Virgin City (The Lesbia Chronicles) Page 4

  Strolling down the gleaming cobble streets, Reed and Rog laughed and joked and shared a lief. As they walked, their surroundings slowly became less salubrious. The High Lanes gave way to the Middle Ground, otherwise known as Clitera's second marketplace. It was not an official market, there were no stalls, but pickpockets and petty thieves were rife in the place where tradesmen and traders and general citizens came and went all day long.

  From the Middle Ground to Shanty Town, they were nearing the harbor. You knew when you were in Shanty Town when songs of the sea rose all around you. Sailors never stopped singing and humming tales of their adventures. At the edge of Shanty Town was the port where vessels puffed their sails. Two blocks back from the port was the Rusty Hankor, a tavern known for its multitudinous meads and intoxicants. Rog and Reed pushed their way through the front door, past a couple of sea salts clinging to one another in what could have been an attempted brawl or an orgy. It wasn’t clear and it didn’t much matter.

  “There she is.” Rog nodded toward the fireplace at the rear of the tavern. Granny was in her usual spot, clad in her bright yellow and red blanket. She had once been a very pretty woman and she still took pride in her appearance. Colored beads were woven into the strands of her thin gray hair, her nails were painted and her lips were stained with wine color.

  Reed gasped and dipped behind Rog.

  “What’s the matter?” He spoke over his shoulder.

  “It’s her.”

  “The elf lady?” Rog couldn’t see any elves. There were a lot of broad smelly men clogging up the place though, it would have been easy to miss the odd elf.

  “With your granny.”

  Rog shifted his gaze to the right, past the buxom wench serving drinks to a table full of sailors. He saw a white gold halo at the edge of the tavern, but his view was obscured by the serving girl. It wasn’t until she moved that he saw the woman Reed was so afraid of. She was very tall for a woman, and very elfy too. Elves, he thought to himself. The problem with elves, even half-elves, was that they thought they could do as they pleased. Arrogant wretches. He’d soon show this one what was what. Nobody hit a Ratling and got away with it. Nobody.

  Squaring his shoulders, Rog made an approach. But before he could deal with the elf, there was another, much more important matter to take care of.

  “Roger!”

  He’d been spotted. Granny was beaming at him so wide he thought her old face might crack from the effort. Her smile brought a similar expression rising to his face.

  “Hello Granny Rogette.” He crouched to plant a kiss on the old woman’s cheek and wrapped his arms around her in an affectionate hug. “How are you?”

  "Roger!" Rogette beamed proudly, ignoring his question. She pointed across the table. "This is Ayla! Ayla, this is Roger. He's my grandson."

  "Hello, Roger," Ayla said, smiling. She was quite nice looking when she smiled, but that did not win Rog over. When he looked directly at her he felt prickles all over his skin. She was beautiful, but not in the way that sparked his desire. She was beautiful in the way a snake was beautiful, glittering mosaic hiding deadly fangs.

  "Hello, Ayla." Rog did not smile in return. "Your reputation precedes you."

  "Oh Ayla is very famous," Grandma Rogette said. "She's one of Lesbia's oldest witches. Much, much older than I am." She paused briefly. "I met Ayla just before the end of the world..."

  Rog respectfully refrained from rolling his eyes as his grandmother once more embarked on the tale of the end of the world. She loved to tell the story. When he was young he had loved listening to it. Now, as a grown man, he regarded it as a fairytale. Worlds didn't end. They just were.

  Fortunately there was something of interest to hold his attention as Granny once more embarked on the old tale. Ayla. The wonderful, magical, lovely Ayla so beloved of Granny Rogette that she never took another lady lover after her. Rog rather wished he didn't know that fact, but Granny had been very forthcoming of late, and as a result Rog had heard more about Ayla than was strictly necessary.

  The witch returned his gaze steadily whilst his grandmother chattered on about the end of the world, the Blood Witch, the awful trials. This Ayla was dangerous. Granny Rogette might have considered her a friend, but in all Rog's thirty five years he'd never seen Ayla in the flesh. Friends didn't pop in every seventy years or so. Ayla was here for a reason, he was sure of it.

  "Those were the days..." Granny Rogette concluded with a sigh.

  "Much has changed since those days," Rog agreed. He looked Ayla square in the face as he spoke. "Much of what was acceptable then is not acceptable now. Striking others, for example."

  The witch's brow rose just a fraction of an inch. It was a minute movement, but it made every muscle in Rog's body tense. The smile had long faded from her face. She was looking at him with a focus that made him uncomfortable. Unable to hold her gaze any longer, Rog lowered his eyes and found something more pleasant to look at - the cleavage that was displayed inches south. This Ayla was blessed in more ways than one.

