GOING BOSTAL
3. Chasing Butterflies (part c)
"Draggin' 'em in off the street now, Gretch?"
"Shut yer noisy trap!" Gretchen snapped, holding the door open with her foot as she helped the stranger into the taproom. The rain had picked up as she and her companion had struggled back to The Drenched Pussy, so much so that the two of them did look like two stray cats desperate for shelter. "Man's been assaulted, and it'd be inhuman to leave him out there in the rain!"
"Sure you weren't the one as did it to him, Gretch?" another of the customers asked, leering. "Mayhap ya think ya finally found yerself a decent man?"
"Ain't no one man that could satisfy our Gretch!" his drinking buddy laughed. "She's one o' them nymphomercials..."
"Don'tcha mean 'nymphermaniac', Jed?"
"Nah, a nymphomercial. She puts it all on show and then tells ya ta pay now before ya gets yer hands on the goods!"
"Haw haw haw!"
Feeling her eyes narrow, Gretchen studiously ignored the drunks' inflammatory comments and dragged her charge across the floor towards the bar. "Shannah, back room free?" she asked.
Shannah eyed the two of them, baffled. "Sure, but whatcha goin' ta do in there? Sure don't look like the kind of customer that could perform, let alone pay..."
"What I do in there with him's my own business!" Gretchen barked, sick of all the insinuations. Lambult's blood, you try to do a good deed in this city and people think you're nuts. I should never have come here in the first place...
"Sure, sure," Shannah said, looking taken aback by Gretchen's outburst. "Just want ya ta know that if the room's needed by a payin' customer..."
"It'll be fine," Gretchen said, helping the stranger towards the door. "Just let me know."
It was a relief to slam the door shut behind her, blocking out the ruckus from the taproom, even if this room wasn't Gretchen's favourite place in all of Rune. She sat the stranger down on the cot, then stood back, looking at him worriedly as she ran her hands through her short blonde hair, trying to shuck the excess rainwater from it.
Honey blonde hair, freckled cheeks and a sweet, round face: Gretchen was some people's idea of the perfect wife. There'd certainly been enough interested parties when she'd turned seventeen and her father had announced she was now of an age to receive suitors. But the interested parties had mostly been middle-aged merchants looking to take her father's business into their own when he died – since Gretchen didn't have any brothers. Of course, the fact that her body was plump and ripe and pleasantly curved didn't hurt either, but that was about the extent of interest in her – as a potentially pleasant bed partner, an effective housewife and an investment in the future.
Ollie had been the only one who'd seen her differently. Or at least, that was what Gretchen had thought. Ollie worked on a fishing boat; sailing was his livelihood and his life's blood. His hands were strong and weathered from hauling ropes and nets, and their touch had sent pleasurable tingles through Gretchen's entire body. And so, one night, she'd fled Cardon with her new love, catching a ship to Port Bostal, where they could make a new life together.
And then, somehow... it had ended up like this. It had only been a year – maybe fifteen months – since she and Ollie had come here, Gretchen's head filled with bright hopes for the future. It had only taken that long for her to become what she now was. A whore, desperately turning tricks in a seemingly futile effort to escape the life that had engulfed her and taken her innocence.
She smiled wanly as she looked at the stranger sitting on the cot. Well, perhaps I haven't lost all my innocence, she admitted to herself, a little sadly. Helping a complete stranger like this is something the old Gretchen would have done. The Gretchen who'd take in stray puppies off the street and hand out pennies to every beggar on every corner. Is she dead? Will she die tonight, when I find out who this stranger really is? Nothing good comes of selfless acts. But I can't seem to help myself...
Moving to the table, she filled the shallow washbasin with water from the jug and carried it over to the cot. The stranger's brown eyes were blank, and his expression was still somewhat lost. He was having a slightly easier time keeping himself upright now, though, and he even flinched a little, instinctively, when she started dabbing at the blood on his face with the washcloth. He was an easterner, seemingly – his features were slightly exotic, and the sword belted at his side didn't look like anything Gretchen's father had sold in his adventurers' supply emporium.
Rinsing out the washcloth, she cleaned away the last of the blood. The side of his head was bruised, but that seemed to be the extent of his injuries. She wrung the washcloth out again and sat next to him on the cot.
