On Sixday morning, Tom dreamt about his comrades. This time, it wasn't a nightmare. Instead, he was sitting around a fire with them, all of them drinking ale. He looked around, feeling sad.
“I'm sorry you died,” he told them.
“It happens,” Kurt answered. “Good job surviving.”
“I had help.”
“Yeah, that Sheema is a babe!” Julio put in. “You should totally hunt her down and bed her.”
“Nah, Varga's better,” Nictal opined.
Michael snorted. “Diavla's in love with him. And she's throwing herself at him. Tom, when the gods give you a gift, don't drop it.”
“How about that Miranda, though?” Vlad offered. “She's more my type.”
“Why choose?” Julio answered. “He should bed them all!”
“Tom,” Kurt called. When Tom focused on him, the former knight gave a nod of approval, and something loosened in Tom's chest. “Thanks for getting four more of the bastards with my dagger.”
“You're welcome…” Tom trailed off.
“I can still hear the ‘sir’, you know.” Tom actually smiled at that.
Bob and Pete didn't say anything; Tom had barely exchanged any words with them while they were alive, and they were faint and blurry to his dream sight.
“Tom, don't drag yourself down being sad for us,” Vlad urged. “You're the only one of us left alive; you're the only one with time, so don't waste it.”
“If you want to honor us, go have all the fun we'll miss.”
“Yeah, bed all the women you can,” Julio advised. “I'm not there, so you'll have to make up for the lack with the poor, deprived ladies.” The others hooted in derision at him. “Well, he's got a great chance to get started right—”
“Julio!” Kurt snapped, and the other man fell silent. “Nothing he doesn't know already! You know the rules.”
The men all started to fade into mist. “Looks like time's up.”
“Nice going, Julio,” Vlad grumbled.
“Thanks for the drink, Tom!” Michael called.
“Hear, hear!”
The dream was fading fast, but Tom caught a faint sound on the wind: Mr. Whistler's voice. “Tom…tell my wife I love her…”
“I will, Mr. Whistler,” Tom promised, just as he started to wake up.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
Tom opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Thanks, guys. He wiped away tears and took a shuddering breath. They all lost the rest of their lives. Everything they were ever going to do, and have, and love.
Maybe I should live a life full of enough joy for eight men, to balance the scales.
Tom felt both warm and cold. The air was chilly, but under the blanket was toasty, especially with—Tom started slightly, and looked to his side, where Diavla was curled up against him, snoring gently. His heart stuttered. It happened again.
The first time, Tom had been awake when she wandered in, that night at the Carvers' house. Diavla had completely ignored everything he said, and simply climbed into bed with him, lay across his chest and went still, apparently sleeping deeply. She had refused to wake even when he shook her a couple of times. Finally, Tom had just accepted her presence, though it took him a long time to calm down enough to get back to sleep. He had woken up before her, managed to get her off of him and get out of bed without waking her, and gone to breakfast.
Now, here she was again, in his bed. He felt aghast, but at the same time…it was a really nice feeling. She fit very comfortably in his arms. He liked the sensation of her draped across his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. Maybe this is what she wants when her soul is asleep. The way his arm was curled around her protectively, Tom knew that his body felt the same. It was a sweet and romantic feeling.
Then Tom continued waking up, and started thinking about how he had a mostly naked woman in his bed. His body reacted nigh instantly. He was intensely aware of his hand on her hip, and how if he moved it just a little he would be able to feel the curve of her bottom. For a minute, he had to hold his breath from the effort required not to move his hand. He ground his teeth in frustration a moment, then forced himself to relax his jaw a little.
How did she get in here?
Tom had seen a play once in Peter's Crossing, a comedy in which a character kept doing this. They called it ‘sleepwalking’ in the performance, and used it over and over to produce increasingly silly situations. Half the comedy wouldn't have happened if any of the characters had had the sense to lock their doors.
But I did lock my door. Tom was sure of it. Then he remembered. I gave Diavla my spare key. Can a sleepwalker do things like unlocking doors? Tom's soul raced, until he thought of a simpler explanation. Maybe I just forgot to lock my door again when I came back from the necessary. I must have gotten up at least once and I don't particularly remember doing so.
Tom squeezed his eyes shut and winced slightly. He hadn't drunk nearly enough to get a real hangover, but he was aware of a mild headache. He needed to drink some water. Diavla will likely have it worse, judging from past experience.
