Disclaimer and notes: Obsidian owns Torio, Lord Nasher, Sir Nevalle, Casavir, Lorne, and Garius. Incidental characters are mine, but the object of Torio's derision could be any female KC who allowed Casavir to champion her in the Trial by Combat, though I wrote it with my usual one in mind.
Work on Always Another Morning is not progressing as quickly as I would like for a number of reasons, so I've decided to give my muse a break with a one-shot or two.
This story contains mild obscenity and implied violence. It also contains references to prostitution. If these subjects offend, please do not read this story.
Torio Claven was out of the arena before Lord Nasher even finished speaking.
Lorne had lost the Trial by Combat. Fear and disbelief threatened to overwhelm her, but she had no time for panic. Lorne had fought the bitch's man, that sniveling fool, Casavir, and he had lost! He was also dead, but that meant nothing to Torio, not when her own life was so close to ending.
The two champions fought to decide who bore responsibility for the massacre at Ember, according to Nasher's mouthpiece, Nevalle. Lorne did the deed, she knew, but he was beyond Nasher's reach. His brains were now splattered across the grounds of the arena. Lucky bastard.
If she didn't act fast, she'd be next. She might get some kind of diplomatic immunity, but that would give her nothing but years languishing in a Neverwinter prison, even if she didn't end up dancing on the end of a rope.
She still had a way out. It wouldn't save her life, but it might at least afford her a quick, relatively painless death. She said the words of the teleportation spell, and she was in Luskan.
The servant who answered her ring at the bell looked surprised to see her. Granted, she was supposed to be in Neverwinter, but Torio had no patience for inattentive service. Not now.
"Clothing, Jarla," Torio barked. "Now. The light blue gown."
The servant fetched the requested gown and waited with it draped over one arm.
"Just put it on the bed," Torio sighed at the woman's ineptitude. She never required the services of a valet, as the toothless old baggage would know by now, had she even the faintest spark of intellect. "Tell Alroch that I will require the carriage in half a candle."
"Y-yes, my lady," the old woman stammered. "Will that be all?"
"Yes, yes," Torio snapped.
She heard the sound of the servant's retreating footsteps, and ignored the woman's muttering. No doubt Jarla found her a harsh mistress, when she was here. She was. Soon, Jarla, and Alroch and the rest of her staff would be at their leisure to find more agreeable positions. She would not need servants where she was going. Still, those she had must be provided for.
She sat at her desk and took a sheet of parchment from the stack. Picking up the pen, she wrote the name of her reeve across the top.
Due to the change in my circumstances, I will no longer require household or property in Luskan. The house and all furnishings are to be sold at auction, and the proceeds distributed evenly among the staff, after deducting your salary, the salaries of the staff, and the twenty percent of your entitlement.
The staff will require letters of reference, which you should provide. Each should include the length of service as well as the statement that they have performed their duties to my satisfaction.
This letter shall be your recommendation.
Meercar of Seven Rivers has served as my reeve and accountant for six years and has executed my orders and maintained my estate diligently and well. I have been well pleased by his service and offer my recommendation to any who would seek to retain his services.
With that, she signed and dated the letter, folded it, and affixed her seal.
No loose ends.
She changed her gown and studied her reflection in the mirror. It had cost her dearly, that large an expanse of silvered glass. It would bring a good price.
As for the reflection that looked back at her, that, too, might be worth something, if offered on the right market. She was no longer young, but her face was unwrinkled still, and her figure was as good as it had been ten years before, when she was still dancing in festhalls. She had used it to earn her living, once... that and her wits. She could do so again. If she survived...
No, she need not plan for the future. Not now. She must report to her master. Garius did not have a forgiving nature... but neither would she lay down and die out of fear. All she had left was her dignity, and by Hoar, she would meet whatever fate lay before her with her head held high.