"I wonder where you came from?" Gretchen asked, more of herself than him, as she gently dried his face. "I'm from Cardon, myself. It's a beautiful city. It has real mountains, not just little hills like they have around here. In winter, when it snows, the Gray Mountains are all capped with white, and on clear days, you can see them stretching out to the west, all in a row..."
"...like soldiers marching to war," the stranger murmured.
Gretchen blinked. "You've seen them?"
"I've... I've been there," he said, slowly bringing a hand up to cradle his brow, groaning quietly. "You're right. It is a beautiful city."
"So you're... you're not from Cardon, then?" Gretchen asked. "Where are you from?"
"No place in particular." He let his head sink forward, wincing slightly. "Where... where am I?"
"The Drenched Pussy," Gretchen told him. "I found you out on the street and brought you here. I'm... I'm Gretchen, by the way."
"Darkling," he muttered.
"'Darkling'? What kind of a name is 'Darkling'?"
He looked sideways at her, his brow creased with pain. "What kind of a name is 'Gretchen'?"
"Good point," she admitted.
"What... what am I doing here?" he wondered, rubbing tentatively at his forehead. "I... I can't even remember what happened to me. It's all so va—"
"Gretch!" A loud hammering on the door interrupted Darkling's musings. "Ya done yet? I got a customer here!"
"Yeah, yeah, just a minute!" Gretchen yelled. "Come on... Darkling. You seem in a bit better shape now. So why don't we just sit a while in the taproom while you recover?"
"Fine... with me," he said, slowly, reaching out somewhat feebly to grasp her forearm and allowing her to help him to his feet.
Alix was waiting impatiently outside as Gretchen opened the door. "About time, Gretch!" she said, dragging her patron into the room and shooing Gretchen and Darkling out. "Cover for me, will ya?"
"I ain't paid to do your work too!" Gretchen snapped, but the door was already closed. Sighing, Gretchen took Darkling's elbow and settled him in an unoccupied booth against one wall. Darting over to the bar, she grabbed a full tankard and brought it over to him.
"Here," she said, slipping in next to him and holding the tankard up to his lips. "Can you drink this?"
Darkling eyed the grog dubiously, his eyelids flickering slightly as he appeared to struggle with a vague recollection. "No," he said, after a moment. "Believe me, I've tried."
"You've been here before, then?" she asked, lowering the tankard and setting it aside.
He blinked hazily. "I... I think so. I... Kana...?"
"Kana?" Gretchen repeated, confused.
He raised his eyes, looking haunted. "They... they took her. They took her away from me..."
"Your... girl?" Gretchen asked, somewhat wistfully.
"In a way..." he mumbled, lowering his head into his hands. "But not strictly speaki—"
The taproom door burst open, slamming against the wall loudly. Jumping slightly at the sharp bang, Gretchen looked up to see Jerl swaggering in, his red scarf knotted jauntily around his neck. He was one of the worst patrons The Drenched Pussy had, and the primary reason Gretchen had given up taking the evening shift. He was arrogant, boastful and horribly insecure, taking even the most innocent remark as a slight to his manhood. And he found blonde women irresistible, Gretchen included.
Added up, those traits might not have been so bad, but that wasn't the end of it. On the few occasions he'd taken Gretchen into the back room, he'd done his best to make the experience as degrading for her as possible. He'd cursed at her and slapped her around as he used her body for his pleasure, forcing her to comply with his depraved demands.
All in all, Jerl had the dubious distinction of being the worst Blood Mongrel Gretchen knew, which – given the generally repellent and seedy nature of the group's entire membership – was actually saying something.
Don't see me here, don't see me here, don't see me here... she chanted softly to herself, looking across at Darkling, who had an absolutely dumbstruck expression on his face.
"Red scarf," he murmured. "Red scarf and sabres."
"Yes," Gretchen said, slipping sideways on the bench as if to hide, her hip pressing closer against Darkling's. "He's a Blood Mongrel, just like Ollie. My ex-fiancé," she added, seeing his confused look. "The Blood Mongrels patrol the official trade routes and provide escort to Port Bostal shipping. They also intercept 'unauthorised' foreign vessels and seize their cargo."
"Privateers," Darkling said, his lip curling slightly.
Gretchen sighed. "Yes. They do the dirty work. It's all Council-approved, of course, even if it is hush-hush. It's a profitable and exclusive little boys' club."
