The Guild (23 page)

Torhammer dipped his head slightly when it was his turn. “As Precinct captain, it is my responsibility to enforce the law. This I have done as firmly as I could. The
law
says that each guild owes a responsibility to all of its members, past and current, provided they are all of good standing. That means the orphans of lost guildmembers can call upon their parents’ guilds for support and protection. Injured members can request their guilds to pay for their
apothecary expenses, and so forth. I am well aware that these ex-prisoners are orphaned and injured, as much or more inside their hearts and minds as in their bodies. My vote goes toward all guilds across the land accepting their share of responsibility.

“
However
, that being said . . . this and the other Precinct militias cannot accept the responsibility of any of these orphaned and injured mages into its ranks—let me
finish
,” he added sternly, raising a hand as several in the audience across from the head table started to protest. “Not because we do not care, but because we must manage the
Hunter Squads
. Some of which are still out there, hunting down mages because they may not yet realize that Mekha is indeed gone from everywhere, rendering their captives unnecessary. I have reached
some
of them via talker-box in the last day . . . but not all of them have reported in, yet.”

“Mekha doesn’t exist anymore!” one of the female Guild Masters asserted. “There’s no
need
for them to keep and drain their prisoners.”

“Mekha being gone simply means that there’s nothing to stop these bastards from draining any captive mages for their
own
benefit,” Alonnen growled. “It isn’t quite blood magic, but it is still a form of rape most foul. I must agree with Captain Torhammer; his support of the law is deeply appreciated, and technically all Precinct militias are a form of guild, and all of captain or higher rank have a vote in this quorum . . . but I also must agree that his reason for abstaining from direct support is understandable in the light of his explanation.

“My guild will take in an additional five mages on top of the original eight in the militia’s name. With supporting tithes from the militia, of course,” he continued, his tone pointed and dry. “I trust, Captain Torhammer, that you will rein in the Hunter Squads within your jurisdiction and inform them in no uncertain terms that hunting for mages is now at an end? And that you will explain
to the ex-priesthood in equally blunt terms that they are no longer allowed to imprison, torture, rape, and drain any mages ever again?” Alonnen asked. “You are renowned as the Hammer of Heiastowne. Feel free to invoke that hammer in the name of the law.”

“It would help, Guild Master Tall, if our very next vote after this one is an equally unanimous quorum on decreeing the imprisonment and draining of mages to be utterly illegal,” Torhammer returned wryly.

Toric spoke up, regaining control without using the gavel stone. “That is the very next subject and shall be tabled until this vote is complete. As a grandmaster-ranked Gearman, I have the right to vote in this quorum . . . and I vote for the guilds to undertake their lawful responsibility as well,” Toric asserted. “The Heiastowne Consulate can manage to care for at least one ex-prisoner at this time. Not every Consulate is large enough for a permanent staff, but ours can manage that much.”

Rexei focused on tidying up her papers and returning them to her bag while the vote continued to the far end of the table. By the time the last Guild Master voted, however . . . it was clearly unanimous not only in agreement, but in the voicing of how many freed mages each guild would take. A nonbinding show of hands was called for among the grandmasters and masters with no Guild Master representing them at the head table. Most raised their arms in favor, with only a few abstaining—mostly those with only master-rank members within the city’s walls—and none voting otherwise. Many of them stood up, each in turn offering shelter for the ex-prisoners.

She felt deeply relieved for the sake of the Mages Guild and its rather finite resources at that last revelation. From the look on Alonnen’s face when he glanced at her, he felt the same way. By the time the last guild offered, all one hundred fifty-three mages, and then some, were covered.

By comparison, the vote to render any further capture, torture, and power-draining of mages illegal was a simple yes/no vote. In fact, it passed so swiftly that it was anticlimactic. With one last admonishment for “Guild Master Longshanks” to finish polishing the new Holy Guild’s charter for future ratification and to pick up at least three apprentices as soon as possible, Grandmaster Toric closed the meeting with a rhythmic rapping of his gavel on its matching stone anvil.

