1
Wives and Whores
“Stop weeping, you useless cow,” Grishom said.
Tysha looked up at her husband. His scowl deepened the lines of his age-weathered face. She sniffed, struggling to reign in her flailing emotions before he checked her with more than harsh words.
“Remember what I told you. After today, you’ve no home left to run back to. So be smart for once in your miserable life and make certain to impress the whoremaster.”
Whoremaster.
Her blood ran cold. Five years of marriage and Tysha was about to live her greatest nightmare. For what? To settle the debts of her husband. The drinking on its own hadn’t been enough. No. It was the gambling. Old as he was, Grishom Hearthstone hadn’t yet learned the art of moderation.
“Grishom, please! Don’t do this.” Tysha’s voice cracked on another sob. “There must be another way. Any other way!”
For a moment, Grishom’s face softened. His look of pity was so foreign that Tysha actually stopped breathing. Was he considering her plea? She swallowed hard against the dry lump in her throat.
“I swear to you this much, wife, if there were any other way, I would have taken it.”
Tysha’s shoulders fell as a bit of air escaped her strained lungs. Grishom had never wasted tender words on her. She could almost believe them.
His expression hardened as quickly as it had thawed. “But there isn’t, so stop making this difficult for the both of us.”
Tysha shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around her rapidly changing circumstances. They had walked all day and into the evening to make it here, Mord Quarry, a mining town at the foot of the Crookspine Mountain Range. The quarry had three things in abundance: stone, rats, and miserable souls. The stink of dust and hardship cloyed the air, clinging to them as they drew nearer the whorehouse. Eyes to the ground, Tysha forced her feet to follow her husband. To run would earn her far worse than a simple beating.
The whorehouse was a two-story structure made from cut stone. It was a far richer material than a town of this economy warranted, and Tysha supposed the master could only afford it because of its proximity to the quarry. Conspicuous moaning drifted from an open-shuttered window that glowed with candlelight. Tysha’s face went hot with shame when she realized one of these windows would soon be hers. If she were lucky enough to have a window. Her knees buckled.
Grishom dragged her the last few feet and slammed his meaty fist upon the red-painted door. The deep thudding reminded Tysha of just how much strength that fist still possessed. The old ache in her hip flared to life, aggravated by the miles-long trek they had just undertaken. Grishom’s hold on her arm tightened, and Tysha suppressed a yelp as he shoved his face into hers.
“This is your last warning, wife. Dry your eyes. They’ll pay me far less for an unwilling woman.”
Tysha wiped at the tears lining her inflamed cheeks. She tried to imagine what a willing woman might look like. The image didn’t materialize.
The door cracked open with a groan to let hot firelight pour through. An elderly woman peered out. Her eyes locked on Grishom, and a practiced smile graced her rouge-smudged lips.
“You looking for company, stranger?” Her voice was low and sultry, far more pleasant than it should have been.
Tysha squinted to get a better look at the woman who answered the door, but on closer inspection, she wasn’t elderly after all. Her skin was too smooth, the color of her hair too rich. It was her eyes that had given the impression of age. They were weary. Cold.
“Take me to your master,” Grishom ordered. What few manners he possessed were never wasted on women.
The stranger’s eyes flashed with a hint of wickedness. “He’s not for sale, or did you have some other business in mind?”
Tysha held her breath, watching the stiff set of Grishom’s shoulders.
“I’m looking to strike a bargain. That is, assuming, he’s in need of fresh stock.”
Grishom’s hand tightened at Tysha’s upper arm as he shoved her forward. She fought the urge to wince at his crushing grip. The weight of the woman’s scrutiny slithered up and down. A chill crawled up Tysha’s spine. She had the distinct impression she was being assessed for value. Not like a horse. Horses cost far more. Tysha was more like a fattened hen, about to be taken to the chop. She slipped her fingers under the sleeve of her shabby dress and pinched at the skin on the back of her wrist. The row of crescent-shaped scabs grazed her fingertips.
“The master always has his eyes open for a good opportunity,” the woman said in a more serious tone. Her gaze slid back to Grishom. “Come with me and I’ll make you an introduction.”
Grishom thrust Tysha forward. They entered a large, open room with two hearths and cushioned divans spread across the wood-planked floor. The smell of cheap incense filled the room. Tysha stifled the urge to sneeze. It was early evening, apparently prime time for whoring. A dozen or so patrons lazed in the front room, each with a woman or two draped over their knees, quarry dust still covering their clothing. Some noticed her as she passed, and she pointedly avoided their gazes.
From the corner of her vision, Tysha scrutinized the brightly dressed women. Their hair and attire were attractive enough but, much like the one who had answered the door, they looked distinctly haggard, though it was obvious they were not elderly. Their necks were bent, as though they carried the weight of a hundred burdens upon their shoulders. They glanced at her as she passed. Empty, forlorn eyes stared back at her despite the thin smiles plastered across their faces.
At the back of the room they passed through a door leading to a narrow hall. There was a staircase to one side and another door at the very end. The only sounds Tysha made came from her shuffling feet as they drew her closer to her fate.
The woman paused at the back of the hallway and knocked at the closed door. Tysha’s thrumming pulse pounded in her ears.
“What?” a gruff, male voice called from the other side.
“Got a man here to see you, looking to trade flesh for coin.”
“Got enough boys,” the voice retorted.
“He’s brought a lady with him. Pretty thing, if a bit awkward.”
There was a moment of silence. Tysha held her breath so long her chest felt like collapsing in on itself.
“Come in, then.”
Her stomach plummeted to her toes. Their guide opened the door and Grishom dug a finger into her spine, urging her forward. The room was rank with acrid smoke and even darker than the windowless hallway. Water returned to Tysha’s eyes. Her lashes blinked to bat away whatever poison hung in the air. Her nostrils stung from it. The woman leading them walked to the corner of the room.
Through the haze, a man came into view, lounging on a pile of embroidered silk pillows. His dark hair was thinning, and his belly bulged over a silver-buckled belt. He dragged deeply on a leather hose before puffing a ring of smoke in their direction.
“Approach me,” the man said, leering at her.
Tysha responded, not to the command, but rather to the jab of Grishom’s finger. She skittered forward a few steps and stopped shy, just avoiding the ring of smoke.
With a grunt, the balding man rose to his feet. His large belly sagged even more heavily over the rim of his flare-bottomed trousers. He stretched his arms high over his head as though he hadn’t moved in some time. There was a slight tilt to his gait as he stalked near.