  "I believe striking others is still acceptable," Ayla spoke with the accent of the old people. It curled about Rog's ears, tantalizing his mind. "More than acceptable. Sometimes necessary."

  "Not in the new society," Rog replied, forcing himself to meet her eye. "We govern by partnerships, not domination."

  "Who is this we?" There was amusement in Ayla's tone. "I'm certain that the Empress still rules with an iron fist."

  "Oh, Rog has a little club," Granny Rogette broke in. "The Miceketeers."

  "It's not called the Miceketeers, Granny," Rog sighed. "And it's not a club. It's a culture. It's a way of life. It's a..."

  "It's a club," Granny Rogette continued blithely. "He has such lovely friends. They're so sweet when they get all dressed up. Just look at his vest. Isn't it adorable?"

  "Yes," Ayla said, hammering in the final nail in the coffin of emasculation Granny Rogette had deftly shoved Rog into. "Absolutely adorable."

  *****

  Across the street from the Rusty Hankor, Reed waited for Rog to emerge. Sitting up on an awning, she puffed away at her fifth Bako lief. She had been smoking almost continuously since getting to the tavern. Unfortunately, the herb was not doing enough to take the edge off Reed's nerves. She vibrated with concern, frowning and scowling and muttering to herself.

  Eventually Rog stepped out of the tavern. Reed waited a minute or two to make sure he wasn't being followed, jumped off the awning, slipped through the crowd and sidled up next to him.

  She felt a little better when Rog draped an arm around her shoulders. His height, breadth and solid stature gave her a sense of comfort and protection as they walked through the afternoon crowd. "You were right," he said. "We have a problem."

  "Yes, you do."

  Reed and Rog spun about, discovering Ayla directly behind them. How she got there was a mystery, but she was there, standing on the street amid the sailors and the shuffling drunks, somehow set apart from it all. Reed fancied she emitted magic, a light fantastic emanating from head to toe. Ayla's height was not that much greater than Rog's, but her presence filled the street. People flowed around her without complaint, giving her a wide berth. Caught before her, Rog and Reed could do little but listen as she spoke.

  "I understand that the pair of you are unaccustomed to the old way of doing things. Unfortunately for you, I am practically ancient. Old doesn't begin to describe my methods."

  "You had no right to hit me." Reed felt braver with Rog by her side.

  "I had every right," Ayla replied. There was not a hint of apology in her tone. She clearly felt no shame for what she had done.

  "My grandmother told me stories about you my entire life," Rog said. "She told me how powerful you are. She also told me how caring you are. I don't recognize you from her tales." His arm slipped from Reed's shoulders as he stepped forward. "I can tell you this. You will not lay a finger on any of my people without going through me first. And you will definitely never touch Re
ed again."

  "You're a sweet boy," Ayla said. "But you are no match for me. Best you contain yourself before I have to do something about you."

  "I'm not that sweet," Rog replied.

  "And I'm not sweet at all." It was Reed's turn to step forward. "You need to leave this city," she said. "Go back to the countryside where they still believe in beating people. The world is changing, witch. Faster than you can imagine."

  "I have no intention of leaving," Ayla replied. "But you should know I did not come here to hit you. I came here to teach you."

  "I have already taught myself," Reed shrugged. "I have no need of lessons."

  "That is not true." Ayla turned her gaze on Rog. "You seem to have some sort of protective impulse toward this woman. Did you know I found her unconscious atop the city wall, inches from oblivion, having smoked herself insensible?"

  Reed winced as Rog cast a sharp glance in her direction.

  "I did not know that," he admitted. "But it is none of your concern."

  "She was soaked to the bone and shivering from cold. Another hour and she would have slipped away. Another body for the graveyard. Is that how you protect your people?"

  Rog cleared his throat. "I am nobody's keeper."

  "Some people need keeping." Ayla turned the force of her gaze on Reed. "Some people spend their entire lives waiting to be kept."

  "I don't want to be kept," Rog said, turning to Reed. "Do you want to be kept?"

  Reed put a finger to her lower lip, tilted her head to the side and pretended to think about the question.

  "Hmm, no, you know, Rog, I don't think I do want to be kept. Seeing as I'm not a pet. Or a piece of property. Maybe this old witch has mistaken us for couple of clay figurines."

  "So sorry." Rog turned back to Ayla. "We don't want to be kept. Maybe you can find someone else who wants your lessons and your keeping." He smirked, his full lips twisting with a deep amusement that made Reed snort with laughter. Oh it was all so silly, to be afraid of this woman, simply because she wandered around with a stick every now and then and happened to be a witch.