Immediately, Alonnen was up on his feet and crossing the distance between him and Rexei. Snagging her elbow, he murmured in her ear, “Let’s go. Out the back, right away,” he ordered, literally pulling her off her end of the bench. “If we don’t get both of us out of here
now
, we’ll not get free for two hours or more.”

Snatching up her bag and grabbing her coat and cap from where she had rolled them up and tucked them under the bench seat, Rexei followed him. Several of the others tried to intercept both of them for questions, but both were quick and slim enough to squeeze through the barely open side door. Rexei pulled it shut behind her, slowing down their would-be interrogators. That gave them a few more seconds to dodge into the back corridors of the Consulate building.

Alonnen led her out into the alley, quickly shut the door, then pulled her across to a door placed almost directly opposite, and rapped on it in a hard, fast pattern not too dissimilar from the one the head of the Consulate had used to end the emergency session. Rexei had only a glimpse of the trampled snow of the alley, but it was enough to tell her that several people within the last hour had used this particular door, both coming and going.

It swung open within seconds. By the time the Consulate back door started to open, the door to the new building had swung shut. They were let into it by a vaguely familiar man.

“How many?” the middle-aged door guard asked without
preamble, watching them stamp off the three inches of snow they had waded through.

“Nine,” Alonnen stated. “The others will come in soon.”

Someone came down the nearby stairs, so heavily bundled up, swathed in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, Rexei couldn’t have sworn they were fully human, never mind their gender or anything else. From the way the figure avoided her gaze, she thought maybe they were trying to avoid being recognized.
Then again, he or she could just be wrapped up against all that snow outside, with a long walk to wherever they’re headed home . . .

“You only get three. Back stairs, rooms thirty-six through thirty-eight,” the burly man stated, plucking a key from the wall by the door and handing it over without being asked or offered anything—and that was when Rexei recognized him by voice as well as face. He was the fellow who had bruised her shoulder just the day before. She kept her head ducked low, not even daring to peek at him. Thankfully, his attention had switched to letting the other person pass outside.

Relieved to have avoided another confrontation with the strong-fingered man, she mounted three sets of stairs in Alonnen’s wake. The place was remarkably silent; even the stairs barely creaked as they made the climb, leaving her with nothing to do but follow her guide and eye the rich, brocaded gold and red cloth glued to the walls in place of mere painted plaster. The corridor at the top of the stairs was equally opulent, though up here the predominant colors were gold and lilac, even if the flowerlike pattern was the same. Even the doors were painted pale purple with decorative numbers and trim in polished brass . . . including the one, tucked into the corner of the L-shaped hall, that Alonnen opened.

Visual opulence wasn’t the only overwhelming factor. The smells inhabiting both the corridor and the chamber behind that panel made her nose itch from the faint but cloying mix of perfume, musk,
and . . . Stepping fully into the room, she rubbed at her nose and frowned at the floor, trying to figure out what that scent was. It took her a few moments to realize the smell underlying everything was not musk, as in the perfume; no, it was the scent of sex. She stopped mid nose-rub and blinked, then hurriedly glanced around. Closing the door behind her, Alonnen lifted one brow, catching her bewildered look.

Rexei focused on the room, not the man at her side; him, she trusted. This place was another matter. Golden wood covered the walls to about hip height and a fancy, carved rail board capped the vertical panels, and above that, yet more silk fabric, this time patterned with delicately woven flying birds, had been glued to the plaster-smooth walls. The front half of the room had a padded divan for seating, a small table with two dining chairs, and a side table hosting a collection of carafes no doubt filled with expensive beverages. A scale sat nearby, suggesting the price of the drinks contained within were gauged by the weight of whatever remained behind. She resolved not to touch a drop, since she didn’t have much in the way of money on her.

A woodstove on the left and a pleated privacy screen on the right divided the front from the back. On the other side, the far wall hosted a huge bed flanked by quilt-curtained windows and mounded with what looked like freshly bleached sheets and a thick, down-stuffed quilt. To the right of it, partially shielded behind the privacy screen, lay a rounded alcove large enough to host a permanent, polished-copper bath in the middle. More quilted fabric panels had been pulled down over the windows, shutting out the lamplight of the city and cutting off some of the drafts, but from the smell and the furnishings and the shape of the room, Rexei knew what that alcove was. This was one of the famous “turret” rooms of Big Momma Bertha’s Brothel.