He knew that he should hurry up and sneak out of bed, the way he had the first time this had happened. But for several moments he just lay there, imagining how it would feel to kiss her, to slide his hands over her, to roll over on top of her…
That is not helping. For a few more breaths he lay there, warring with his instincts. Then Tom started trying to extricate himself from her embrace without waking her. He got about halfway free, but then Diavla gave a little moan and hugged him tighter. Her leg pushed against his crotch and he froze. There was nothing for it.
“Diavla,” he whispered. “Diavla, wake up. Good morning, Diavla.” She gave a groan of complaint, but didn't open her eyes or otherwise react. Tom looked down at the splayed mess of her long black hair, and sighed.
“You are so beautiful, and so smart,” he whispered. “And maddening. And I want you, badly. I can barely stand it.”
Diavla stirred, and turned her face up towards his. Tom swallowed. If she kisses me now, I don't think I'll be able to resist her. Diavla's eyes opened and she smiled.
She blinked, and froze, losing her smile.
Then she jerked herself up on one arm. She swore in Elvish. Tom held up his hands in surrender. I didn't do anything.
“Saa! Saa, Tom! What did I do? Did I—?” She sat up the rest of the way and flipped the blanket off in an apparent panic, exposing them both to the chilly air. She looked at her own body, and his. They both wore only their lower underclothes. She appeared to be relieved to see that they weren't both totally naked, he guessed.
Diavla's breasts were tantalizingly close to being exposed, just her long hair covering her chest. Then she reached up and swept her hair back over her shoulders, revealing her body fully. She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, probably feeling a hangover. She didn't appear to notice that she was on display.
Tom swallowed, admiring. His eyes traced the gentle swells and curves, drinking in the sight. He ached for her.
Belatedly, he pulled his gaze up to her face, to find her motionless, staring at the bulge in his underclothes. Tom grabbed the blanket and quickly yanked it back over his waist. He felt embarrassed, but knew he had no right to complain because he had been staring, too. Diavla still didn't move her gaze until he cleared his throat, apparently breaking whatever spell her soul was under.
“Saa. Yes. I hide,” she reminded herself, lifting one arm to cover her breasts. Now she looked embarrassed. “Tom, I (something something).”
“You what?”
“I sleep and go (something). Two nights.”
“Again. You sleepwalk.”
“Sleepwalk.”
“You sleepwalked again. Again is two times. Um…again is ‘and one.’ ”
“Again. Again. Tom, why you no…?” She mimed turning a key.
“I did!”
Diavla stared at him a moment. “You did? …I get key? I sleepwalk and get key?”
“I think so…?”
Diavla stood up. “I am sorry, Tom. You say no do, I no do. I sleep, and I do. I go now.” She moved to the door, then paused and looked back at him for a long moment. She sighed. “You are very beautiful, Tom.”
Tom coughed. “Handsome. Man is handsome, woman is beautiful. You are very beautiful, Diavla.”
“You are very handsome, Tom. I very like.”
Tom followed her gaze. “Um, Diavla…face is handsome. Body is…um…sexy.” He wanted to clear his throat again.
“Saa. You are handsome.” She pointed at his face. Then she gestured at the rest of him. “You are very sexy.”
“You are very beautiful, Diavla. And very, very sexy.” Tom paused, then buried his face in the blanket. “But please go now.”
“Yes. Yes. I go. Yes.” Then there was silence. He looked up when he didn't hear her leave, and she was still standing and looking at him. Her mouth worked a moment before she spoke. “Maybe I kiss—“
“Go.” Tom put a bit more determination and annoyance into his tone.
“Yes, Tom.” Diavla actually bumped into the edge of the door frame on her way out. It was all the more startling because Tom didn't remember ever before seeing Diavla be anything but graceful. She must still be drunk. Finally, the door closed behind her. Tom fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
I might be the biggest fool in the world. If I don't settle down and focus, I'm going to cave pretty soon. When I'm looking at her, it's hard to remember that bedding her is a bad idea because of the situation we're in. Really hard.
Tom thought about Diavla's body, recalling how her ribs were no longer so prominent. She looked healthier, which was all the more appealing. Gods above and below, that woman is even sexier than before.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
When he opened the door to his room, the door to the mens' room opened as well, as if waiting for his signal. The light was dim from the single window at the end of the hall. Kervan came out first.
