Painted Devils, page 22
Emeric and I trade befuddled looks. I show the stamp on my hand. “I think we were screened for that already?” Then I lean to read the posted inspection placard. Apparently Madame Treasury’s is due for a visit this time tomorrow. “Oh, is there an infection?”
“It’s coin, not a disease, you—” The bouncer catches himself before he ends on an insult to prospective clientele. He jerks his chin at a little booth beside the stairs. “At the Treasury, you pay in spintz. No spintz, no entry.”
“We’re not here as customers,” Emeric says. “We have some questions for the proprietress.”
A beat passes as the bouncer eyeballs Emeric, specifically the prefect insignia on his coat. Then he asks, “You got a warrant?”
“… No.” Emeric’s mouth flattens into a line.
The bouncer’s gaze narrows to a slit. He points at the booth. “Spintz.”
It’s my turn for a long, theatrical sigh. We trudge over to the booth. The concept of apathy is manifested here as a woman a few years older than Helga, who shoves a wooden card over the counter and resumes gnawing on a strip of dried wurst. The card lists different, well, acts that can be purchased and the price of each … in spintz. It also lists the exchange rate, which seems to be about one sjilling for a spintz.
Once I do the math, I start to see why this place is trouble. Not because it’s expensive, but the opposite: Every service they offer is steeply underselling the competition. That means the real income is from something else. The cheapest option listed is also the most foreboding: SURPRISE ME (5 spintz).
“What’s the surprise?” I ask warily.
“There’s a wheel inside that you get to spin,” the attendant rattles off, like she, too, would rather be doing her taxes. Her breath smells like the wurst. “You get whatever it lands on.”
I hear the doors open and glance up. The bouncer is leaning inside, whispering furiously to someone and gesturing our way.
“One,” Emeric grits through his teeth, “surprise, please.” He slides five sjilling to the attendant, who trades it for five dull brass tokens. “We’ll be back to cash these out shortly.”
The attendant gnaws a bit of the dried meat off. “Mm-hm. You’ll get four sjilling after the exchange tax.”
“The exchange—?”
Her finger stabs at a small line of print at the very bottom of the wooden card. Sure enough, you can trade as much imperial coin as you want for spintz, but if you want your coin back, it’s going to cost you. The only exception, conveniently enough, is for members of the city guard (and signed off with a perky Thank you for your service!).
“I see,” Emeric says dourly.
As do I. There are flat fees for different brackets; no matter what, you lose at least 10 percent of what you pay for the spintz. It’s a brilliant racket, I’ll give the madame that, shaving money off every transaction, forcing customers to invest in the tokens up front and charging them to cash out. And at the massive scale Madame Treasury’s runs on, all those little shavings add up quickly.
The bouncer doesn’t stop scowling at us even as he lets us in. I can see how the venue might roar to life at night; it’s like a sultry bank lobby, all dark paint, black-and-white marble, and elegant brass fixtures. Twin winding staircases frame a round stage, where a wheel currently sits front and center. Galleries of doorways ring the upper levels, and matched bar counters unfurl on the ground floor. A trail of pungent smoke, half incense, half sense-dulling kanab, drifts toward the clear glass dome of the roof, cool morning light catching in the haze. It’s not as rowdy as outside, but from murmurs, giggles, and the tempo of a distant staccato thudding, the Treasury is very much in business.
“You two.” There’s a snap of fingers a moment after we walk in. Emeric and I both look up. A woman is standing at the apex of the two staircases. I’d guess she’s in her late thirties. Her striking white gown is only slightly lighter than her porcelain skin, but it’s stark against the artful updo of her candy-red tresses. I hear a slight accent from the Deep North when she says, “Up here. Now.”
“I was told I could spin the wheel,” I say indignantly.
“Do you want to win anything?” Emeric says under his breath as we start toward the steps.
“It’s the principle.” I pout until we reach the top of the staircase and I get a better look at who I presume to be the infamous madame. There’s a faint violet sheen to her curls that annoys me; I know some blonds choose to stain their hair that red hue with blueberries and beet juice, never mind my version of redhead involves gaining fifty more freckles anytime I think the word sun.
