Solo A Conflict of Interests

[Ashanna]

A Conflict of Interests 10th of Summer 518 The skies were just starting to redden, a warm salmon hue spreading over the city. It was beautiful, soothing, gave everything a certain seductive light. The marble and brickwork of every building seemed curiously more intricate with every shadow sharpened. Arches and arabesques from bridges and their railings painted the waters with patterns. The water ebbed and flowed, a molten black with the occasional flashes of red reflecting off its surface. Looked like moving glass. Of course, from where she was, Ashanna could see none of this. The inside of the lusty little establishment had no windows. At least not on the main floor. It was discreet this way, after all, who’d want to be recognized by passersby while cheating on their lawful wives with another woman… or man. To reach the brothel you had to first come by boat to an unmarked, nondescript, door on an unmarked, nondescript wall. White on white, marred only by the moss that creeped its surface. If there was anything to distinguish it from any random building (other than its bareness), it would be the black doorknob, according to the owner it was obsidian, shaped into the likeness of a rose. Walk through the candle maker’s shop, and you’d reach the little gem in Ravok. Inside, Ashanna leaned back against the bar, the marble cool against her arms. She wore a corset borrowed from another one of the girls, and no matter how she laced it, it still pinched on her left side. The barkeep finished serving the man at the other end of the bar, saw her and made his way closer with a smile. “Same as always?” his tone was kindly. Ashanna had started working there a good six years back, with few exceptions she always ordered the same thing. Two parts amber alcohol, whatever was cheapest, one part milk or cream, swirled with half a blood orange, muddled. “You know me so well,” she smiled back. “Sweet Salome, I’m sure half of the city knows your drink order by now. At least the half that comes through here.” The girl cracked a feline smile. Salome. The name she’d given herself upon entering the city. A new start. Shed the past and begin fresh, she’d told herself. The drink, too, was a fabrication. Ashanna had never favored complicated drink mixtures. Too many flavors often overwhelmed her overly sensitive pallet. She preferred wine, crisp and as cold as possible. But Salome liked sweet and complicated drinks, so that’s what she drank in public. The bartender slid her glass over, then with a theatrical flick of his wrist sprinkled it with a brown powder. Ashanna could instantly smell the cinnamon and bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. Damn. This was her own fault. When she’d first arrived, Ashanna had made up the drink off the top of her head. The bartender loved it and thought to add his own signature along the way, a sprinkle of cinnamon. She had still been trying to endear herself to everyone and stupidly praised his artistic flair, which of course only led to this behavior continuing whenever he had a shift at the bar and they had cinnamon in stock. As if it weren’t enough that it was another flavor to the already extensive repertoire, but the idea of any powder sprinkled into her drink made Ashanna nauseous with paranoia. She gave him a smile in payment, all the whores were allowed on free drink per night. That of course was never enough for most, an additional incentive for them to get the clientele to buy them more drinks. There goes my free one….

[Ashanna]