Tom nodded. “Good morning. Ah, good morning.” It still wasn't automatic to speak in Elvish, and probably wouldn't be for a long time yet, he guessed.
“Good morning, Tom. We stay here, tonight?” Kervan asked in Western.
“Yes.”
“Packs stay?”
“Ah. Yes.” He was asking whether to bring everything, or if they could leave belongings behind in the rooms while they went out.
“Good. Thank you.”
“We go, food?” Orvan asked. He's getting the most important words, I guess.
“Yes.”
The door to the room across from his opened, and Diavla and Varga came out. Tom felt himself redden and his heart quickened just to look at them.
“Unnngh. Good morning, Tom,” Diavla groaned, one hand to her head. The hangover is hitting her harder now. She got pretty drunk last night. I wonder if that contributed to her… Tom desperately tried to think of something else.
“Water and bread help,” he told her. “We go.”
“Yes, please.”
“Good morning, Tom,” Varga said cheerily. “Did you sleep (something)?”
Is she teasing me? Tom got tongue-tied and simply led the way to the stairs. Everyone locked the rooms and followed.
The Floating Duck was closed in the morning, so they started walking up the street. Tom figured they would find a place offering food soon enough, and he was right. On the next block, there was a stand selling bowls of porridge from a big pot. He got in line and the elves followed. They received a lot of stares.
When he got to the stand he asked, “how much for a breakfast?”
“Twenty copper.” Tom's eyes widened. That was a bit steep for simple fare. The woman quickly added, “you get ten copper back if you return the bowl and spoon.”
“Ah, I get it. Five breakfasts, please.” He handed over a silver.
“Coming right up.”
There were half a dozen benches set out, but they were fully occupied. At least as many people stood around the periphery eating. Tom led them to a free section of wall to lean against.
They all ate quickly except for Orvan, who seemed determined to critique every food he encountered on the human continent. Various people made conversation with Tom during breakfast. A lot of them were ordinary laborers curious about the strangers.
“Are you supervising these elves?” one man asked.
“Yes,” Tom answered, keeping things simple.
“Who's the owner?”
“I am, actually,” Tom told him around a mouthful of food.
“Begging your pardon, but you don't look rich enough to own…four slaves.”
“'m not used to it myself, yet.”
“Where'd you get 'em?”
“Killed some bandits. They were the loot.”
“Where'd bandits get slaves?”
Tom shrugged. “They must have killed somebody for 'em. Mine now. Lawyer even said so.”
“You lucky dog.”
“I am.” Tom grinned.
“How much are you going to rent them for?”
“Pardon?”
“Day labor. How much to hire them?”
“Huh.” Tom chewed a moment and swallowed. “Dunno yet. What's fair?”
The man paused a moment. “I'd ask a silver a day for unskilled workers. Less if they don't know the language.” That matched what Tom had heard from Edge.
“Mm. They don't, but they're learning quickly. You hiring?”
“Not me. My boss might. We've got more work than we can handle at the moment. Brix Waters, North City docks. If you go there, ask him for a silver ten, and let him talk you down.”
“Thanks! I might do that. I'm still getting them set up with clothes and stuff.”
“Millie's Mending is good for cheap work clothes. Two blocks that way.”
“Yeah? Thanks, again…”
“Chase Dockhand. No problem, Mr….?”
“Tom Walker. Call me Tom, I haven't had time to get snobby yet.”
Chase laughed. “Take your time about it. Good luck with them.” He got up to return his bowl.
“Thanks! Best to you.”
Tom ended up getting another three bowls: one for himself and two for the four elves. They seemed to be eating a meal and a half at a time, which made sense. They had all looked a bit gaunt when Tom had found them, and they were all still thin, but less painfully so. Happy to help them get back to full health. Especially if I get to stuff Diavla full of beet cookies.
Once they had finished eating, Tom debated leading them to Millie's Mending, but remembered his promise to Vanity Taylor. He dithered for a moment, unsure in what order to perform the day's tasks, then realized that making the elves presentable should be a priority. Diavla and Varga looked great in their dresses, which had dried overnight, but they couldn't wear them all the time. Plus, Diavla was getting downright distracting the way she filled out the blue one… Tom yanked his gaze away from her figure yet again, and found her smiling at him, eyebrows raised.
“Sorry.”
“No sorry. I like.” Diavla walked past him, taking a deep, attention-getting breath as she did so. Varga grinned and strutted past him as well, swinging her hips.
