an action-love film set" or simply "the seafood market."

In the distant East, such houses were once named "painted pavilions" or "spring towers," evoking moonlit courtyards of green-tiled roofs where every night was a festival of flowers and snow.

Compared with those refined quarters, European brothels prized practicality over poetry. There were no recitals, no dances, no verses—only the brisk commerce of flesh. On the short walk Baron had already seen no fewer than five girls trail after men who had merely flashed a wad of cash. Some of them were clearly children, their delicate shoulders half-bared, their faces still round with youth.

Baron's mouth twitched in the faintest frown. Had this been medieval Europe, he might have understood: most cities had licensed brothels as a necessary safety valve. Governments issued permits, collected "harlot taxes," and—at times—relied on them for a sizable slice of municipal revenue. The Church thundered against sin, yet the ghost of Saint Augustine whispered that brothels were like palace drains—remove them and the filth would spread everywhere—so it tolerated them.

But this was 1987. Humanism was no longer a slogan; centuries had worn away the medieval world. Britain, after all, was not Lithuania, which once forced thirty percent of its women to register for sex work and taxed them like livestock, openly commodifying people. So why were there so many young prostitutes here, in the Inside?

Jack seemed to read his thoughts. "Half-breeds are treated worse than bloodless scions," he murmured. "Merchants won't hire them. And every Fog-Day, when they can't pay protection money, the Beasts tear up their homes..." He trailed off, yet Baron understood at once.

Discrimination—no work—no money—sex work for survival. Peel away the fantasy of Fog-Days and it was the same vicious cycle: African or Eastern-European migrants in his former world, shut out by welfare that only natives enjoyed, driven to sell their bodies.

"But dwarf half-breeds are different," Jack added.

"Different how?"

"They actually enjoy it." Jack waggled his brows.

"As in, the way some people say blacks love music and sports?"

Jack scratched his nose, thinking that the Constantine brothers truly lived up to the Dragon-Knight name—always mounting something.

They left the ground-floor hall behind and continued deeper into the building. The madam had explained that the outer hall catered to rougher tastes, while the inner hall was more exclusive—quieter, better furnished, and serenaded by sultry blues rather than raucous punk.

Baron and Jack were shown to seats in the inner hall. It was nothing like the concert layout outside. Barely a dozen patrons lounged at scattered tables, sipping drinks while willowy, sharp-eared elf-blooded women in scarlet gauze fed them grapes as delicately as if placing blossoms in a shrine.

The madam summoned two elf-blooded women to keep them company. Baron noted the red veils they wore, the thick powder that failed to hide the dull sheen of age. Their figures were still graceful, their faces painted and striking, yet their eyes held a weary decay.

Hadn't elves, like dwarves, been long-lived? Or did mixed blood bar them from the Second Law of their kindred?

Both attendants gravitated toward Jack. Baron was left momentarily adrift until the madam rose on tiptoe and whispered in his ear: "Your friend usually spends the evening with Miss Emerald—Mr. Zophy's favorite. Tonight her contract hasn't been sold. If you'd like her company, just bid when the time comes."

She pressed into his hand a tall placard bearing the number seven. "Highest offer wins," she cooed, her smile all silk and springtime.

So now even the seafood market auctioned clams? Baron kept the thought to himself. What was money to a millionaire?

His gaze drifted. Across the room a knot of squat, broad-shouldered dwarves pounded the table in uproarious laughter—this morning's gate guards and their captain. The coachman was with them; no surprise they were in league.

The dwarves spotted Baron at the same moment. Though the Mimic's Chain disguised him, Jack's trademark blond hair and powerful frame—now stripped of his coat by eager elf hands—made recognition inevitable. The captain raised his own placard, marked six, and drew a thumb across his throat, his broad face alight with challenge.

Baron ignored him. The auction had begun.

One by one, elf or dwarf half-breeds stepped onto the low stage while the madam, acting as auctioneer, extolled each girl's charms and specialties. The elf-blooded were tall and sleek, beautiful yet modest of bust. The dwarf-blooded, shorter, compensated with youthful faces and voluptuous figures—loli and onee-san archetypes in the flesh.

Then the final girl appeared, and Baron's heart lurched. A connoisseur's special.

A diminutive figure with skin like dark, cracked earth. Fangs, claws, eyes a venomous green that belonged to Death itself. Tangled seaweed-green hair trailed on the floor. Her face was round but far from pretty; clad in sheer gauze, she looked more like a rusting child's mannequin abandoned in a shop.