She looked at her costume. A woman could say a lot with her wardrobe. Usually, she dressed to disarm. When she wore her garish, figure-baring gowns, men either drooled and fawned over her, like Nasher's lapdog, Nevalle, when his master was not watching, or they chastely averted their eyes, like the bitch's pet, the paladin. The women dismissed her as wanton or manipulative, both of which were true, but incomplete, assessments. Neither the women nor the men regarded her as a threat. Her attire served her needs, and she had no pride to offend.
Now, she left her skimpy gowns behind and chose one of a more elegant cut. The ice-blue velvet set off her dramatic coloring, but the more conservative lines declared that she understood the gravity of her situation. She hesitated only a moment before donning her feather collar. It drew attention to her bust, which would certainly not impress her master, but it was more a part of her persona than any other garment she might possibly wear. It said "I see your power, and I am unafraid." Or maybe it just said that she knew how to pluck chickens. Whatever. She didn't feel dressed without it, and she needed every shred of confidence she could muster.
Brilliant sunlight flooded the carriage. That was wrong. It should be dark, with leaden skies overlooking her last journey. But why should weather suit her mood? It had its own master, and it cared nothing for drama.
"Stop the carriage," Torio called to the driver.
Footmen scampered to get her door open, and she stepped down onto the paving stones.
"Wait here," she instructed, then crossed the street into the bookseller's shop.
The store was dark, as it always was. A little light crept in through the shuttered windows, but the proprietor did not need it, nor could she make use of it, if it were brighter.
"I've come to say goodbye, Nella," Torio said into the darkness.
"Your marker's come due, has it?" a thin, quavering voice asked.
"So it would seem," Torio said heavily.
"A pity," Nella answered. "I finally found a copy of Alhandra's verse that hasn't been translated into incomprehensibility."
"A pity indeed," Torio agreed, smiling despite her dark mood. "It is so much more poignant in Calishite. I should have liked to read it again. Still, I daresay you'll be able to move it."
"Perhaps," Nella shrugged, "but I think you should take it anyway. You've already paid for it, and who knows? You may have more time than you think. What is it like, today?"
"Indecently sunny," Torio replied. "Not a cloud in the sky."
"That bodes well," Nella nodded, casting sightless eyes toward the windows. "Bees can't find nectar in the dark. Be a dear and open the shutters on your way out. The warmth does make the place cheerier. I shan't have a visit from you again, but that will be none of your doing."
"Farewell, Nella," Torio smiled and kissed Nella's wrinkled cheek. Her old friend did say the oddest things, but Torio was too accustomed to her ways to question what she said. She might understand later or she might not, but it usually made little difference.
Torio pushed the shutters open and turned to see if Nella had noticed the change. The old woman sat slumped in her chair, but she did not look like she was sleeping.
"Nella?" Torio gasped.
Nella did not move.
Torio crossed to her and felt for a pulse in her neck. She found nothing. Nella was dead.
"Oh, Nella," Torio sighed sadly. "You could not have at least let me go to my death thinking that you were well and happy, here among your treasures? Well, at least you're going to a better place. I'm sure Deneir will have plenty of books for you to ponder, and you'll have your sight back, at last. Farewell, old friend."
Torio left the store and called to Nella's neighbor, a haberdasher who was just now placing some new display items out in front of his shop. Torio recalled that Nella had addressed him as Hernic, or something that sounded like that, the one time he had called while Torio was visiting.
"You might want to go check on Nella, Hernic. She made no answer when I called to her," Torio lied, "and she does not look well at all."
"Thank you, mistress," the man replied. "I'll do that at once. She's been poorly, the last tenday or more, and I meant to check on her this morning, but with one thing and another... Never mind, I'll go now. Good day to you."
Torio allowed the footman to hand her back into the carriage and ordered that the driver should proceed.
She marveled at the monster she had become. Once, she had been an impoverished dancer with big dreams, but no great burden of scruples. She never had a lot of friends, but she had a few. She had not known how lucky she was, to have so little, yet so much, or how happy she was. Then she met Garius, and everything changed. She had power, she had wealth, she had respect. What she no longer had was friends, apart from Nella.
