On Ephemera, the red light district was actually a blue light district. The traditional marker of a brothel, it seemed, was a lamp over the door which burned cool blue behind frosted glass; there were also paper lanterns strung on ropes across the entrances to Yrshith Street—or Cat Alley, as it was fondly called—with the same color illumination, and others here and there along its length. According to Gilder, those were a mark of a better establishment, one which could afford to contribute paper and asauthec to the public lights, and so the ends of these streamers were always anchored above the blue light over the door of the brothel which footed the bill.

I figured this had to cut down on violent incidents in this district; blue light is known to have a calming effect on humans, to the point that it’s used in public lighting by a lot of cities on modern Earth, with measurable decreases in crime and suicides wherever they’re put up. I was not willing to give the Fflyr credit for that level of sophistication. Most likely blue was just the easiest and cheapest color their primitive (no doubt khora-derived) chemistry could make a flame.

Nightfall in Gwyllthean found Aster and I fully disguised and approaching the city’s blue light district from its discreet rear access. This had necessitated renting an inn room (inside the walls for security’s sake) to store our things since carrying a change of clothes while doing what we’d come here to do wouldn’t be practical, but I told myself it would be worth the expense if my plans unfolded at all the way I hoped. Aster was now in a coat of the same general style as the nicer one I’d bought her from the inner ring tailor, but rattier and with the addition of a deep hood—plus, of course, a scarf which doubled as a mask. I was also hooded, though I had donned a full-on cloak—for dramatic effect. I’d put together a mask from long strips of fabric, with more wrapped around my hands (again, just for effect), and under the cloak another nondescript coat, plus a pair of scuffed leather boots because the shiny red ones I’d been wearing around were way too distinctive. All of it, on both of us, was in nondescript shades of gray and brown.

I had been surprised to learn that the artifact greatsword was easily disguised. I’d been worried about that, but as it turned out artifacts were very distinctive by design and we were far from the first people who’d wanted to make one harder to identify whilst engaging in subterfuge. It had been very easy to obtain the necessary bits and pieces to re-wrap its grip, attach plain bits of gray akornin to its crossbar and pommel to hide their fancy design, and even smear a substance over its vivid blue blade to obscure its inlay and change the color to a murky almost-black.

So we were still a man with an accent and a woman with a greatsword, obviously disguising their identities, but…well, there was only so much that could be done. I just hoped the two of us hadn’t made enough of an impression in the Gutters to be easily identified.

Yrshith Street sounded like a party, and it had looked like one too when we’d passed by the entrance, thronged with customers, little sidewalk stands hawking a variety of portable goods, and scantily clad brothel employees lingering around the entrances of their establishments to hawk very specific goods. The mostly jovial hubbub was audible all the way back where we were now, approaching from the rear. Apparently part of the reason this had become the brothel district was because it was sandwiched between two of the canals which gave the Gutters its name, so every building lining the street had its rear overlooking the waterfront. The grimy, stinking waterfront. There was a narrow walkway behind the brothels, reached by rickety-looking footbridges from the slum district across the canal which didn’t appear to have been part of the original architecture, and even a few small boats tied up. There were also blue lamps back here, though smaller ones left as afterthoughts rather than the assertive beacons out front. The Gwyllthean brothels did, it seemed, cater to people who wanted to enter and depart discreetly. Notably there were no women hanging out back here flashing the goods; the establishments which had somebody covering their rear doors had posted sinister-looking men with prominently-displayed weapons.

It was one of these which we approached first. According to my intelligence from Gilder, the Alley Cat was the crown jewel of Cat Alley, such an institution that he didn’t know which had been named for the other. It was three stories, taller than most of its competitors, and alone of those in line of sight displayed a blue lamp over its rear entrance as bright as the one on the front door; apparently out front there were no fewer than three strings of paper lanterns leading to its door from across the small square onto which it opened.