Gods, these women will drive me mad.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
Whistler's Fabric Emporium was bedecked in swaths of black cloth. There was a note Tom couldn't read on the front. He led the curious elves around to the side door and knocked. It was a couple of minutes before Vanity opened the door.
“Mr. Walker.”
“Hello, Miss Taylor.”
“What…? Who…?” Vanity was staring at the elves. She clearly recognized the clothing she had sold him. “What in the world?”
“They were part of the caravan.”
“You said nobody else survived!”
“They were in a cage the whole time. They weren't merchants or guards or bandits. I didn't want to overcomplicate the explanation.”
Vanity scowled for a few moments. “Slaves, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Didn't take you for a slaver.”
That stung. “I'm not. I'm just taking care of them. They need food and clothing and stuff.”
Diavla was looking back and forth between them, and spoke up. “Miss Taylor, Tom is good man. He help us.”
“Hm.”
Diavla persisted. “I am very sorry you man die.”
That got a reluctant “Thank you,” out of Vanity.
There was a pause. “We…get clothes?” Diavla asked.
“I did promise to buy here, but you're busy, so we can go elsewhere, of course,” Tom added hurriedly.
“Vanity? Who is it?” the widow, Mrs. Whistler called from inside.
“Mr. Walker and his…people,” Vanity called back.
“Who?” Francesca Whistler came to the door, and recognized Tom at once. “Mr. Walker, please come in.”
“Thank you, ma'am.”
They all filed into the sewing room. Mrs. Whistler gave the elves a look of curiosity, then focused on him again.
“We have unfinished business, do we not, Mr. Walker?”
Tom thought back. “Ah, yes, ma'am. We used up some cloth I need to pay for.”
“Hm. There is that. Vanity, fetch my coin purse.”
“Yes, ma'am.” The assistant tailor scurried up the stairs to the second floor.
“And who are these people I see wearing my husband's work?”
“Ah, Francesca Whistler, may I present Diavla, Orvan, Kervan, and Varga of…Kilder Vald,” Tom finished, hoping he was getting the pronunciation right.
“Were they…in the caravan…?” Mrs. Whistler stared at them for a moment. “They were cargo, weren't they?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“My husband traveled with slavers?” She sounded disappointed.
“They kept the wagon covered. Most of us didn't know, including him,” Tom said to defend Mr. Whistler. “It was only for two days. We would have found out, eventually.”
“Do you have the entire caravan, Mr. Walker?”
“Well…we brought it all to town. Some of it was paid for, and we delivered those. The rest we're selling to get funds to take care of the elves.”
Mrs. Whistler regarded them. “ ‘We’, meaning just you and the elves?” She nodded. “I suppose they must be very much lost at sea…I know a little about how that feels,” she murmured.
Vanity returned and wordlessly handed over the coin purse.
“Ah. Yes. Thank you, Vanity. Mr. Walker, we should conclude our business.”
“Yes, ma'am. What do I owe you for the fabric?”
The woman waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind that. We have bigger matters to discuss.”
“Ma'am?”
“You paid the tax to bring the fabric into the city, yes?”
“Ah…yes. It was forty silver.”
The woman nodded. “And what was your pay to be, working as a guard?”
Tom felt uncomfortable. “Ah, ma'am, we failed in our duty—”
“You all died doing your duty,” Mrs. Whistler snapped. “Your fellows, certainly, and Sir Kurt, and you yourself very nearly, I understand. Now, what was the pay?”
Tom cleared his throat. “Two and a half silvers per day, meals, and a combat bonus that wasn't specified.”
“There were, what, eight of you, you said?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And two days from your last payday?”
“Ah, yes.”
“That's forty silver, plus a bonus. I should think so many dying in the line of duty warrants a sizable bonus for the survivors.”
“Ah…thank you…” Tom wasn't quite sure how to react.
“Then there is the reward for delivery.”
“No, ma'am, I said that I couldn't take a reward.”
“That is precisely why I am giving you one.”
That doesn't make sense.
“And then there is the bounty.”
“Bounty?”
“You killed Davis the Knife, the leader of the group that murdered my husband. That reward was three gold.”
“Ah, I don't have proof…”
“There's no doubt in your mind, is there?”
“Well, no, the picture looks just like he did. It must have been him.”
“Then, that's fine. I'll pay you now, and I'll get it from the city, don't worry about that.”