Now, Nella was gone, and she had not even wept. She felt the loss, but it was more hollow disbelief than the stabbing grief she had felt sixteen years before, when she found her mother dead in her bed, strangled by a client. Her mother had been younger then than she was now. Nella had been right. None of the Clavens would ever make old bones.
The carriage had stopped. She had arrived.
The footman wordlessly opened the carriage door and offered his hand to help her climb down.
"Thank you, Milhem," she said. "Alroch, you may take the carriage back now. I shall not need it again. You should see Meercar when you return, and tell him that I left a letter for him on the desk in my chambers. You and the other servants may continue to use the town house until it is sold. Meercar will settle your accounts and see that you all receive letters of recommendation. Do be certain to leave forwarding addresses with him, as it is likely that it will take some time for the estate to be settled. I've left instructions that it should be divided evenly, so you should make sure Meercar knows how to reach you."
Alroch's mouth fell open at her unexpected instructions, but he nodded dutifully.
"As ye wish, m'lady," he replied. "It's been a pleasure to serve ye, an' I wish ye well. But mayhap ye'll need sommat, when the dust settles. If ye find ye do, ye've only to call, an' me an' me kin will come runnin'."
"Th-thank you, Alroch," Torio replied around the lump in her throat. A cynical part of her brain dismissed his assurances as nothing more than the polite generosity offered by a servant facing the prospect of a hefty severance package and possible financial independence, but the festhall dancer she once had been was touched by his kindness. She should have left him a bigger portion.
It was too late to think about that now, though. She stood on her master's doorstep.
The facade of Garius' estate was imposing enough, even if she wasn't about to enter it as a condemned woman. The iron-bound door would have been big enough for a dragon to pass through. When she knocked, it swung open noiselessly. The servant who met her made no sound, either, but gestured that she should follow him.
The servant led her down a short corridor off the entrance hall and down two flights of steps. He opened another door and gestured that she should go on alone.
She entered a large chamber lit not by torches or candles, but by glowing spheres set in brackets on the pillars. Each lamp gave off a faint, blue-white light, but there were a lot of them, so the room could be said to be brightly lit. The pillars supported a low, vaulted ceiling painted to look like the night sky, midnight blue with silver stars. The stone floor was decorated with a subtle tone-on-tone geometric design, except for the center of the room, where a permanent conjuring circle was set in crimson tiles.
It was there that Garius stood with his back to her, his hands clasped behind his black-clad back. He appeared to be studying a constellation on the ceiling.
"You disappoint me, Torio," he said sadly. "Men like Lorne swarm the docks of every city, but you were something special. You had potential, great potential, but you have wasted it on vain ambition. And now... What am I to do with you, Torio?"
"Forgive me, Master Garius," Torio pleaded, falling to her knees. "I have failed you."
"I know," he replied in his slow, sad voice. "I saw the 'Trial'. I saw how you placed all your trust for our future in that ape, Lorne. You squandered your power. Had you challenged the whelp yourself, you could have bested her, using the abilities I gave you, but that would have been too dangerous for you, wouldn't it, Torio? Yes, you were spared death in the Trial by Combat, but how will you escape it now?"
"Master Garius, I-" Torio stammered.
"You what?" he interrupted her. "You're sorry? Yes, of course you are. You must be, as you fear death. Save your breath. I care nothing for your apologies. Your failure is a disappointment, true, but plans have been set in motion..."
"Yes, master?" she hardly dared breathe. "Tell me how I can serve you."
"Oh, no, Torio," he chuckled mirthlessly, "you have 'served' me enough. I have no further use for you. Leave me."
She rose to her feet. Had she heard him correctly? Was he really sparing her life? She turned to flee.
"Oh, and Torio?" Garius called softly after her. "Do not return here. I have prepared another, more suitable refuge, though its location should, I think, remain a secret shared only by my faithful servants. You are dismissed."
Torio ran from the chamber.
Torio stood in the shadows of her own courtyard, waiting for an answer to her knock at her former coachman's door.