A man in a sleeveless vest which left his brawny arms exposed was leaning against the wall next to the door, an akorthist-studded club hanging from his belt, conspicuously cleaning his nails with a dagger way too large for that purpose. He studied the two of us pointedly at our approach, eyes narrowing as he fixed them on Aster and the wrapped greatsword handle protruding over her shoulder, but he apparently found no reason to challenge us, just nodding once as I stepped up to the door.

Opening it let a torrent of sound wash over us. The laughter and shouting I had expected, but what made me hesitate a step was the music. They were singing in there. Clearly not just a paid performer, despite the accompaniment of a guitar, and anyway not everyone participating could carry a tune, but it had to be most of those present joining in song. That wasn’t so unusual, except for the complexity of it. This miscellaneous gaggle of hookers and johns were carrying on two distinct melodies in perfect counterpoint, one of which had people singing in dedicated harmony, as well as a baseline of baritone and alto voices keeping the rhythm along with the stomping of feet, and at least three sopranos holding prolonged high notes above the rest. This was not a simple or easy musical form, and the local Gutter trash were handling it with the ease of long practice. Apparently just for fun.

Well, blow me down, there just might be something of value in this godforsaken country after all. I made a mental note to begin learning about Dountol folk music at the earliest opportunity. Even though the current piece on offer was about the sexual exploits of some woman named Sabrit and apparently an entire battalion of enemy soldiers.

Putting that aside, I stepped the rest of the way in, far enough to let Aster enter behind me and pull the door shut, and paused to take stock.

The rear door opened onto a foyer area from which an upward staircase and a hallway branched off; I was just in time to see two pairs of legs vanishing up the former, to the accompaniment of feminine giggling. It opened out into the main floor of the brothel, where a big public room contained tables around most of the floor and seating for couples along the walls, currently crowded with rowdy men and scarcely-dressed young women. There was clearly food and especially drink being served, though from this angle I couldn’t see where the kitchen stood.

Positioned right where it had a perfect vantage over the back entry hall and the main floor was a desk area recessed into the wall, with a bead curtain partially concealing it from the front. It was well designed for the occupant to keep an eye on everything at once without being too accessible from the main room, which was additionally a step lower from the hall so that the desk loomed over the public area from behind its fringe of beads.

The woman sitting there regarded Aster and I with a raised eyebrow, drawing in a languid drag from the long-stemmed pipe she was smoking. I couldn’t identify the substance being inhaled by its smell, though there was enough of it to form a visible haze near the ceiling. Sweet and subtly spicy, like everything the Fflyr seemed to like. Like the women out front, she was dressed in a distinctive kind of short robe of the style I’d seen noblewomen wearing, falling only to the knee and wide open at the neckline, with a length of ribbon wrapped around the waist. Unlike the noblewomen, the prostitutes had nothing on under theirs, showing off a lot of cleavage and leg, and the waistwrap was much wider and encircled their waists only a few times, no doubt for ease of access. This lady, too, appeared to be in her forties, with at least a decade of age on the other women I could see working the floor. Heavy cosmetics around her eyes didn’t quite conceal the dark circles underneath. I couldn’t see what manner of furniture she was perched upon, but it allowed her to lounge in a languorous position which showed off that she was bustier than seemed average for Fflyr women, and constantly on the perilous edge of spilling out of her overworked neckline.

“Well, good evening, stranger,” she said in a drawling purr that carried through the singing and stomping from out front, then somewhat spoiled the sultry effect by coughing. Her voice had a deep rasp to it which said she’d been at that pipe steadily for quite a few years. “The Cat welcomes all sorts. Just so you know, your ladyfriend there is welcome to drink, or to watch if you go to a room, but my girls don’t do women. This is a Goddess-fearing establishment,” she added with a deeply ironic smirk, followed by another short coughing fit. “And while we value your privacy, you will need to show your face before taking any girl to a room. I’ll not expect them to touch gobrot or worse.”

I stepped up to the desk, Aster shadowing me while the proprietess tried to eye me superciliously through another spell of coughing. So far, about what I’d expected. At least the place seemed clean.