She had heard about it within her first three days here in
Heiastowne, in fact. When Big Momma wanted to “advertise” her establishment’s offerings, she instructed some of the ladies of her guild, and even a gentleman or two from time to time, to take a bath with those blinds rolled up out of the way, particularly on the second floor, which gave just enough of a view to titillate the people in the street. The basement hosted a gambling den, and the ground floor catered some of the better meals for sale in the city. The four floors above were all for rent, usually by the hour, and always for a fairly high price.

Rumor had it the time spent at Big Momma’s establishment was worth it, though. Some of the younger men in the Servers Guild, and even two of the women, had spoken of saving up enough money to visit this place or boasted of having done so in the past. Of all the places Rexei had expected them to go for shelter during a snowstorm, however, this was not one of them. In fact, she had expected somewhere else would have been chosen first.

“If your mouth were as wide-open as your eyes,” Alonnen quipped, removing his cap, “you’d be choking on a bullfrog, never mind a fly.
Relax
, Rexei. This is a bolt-hole, not an assignation.”

Blinking, Rexei struggled to regain some of her sense of calm. She swallowed and cleared her throat. “So . . . uh . . . how long do we stay here?”

“Two good meals with a bit of sleep in between,” he told her. “If it’s three inches down here on the plains, the snow up by the dam is going to be eight or more deep until it’s cleared, too deep to drive in safely with all those hill-hugging curves on the last stretch of the road. I wish the Wheelwrights would come up with a better method of traction in icy, slippery conditions, but until they do, we’re safer spending the night here. In the meantime, I am hungry, and if you’re not, you should be after all that talking. We can check the menu on the little table, there, to see what’s being offered this week.”

Unbuttoning her coat, she shrugged out of it, then pulled off
her winter cap and set her messenger bag on the divan. Belatedly, she removed the heavy gold oval, dropping that into her bag for safekeeping. After adding the medallion-strung chain of her other guild associations, she joined him at the table. Someone had paid the Binders Guild for the use of one of their small printing presses. Made from four sheets folded in half and stitched together down the spine with a bit of ribbon, the menu included a wine list, finger foods, hearty dishes, sweet desserts . . . and a list of jams, jellies, syrups, and “a set of old sheets.”

That last one puzzled her. “Uhh . . . Alonnen? Why do they offer a set of old sheets on the same list as a bunch of flavorings and preserves?”

“What?
Oh.
” His face turned red. It was still altered somewhat by a disguise spell, a little more tanned with not even the hint of a freckle, but the illusion did not hide the rush of blood to his cheeks. Clearing his throat, Alonnen explained delicately, “That’s so you, ah, don’t get the regular sheets stained. It’s all boiled in hot water and bleached clean, but sometimes the fruit jams can still stain, you know.”

“I still don’t get it,” she told him. “What have jams and jellies to do with old sheets? Or new?”

Still a bit flushed, he cleared his throat. “It’s for those who like to strip their lover naked, lay them down on the old sheets, and then, uh, coat their curves with sweet preserves or, uh, drizzle them in things like butterscotch or caramel syrups . . . which they then lick off their lover’s body. And, ah, hopefully have the same done to them in return.”

Her mouth formed a wordless “
oh”
in reply. Reminding herself to breathe, that the man sharing this room with her didn’t even seem to want her in the normal way—an oddly unsettling thought—Rexei turned her attention firmly to her empty stomach. “Ah, do you know what this stuff is? Natallian . . . pah-stah?”

“It’s something made from finely ground wheat flour. It’s molded into shapes that are boiled, then drained and drenched in various sauces. It’s hard to explain,” he added at her dubious look, “but it’s just one of those things where once you’ve seen and tried it, you’ll just know what it
is
from that point on, rather than trying to explain it. I like the Nutty Chicken dish with it. Two or three kinds of nuts, mostly hazelnut, a bit of hazelnut-flavored liqueur, plus a bit of cream simmered with some herbs for the sauce, and it’s done.”