The life of a courtesan is as miserable as a peasant's, in a way. For the humiliations they suffer, they earn their bread, fine clothing, and a warm place to sleep. The Boyars they serve consider them toys. I had not conceived of such things before this place. Viorica is a queen among them. She has found power in the desire of others. She has commanded a certain kind of respect from the aristocracy, through her charms and spells as much as her beauty and grace. The most desired toy of them all. I don't think she sees it like that.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  The days blended. There were diseases in the house, some of which mystified Dragos. The sick prostitutes were quarantined, and he cared for them the best he could, using poisons to attempt to kill infections, hopefully before they killed the sufferer. Viorica had no children among them, which pleased him. She was greedy, but not cruel.

  He also visited the orphanage she sponsored to treat the young. Some few of them were boyar bastards, but some were foundlings. They were not kept lavishly, but they were kept adequately. Fed, clothed, and cared for by elders.

  He knew next to nothing about children but understood basic concepts. Smaller bodies, faster heartbeats. Milk for some time, then soft foods, then more substantial foods when they had teeth. He’d learned a bit since he’d begun his visits there. Their fevers burned hot and frequently, but they came out of things that would kill an adult.

  Children were resilient creatures. They made him think of the baby left in Corvesta and the promise he made her.

  Dragos left the orphanage through the door in the garden, the bar resting beside it in a mound of fresh snow. He tugged his knit cap lower, over his ears, and shuffled his kit to replace the bar. The garden he’d climbed into that chill, late autumn day hid beneath a thick expanse of white. The beaten path to the orphanage marred its perfection, extending to the mansion’s glaze of glass and stone.

  Already mentally going over the list of concoctions to soothe children’s fevers, runny noses, and coughs, his thoughts were broken by a servant bursting from the side door. Katya. Her long braid bounced, following her like a dark serpent as she ran, her grass woven shoes half-sliding on the iced path of gray footprints. Her slim arms flailed to catch herself. When she spotted him, she shrieked, “Dragos!”

  Dragos forgot his lists and rushed toward her.

  Katya crashed into him. He caught her before she slid into the snow. Tears burned her eyes red as she gasped, “Maria, it’s—help her!”

  He’d been there a little over a month. The moon had waxed and waned and nearly waxed to full again. Time fled past, unnoticed.

  His bed was Viorica’s when it wasn’t employed otherwise. She did not sell her body often. Her’s was occasionally reserved for Sigovaran prince Grozav, and once, for his advisor. The others who lived in her service were not so lucky. If any with enough coin gained invitation, they gained full service.

  No one was excluded, besides Dragos and Katya.

  Whomever a boyar fancied was obtained. Including the stolnic.

  Maria was a simple servant and Katya’s confidant, so it came as some surprise when the girl led him to one of the rooms kept for the house to privately entertain. It was laid out similarly to Viorica’s but smaller in size, with a single hearth.

  The scent of blood struck him as Katya flung the door open. Fane was already there, his dark hair caught up in a messy ponytail, the tip of which dragged in Maria’s blood, his ear to her lips. Listening.

  Her flesh bared, Maria’s wounds were grievous. The shredded bedding revealed hemp rope and rushes beneath. Rope still wound about her limbs, though she’d been cut free. Her grisly adornments, the length of the slashes, and the red spatters that stained it all set an icy burn alight within the albstrig?.

  Dragos dropped shoulder to shoulder with the stolnic and grasped Maria’s wrist. Her pulse fluttered, a mere butterfly’s wings beneath her bloodslicked skin. Fane looked up, a glint in his eye Dragos had never seen there before. The same cold rage Dragos felt.

  “We already give enough. This is too much,” Fane growled, gently wiping red-streaked tears from the side of Maria’s face.

  Dragos opened his box. Viorica’s funds had replenished his stock well, and so he set to work.

  “Fresh, clean water, boiled, to wash her up. Blankets, to keep her warm. Fluids, to replace the blood lost,” he stated, glancing between Fane and Katya.

  For the wounds themselves, he had distilled spirits. Fane vanished like a specter, already on his mission.

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  As Dragos pulled out his tools, Katya grabbed at his elbow, her overlarge eyes desperate, her breath sour from fear. “Will she live?”

  “I can’t promise that, but I’ll try,” Dragos responded, his attention swerving to the woman, whose quiet sob shook her abused body.

  Chin quivering, Katya nodded and ran off after Fane.

  Each injury was inspected carefully for debris. He plucked fabric shreds and a sliver of leather with tweezers. Maria whimpered at the spill of chill, stinging alcohol, but it was nothing compared to what she’d already endured. Dragos murmured to her all the while.

  “This will sting.”

  “I’m going to pull a bit of fabric out here. It might hurt. Just a moment.”

  “After this is over, I’ll give you some medicine. Fane will bring soup, and I want you to drink it all, alright?”