Don't let it be... Baron's stomach sank.

The madam's voice rang out: "Our treasure of the Black Forest—Miss Emerald! Opening bid tonight: fifty pounds! Minimum raise: five pounds! Ceiling: three hundred!"

The room erupted. Bids flew like sparks.

Baron stared. What in the world? Was this particular clam made of gold? Why were so many seafood merchants fighting over it? Even the dwarf captain who had shaken them down at the gate joined the fray—"Five more!" "Another five!"—the chorus endless.

Jack finally tore himself from the elf-blooded women and leaned close. "They told me Emerald's half dwarf. She drank a Silver-path demon-hunter's potion and, lacking proper guidance, turned into... this."

"Dwarves have a conquering streak. They love to claim what others can't..." He was yanked back before he could finish, leaving only the sigh: late evening, cool and tender, grapes plucked in languid sweetness.

The bidding war raged on. By the time Baron entered, Emerald's price had soared to two hundred pounds—more than the combined tally of the graceful, cicada-wing-haired beauties beside her. Two hundred pounds—two full weeks' wages for Baron's former self without food or drink.

Money... all of it money... Baron's heart bled.

Yet to find Zophy he raised his placard again and again, meeting Emerald's sickly green gaze until the thrill curdled.

Soon only Baron and a handful of dwarf merchants, the captain among them, remained in the contest. Baron hesitated, then lowered his card and withdrew from the fetish bidding war.

The final price, three hundred pounds, went to the dwarf captain.

The gavel fell; the madam proclaimed Emerald's contract awarded. The captain roared with laughter, ignored the request for payment, seized Emerald's wrist, and strode toward the rear booths. When the madam shrieked about freeloaders, his dwarf brothers blocked her way. She could only wail "My Dwarf King of Plains!" over and over.

The dwarf magnates at the tables snorted but said nothing. This was not the captain's first dine-and-dash. He had a Bronze-rank brother—deputy commander of the Boar-Knights in the Temple. Within Plains, aside from House Constantine and a few ancient Old-Blood families, no one dared gainsay him. A mere brothel in the Black Forest? Hardly worth his notice. It was why he had brazenly extorted Baron and Jack at the city gate.

Jack saw Baron rise. "Going to the lavatory."

"How long?"

"Back in a flash."

"Don't fall in."

"If I do, I'll flip the table."

...

In the private room the dwarf captain stared at the masked intruder, the cold press of metal against his forehead making him swallow hard. Beside him, Emerald trembled, arms wrapped around herself, tears streaming.

The captain lifted his hands. "Name your price—anything. My brother's deputy commander of the Boar-Knights, a Bronze Knight—"

The masked man smashed the butt of his gun across the captain's face. "Boar, pig, I don't care. Sit down and shut up. Skipping the bill is one thing, but making people queue? Damn pervert." His gaze swept over the unconscious thugs strewn about the room. Dwarves sure played rough.

Wonder if old Baggin was like this in his youth.

"That was a reward!" the captain protested. "Women are meant to be shared among brothers—"

A thud, and the captain crumpled.

Now two pistols were leveled at Emerald. She sobbed, tears coursing down cheeks mottled green, eyes like poisoned jade brimming with grievance.

Was it the potion? How else could Miss Emerald's tears look so mesmerizing?

The masked man paused. "Take off your clothes—no, wait. Tell me where Zophy is!"

...

In the inner hall of the Black Forest Tavern, Baron hauled Jack away from the half-elf's soft embrace.

Jack's head still felt fuzzy. "Finished in the privy?"

"Stomach trouble; we're off to the hospital," Baron said.

"Where's the hospital?"

"Mountain," Baron replied, spacing each word. "Mount Ben Nevis, the highest peak in the Scottish Highlands."

"We're leaving right now?"

"Not leaving."

Baron spotted the dwarf captain and his brothers sealing the tavern exits and beginning a sweep. "Run," he whispered.

"There they are! That masked bastard!" one of the dwarf's men shouted toward Baron. "Doesn't he know dwarven noses beat a hound's? That scent—it's the two outsiders who came by day!"

"Seize them! Brand them Lawbreakers and hand them to the city council!" the dwarf captain ordered.

Dwarven soldiers surged forward.

