Once there, he described the shifting tattoos on Cythera’s cheek to a girl who billed herself a Barbarian Princess (in truth, she was only tanned by the sun). While a trull twice his age coated her face with white lead to hide her wrinkles, he spoke of Bikker’s acid-spitting sword. A girl of fifteen put powder of belladonna in her eyes while he elocuted on Cythera’s ability to appear from thin air. When she was done, she looked as surprised as he’d been on the roof of the university, but she had no news to share with him.

It wasn’t until he reached Big Bess’s closet that he found what he was looking for. Bess was taller than Malden by a full head and broader through the shoulders. She wore a tight bodice that made her substantial bosom look as big as Castle Hill. Perversely enough, her specialty was for dwarves—the diminutive craftsmen liked their women sturdy, and far from home they would settle for Big Bess’s powerful frame. It seemed they weren’t the only ones.

“A bit wild, but a smooth talker, you say. Big sword over his shoulder, oh, aye.” Bess grunted. “He leaves his chain mail on when he ruts.” She rubbed red powder onto her cheeks to make them look permanently flushed, then smeared some between her breasts as well. “You say he’s called Bikker? Milles is the name he uses, but of course it’s not what they call him at home. He doesn’t come often, but when he does I make him pay for the full night because I know I’ll be bruised and no good for anyone else in the morning.”

“I imagine we’re speaking of the same man,” Malden told her. “Bess, do you know where he lives? Or at least where I might find him?”

“Are you going to kill him?” the trollop asked while gluing on a set of horsehair eyelashes. “Because I won’t have that on my conscience.”

“No, no,” Malden said. “Perish the thought. He owes me money.”

“Ah!” Bess exclaimed. “In that case—”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Four