With drink in hand, Ashanna left the bar and leisurely walked amongst the clientele and her various co-workers. A large man with a patchy beard guffawed abruptly as the red head on his lap spilled the wine she’d been pouring into his opened mouth. A lithe, young man with long, chocolate waves pulled back with a tie, stepped out from behind the curtains near the bar carrying a tray of glasses and covered only by a too-small vest and some sort of wrapped loincloth. Ashanna watched as he almost tripped on his own feet but steadied himself by grabbing onto the bar counter just in time. She hadn’t been the only one to catch his little lapse of grace either. A small turn on the head and Ashanna caught a glimpse of the barkeep’s frightened then relieved expression. The boy’s fresh, inexperienced face was a dead giveaway of what a beginner he truly was. Sweat lined his brow, surely a result of various anxieties blended together and topped with a cherry. What if he dropped something? What if he stepped on the wrong figurative (or literal) foot? What if someone propositioned him? Like any of the others working in the brothel, he’d have to oblige. But how? And then what, what if he did something wrong? Ashanna wrinkled her brow at the boy. There was a learning curve. He’d get pass it eventually. Not her problem. To the other side of room, a woman with dark ebony skin began playing some type of small stringed instrument. Ashanna recognized her, a bard that had begun to come in on occasion. She had yet to see the woman take the company of any of the establishment’s workers, she didn’t buy drinks at the bar either. She just played her songs and accepted whenever one of the patrons handed her a tip, though any advances they made were only met with a silent smile a, calm shake of the head and she’d smoothly turn her slender body and saunter off, never once pausing her melody. It occurred to Ashanna that she’d never heard the woman’s voice. At least she couldn’t think of a time when she had. If the kelvic closed her eyes and focused she could tell who any of the men and woman who worked at the brothel were by the sound of their voices. So many distinct differences. But this one remained a secret to her. And for how long? Someone was walking in that direction. That very specific spot. A drink in one hand and a glass of ice in the other. He sat down at that corner table as she watched in the corner of her eye. Quickly, he downed his drink. Then, setting the glass down, he took two pieces of ice from one glass and put them in the now emptied glass and slid the glasses to the center of the table. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small piece of paper and wedged it between the glasses. Then, abruptly he stood up and left. A job!

[Ashanna]

With her free hand, Ashanna grabbed the skirts of her dress and made her way to the table. There was a tall potted plant between her and the table and with a glance up to the bar just to double check if the bartender was busy, the girl tipped her glass into the pot’s contents. Too bad. So sad. With her now empty glass, Ashanna finally reached the table. It was always a little nerve-racking, knowing that at any time someone could go to the same table and take the little note. Her little note. But it hadn’t happened yet. Not in some six odd years. There had been a few close calls in the past. Mostly earlier on, when she was still getting used to the protocol for contacting her. Erica, her friend and, now, her handler as well, had set up the directives. She masked as one of the bawds and when Erica had a job for her, she would send contact through a proxy. Always a different person, in six years she had not seen the same face twice delivering the small folded paper. It was risky but it required Ashanna to always be on the lookout which suited her fine. Contact was always made at night, when she felt most at ease and most alert. Besides, patrons rarely sat at tables that still held debris and the harlots never did. It was Ravok, after all, there were standards. But, of course, there was always a chance one of the staff would come to clean it up before she got to it. And yet, like time and time again, there she was, setting her glass down and swiping the little note. She slipped it into her corset. Then, after a bit of small talk here and there, she retreated to her room.

[Ashanna]

Through the velvet curtains and up the stairs, Ashanna smiled as she passed what seemed to be a very satisfied client on his way out. His collar had multiple sweat stains that had dried into the fabric, a watercolor of only yellows and browns. As he neared her, the man pressed his body against hers. “Nuxt tam, Ah’ll com back and see yoh.” She felt his hand grabbing her leg and moving up her thigh. He reeked of alcohol his eyes wouldn’t focus on any single spot for more than a second. With some ease, Ashanna took his roaming hand and unleashed her leg before he’s gone far enough north to feel her dagger… or anything else. “Next time, then.” And soon she was up the stairs, down the hall and in her room. It was cramped, not like the other rooms upstairs. This was not a room for entertaining the clients. This was a room initially intended for the maid or slave attendant of that floor, or maybe it had been a storage room? Slipping in and locking the door behind her, Ashanna pulled out the message and read: Carmello Van Hurrin, herbalist, northshore -10days The bottom of the note had a large blue stain. Blue, not green, not red. Blue was passive. Reconnaissance. Not her favorite, no way to finish early. No point in waiting. Quickly Ashanna grabbed her bag from beneath the bed, it’s black leather worn out to grey at the corners and openings. In it, she threw a few things that might come in handy along the way. A few blades, a set of lockpicks, a spare set of clothing and a few other potential necessities. She really disliked the idea of being caught unawares or unprepared and tended to over pack because of this. She dressed herself in all black, braided her hair and pinned it tight in a bun against the nape of her neck. The kelvic slung her bag over her shoulder and walked over to the window. Peering out, she scanned the area. It was quite late already, but to Ashanna, it felt like midday. For the first time in as far as she could remember she was starting to feel well rested. From the moment Ashanna came into the world, she’d been a slave. As soon as she was old enough to be molested and abused, there was some twisted soul ready and waiting. She’d always been physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. Since arriving at Ravok, Ashanna had started feeling the blood running in her veins with more gusto than before. Her new profession and the taste of freedom, had allowed the girl’s sleep patterns to align better with what came natural to her. She often slept for the majority of the day, only to wake as the sun was setting. Nocturnal, through and through. Her heart was quickly growing fonder of the city. And while Ashanna may never have been a devout in the past, she was beginning to wonder if she’d simply never found the right god to worship. Here in this city of darkness and intrigue she felt safe. Safe in the shadows where she felt most at home. Here she was protected. Yes, she still had to conceal her true nature. Slavery could be in her future here as well if she were to flaunt what she really was. But there was something about Ravok. Though she couldn’t pinpoint it just yet, she could feel it underneath her skin.

