Nov sat in the cramped space between a stack of crates and a barrel of refuse, ignoring the various aches his hunched muscles were acquiring as he waited.
"Still don't get why we have to stay in this sodding shyke hole," one of the men grumbled for the hundredth time. "Better anywhere else. On the ship, in a tavern, between some saucy wench's legs..."
He gave Carlyn, whose name Noven had learned early on in his eavesdropping, a lust-filled once over that would have sent any reasonable lass's skin crawling to Hai and back. Unfortunately for everyone present, save Carlyn herself, the sellsword was inclined toward the fairer sex. Which might have made things easier with the plan involving Caela and Jade, but there was still that sniper to deal with. And from what little the cook understood about Arlana's abilities, they needed someone female, someone who would be easier to impersonate.
"No one here disagrees, Floyd," Carlyn retorted, face stretching into a leer of her own as she placed both hands on the hilts of her twin short swords and planted one boot onto a crate. It happened one of the same crates Noven remained crouched behind, and it took every ounce of discipline for him to stay silent, even as his heart lurched in alarm.
"Especially not the last part. I wouldn't mind tasting some sweet, young cunny myself." The female sellsword made a lewd gesture with her fingers and tongue.
"Shut up, both of you," the third mercenary snapped. "We know none of us want to be here and why we have to anyway. I'm sick of your womanly naggin', Floyd, and Carlyn you can keep your girl loving cunt to yourself. I wouldn't petch it if it were the last one in Sunberth."
He turned back to resume guard duty and spat, "Next complaint I hear gets its speaker's throat slit and share split. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yeah, yeah, go petch yourself," Floyd muttered as he, too, returned to doing his job. Though peeved at being told what to do, the shorter and hairier of the two mercs seemed to be in agreement with Robern. There was something decidedly unsettling about Carlyn. Maybe it was the brusque, masculine way with which she walked and talked, her mannerisms completely belying her rather slender and feminine features.
Or, maybe it was the angry scar running from her scalp down the middle of her left eye, supposedly the result of trying to, as Floyd had put it, stick a candle up her late husband's arse. The thing was still lit and dripping hot wax, he'd claimed.
Carlyn made no attempts to deny these accusations. Nor did she deign to respond to Robern's threats. Instead, the merc pushed herself off of the crate, to Nov's immense relief, and started walking off toward a dark alleyway. She hadn't made it two steps past the radius of their guarded vicinity when Robern growled, "Where the hell d'ya think yer goin'?"
"To take a piss. Want to come watch?"
Both of her fellow guards made repulsed faces and looked away. Grinning, Carlyn placed her hands on her belt and whistled to herself as she sauntered off.
This is it, Nov realized as he moved quickly and quietly to follow. This is my chance. And maybe the only one I'll get, too, if her bladder is anything to go by. Strange as it sounded out of context, the cook had been waiting for his target to piss for bells. The bloody woman ate and drank nothing, not even water, and hadn't moved from her post until just then. And now that she finally had, he wasn't sure when the next chance would come. It was now or never.
Noven hated stealth missions. He was absolute shyke at it and couldn't be subtle to save his life. But the situation demanded that he at least try, or risk jeopardizing the whole operation.
They needed this woman's body. Or, specifically, Arlana needed this woman's body. And no one but the cook was supposed to know. The lass had wanted her abilities kept secret; it was hard enough for her to fess up to Nov, whom she'd known for over a decade. Informing the others was simply out of the question. Her ability, as he'd come to grasp, took time, patience, and privacy, and it was a commodity any number of mobsters would love to get their grubby little hands on. That meant the fewer who knew the better.
Nov certainly couldn't fault her, if his gloved hands were anything to go by.
It also meant they needed somewhere safe to make the transition. Noven knew of one place and one place only, so it was to Happy Endings that he would be taking Carlyn's unconscious body.
The cook checked one last time to ensure the other two mercs weren't following before snaking his way after Carlyn. She was cocky enough around her temporary partners, but she was far from stupid. Of the three sellswords, Nov suspected she was the smartest. If she'd been born with a cock like the others, it might've been her giving orders with self-proclaimed leadership, not Robern. Alas, she made due with the cards life had handed her. And they weren't half bad either, as far as Carlyn was concerned, even if they made pissing while on duty a bit of a hassle.
As soon as she ducked into the alleyway and the telltale sound of leathers being undone ensued, Noven made his move. He caught her, quite literally, with her pants down, and smothered her mouth with one hand as he tried to lock her in a chokehold with the other. The sellsword was much stronger than he'd anticipated, however, even without access to her shortswords. She somehow managed to wrestle partially free and knee her attacker in the guts, eliciting a pained grunt. A chaotic scuffle ensued, the scrape of boots and pants of exertion bouncing off the alleyway walls as each struggled to gain dominance. Nov still had her mouth covered, but her muffled shouts of anger were going to be impossible to prevent for much longer.
C'mon, ladies...he urged as he tried to fight the rising tide of panic, any tick now, a distraction would be great!
"Oy, what's goin' on there?" came Robern's gruff voice. "You building' a log cabin or somethin', Carlyn?" Floyd's wheezing laughter followed, the two of them clearly finding the situation more amusing than concerning.
Pinned to the wall and still silenced by Noven's hand, Carlyn stopped struggling for a tick as her expression darkened. Immortal gods above, how she did hate those imbeciles. Her attacker, on the other hand, couldn't give less of a shyke as he took advantage of her momentary lapse and withdrew one of his Tamo's.
"Answer them," Nov hissed, "or I cut your throat."
Carlyn glared daggers at him, but she made no move to object. Taking this as assent, the cook lowered his hand very slowly, though he kept her pinned to the wall and her hands as far away from her shortswords as possible. There was a moment of tense silence before the merc turned her head and shouted, "Why don't the two of you just fuck each other already? You've got the privacy now while I build my cabin."
There was a scoff of disbelief, followed by mutterings like "bitch" and "whore" before both of the guards seemed mollified. "There," Carlyn seethed, returning her gaze to her attacker's. "Now what? Wanna have a go, right here, right now?"
Noven's blank look was all he required to call her bluff. Then he raised his free hand, the motion taking no more than a split tick, and slammed it against the side of her head in the form of a closed fist, knocking her out clean. After that, he made sure to pull up her pants, redo the clasp of her belt clumsily, and then hoist her over one shoulder as he exited from the opposite end of the alleyway. The two other sellswords would come looking for her soon, but if there was any luck left in this gods forsaken city, they would be stopped by two incredibly distracting, pseudo whores.
He still didn't like the idea of Caela and Jade putting themselves directly in harm's way, but it was the best plan they had at the moment. And the Myrian was nearby somewhere too, presumably, ready to lend a hand if things went beyond their control. Meanwhile, his job was to deliver this body up through the secret, trap door to Isme's room and ensure Arlana was successful in her transformation. Then, and only then, would he be able to come back out to meet the others at the back end of Happy Endings.
Nov shifted the body higher up on his shoulder and continued stalking through the shadows. He surreptitiously avoided the crowded streets, choosing to pass through empty alleyways and refuse sites instead, until at last he was able to stop in front of the old, abandoned laundry room connected to Isme's trap door.
The thought of Mae's animated handiwork sent a slight twinge of pain through his mind, but Noven ignored it and focused on getting the body inside undamaged.
"Krysus," he swore as he carried the surprisingly heavy sellsword up the ladder, one rung at a time. The cook was panting by the seventh and he was starting to sweat. "This'd better work, Arlana, or I swear on Calyn's grave..."