  “I have to stitch this. It’ll hurt, but try not to move.”

  Katya returned to hold Maria’s hand, and Fane remained near, at the ready for whatever was needed. Under calm instructions, they did what was required, and summarily, Maria rested under thick blankets, medicine soothing her physical agony. Katya stayed with her as Dragos and Fane stepped out.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “The name of a merchant prince from the West. Cruz-Torres. It would be in the registry,” Fane said, arms crossed over his chest, brow creased in lines without number.

  “I’ll speak with Viorica,” Dragos murmured, slipping a glance at the door left shut behind him.

  “I’ll strike his name from the invitations,” Fane replied. “And his face, if he ever darkens our door again.”

  Dragos nodded and passed by him with a quick squeeze of his shoulder. He sought out Viorica, the crack of his boots echoing through the hallways as he strode toward where he’d likely find her.

  She sat before her dressing table, carefully arranging thick braids and pinning them in place. The looking glass before her reflected her expression as Dragos recounted what he found.

  “...wounds likely caused by a bullwhip. What recourse will we take?”

  Viorica kept twisting her hair, plucking long hairpins, and carefully fitting them to hold her design fast. “Hm. Let’s suspend his account. If he negotiates a higher entry price, I’ll rescind the suspension.”

  Dragos couldn’t even form words for a moment. “W—what?”

  “What is the price of a life, Dragos? Is it a single denarii? Is it more? Less? The price of commerce is managing difficult customers.” She shifted on her chair to rest an arm on the table, her curvaceous body drawing seductive lines in negative space. “People are sold for obloi, Dragos. Do you think they are cared for?”

  The world was a cold place. He’d expect this from others. From her? He shook his head in denial.

  “I take care of my people, but I’m not about to see my house fall for it.” Viorica turned back to her mirror and resumed the finishing touches on her coif. “Maria’s sacrifice is terrible. I’ll never argue that. Should she live, she’ll move to the orphanage and care for the little ones. Should she die, I’ll make Torres-Cruz pay.”

  Make him pay. A hard, hot breath escaped Dragos, lips curling back with distaste. What is money to a merchant with limitless funds? He’d seen a few since he’d been at the Stag. Been forced to sit with them, drink with them.

  They all marvelled in arrogant, entitled ignorance at his strangeness and intellect.

  He may not have had to service their hungers, but he served. He was an oddity, but not a feared threat in Viorica’s privileged society. Popular by virtue of his looks. Another feather in the plume of wonders at the Lady’s Stag.

  “He should pay handsomely,” Dragos growled, turning on his heel.

  He left her without another word, down to the small room that had been the last physician’s. The desk, the chair, and the shelves of useful items all crowded around him, hovering over his shoulders as he set his old peddler’s box on the worktable and sat on a stool beside it.

  His gaze wandered to the narrow green glass window, where the thin winter daylight pressed against it, not quite reaching into his dark den.

  “You seem upset.”

  Zgavra’s voice nearly made Dragos piss himself from surprise.

  Dragos hadn’t seen the zmeu in weeks. The last time he had, it had been drinking with a cluster of boyars in town to meet with Sigovara’s prince. Dragos avoided them.

  “One from this house was nearly murdered, and Viorica barely cares. ‘Course I’m mad,” Dragos grumbled. He swivelled to face the smoky figure; its draconic features were a mere suggestion in the shape of density. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Around. About. Here, on occasion. Did you miss me?” Zgavra asked, the hint of its maw widening in a parody of a smile.

  Did he?

  “Somewhat,” Dragos admitted. He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed, leaning his elbows onto the work table.

  “So, what will you do now?” The zmeu purred, swirling around him like dark incense, pooling onto the table as if lying on it.

  “I should do nothing,” Dragos admitted. It wasn’t that Viorica was wrong. She wasn’t particularly right, either. Her decision was heartless.

  “And yet?” Zgavra prompted, its figure slowly solidifying into its half-human form. Its reptilian head propped on a black-clawed hand, mane tumbling over narrow shoulders.

  The need to take action could be conveniently brushed off, and still, he saw a way. Simple enough to find the man renowned for money and violence. Dragos had the means of punishment lurking in the dark creases of his mind.

  “I want to hunt him,” Dragos admitted, flicking a glance up at the monster. “I want to maim him like he’s maimed Maria.”

  The orange eyes across from him glittered with eager glee.

  For the rights of courtesans,

  Boyar (bow-yaar): Nobleman

  Stolnic (Stol-NEEK): Pantry manager, much like a butler, but with responsibilities regarding the kitchens more than the house and grounds.

  Albstrig? (ALV-streeguh): White witch. Barn owl. A pale ghost or evil spirit.

  Denarii (di-NEH-ree) [rolled r]: Unit of money comparable to a gold coin.

  Obloi (OH-bloy): the lowest possible value of coin. Akin to a penny.