Chapter 55: Opening Night Part 1

Quentin wasn’t the type of person to buy new clothes just because. Ordinarily he kept a near identical wardrobe of generic sandy colored tunics that wouldn’t get visibly dirty from dust, and heavy duty boots that were hot as hell in the desert but hid more of his skin. All of that went out the window for their grand opening and while Quentin understood the reasons why, he wasn’t happy about it.

“Are we almost done?” He asked for the fourth or fifth time, sending a pleading look at Razia.

“Almost, Mr. Quintius,” the tailor said from his kneeling position. He was an older, balding man who wore battered spectacles. He fingered the trim of the tunic, nodding in approval. “You look good. This suits you.”

“You see?” Razia prodded him. “It’s not just me.”

Quentin looked in the mirror, face screwed up in disbelief. It was a midnight black tunic with gold trim along the edges, forming the shapes of stars and moons. Around his feet were sandals with straps going up his calves and stopping at the knee. The tunic was exactly his size instead of a hair too big or small, made of soft and breathable linen, and it was easy to move around in. It would look good alone or in the golden colored toga that came with it. Quentin wasn’t a fan of togas. He wasn’t a man of status who needed to wear one to look rich or powerful, he had no stations to advertise and no need to flaunt wealth. Until now.

“It looks like too much. It’s wrong on me,” he complained. “What’s wrong with my normal clothing?”

“Nothing,” said the tailor, getting to his feet. “If you don’t mind looking like a common laborer. I was under the impression you wanted or needed more.”

“He does and did.” Razia said, coming up beside him and putting her arm around his waist. “Gustav works miracles. Not that you need a miracle to look good.”

It was only a couple days after they went to the temple, Quentin’s freakout and subsequent telling of his past. He wanted to say something had changed since then, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what. It wasn’t Razia, he didn’t think. She always insisted on saying nice things to him, even when they weren’t true. Maybe it was bothering him less, making him not want to fight it. Either way, it still didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

“That’s easy for you to say,” he said. “You could make anything look good.” It was true. Razia was currently wearing a two colored silk top that crisscrossed over her shoulders and exposed her midsection, and a long skirt of the same green and blue with slits up her legs. Perfectly modest while insinuating more. “I’m at a severe disadvantage.”

“It’s all about attitude,” she said. “Anyone could pull it off with the right mindset. You’re holding yourself back.”

“She is right sir,” Gustav said. He motioned with his hand towards the empty shop. They’d paid a little extra for private attention, something that Quentin never regretted. “Take a walk around. Try to be confident.”

“Even if you’re not,” Razia added. She stepped away and motioned along with Gustav. “Pretend you are. Pretend you’re one of your favorite protagonists in a play. How would they carry themselves?”

He thought about it for a minute, then stepped down from the stool he was on. He strode forward, slowly but purposefully, as if he had three legions behind him and knew they had his back. He forced a small smile to his face, just enough to soften his natural scowl. He did a circuit around the shop and stopped in front of the two. “Report,” he said in a bored voice.

“Are you a confident man of business or a soldier?” Razia said, suppressing a laugh.

“That’s general to you, you pathetic grub,” Quentin growled. His face cracked into a real smile he couldn’t hide.

“It’s better,” Gustav said, wiggling his hand in the air in a motion that said good enough. “You’ll get there.”

That was good enough for Quentin. He paid the man and collected his cloak. Once his shades were on, he left the store with Razia on his arm, keeping his head held high. It wasn’t as good for blocking out the sun, and he was more than used to slouching so he didn’t stand half a head higher than the rest of the crowd. More and more, he was out and about in his city without hiding. It was terrifying.

“What is it you’re afraid of?” Razia asked, as if reading his mind.

Quentin stopped and let a family pass them by. One of the kids looked up at him slack-jawed. Setting his jaw, he ignored them and continued down the busy street. “I don’t know. People laughing at me? Being disgusted and pointing and whispering about me, I guess.”

“Why? Why does it matter? You won’t see most of these people again.”

Even expecting the question this time, Quentin didn’t immediately have an answer. “Because it still hurts. It’s not just one weird look or muttering. It’s every time it’s happened, echoing in my head. It’s something I’ve carried with me all my life. It’s a reminder of every time someone’s given me shit. It doesn’t fade.”

Razia nodded in understanding. “The past clings to you. So pretend. Pretend it doesn’t. Pretend you’re in charge and no one can hurt you. Anyone who sneers or laughs at you is beneath you because you’re just so, so much better than them. Try that.”

“Because that’s so easy,” Quentin muttered, but he was listening. Razia stopped them in the middle of one of the city’s many small markets. She looked up at him with a challenging quirk of her brow. It seemed like she wasn’t going to drop this, no matter how many bigger things they had to worry about. Quentin took a deep breath. Fine, he’d play this game.