“Madame,” Emeric says coolly.
“Prefect,” she returns, batting unnaturally teal eyes at him, and that’s when I decide I’m going to burn this place to the ground.
“Aspirant,” I correct, glaring daggers.
“We will speak in my office,” she states, and glides toward another large teak door recessed into the wall. A man I barely noticed opens it for her.
“Do you want us to call you ‘Madame’?” I ask as we follow. “Or is it more of a please, my mother was Madame Treasury, call me Gertie situation?”
She ignores me entirely, sailing behind a monument of a wooden desk as enchanted lights blink on, then sinking into a white velvet chair so smoothly, it looks choreographed. The door shuts as soon as we cross the threshold. Despite an abundance of plush armchairs around the room, we are not invited to sit.
“I have no desire to waste further time on this foolishness,” Madame dictates before we can say anything. “Nor to disturb the Treasury’s clients—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, “is it the Treasury? I thought Treasury was your last name. Or is it your treasury?”
“I think it’s all of the above,” Emeric says thoughtfully.
I’ll give Madame credit; her chill doesn’t crack. “The city guard was already here, and I’ll tell you the same thing: I have no idea where Erwin Ros is. The last I heard, he’d been thrown out of the Green Sleeve across the street. No one here saw him the night he went missing. Are we done?”
Emeric’s face stays carefully blank as we both approach the desk. “I’d like to take a look around the premises regardless.”
“I’m sure you would.” Madame leans back in her chair. “I’d no idea the prefects had this much time on their hands. Do let me know when you’ve got a warrant, and I’ll accommodate.”
It’s clear what she’s really saying: One man’s disappearance isn’t enough for the prefects to investigate, and the guards will stonewall anything concerning the Treasury. (Thanks for their service!)
“Not that it would do you any good,” Madame adds with half a laugh. “The Treasury is cleaned thoroughly every day. Even if he were here, I doubt you’d find any trace.”
I cross my arms. “Funny. I thought you fired your cleaning maid.”
Madame glances up at me with a little flare of loathing. She doesn’t respond.
“Yes, that’s another matter to discuss,” Emeric says after an awkward pause. “It’s my understanding you withheld three months’ wages from Agnethe and then dismissed her without pay.”
“Mm. She signed a contract.” Madame leans down to a drawer, making the most of the angle and her dress’s neckline. She withdraws a slip of parchment and lays it on the desk, then slides it to her right. “You may read it if you wish.”
Her fingertips keep the parchment glued pointedly in place. Emeric has to walk around to her side of the desk, which is exactly the point.
For a moment, all I can think of is the morning Irmgard called me to curl her hair after ruining my salve, how she let me hold a scalding iron inches from her throat because we both knew, much as I burned to, I couldn’t hurt her.
No. Sovabin’s behind me. And while Madame’s attention is on Emeric, I can use this opening.
I scan her orderly desk for anything useful. Purchase order: One (1) bushel strawberries (hothouse), ten (10) gross breadsticks … Shopping list. Surprisingly boring. Next. For your review: sketches of the new parlor layout.—Köhler. I appreciate good interior design as much as the next scammer, but pass.
My eyes fall on a paper peeking out from an atypically untidy stack—a cover-up if I’ve ever seen one. Offer for the Properties Herein, Being M. T.’s Inn and Brothel and Associated Properties—
She wants to sell. Now that’s interesting.
“Did you tell Agnethe she’d be paid in spintz?” Emeric’s voice butts in. “That the ‘exchange fee’ would wipe out her earnings?”
“It’s in the contract,” Madame says evenly.
Emeric points to a line where a little wobbly X is drawn. “This isn’t a signature.”
“Poor thing was never taught her letters. But the signature below it is my witness, who will confirm I read Agnethe every word of this contract before she signed it.”
“A witness you employ?”
Madame smiles. “I believe you met her working the spintz booth. It’s not illegal to have a document witness on your payroll, is it?”
Emeric links his hands behind his back again, but that can’t disguise the muscle jumping in his jaw. “It’s not,” he admits, returning to my side of the desk.
“Is this not a valid contract?” Madame pushes.