[Ashanna]

Focusing on her task, Ashanna closed her eyes and listened. Was there the sound of a ravosala’s hull hitting the water nearby? None so near to be a threat. And what of talking? Or the shuffling of feet on docks outside? No, just those coming from the rooms she shared a wall with and the floor below. The girls sounded busy downstairs. The music had gotten louder with the apparent addition of someone’s deep bellowing voice, and Ashanna could make out the clacks and clops of heeled boots hitting the marble floors in rhythm. They’re dancing… great. She’d noticed it was much too busy a night to try to slip out through her usual exit route: through the hall, down the stairs, into the kitchens and out the back entrance where they brought in large crates and barrels of alcohol, a few types of smoking weeds, dragon’s blood incense, and various other supposed methods of getting clients more prepared to loosen their purse strings for the selection of flesh. Once she’d gone past the stairs it was smooth sailing. No matter how many guests were at the establishment at any given time, there was always only one cook. Szafirah was an eypharian and a slave in the brothel. When Ashanna first met the woman she instantly hated her. For no particular reason, she had to admit, other than the resentment she bore her former master, a wealth eypharian noble with a taste for torture and blackmail. Soon Ashanna’s hatred melted away, for the cook was nothing like Farrick or any of his ilk. She was humble, quiet, and as much as she may have hated being a slave anywhere, she’d once commented to Ashanna how much better it was being a slave in a kitchen than it was on a fishing boat. The kelvic tried not asking too many questions of her, she was missing an entire arm on her right side. On the left, her uppermost arm was cut off at the elbow, and she was also missing a hand. Clearly the woman had lived a difficult life. Now, she was in charge of the kitchens and everything that went through them. She performed the same function as Jacob, the bartender, for behind the kitchen door. Except of course, that she took orders from him… and, while she may’ve been more difficult to seduce, she was much more easy to bribe. It was known amongst the girls that should they need to slip out, a few coins in Szafirah’s pocket could get her to turn a blind eye. The eypharian certainly would not help, defend or conspire with any of the girls on any escape plan. She was too wary, too afraid of potential loss of limb. But mizas were not so easy to come by as a slave and so, with lips locked, Szafirah had accumulated enough for the occasional treat or necessary purchase. Ashanna figured it was learning that little well-known secret, that made her like the eypharian so much now. And clearly it was working for her as every time a girl would slip out, she’d return. Even the slaves. Though, truthfully there were places much worse for slaves in Mizahar. Hell there are much worse places for slaves in Ravok. Tonight however, the kitchens were not an option. From the halls, she could hear too much movement going in and out of the rooms, doors opening and closing, giggling and lustful declarations of love thrown around as loosely as the alcohol was poured downstairs.