“Have you ever seen smoked meat being cured?” I asked her. My voice was slightly muffled by my mask. Also, it was tricky to breathe through a layer of fabric, more so than I’d expected, but really it was just a minor nuisance. Only a feeble-minded wimp would complain of such a trifling imposition after the things I’d already been through.

The madame, or so I assumed her to be, smirked voluptuously at me. I wouldn’t have thought such a thing was possible, but that’s the only way I can think of to describe that expression. “Stranger, I have seen more meat than you can imagine.”

“Because that’s the process happening to your lungs right now. You really shouldn’t smoke that stuff. Or any stuff.”

She took another long, slow drag, and very pointedly blew it in a thin stream of smoke right into my face. Managing, I was impressed to see, to make even that look seductive, though I was too distracted to appreciate the effect by my effort not to give her the satisfaction of coughing.

She coughed, spoiling her own fun, but it didn’t stop her from drawling at me, “You’re a bold son, to step into a den of mortal pleasures and criticize its owner for her little pet vice.”

“I am,” I replied, holding up a hand. I did not speak, but just formed the word and the spell in my mind.

Heal.

Pink light flared around her. The woman straightened up and suddenly was sharp-eyed and holding a wicked-looking stiletto, which was a lot more impressive than all her seductive posturing because I legitimately couldn’t conceive of where she’d been keeping it.

“Listen here, mister, you don’t come into my place and begin flinging magic at…”

She trailed off, eyes going wide. I saw her hands instinctively twitch and then stop, as she wanted to touch her throat but had a pipe in one hand and a knife in the other. It was an understandable reflex; in the aftermath of the Heal, the woman spoke in a rich alto which sounded to me like that of a trained singer, with no trace at all of the smoker’s rasp.

The madame’s shoulders and chest moved as she inhaled slowly and deeply, then breathed out, and back in again, her expression growing more and more shocked as she breathed without difficulty for what I suspected was the first time in years. Her eyes remained fixed on me the whole time; I had deliberately arranged my hood and mask such that my face was in too much shadow for any of my features to be visible, unless someone were to shine a light straight into the hood. The woman stared, though, trying to work out who and what I was as she came to grips with what I’d done.

“I didn’t ask for that,” she finally said, her voice curt.

I nodded, just enough to make the motion visible even with my head covered. “Bold is the least of what I’ve been called.”

“Magic like that… If this is some kind of extortion, you will leave disappointed. I can’t pay for what that kind of healing costs. It’s more than my whole establishment is worth. I know; I’ve checked,” she added bitterly.

I shook my head once. “The price has been paid.”

The madame narrowed her eyes to slits.

“What do you want here?”

“To heal,” I said. “Show me any of your employees who need it.”

“And what will that cost?”

“The price has been paid.”

“By whom?”

I stared at her in silence until she sighed softly through her nose, realizing she wasn’t going to get an actual answer.

I was fairly proud of this gambit. I knew going in that people on the lowest rungs of the social ladder would be as suspicious of a free handout as they were desperate for help; without a doubt everyone who came here offering anything was only looking to exploit them. Not that I was any better, but I did need to bypass that defensiveness. My little slogan, the price has been paid, was my gimmick to get around this. It settled the question and raised more questions while simultaneously evading them, conjuring up mystery and intrigue around my appearance here.

I needed them curious first. And then…the next step. This would take time.

The brothel’s owner had at least made her stiletto disappear as deftly as she had produced it, and now drummed her painted nails on the desk. She glanced aside at the boisterous common room, where the last refrain of Sabrit’s adventure was just ending to laughter and cheers, wearing a frown of thought which looked a lot more genuine than her previously sultry expressions.

“I know when someone is up to something,” she said finally, returning her stare to the darkness under my hood. “A woman doesn’t prosper in the Gutters without being able to recognize that.”

I didn’t bother to defend myself, or answer at all, just regarding her in silence as she visibly decided that what I was offering was worth the risk of trusting a creepy stranger with mysterious powers.

“I don’t know what other kind of magic you have, but mark me: if you harm any of my girls, I’ll make sure you suffer for it.”