He dragged her to one of the stalls, where a Ramali man eyeballed him suspiciously. Quentin ignored him and scanned the contents of his stall. It was a bunch of junk jewelry and accessories. Nothing truly impressive, no street stall would carry anything super valuable for fear of thieves, but they looked nice enough. Eyes flickering to Razia, he pointed to a bracelet that was two semicircles of pale green polished glass, held together by two metal clasps. “How much?”

The Ramali man made a face, but he didn’t immediately tell Quentin to fuck off, the way others of his kind might have. “One castura, five qala,” he said.

Pretend. He had to pretend he was in charge. Quentin scoffed. “For that? You trying to rob me in broad daylight? One castura.”

The merchant sneered. “Consider it a tax for having to handle shards you’ve touched.”

Immediately there was the familiar irritation and pain, added up to a pile of countless little incidents that needled Quentin throughout his life. But he was in charge. “One castura, two qala,” he countered. “You get your tax and I won’t touch the money at all. That good enough for you?” At the merchant’s pointed silence, Quentin sighed. “Either that or I could greet you like a friend, for everyone to see. Maybe even touch you.”

His eyes widened. Half the other merchants were Ramali who likely shared his superstition. Grimacing, he nodded. “Fine. Sold.”

Quentin opened his purse and motioned. Razia fished the shards out and set them down on the wooden counter. The merchant scooped them up quickly and motioned for them to go. Quentin took the bracelet and turned, dragging Razia with them. Once they were past that square, he undid the bracelet and held it out. “Here,” he said.

Razia held her hand up and he clasped it shut around her wrist. It was a bit loose, but the color matched her outfit well enough. It was the only piece of jewelry she wore outside of her piercings. “Why, thank you,” she said, obviously pleased. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“It’s not me,” Quentin mumbled.

“But it could be, if you wanted. We are what we do, aren’t we?” Razia hugged his arm close, stroking it gently. He could’ve argued the point but found he didn’t want to. All it took was a little pretending, huh? Well, between being the Battlemaster and a disguised senator, he supposed Razia brought out the liar in him. It remained to be seen whether that was a good thing or not.

The sun was nearly down by the time they got back home. Rather than go through the courtyard, they stuck to the service street that led to the front door of their new business. The door was wide open and Lucy was hanging up a simple oil lantern behind red glass. Razia insisted it would be more eye-catching than a normal light, and that the right people would know what it meant. Quentin trusted her enough not to argue.

“Oh wow, Mr. Q!” Lucy said, looking him up and down. “You look really good!” Other than a tiny bit of swelling around her cheeks and some residual soreness, she looked as good as new, if not quite the same young woman she was. She was still pale, petite, and more cute than beautiful, but she carried herself differently now. More cautious.

“Thanks,” said Quentin, smiling at her. Of course she would say so. His girls seemed to like him well enough and while they didn’t kiss his ass, they seemed free with praise and compliments. It was…nice, honestly, even if it still made him a little uncomfortable. “You do too. How are you feeling? Nervous?”

Lucy’s smile faltered but didn’t disappear. She leaned against the doorway, shrugging. “Yes,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t be, but…”

“No one could blame you for being nervous after what happened,” Razia said gently. “What’s most important is making sure you’re safe and comfortable. You don’t have to work tonight if you’re not ready.”

Her pale face flushed red as she looked down. “No no, it’s fine. Gotta get back to it eventually, right?”

Quentin frowned. Over the past month of spending time with the girls, they often talked while Quentin listened and occasionally chimed in. One thing they never really talked about was each of their reasons for going into prostitution. Not for the first time he wondered how someone like Lucy ended up where she did, and the temptation to ask hit him like an angry beetle. He clamped it down and instead took her hand.

“Eventually,” he said. “For tonight why don’t you work the door? Lure people in with your pretty face and the rest of the girls will pick them clean.”

Lucy looked back up, smiling while Razia just laughed. “Pick them clean? What are we, a bunch of gluttonfish?”

They walked inside to find the rest of the girls in the atrium. The majority of them were relaxing on the couches, while Jenna paced back and forth, her footsteps squeaking occasionally on the tile. Quentin went around to the lone overstuffed chair that was to be his throne, of sorts. It was big enough for two people, but when he sat in it alone he looked so much more important. At least, that’s what Razia told him. Image was everything in this business, and more and more he was doing his best to look the part.

Quentin threw his cloak over the back and sank into the plush cushions. Razia joined him, sitting sideways on the arm of the chair and leaning against him. “You doing okay, Jenna?” she asked. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”

Jenna made a frustrated sound. “I know you said we could afford to charge more,” she said, “but are you really, really sure? I mean, we used to charge like maybe a third of this when we were out on our own. What if they just walk out on us?”

Razia nudged Quentin. He was in charge, he just had to pretend. “Then they walk out on us,” said Quentin, shrugging. “It’ll be their loss and you go a little bit longer without having to pretend they’re a world shatteringly good lover.”