After escaping death in Garius' summoning chamber, she had hidden in a cave until it grew dark. She dared not reenter Luskan. She had feared Garius more than civil authorities, but now that her former master had spared her, she needed to remember that her failure to secure victory for Luskan had civil repercussions, too. As the "Butcher of Ember," Luskan was no safe haven for her. Nasher would have guessed where she had gone, and by now, all of Luskan would know of her guilt.
She cursed her earlier certainty that she would die. She had made no escape plan. She had no horses waiting outside town, she had no clothes apart from the completely impractical gown she still wore, she had no money... She needed to return to Luskan, if only to remedy two of those three shortages. She would do without the horse. It would make her too easy to track. She could not do without a disguise or gold, however. It was time to see if Alroch was as good as his word.
With that in mind, she gave a carter one of her rings in exchange for smuggling her into Luskan in his hay wagon. It would sell for more than the hay, the wagon, the oxen that drew it, and the carter himself, but she did not care. She needed to get into Luskan without being seen. Jewels might help her there, but not by wearing them. Once inside the city, the carter had driven her to her townhouse.
Now, she stood waiting for the one person in Luskan who might possibly help her.
"Well!" Alroch cried on seeing her. "If it ain't the mistress, and all bedraggled, too! Do ye know what they're sayin' 'bout ye?"
"It's all true," Torio sighed. "You said you would help me. Did you mean it?"
"Aye," Alroch nodded, "I meant it sure enou'. Come in afore they catch ye an' say what ye be needin'."
"I need clothing, Alroch," Torio replied gratefully. "I also need money."
"The clothin's no trouble," Alroch scratched his chin, "ye've a room full o' dresses an' the like-"
"I need your clothing, Alroch," Torio amended, "or your wife's. I've got to look like a peasant, and I can't do that in silks or velvet."
"Aye, but ye are a clever one, mistress," the burly coachman nodded, "put ye in me wife's old things, and no one will look twice at ye, that's certain. An' easy enou' to do. The gold'll be more of a worry. I ain't got but a handful o' silver to me name, an' Meercar's got yer gold locked up safer than a maiden in a house full o' paladins."
"Whatever you have will have to do," Torio sighed. Trust Meercar to do his job too well. Unless she went to her reeve herself, her riches would stay where they were, and would be of no use to her. Still, she had been poor before, and had survived. She could dance her way across Faerun... or sell her body in other ways, if potential benefactors had no love of dance.
A quarter candle later, a very different woman stood in the street outside the town house of the infamous Torio Claven, a humble creature in a tattered gown and a filthy cloak.
"You there!" called a brutish voice. "You have any idea what happens when folks break curfew? You should've been home abed a candle or more."
"I have no home," the woman replied defiantly, "and Luskan has no curfew."
"Well, it does now," the guard laughed, "and if you've got nowhere to go, I'll have to take you in, though I don't think you'll like jail all that much."
"I was just leaving," she protested. "I'll be out of the city as soon as I can get to the gate."
"Oh, no," the guard shook his head, "that won't do at all. It's off to jail for you, harlot... unless you make it worth my while to let you go. Girl with tits like yours can make a man forget a lot."
"Very well," the woman sighed resignedly, unlacing her ragged dress. She knew that sooner or later, she would be paying for her freedom lying down, but she had hoped to make it out of Luskan before she was forced to negotiate the first transaction.
By the time the moon rose, Torio Claven was free. She was bruised and sore from the guard's rough handling, but she was out of Luskan.
She did not know where she would go. Luskan was closed to her, and Neverwinter, too, but Toril had more than two cities. A woman with her talent and resourcefulness might do well in Baldur's Gate, she thought, or perhaps Athkatla, if Baldur's Gate proved to rustic for her. She had danced her way from festhall entertainer and sometime prostitute to the halls of the great. She could do it again, though she danced on bleeding feet. She had begun her journey with nothing but her body and her wits, and she had them still.
She would survive, and she would thrive.