Angelfire | The Whispering Wall #3

Forty Three: Merchant

"I can't believe I let you bring me here." Arlen glowered at Jesper and Akiva, both lounging on an overstuffed chaise across the table from him. Akiva had a girl in his lap and Jesper had been making eyes at another across the room for the last five minutes.

"Honest to Nict, Arl, we can't believe it either." Akiva grinned at him, and the girl sighed dramatically, falling across his shoulders like a strange scarf and running her fingers through his hair. "Only offered because you looked so fucking miserable back home. You've been needing a good time for months."

"I think we have different definitions of a good time." Arlen scowled into his drink. He had wanted to get out of the house; Darin's sullen silences and Silas's hopeful lurking had been wearing very thin. But heading out with Jes and Akiva to one of the seedier taverns in Bisa — where the help offered more than one kind of service — no longer felt like the solution. He had begun regretting it by the time they were halfway here. It made him itch to be quite so far away from the dead quarter. The last time he had ventured out of it he'd been ambushed. He didn't much fancy being caught here and having to fight with his trousers round his ankles.

He could tell from some of the looks he was receiving from around the room that his face wasn't entirely unknown here. The dead quarter did have its share of seedy establishments almost exclusively servicing the gangs that inhabited it, but Bisa's pubs and pleasure houses benefited hugely from being legally licensed. It was important to be careful, as some catered heavily to soldiers and guardsmen, but others around the edges were favourites for the Devils who wanted something a little more opulent. Marick had deals with several of them. This was one such establishment, and it was not one he'd visited in many years. It was clear enough that he was remembered, though, or else his reputation had preceded him.

"If you keep glaring at them all, no one's going to invite you to bed, Arl." Jesper had finally coaxed a couple of serving maids over to their table and offered one of them his drink as they sat down either side of him. There was a positive tangle of flesh on their couch by then. Arlen felt far more comfortable with only his cane for company on his.

"I only came for the booze."

"Spoilsport. You've been wound tight as a spring for weeks and you're going to make us take you back still wearing a face like someone pissed in your soup."

"Whether I bed someone today or not is none of your business, Jes."

Jesper held up his hands in surrender. "Consider my business minded."

It wasn't long before they left him, heading for the stairs that led to the private rooms on the floors above. Arlen signalled for more nettle wine, the first he'd been able to get his hands on since before the crops ran short. It cost a pretty sum, but he didn't care. He needed something to take his mind off the pile of shit he was in, a pile that he anticipated would get much deeper once Calder left the city. He was still bristling over the fact that the boy hadn't reported after meeting with Marick, despite Usk's assurances that nothing transpired that he hadn't expected. That wasn't the point and they both knew it, but they also both knew the boy had a stubborn streak a mile wide.

He wondered who Marick would send with the travelling party; he was uneasy not knowing who was in his confidences anymore. It was partly his own fault for avoiding the beer hall so much, though he wasn't convinced he'd be enlightened if he didn't. They were going through the public motions, he and Marick, but neither were under the impression that the relationship was still cordial. It was something of a miracle that Arlen's ambitions hadn't been discovered. He suspected it was more likely that they had, and nothing had been done about them because it didn't suit Marick to show his hand yet. It was undoubtedly linked to Calder somehow.