She lathered fragrant lemon soap on her arm, watching steam rise off her skin. After the incident with Aunt Stace, she’d given brothels little thought. They were usually located in neighborhoods into which she rarely ventured, kept out of sight, really, and out of mind. While brothels weren’t banned in most towns in Sacoridia, they weren’t exactly condoned, either, particularly by the more “upright” citizens of her aunts’ disposition.
Some brothels purchased textiles directly from Clan G’ladheon, but for Karigan they were only names recorded in her father’s ledgers. They were treated as any other customer so long as they had the currency to pay for their goods.
And yet…she could never imagine selling her body, giving away its mysteries to anyone less than the right man, one whom she loved, and one who returned that love, and most certainly not in exchange for currency. She couldn’t even give herself over to the casual pairings some of her fellow Riders engaged in, whether among themselves or along the road. Their work was dangerous and often solitary, and she couldn’t blame them for seeking companionship where they could find it, fulfilling very human needs. In fact, she’d been tempted herself by more than one offer…
Still, while Karigan’s own urges were alive and well, they were overridden by her desire for a relationship of deep trust and respect, one that transcended baser needs. She remembered how her mother and father cherished one another, and though Kariny died when Karigan was young, she recalled the tenderness between her parents, the soft touches, the wordplay—even if she hadn’t understood it all back then—and the way they gazed at one another. This lesson left an even more indelible impression upon her than Aunt Stace’s slap, and it was the standard by which she measured her own life. How could anyone desire anything less?
She sank beneath the water to wet her hair, and reemerged longing for the kind of love her parents had shared. The way her life was going, however, she feared it might be something she was never destined to experience.
When Karigan finished her bath, she found her uniform laid out for her, clean and dry, and she dressed. Still exhausted from her ordeal in the Grandgent and desiring nothing other than to crawl back into bed, she needed to find out how Fergal fared through the night.
She hurried down the corridor and found Rona at the bottom of the stairs, smiling as if she found something about Karigan amusing.
“I hear Trudy looked after you during the night,” she said.
“What? No, no. She looked in. Not after.”
Rona chuckled. “We do try to look after our guests. Cetchum is breaking his fast in the kitchen. You should join him.”
“Cetchum?”
“Yes, dearie, the ferry master. My husband.”
Oh, so that explained why she ended up here. Karigan entered the kitchen and found him tucking into ham and eggs while Silva sat with him looking as regal and perfect as the previous evening. She sipped on a brew that smelled like kauv.
“Come, Karigan, dear,” Silva said, “and join us for breakfast.”
Hesitantly, Karigan sat at the table across from Silva. “Morning,” she said.
Cetchum grunted as he looked her over. “Weeell, yer looking a sight better, sir.”
Karigan pinched her eyebrows together, and glanced at Silva who smiled and shrugged. Apparently calling her “sir” was an accepted eccentricity on Cetchum’s part.
A cook set a plate of eggs and ham before Karigan, as well as a loaf of bread just drawn from the oven. Cetchum pushed a pot of creamy butter toward her.
Karigan, however, couldn’t eat until she heard about Fergal. “How is Rider Duff?” she asked.
“The lad is fine,” Cetchum said, maneuvering a mouthful of eggs around his words. “Or will be. Needs his rest, so says Mender Gills.”
Karigan closed her eyes in relief. Relief that she would not have to return Fergal’s body back to Sacor City.
“The young man will be transferred here for the duration,” Silva said.
“Here?” Karigan had not meant to sound so expressive, but she sensed that bringing Fergal into a brothel was like dropping a candle in a hay barn. At Silva’s raised eyebrow, she said, “Uh, I am sure your rates are steep for those on king’s business.”
“Perhaps.” Silva sipped from her cup, and her gaze unnerved Karigan. “You are of Clan G’ladheon, are you not?”
Karigan nodded, wondering what this had to do with anything.
Silva smiled. “Stevic’s daughter, I daresay, though you must favor your mother.”
“You know my father?” Karigan did not like where this conversation was leading.
Silva’s smile deepened. “He is a most generous friend and patron. I am housing you and the young man at no expense as a favor to Stevic. That saves explaining to your superiors why you spent the night in a brothel, does it not? It would appear inappropriate, I would guess, for the madam of a brothel to present a Rider seal at tax time for reimbursement.”
“My father?” was all Karigan could say, appalled. How in the world did he know Silva? What was he doing visiting a brothel? Well, she knew what, but why? She knew why, too, but–but—her father?
“You are mistaken,” Karigan said, certain of Silva’s error, certain of what she knew of her father. He would never patronize a brothel.
“No, dear, I am not. I hold Stevic in high esteem, and he conducts a good deal of clan business from here.”
A blackness flooded Karigan’s vision. “No,” she whispered. Everything she believed and thought she knew was cast into oblivion; the world was falling out from beneath her.