“No one will be harmed unless they offer me harm first. I am only here to heal. The price—”

“Has been paid, yes, you mentioned that.” She rose from her seat, the motion smooth and back to expressing over-the-top sensuality; I suspected that was a habit to which she defaulted whenever she wasn’t actively shocked out of it. “Talilyn! Mind the desk.”

A younger woman, no more than twenty-five, popped around the corner wearing the obligatory short robe, a flirtatious smile, and nothing else. She gave Aster and I a cursory glance that said we were an odd sight but she’d seen worse, then spoke to the madame in a pointed tone which suggested her sweet expression was as much as mask as the fabric around my face.

“Sure thing, Miss Minifrit. Are you okay? You sound…”

Miss Minifrit lightly tapped Talilyn’s nose with her pipe, somehow not spilling embers on her. “Later, girl. Cover till I come back.”

“Of course.”

They swapped places smoothly. Standing, Minifrit was a head shorter than I, but carried herself with a straight back and the lifted chin of a woman accustomed to being in control of her own place. I hadn’t seen anyone but brown-skinned and black-haired lowborn since arriving in Yrshith Street, and she was no exception, but the madame projected more of a presence than some of the highborn I’d met, and most of the people I’d seen in and outside the King’s Guild.

She deftly gathered myself and Aster with one gesture of her long pipe, turned, and proceeded down the hall with me dutifully following, Aster silently bringing up the rear. Minifrit walked with a distracting sway which seemed downright gratuitous, but was hard not to watch. I managed, though, keeping my eyes on a level to observe the back of her head and more importantly the movement of her hands. Not that I objected to the sight, but I was keenly aware of the prospect that she (and indeed most of the people in this district) was likely to try to pull something sneaky on me. Distraction was dangerous, and falling for an obviously deliberate distraction doubly so, even if it was something she probably only did out of habit.

We were led through another bead curtain marking off part of the hall, in front of which stood another man with a cudgel. He eyed us narrowly but did nothing else, Minifrit’s presence evidently being all the passport we needed. Past the beads, the hall made a turn, and we continued on past a doorway into a hot, busy kitchen. Back here there were other girls in skimpy dress coming and going; they gave Aster and I curious looks, but knew better than to interfere with whatever the madame chose to do. Down we went, to the very end of the back hall.

There, Minifrit stopped before a closed door, turning a sharp look on me.

“If you want to heal,” she said quietly, “this is the place to start.” With that ominous pronouncement, she turned the latch, shoved the door open, and stepped inside. “Shut it after you.”

We followed, Aster obeying; the soft click of the latch closed us off from the hall, and left the room beyond rather cramped with the five people now in it. There were two young women present before we arrived, one of whom had stood up from her seat by the bedside with an alarmed expression; she wore one of those skimpy robes like the rest of the girls out front, but had a kind of shawl on over it which concealed most of the skin it would display and suggested she wasn’t working tonight.

The other woman already in the room lay on its sole bed, covered up to her neck with a single sheet. Her face…was almost unrecognizable. There were two distinct splits in her swollen lips, which looked as if they had only recently stopped bleeding. Indeed, the basin of water on the bedstand was alarmingly pink, as was the cloth sitting in it. One eye was so badly bruised it looked as if her skull around the socket had been broken. Her nose was definitely broken. The short, soft rasps of her labored breathing filled the room painfully.

I sucked in a short breath myself, frozen in place. The girl was so badly beaten I honestly couldn’t be sure, but she appeared to be no more than a teenager.

“Miss Minifrit?” the young woman who’d been tending to the injured girl asked, her tone full of wariness. “Who’s this?”

Minifrit held out her hand in a limp-wristed gesture that somehow managed to be commanding, silencing the questions. The madame herself was staring at me closely with an analytical expression.

It didn’t suit the Healer persona I was trying to put on, but as usual when I was shocked off my equilibrium, I instinctively took refuge in snark.

“And did the one who did this suffer for it?”

The other woman’s face crumpled into a scowl and she actually took a step toward me, stopping only at another gesture from Minifrit. The madame herself reacted the opposite way, her expression going drawn and bitter.

