The Roads to Baldairn Motte

Terryll Payce half-slept in the arms of Lyrie, his favorite whore. “It’s almost time to go,” she whispered. He inhaled the scent of her almond perfume and held it in for a long moment before forcing his eyes open. She had her head propped up on one arm above him, her eyes a torrent of green and blue like the sea he loved so much, and her golden hair pouring over his face like sweet honey wine.
“I knew you’d say that eventually,” he said. “That’s why I brought another thirty bits in my purse.”
“Thirty bits,” she cooed. “What shall we do for your thirty bits?”
“We’re not going to a do anything but lie here. Grab onto me tight—I want to feel your warmth on my skin, Lyrie.”
She obliged him. “I wore you out, didn’t I?”
“Aye, you always do, and don’t think I wouldn’t mind a little more wearing out, but right now I just want to feel you against me, see if I can’t stow away some of your warmth and your scent before I leave.”
“Will you be gone so long?”
Terryll sighed deeply. “Who’s to say? The Earl has already mustered his bannermen and troops. There will be fighting; it’s just a matter of who and where. I’ve been pleading the Passions to send the Earl marching on Fairnlin to take the head of that whore’s whelp Galkmeer for his treachery, but the Passions have never heeded my prayers before and I don’t expect them to start now. The Lord Marshall has already committed himself to Galkmeer, so the Earl is like to do the same, and that means I’ll be sailing troops to North Port.”
“North Port isn’t so far.”
“No, but there are a lot of cursed soldiers in Gaulang right now—you can’t even step foot into a tavern near the harbor for the crowds. Who knows how many voyages we’ll have to make to get them all out there, and then there’s Hairng to contend with, and then hauling back whoever’s left alive. The northerners aren’t like to lie down easily, especially not after what happened in Plum Grove. It’ll be an ugly affair, mark my words.”
Lyrie wriggled herself up to look down at him again. “It is a bit exciting, though, don’t you think? You always hear tales of the heroes of yore, but there aren’t any real heroes anymore. Noblemen have gotten as soft as their women these days. It’s about time for a new war and new heroes.”
“It hasn’t been that long. You’re just too young to remember, and I’ll tell you something: war doesn’t make heroes, bards and skalds make heroes to gain the favor of the victors once the fighting is over. It’s a no good business, I tell you. Who cares who sits on the throne in Fairnlin? It makes little difference to us here, or anywh—”
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“It must be Mistress Nedra,” Lyrie said with a sigh.
Terryll frowned. “I told her I meant to stay longer. What can she want? See what she’s after, won’t you?”
Lyrie grabbed her silk chemise from the chair at the side of the bed, but before she had it halfway on the door burst open. A soldier strode through the doorway past a blustering Mistress Nedra and stopped to regard Lyrie.
Mistress Nedra wormed her way around the soldier and smiled apologetically at Terryll. “I’m t-terribly sorry, Captain Payce,” she stammered, “I was coming up to tell you, but—”
“Enough,” the soldier cut her off. “Return his coin and send him on his way.” He turned his attention back to Lyrie. He was a big man, taller than Terryll and longer limbed, though not as stout. He wore chainmail with a goldenrod cote-hardie over it, and held a long-handled iron mace in one hand like he meant to use it. “Clean yourself up and get downstairs with the others,” he commanded Lyrie. “Quickly.” With that, he left to bang on the next door down the hallway.
Mistress Nedra rushed forward, offering the copper bits Terryll had paid back to him.
Terryll waived away the coin and began dressing. “Keep it. Just tell me what this is all about. Who’s this man to barge in here and order around paying customers?”
“He’s a man-at-arms, servant of Lord Melden Klaye.”
“Melden Klaye? Lord of what?”
“Lord of Sunspar.”
“Lord of blackspur more likely,” Terryll scoffed.
“Will you fight him to defend my honor?” Lyrie teased, licking a finger to dab on blue eye powder.
“Bite your tongue,” Mistress Nedra warned her. “And don’t bother with that—get downstairs.”
Lyrie pecked a kiss on Terryll’s cheek and scuttled out of the small room and downstairs. Terryll finished buckling his boots and clasped his long-bladed curtelaxe to his belt.
“I really do apologize,” Mistress Nedra said. “He came without any warning and I don’t want any trouble. Your next visit will be free.”
“Don’t fret yourself,” Terryll told her. “It’s not your fault. I got my coins’ worth. Just keep all those knaves down at the harbor away from my girls while I’m gone, won’t you?”
“I wouldn’t worry about them. None of their likes can afford Lyrie.”
“None of their likes are to be around much longer either,” Terryll remarked. He handed her the extra thirty bits he promised Lyrie. “Take good care, and I’ll hope to return soon.”
“May the Passions watch over you, Captain Payce.”
Terryll smiled thinly and walked out. At the bottom of the stairs, Lyrie and all the other whores were lined up in front of Lord Melden Klaye of Sunspar. Terryll didn’t dignify the young lord’s presence with so much as a glance.