Page 22 of Song of the Shadow Prince
She shook her head and smiled. “No. You intervened and bought me instead.”
I jerked back and my eyes widened in shock. “I don’t know if that was a better deal, Maeve,” I muttered. After hearing about Arya’s wicked antics, the brothel might have been safer.
Maeve chuckled. “You are different with me. You never once hurt me physically. Yes, you could be cruel at times, but you never put your hands on me, and you never let anyone else do so, either. I’m the only servant in the Ryder residence who was allowed to learn to read and write, and that was all thanks to you. So, while you’re no saint, you’re not so bad, my lady.”
I leaned back and sighed. “Okay, so I’m not atotalbitch. Go figure.”
Maeve frowned. “Why do you keep calling yourself a female dog?”
I looked at her for a moment and then burst into laughter. “Jesus, I forget that some things don’t translate the same here!” I shook my head. “Where I come from, a bitch can be a curse. Like calling a female a shrew, but like, ten times worse.”
Maeve gasped and looked positively scandalized. “My goodness. That’s awful! Why would you call yourself that?”
I shrugged. “Because it’s true. At least from what you’ve told me. Arya sounds awful.”
The driver pulled the reins and the horses neighed as the carriage rolled to a stop. “We’re here, Miss!” he called out.
Maeve hurried out, then unfolded the short ladder and helped me down the carriage steps and onto the street. I looked around the busy marketplace and my senses were immediately assaulted by the vibrant chaos. Bright lights from candles and gas lamps flickered, radiating a warm, golden glow over the cobblestone streets.
Mingling scents of roasting meat, fresh bread, and something that smelled suspiciously like sweaty feet made me wrinkle my nose. Vendors shouted to advertise their wares, their voices a cacophony of enticements and haggles. The stalls were filled to bursting with colorful fabrics, shiny trinkets, and exotic fruits I couldn’t name if my life depended on it.
I stumbled slightly as I took it all in. The noise, the colors, and the smells were like walking into a medieval carnival.
“Welcome to the Southern District, my lady,” Maeve said with a hint of wry amusement.
“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, my eyes darting around. “This is… lively. Definitely not like the quiet burbs of the Northern District.”
Down the street, I spotted The Broken Tankard, a rickety-looking tavern with a crooked sign creaking in the breeze. The place looked like it was held together by nothing more than hopes and prayers, with a faint odor of stale beer wafting out every time the door swung open. Just a bit further down was The Gilded Serpent. Even from a distance, the brothel looked opulent, its exterior adorned with intricate carvings of serpents and golden accents. The windows were kept from prying eyes by heavy drapes and the entrance was flanked by ornate columns, giving it a grandiose and somewhat sinister appearance. The air around it seemed to hum with a different kind of energy, a mix of seduction and secrecy. Even I was a bit curious about what was going on inside.
Maeve guided me through the throng of people with a firm grip on my arm. “Careful, my lady. Keep your purse close.”
“Trust me, I’m not letting go of it,” I replied, clutching the small pouch like it was my lifeline. “I’m already broke, according to you. I’m not trying to get pickpocketed, too.”
We navigated through the sea of people as laughter, music, and bargaining customers filled the air. A juggler wearing bright green and red performed tricks nearby, his balls and clubs spinning in a mesmerizing blur. Children watched with wide eyes, their faces sticky with sweets.
“Let’s hurry,” Maeve urged, steering me towards The Broken Tankard. “We don’t want to linger too long.”
“Why not? It’s kind of fun,” I said, dodging a particularly enthusiastic merchant waving a roasted chicken leg in my face.
“It’s also dangerous,” Maeve said, glancing around warily. “Theft is common, and not everyone here has good intentions.”
We finally reached The Broken Tankard, where the dim interior was a stark contrast to the bustling street outside. A pungent wave of ale and sour sweat hit me like a wall. Where laughter and merriment danced in the streets outside, the tavern whispered with low, murmuring conversations.
Smoky haze stung my eyes as I glanced around at the rough wooden tables and a bartender wiping a mug with a rag that probably hadn’t seen soap in years. The place had a certain grimy charm, faintly reminiscent of a dive bar back home, but with more swords and fewer neon signs.
“Well, this is cozy,” I offered dryly.
Maeve rolled her eyes. “Just try to stay out of trouble, my lady.”
I offered a mock salute. “I’ll do my best.”
8
CAT
We secured a table in the far corner with a view of the whole tavern. The only light came from flickering lanterns that created sluggish, dancing shadows on the rough wooden walls. The fetid air boasted competing smells of stale ale, sweat, and the faint hint of something roasting on a spit. The floor was a patchwork of worn wooden planks, sticky in some places, hinting at countless spilled drinks and the occasional bar fight. All in all, the place had a cozy, if somewhat grimy, charm.
Across the room, a loud ruckus drew my attention. A gaggle of men surrounded a table, shouting “Big!” or “Small!” above the din. The noise was almost deafening. I wrinkled my nose. “I smell beer. Do they serve anything else? Like any fruity cocktails?” I asked, hoping for something a bit more my speed.