“I don’t suffer my girls to be mistreated,” she said in a biting tone. “But if the world could ever be so sweet and simple, none of them would have fallen into this life in the first place. Most johns who dared do half of this would leave unconscious, head-first into the canal, and never be welcomed back even if somebody bothered to fish them out still breathing. But, this is the Gutters, and there are people to whom even I cannot afford to say no.”

I shifted my cowl to look at her, the fabric obscuring my view of the injured girl. I could still hear her labored breathing; it sounded like she could barely expand her lungs.

“People like Lady Gray.”

“Oh, that one would make a show of sympathy to a working girl’s life,” Minifirt said with a mocking laugh that contained zero humor. “Out loud, and meaning not a word of it. Then again, she’s no worse than some of the other matrons on this street. It’s the men under her whom I have to deal with, the ones using her authority in the knowledge that I can’t exactly walk into their mistress’s lair and register a complaint. The kind of swine who gets off on doing this to a girl,” she gestured with her pipe at the bedridden prostitute, “is also exactly the kind who loves nothing more than being able to impose himself where he’s not welcome or wanted. Petty little creatures, permanently dissatisfied with their lot in life, and too stupid to cope with it any way other than by making someone else’s lot even worse. They are…a perennial problem.”

She turned to face me directly, her stare a challenge.

“But to answer your question, healer… It is not so simple, or so easy, to deal with such a man. That doesn’t mean I can’t. Just that it takes…time, and some doing.”

I didn’t bother to answer the implied warning, instead stepping forward to the bedside. Instinct wanted me to put myself anywhere but here, but I’d come here for strategic purposes, and found myself compelled to act by something deeper and more important.

“Wait, did you say healer?” the other girl asked. “Can he—”

Heal.

The flare of pink light cut her off. It was far more intense than usual—blinding in the cramped room, such that both women shied back from the bed and I had to shut my eyes against it. Apparently the spell had a lot more work to do than I’d ever given it before.

But work it did. With a deep gasp, the young woman sat bolt upright in bed. I immediately shifted my head away at the revelation she had nothing on under that sheet, only seeing enough to verify that every injury had been washed away from her face… And that she was, indeed, barely Yoshi’s age. If that.

My god in heaven. I knew teenage prostitution wasn’t anything new; it even happens in modern Japan, though “compensated dating” in one of the world’s safest, cleanest, and least violent nations isn’t even in the same ballpark as what I was seeing here. Every new day brought me another reason to raze Fflyr Dlemathlys to its foundations and salt the earth. Was this how Virya convinced ordinary people from the modern world to embrace the mantle of Dark Lord and start conquering and pillaging? Just dump them in the shittiest place she could find with an overpowered set of magical skills and let nature take its course? Because if that was the plan, as much as I hated her, so help me it was working.

“Kastrin,” Minifrit said, gliding swiftly to the bedside and pulling the sheet up over the girl’s chest, to my relief. “How do you feel?”

“I…I’m…” Wonderingly, she reached up to touch her own face. “Fine? I feel…really good, actually. Miss Minifrit, your voice! What’s happening? Wait, who is this?”

Minifrit looked up at me, speculation naked on her features. “This is the Blessed who healed you, Kastrin.”

“And who paid for that?” the recently-injured girl demanded.

“The price has been paid,” I intoned. Miss Minifrit pursed her lips at me, but the other two girls tilted their heads to one side in almost comedic unison.

“But…who are you?” Kastrin asked.

“A healer.”

Minifrit straightened up, keeping one hand protectively upon Kastrin’s shoulder, now that the girl herself was holding up the sheet.

“I still don’t know what it is you’re actually up to, stranger,” the madame said, pointing at me with her pipe. It appeared to have gone out at some point. “But if this is what you are willing to do for my girls… Nightlady take me, I will risk it.”

“Good.” I just inclined my head once. After what I’d just seen I felt sick in a way that went well past the queasiness I felt at the evidence of brutality in this room. But I’d come here for a purpose, and it was far too late to back out. “Then who is next?”