“It is,” Emeric says through his teeth.
Then … we can’t get Agnethe’s wages after all.
I don’t know how we’re going to tell her.
“Perhaps your friend here could take over the cleaning job now that it’s open,” Madame suggests melodically. Then she purses her lips. “I’d have you work another position, dear, but I’m afraid you’d only make us money lying facedown.”
The worst part isn’t that I’m used to it. People always act like they’re the first one to call you ugly, when you’ve been navigating a world that won’t let you forget.
The worst part is that, even so, it rips at the scab every time. Part of me still chokes up. Will always choke up. Will flash through every single one of those searing reminders in a heartbeat. Will hear Irmgard cooing, Now your back is as ugly as your front.
Emeric swiftly plants his hands on the desk, blocking Madame’s view of me. I can’t see the look on his face, but I can hear the sudden switchblade edge in his voice, see the flicker of uncertainty in Madame. “I promise you,” he says, with his deadly kind of calm, “for the rest of your life, you will look back on this moment and know that was the worst mistake you’ll ever make.”
“Is that a threat, Prefect?” Madame asks. Only—I blink, and it’s Irmgard sitting there, toying with a quill, tilting her head at me.
Emeric doesn’t move. “I don’t threaten the inevitable.”
“I would hate to report that I was threatened for upsetting you,” she muses. “They’d ban you from the Sünderweg”—she sounds just like Irmgard—“and, given your company, it’s clear you desperately need our assistance—”
The funny thing is, I remember how to deal with Irmgard.
“Oops,” I say, and backhand Madame’s inkpot right into her pristine white gown. She jumps to her feet with a screech.
Emeric straightens up and offers me his arm. “I have a code of conduct,” he says mildly. “So the worst mistake of your life wasn’t upsetting me. It was starting a fight with her.”
“GET OUT,” Madame howls.
I bob a mocking curtsy and take Emeric’s arm. “I’ll be back for that wheel spin.”
We aren’t dragged from the brothel but rather forcefully accompanied out the doors and to the street. Emeric waits for the bouncer to resume his post beyond earshot, then says under his breath, “She absolutely is holding Erwin Ros in there.”
“Well, if she wanted him dead, she’s had plenty of time to do it and dump the body, so at least he’s still alive.” I rub the tip of my nose, thinking. “Did you see the offer on the table?”
Emeric reddens. “I was trying not to.”
“No, you deviant, a paper offer. She’s trying to sell the Treasury.” I can’t decide if I’m outraged or delighted that that’s where his mind went for once.
“Oh.” He only turns redder. “I. Er. Anyway. She tried to cast suspicion on the Green Sleeve, too, and I’d like to know w—”
“TEMPTRESS!”
The thunderous shout rolls down the street. A familiar head of blond curls is striding our way, and he’s not alone but flanked by the other three cultists from yesterday. This time, the pendants with the Scarlet Maiden’s hand hang openly around their necks. The blond man, who seems to be taking most of the initiative here, jabs a finger directly at me. “Defiler!”
I have been called many things in my life, but “temptress” is a new direction entirely. “Uh?”
“You betrayed the Scarlet Maiden!” he accuses as Emeric shifts in front of me. “You stole away her chosen servant, and now you’ve brought him here, here, to sully her sacrifice! Defiler! Heretic!”
Something tells me excuse you, any sullying has been consensual won’t go over well with this crowd. Instead, I raise my hands and summon the collected, authoritative voice of the Scarlet Maiden’s prophet. “You misunderstand. We are seeking out a—”
“You’re ruining him!” shrieks one of the cultists.
“Defiler!”
Then the world explodes with rusty red. I gasp, and dust clogs my mouth, a mix of bitter metal and powdery clay. My eyes burn, trying to wash away a film of grit.
“Shove off, you lot, before I call the guard!” Someone grabs my arm. “This way, inside—”
“Emeric,” I cough, blindly throwing out a hand. I won’t leave him with them.
“Here.” I feel his fingers catch mine. “Careful, here come some steps—one—two—three—done.”
Then I feel wood under my feet instead of stone. A door shuts behind us. “I’ll get rags and water,” says the stranger. “She can sit on the bench.”