Jack barely had time to pull on his trousers, stuff the rest of his clothes into his storage ring, and follow Baron, bare-chested and staggering like an emu.

Baron, in contrast, moved with practiced ease; he had already planned for discovery. Following the escape route etched in his memory, he darted left and right, swift as the wind. One swing of his rifle butt knocked a dwarf senseless; a kick sent another soldier tumbling. Without firing a single shot, he burst out of the Black Forest Tavern in a matter of moments.

Jack, breathless, praised "Brother L's peerless skill" while leaping and ducking behind Baron—until he collided with the back of a Dragon-Knight.

"Brother L?" Jack asked in surprise.

"Look around," Baron said quietly. "I expected it, but my dear cousin moves fast."

Soldiers and retainers stood in formation outside the tavern. At their head stood Solon Constantine, robed as a mage.

Solon ignored Baron and the half-naked Jack behind him. "We received word of a disturbance at the Black Forest Tavern—never thought it would be the two of you."

"To what do we owe the honor of a Westminster agent visiting little Plains? News of another Forbidden Object, perhaps?"

His gaze fell on the Westminster containment rings glinting on Baron's and Jack's fingers.

Jack stepped forward. "Since you know we're Westminster agents on duty, kindly step aside."

"Insolence!" the retainer who had struck Baron earlier stepped up as well. "Mind your manners before Young Master Solon!"

The dwarf captain and his soldiers emerged from the tavern. He dropped into a perfect sliding kneel before Solon's horse and pointed at Baron.

"Young Master Solon! These two attacked without provocation in the tavern—"

He never finished. Baron's boot sent him flying. The retainer reflexively raised his whip, but before the word "insolence" left his lips Baron snatched the lash and carved two great bloody crosses across the man's face.

Retainers and dwarven soldiers drew their swords as one. Solon narrowed his eyes, yet Baron did not flinch. He stared at his nominal cousin and spoke in a low voice.

"We are Grade-A Westminster containment agents. We possess the highest enforcement authority Westminster has secured from the Prol Court. While on task we act at our discretion."

"For the sake of a dwarf and a retainer, the House of Constantine would oppose Westminster—and thus the entire legal system of Prol?"

Solon averted his gaze for an instant, then gave a cold snort. "Westminster's agents grow ever more lawless."

So there's room to negotiate...

Baron said calmly, "We intend no offense to House Constantine. All we do is for containment. I ask Young Master Solon to let us pass."

He swept his eyes across the ring of steel. "If not, I won't hesitate to bring the matter before the Court."

Solon was silent for a moment, then waved them through. As Baron brushed past, Solon murmured, "I will report this to the Prol Court."

"Director Howard Davis once said," Baron paused, "that he'll shoulder whatever comes."

When Baron and Jack were well away, the dwarf captain, still on the ground, was helped up by a retainer. Solon looked down at him. "You said he attacked you. Westminster never strikes without motive. What did he take from you?"

"Nothing—unless you count my woman!"

"Who?"

"Miss Emerald!"

"Who's that?" Solon frowned; he couldn't imagine Westminster's penny-pinchers paying for a brothel.

"Zophy's girl. This time she was finally up for auction—"

The captain's words ended beneath a horse's hooves as Solon vaulted down and sprinted for the inner hall.

Zophy... Zophy...

A suspicion burned in his mind; he had to confirm it at once.

...

Meanwhile, in an unseen corner, once certain Solon's party had lost sight of them, Jack and Baron ran for their lives.

Jack panted, "Constantine, how come I never knew—"

"Knew what?"

"The enforcement authority you mentioned."

"You weren't supposed to know," Baron said. "I made it up."

Jack opened his mouth, shut it, and finally managed, "You're ruthless!"

...

Moments after leaving the Black Forest Tavern, a grim Solon Constantine contacted his father, Eugene Constantine.

After a long silence, Eugene ordered Solon to muster men and race to Mountain, while he himself went to inform the Court that Baron Constantine might yet live.

When the call ended, Solon's single eye blazed. He lashed the nearest retainer in frustration.

"Baron Constantine," he thought, teeth clenched. "You wretched bloodless scion dare to return!"

Years ago an enraged boy had gouged out his other eye; only glass now kept the illusion of wholeness. He had sworn vengeance—and at last the chance had come.

"Lion!" he commanded. "Release the lions from Lakeside Keep!"