Tom took in a sharp breath. Three gold is a lot of coin, he thought instinctively. And it's money that I actually earned myself.
“How many bandits were killed? How many survived? As exactly as you can, please,” the widow continued.
“Ah…” Tom stopped to count. “Fifteen killed in the fight; I got one of those, Sir Kurt got at least six. Then afterward, I followed the bandits. There had to have been six of them at least, and I think it was exactly six, from the way they talked. I saw one leave the group and head into the woods. Apparently, another did the same. There were four left, including Davis. I killed those four. So, to the best of my knowledge, there are two bandits left, unless some ran away in the original fight. That seems unlikely because they won.”
“I see. You've taken most of my revenge for me already, then.” Mrs. Whistler sighed. “I'll offer a bounty of two gold each for the last two, if you have any way to hunt them down. I'd like to see every last one of them dead.”
“Ah, noted. I might be headed back into the forest in a few days. I will bear it in mind, though I wouldn't hold out much hope of picking up their trail.”
“You saw at least one's face.”
Tom nodded, conceding the point.
“So, I believe that would be six gold altogether in my estimation.” The widow pulled out six gold coins and set them on the table.
Tom was tempted, powerfully tempted. But he swallowed and said, “Ma'am, with your husband gone, can your finances spare such a sum?”
“It's the best use I can think of for the coin.”
“Ma'am, if I may—” Vanity began.
“Don't try to talk me out of it, Vanity. This is important to me.”
“Yes, ma'am. But ma'am, they need clothes.”
Ah. Tom repressed a smile. That's…perfect.
“You can reward him without spending so much coin, ma'am. They could easily use six gold worth of clothing.”
You don't know the half of it. We need clothes for the other four elves, too. “That would be most helpful,” Tom was quick to put in.
“We don't have that much ready-made, Vanity.”
“But we could place an order, ma'am,” Tom pointed out. “We can make do for a bit.” He paused. “Ma'am, your late husband didn't know that the three men were slavers, but I could tell that he strongly disliked them, even without knowing that. I suspect he might have been pleased to treat well those who the slavers had treated so poorly.” He took a breath. “I would also be honored to wear products of his shop.”
The widow seemed to turn the idea over in her mind for several moments. “Very well. I'm still paying you the three gold bounty on Davis, because I have to say that I gave it to you, in order to get it back from the city. But the rest…” She took a deep breath. “I think a bit of righteous work might help me through the next little while. Take my mind off things. Keep me in the realm of the living.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Tom exchanged alarmed looks with Vanity quickly, and she gave him a quick nod. She'll watch out for her employer. It might have been metaphor, but best not to take chances.
“All right, then. Why don't you tell us what you need?”
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
For the next couple of hours, the tailors took measurements of Tom and the four elves, and worked out what they had ready, what could be altered, and what needed to be made from whole cloth. Kervan actually helped a fair bit, once he understood what they were doing. Tom looked for an opportunity to tell Mrs. Whistler about his dream message, but it never felt like the right moment. He would have more chances, he knew.
Diavla disappeared with Vanity for a while. When they returned, her blue dress was no longer quite so tight in the chest, he noticed. Tom was given a rather fine white shirt, fancier than he would normally wear, but Mrs. Whistler insisted. “You're going to be moving in higher circles unless I miss my guess, young man. You'll need to look the part.”
The tailors sent them off to a bootmaker, saying that the shop owed Whistler's a favor. There, the elves were relieved to get shoes and boots that finally fit them properly. The nights were getting colder and they needed warm shoes with a comfortable fit. The total bill there was getting alarmingly high, but the proprietor assured Tom that it was fine.
“We trade favors. We're some of the wealthiest merchants in the city. It's simpler to owe tasks back and forth than to fight over coin. If this costs too much, Sesca will end up owing us a favor, and someday that will be handy. It's all part of how we do business, Mr. Walker.”
So the elves got new boots and some clothes, with the promise of more in the future. They did end up going to Millie's Mending as well, because Whistler's couldn't produce everything they needed as soon as they needed it. At the less fancy shop, Tom was also able, without raising too much suspicion, to buy some extras in sizes that he hoped would fit Sheema, Arven, Brallik and Rillik.
That ate most of the morning. Next, they needed to visit the Floating Duck with the wagon of alcohol. They stored their purchases in their rooms and fetched the wagon from the lot, and headed to the tavern.