Emeric helps me sit. “I think it’s just chalk powder.” He sounds surprisingly rattled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see until too late—”
There’s a sloshing and a ceramic thunk on the bench beside me. A wet rag is pressed into my hand. The stranger’s come back. “Wipe your face off first. Good.” Unknown hands move mine to the edges of a large bowl. “Try to wash your eyes.”
“What is this?” a new voice asks as I splash my face.
“Sorry, Jenneke, I’ll clean up the mess. Those zealots from earlier threw chalk all over the poor girl.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.” The other voice—Jenneke—waits until I’ve dried my eyes. They still feel a bit crusty, patches of phlegm gunking up my vision, but at least I can see again. A tall woman about Helga’s age comes into view at the foot of a wooden staircase that spirals up and out of sight. She’s not the only person in the jade-toned hall, nor, I’d venture, the only mietling, but she’s notably the only one wearing green, in the form of a long emerald robe of Gharese silk over a simple dress. A thick braid of deep brown curls crooks over one shoulder, and she’s studying Emeric and me with hazel eyes set in a face of muted amber.
“If you’d like, a discreet exit is one of many services we provide at the Green Sleeve.” Jenneke winks. “And given the circumstances, it’ll be on the house.”
We’re in the Green Sleeve. Madame did say it was across the street. I’m not going to let a stroke of luck like this pass us by. I cough a wad of dust into a rag, attractively, then croak, “We’re actually, uh, on our honeymoon. We were hoping…”
Jenneke raises an eyebrow. “Oh, congratulations,” she says politely. “So you were looking for our couples’ services?”
Emeric seems to be slowly perishing beside me. I shift angles, jostling an inconspicuous elbow into his ribs. “We thought we’d take a look around, see what we can—” My throat goes dry, but I make myself wheeze out, “explore.”
“Unfortunately we don’t allow onlookers without prior consent from our clients, but I’m happy to discuss other options with you,” Jenneke says briskly. “We provide couples’ massages, enhanced couples’ massages … or were you considering additional participants? Some of our staff are happy to join couples, whether that be all together or with one of you watching.”
I think my brain packed up and walked into the sea somewhere around “enhanced.” “Um.”
“Or, if you’re looking to improve certain skills in the bedroom or to try new things, we also offer hands-on tutorials.”
“We should go,” Emeric doesn’t say so much as faintly emanate.
Jenneke’s smile tightens. She pushes open a nearby door to reveal a parlor. “Why don’t we discuss your needs somewhere private.” She tips her head to the young woman who, I assume, brought the water and the rags for me. “Marien, I won’t be long.”
I glance sidelong at Marien. Going off family resemblance alone, she’s Agnethe’s sister, all right. I can’t ask her directly why her little sister signed that scam of a contract, but maybe if I stick with this, we can get some answers later. “Thank you for your help,” I say, and follow Jenneke into the parlor. Emeric slips in a moment later, looking uneasily at the sofas. I can’t tell if he’s got a dusting of red chalk over his face, too, or if it’s a natural flush.
“Relax.” Jenneke shuts the door. “This parlor’s business-only. Now, what are you really here for? Because in my experience, newlyweds looking for adventure here are less”—she rolls a wrist—“squirrelly.”
Emeric isn’t willing to cede ground just yet. “Why do you think we’re here?”
Jenneke gestures to a couch, flopping into one opposite it. “I’m no fool, Prefect. Erwin Ros went missing with an open tab the size of Dänwik. It looks bad for us. But I never would have let him rack up that bill if I didn’t see he had the coin on hand.” She frowns a bit sadly as Emeric and I sit. “And, frankly, Marien wouldn’t have sent her sister to check with his boss if Erwin weren’t a decent sort. Are the prefects also investigating, then?”
Emeric shakes his head. “Not officially. He’s connected to a different matter. Is there a reason you think we should?”
Jenneke takes a moment to answer, tapping her fingers on the back of her sofa. “He’s a decent sort,” she says again, carefully. “But … he comes in here right after the Grace Unending stoppers up the Trench, with more money than most dockworkers see in their whole lives? And then he just vanishes?”