  "I'll tell you what," she said, catching hold of Rog's arm as she danced a little closer to Ayla. "We'll keep a very good eye out for any people pets. Pet people. And if we see any, we'll bring them to you and you can keep them."

  "Maybe it will catch on," Rog agreed. "I'm sure you could sell pet people in the High Lanes."

  "They'll buy anything," Reed said. "I saw a woman wearing a paper hat the other day. What's the point of a paper hat?"

  "Paper hats for people pets could work," Rog said with a wry grin.

  "Pretty portable paper hats for perfect people pets..." Reed giggled so hard she choked with laughter.

  *****

  Ayla glared at the summoner, who by that time was clutching at Rog to keep herself upright. It really wasn't that funny, but whatever she'd been smoking clearly made her think otherwise.

  "The little... the paper... hats..." Reed gasped, miming a hat with her hand. "On... head... oh my..."

  Rog grinned a broad white smile as his friend doubled over in the street with the force of her amusement.

  "You encourage this, don't you?" Ayla asked the question of the only coherent Ratling before her.

  Rog glanced down at Reed, who by that stage was sitting on the street, wiping eyes streaming with tears. He shrugged. "What's not to love?"

  "You both deserve a good beating," Ayla sighed, more to herself than to Rog and Reed.

  Rog's attention spiked at the comment. “You know what happens when you hit a rat?”

  “I do not.”

  “It turns around and bites you right back. See, a rat doesn't care how big you are, or how strong you are. A rat fights to the end. It's smart. It learns. It paves its own way, and if it finds itself trapped, then it will gnaw its way out," Rog said proudly. “Rats care about their fellow rat. They eat. They sleep. They play. They procreate. They don't bother with the trappings of the human world, and they don't engage in violence without reason. If you're going to look for a role model in the animal kingdom, a rat is a pretty good start. So if my people smoke a little too much grass, or break a few laws, I'm not going to judge them for it. Because that's not what we're about. We're not about tearing people down, locking them up, punishing them for not fitting in. We're about love, Ayla.”

  Ayla listened to Rog's little speech with remarkable patience. When he stopped talking, she had three words to say.

  “Reed is unconscious."

  "What?"

  Rog looked down at his feet and discovered that Ayla spoke the truth. Reed and smoked and giggled herself literally out of her mind. She was laying on the street, a grin plastered across her pretty, insensate face.

  "I've seen this girl unconscious more than I've seen her conscious," Ayla remarked as Rog knelt down and scooped Reed up over his shoulder. He did it with a practiced movement that indicated it was not his first time doing so. "Bring her back inside. I'll give her something to wake her up."

  "It's alright, she'll sleep it off."

  "You don't know that. She's ingested so much poison her body is barely functioning anymore."

  "She wouldn't want me to take her in to you..."

  "Oh by all the goddesses, boy," Ayla snapped. "The only reason you exist is because I didn't leave your grandmother to die when I found her engaging in a different kind of equally ridiculous behavior. You wouldn't be here if I was not someone to be trusted. Now bring her in before she stops breathing altogether."

  "Nobody ever died from too much Bako..."

  "Perhaps not. But plenty of people have died because they were unconscious in the wrong place at the wrong time. And plenty of people have died from lung infections and tumors brought on by smoking copious amounts of plant material. Bring her in. She needs attention."

  Rog dithered. It was an odd sight to see, for he was a fairly well built man with a fair maiden slung over his shoulder. By all rights he should have been the hero of the piece. Instead, he was torn.

  "Roger," Ayla said more kindly. "I know you're trying to do your best for people who don't seem to be able to do theirs. I can help. Please. Bring her in."

  Chapter Eight

  Reed woke snuggled next to a familiar body. She opened her eyes to discover that Rog was sitting next to her. He was resting his back against the head of a bed, his legs stretched out over the coverlet. She was under the same coverlet, wearing nothing besides her undershirt and undershorts. For a horrifying second Reed thought she might have done something silly under the influence of a little too much Bako, but she was reassured by the fact that Rog was fully dressed and did not appear to be lost in any kind of post-coital haze.

  “Hello you,” he drawled down at her.

  She stretched and grinned. “So we got away from the wicked witch after all.”

  “Not quite.” The witch's voice rose not far away, making Reed's toes curl. She sat bolt upright, finding herself back in the room she'd woken up in the first time she met Ayla. The woman was persistent, Reed could give her that.

  “Why am I here?" She turned to her friend. "Rog, why are we here?”

  “You're sick, Reed," he explained.

  “I'm not sick!”

  “You have a chest infection,” Ayla said, looming nearby with a bowl of herb infused water and a washcloth. “No doubt a result of too much smoking and rough sleeping.”