Chapter 26

Tavern District, Oldtown

Quinn had long made it a policy to never sleep on any of his missions in Oldtown. The truly dangerous beings who dwelled there generally avoided each other, but it was a good practice to not take unnecessary chances. He knew he could function well for up to three days without sleep, longer if he could find a safe place to meditate. The Troll Women had thought it a ridiculous indulgence for him to have to go offline for six to eight hours out of every twenty-four in order to be efficient. So they taught him some esoteric meditation techniques to fix that.

As soon as he left Elisabeth’s Inn, he picked up a tail. The small female goblin was good. Most would have missed her. She gave herself away by one too many anxious glances. She was unlikely to be alone. Quinn made a note to himself to see if he could spot where her partners lurked.

A tail was good news. He was closer to his goal.

It was near evening, and he remembered there was another place to gather some gossip about his betters. He crossed Market Street and ducked down an alley that led to Northmarket’s red-light district. Small Meg’s bordello occupied a prominent corner.

He walked up the stairs, nodded to the doorman, and threw open the door.

“Honey, I’m home,” he roared. “Where are my girls?”

There was excited squealing, and seven identical brown-eyed green-haired sirens, along with three voluptuous succubae, came tripping down the stairs.

“Treats, Lanlan? Did you bring treats?”

“I might have treats for good girls.” He reached into his pack and pulled out his ever-present M&Ms. “Where is Mistress?”

“Dorielle in trouble,” whispered one succubus, whose name he recalled was Qinyss. “Mistress, punish her. She greedy. Took too much from Simon the blacksmith. He won’t work for days.”

The sirens and succubus cared not a whit for coins they earned as long as they had enough for the eye-blindingly colorful silk dresses that the pixie clans fabricated for them. Their real wages were sips of their customers’ life force. Tiny sips. Small Meg strictly enforced that. It was bad business to enervate and kill clients. Mag pocketed the customer’s coins. It was a satisfactory arrangement all around.

“What is with all the shouting in my front parlor?” Mag was a seven-foot orc with a thick mane of copper-colored hair and dark purple eyes. She had been a fixture in the district for as long as Quinn could remember. When he was a youngster, he’d made more than one copper steering customers to her door. She was a favorite of the street urchins because she always made sure they had a meal before she let them go back on the street. Small Meg was a survivor and had learned long ago the necessity of keeping a finger on the pulse of the market. Her girls made convenient scapegoats for angry beings to rail against. She was ready to bolt at an instant’s notice.

That intelligence was what drew Quinn to her door.

When she swept into the room, he gave a deep bow and kissed her hand.

“My Lady, your beauty had no bounds,” he cheerfully grunted in orcish. May your offspring be kept safe and prosperous.”

“Same to you and yours. May the goddess grant prosperity,” she replied.

The formal honorifics complete, she motioned to the females to get back to work and dragged him back to her office.