"Your... Ollie is one of them?"
"When we came here, all he wanted was to be a sailor," Gretchen said, quietly. "But sailors are a shilling a score here, and there was no way he could support both of us on an apprentice sailor's wage. Not that he didn't try, of course – at least to start off with." She stared into the distance, nostalgically. "But he kept hearing about the easy money you could earn with the Blood Mongrels. Higher pay for higher risk, and a cut of all the profits from seized cargo. Ollie had run up a lot of debts by then... He's not much good with cards or dice, but he can't keep his hands off them. Still can't, as much as I've heard. I haven't seen him in a long while."
"He left you?" Darkling asked, his brown eyes watching her face sympathetically.
"More like we just drifted apart," Gretchen admitted. "When he joined up, he started spending more and more time with the other Blood Mongrels... and then he just stopped coming home. I couldn't pay the rent on our place anymore, so I had to move into the boarding house. And I got a job here as a... as a whore," she said, her voice low and bitter. "Trying to earn enough money for fare back to Cardon. But... but the debt collectors and the loan sharks still turn up at my door, wanting the money that Ollie owes them. They can't find him, so they... so they keep after me..."
"Hey now," Darkling said, awkwardly, as she valiantly fought back tears. His left hand came up to clasp her shoulder, reassuringly. "Gretchen, please... don't cry. It... it can't be that bad..."
"It is!" she sniffled, bringing her hand up to rub at her eyes. "I let these men do all sorts of things to me! I... I take them inside me for a few lousy pence! While my... while Ollie runs around out there sinking foreign ships and killing sailors and stealing people's slaves..."
"He what?" She felt Darkling's hand tighten on her shoulder, painfully tight.
"He... he and some of his mates hire themselves out to a black market slaver, on the side," she told him, eyes widening at his grim expression. "Jerl... Jerl, over there, was the one who got them into it. They make a killing ambushing slave owners and... Lambult's blood, don't tell me..."
"Red scarf and sabres," Darkling said, the expression in his eyes deadly. "Get out of the way."
"Darkling, no," she protested. "You can't—"
"Get out of my way!" he seethed, his voice harsh with barely suppressed fury.
She just scrambled out of the booth, watching him worriedly as he hauled himself out and stalked towards Jerl, who was at a table near the door, with his hand up the other barmaid's blouse.
"Excuse me," Darkling said, tapping the privateer on the shoulder.
"Yeah?" Jerl asked, tilting his head at the newcomer. "What's it?"
"I hear you and other members of the Blood Mongrels specialise in abducting slaves off the street," Darkling said, bluntly.
Jerl sat forward abruptly, letting the barmaid go. "That's a dangerous thing to be hearin', friend," he said, in low tones. "Could lose a man his membership with the Mongrels – or cost a nosy stranger his life."
"I don't much care what it could lose you," Darkling said, coldly. "The Blood Mongrels are tight, aren't they? You'd know who's been busy lately, wouldn't you? Where can I find them?"
The sailor's eyes narrowed. "Now that's just none of yer business, ain't it?"
"Answer my question!" Darkling snapped.
"What if I don't want ta?"
"Then I'll make you!" Darkling snarled. "One of your privateer mates – an ugly little dwarf who wears the same fucking badge as you." He reached out and grabbed Jerl's tunic, hauling the Blood Mongrel to his feet and gesturing furiously at the crossed-sabres patch on his scarf. "Red scarf. Sabre patch. That's gotta mean something, right? Tell me if I'm wrong. So I've got a proposal for you. You tell me where I can find him, and— What is it?"
While Darkling had been preoccupied with Jerl, two more red-scarfed sailors had walked in the door behind him. They were Jerl's cronies; Gretchen had never bothered to learn their names. And now all she could do was watch anxiously as Jerl reached up to shake Darkling's hands off his scarf, confident in the advantage of numbers.
"'Scuse us," one of the thugs said, as Darkling looked up at his lumpy face. "But when yer done leanin' on Jerl there, we'd also like a minute of yer time."
Darkling just grinned savagely, a feral gleam lighting his deep brown eyes as the three Blood Mongrels closed ranks around him. "Sure," he said, evenly. "Brawling or non-brawling?"
Next: On the trail