They all shared a good laugh. If there’s one thing Quentin had been amused to find out after spending time among them, it was how many of their stories were all about stroking men’s egos. Some of them got straight up absurd, and they made Quentin grateful that his own hang-ups stopped him from making an ass of himself the same way.

“It’ll be fiiiine,” Samantha waved it off. “Back in the Silk Lounge, this is about double what most people would pay for me. If mercs and bounty hunters and thieves were willing to pay that there, we’ll definitely find men who can afford us.”

Razia chimed in with, “And those prices are a suggestion. You’re free to set your own price, that’s just a baseline. We’ve talked about this before, but I want to reiterate. If they just want a blowjob or something similar, it’s not bad to accept less to get him off and out of here sooner. But if they want full service complete with cuddling and emotional validation, you know what you’re worth and you shouldn’t settle for any less.”

Her words seemed to work. Jenna stopped her pacing and sat down next to Lynne. That reminded Quentin. “Where’s Isa?” he asked. Sure enough, Lynne’s eyes narrowed at the mention of her name.

“Staying in her room,” said Lynne evenly. “Said she wanted to focus and get ready without any distractions. I’m not complaining. If she keeps biting my head off for existing, she’s going to scare people off.”

Samantha and Razia began talking at the same time before trailing off. It had been a source of argument over the past few days, but no real solution had been reached. In any group there were going to be some clashes, and they were lucky enough that this was the only real problem they faced. Jenna was laid back and took things as they came, Samantha was good natured to a fault, and Lucy was handling things better than Quentin would have, in her situation. Only Isa continued to try to hurt her, to punish her.

“I’ll check on her,” Quentin said, surprising everyone, including himself. She tried to fight with him almost as much as she did with Lynne, but it was hard to take offense at it. Quentin recognized masking fear with anger when he saw it. He stood, and Razia slid down to take over his seat sideways. He raised an eyebrow at her, but she just smiled and put her hands behind her head, getting comfy.

Quentin rapped on the door gently. A few seconds later Isa called out something that sounded vaguely annoyed. Well, at least he had the right door. Throwing caution to the wind, he opened the door and slipped inside. Each of them had decorated their rooms as they saw fit, and Isa’s room was the first thing that really reminded him that she was Ramali. There was one of her people’s traditional rugs on the ground, and hangings from the ceiling that made the inside almost feel like a luxurious tent. Isa herself sat at a vanity, applying makeup in front of the mirror. “What is it?” she demanded, pressing her lips together on a thin cloth, blotting the excess paints off.

“Just checking on you,” said Quentin, as neutrally as possible. “We’re basically open for the night and I wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“So you can make as much money as possible?”

“So you can,” Quentin sighed. “Are you okay though? You’ve been different the past few days.”

Isa turned around and stood up. She was nearly as tall as he was, though her raised sandals helped a lot with that. She was more dressed up than he’d ever seen her before, and her sharp, angular features weren’t sneering at him. For the first time, Quentin could truly appreciate her appeal. “Have I started any fights? Yelled at anyone? Done anything wrong?”

“Outside of Lynne once, no,” said Quentin. “And that’s why we’re worried. You’ve been subdued. Are you nervous?”

“About what? This will be no different than the other places I’ve worked,” she said with a sniff. “The only difference is we’re hoping for people of a higher quality. Which means you should really be watching out for Samantha and Jenna. If anyone is going to fuck it up with wealthier men by acting like street whores, it’ll be one of those two.”

There was the old Isa he knew. Quentin smiled, which always seemed to annoy her. “Good to know. But I think Samantha’s too attractive to put people off. Jenna though? I’ll keep an eye out for her.” As far as he was concerned, that was good enough and he probably wouldn’t need to worry about Isa. He turned to leave, but stopped. “You look really good tonight,” he said, unsure of why he was bothering.

To his surprise, Isa didn’t scoff or sneer or tell him to fuck off. She looked as surprised as he did before she drew herself up. “Of course I do,” she said. “But so do you. Black and gold works for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, surprised.

When he returned to the atrium, the first customers of the night were there. A middle aged man and his son, who looked to be in his late teens. The father looked all around at all of the hanging plants and the tapestries hanging from the walls. The room was colorful, but there was a focus of green, a sign of luxury and liveliness in the desert. The son’s eyes were firmly locked on the girls.

“Welcome,” said Razia, slipping out of Quentin’s chair. “Welcome to the Moonlit Garden. How may we best serve you?”

The young man looked overjoyed just to be there. His father smiled at him knowingly before turning to Razia. “I’m here for my son, Jason.” He clasped Jason’s shoulder roughly. “He’s never been with a woman before.”

Almost like they’d rehearsed it, the girls started talking all at once.

“Ooh, this one’s mine.”

“Dibs!”

“Oh, I love virgins!”

Quentin bit back some laughter. When the girls were at work, they were completely different people and it never ceased to amuse him. “Looks like Jason’s spoiled for options,” he said, stepping forward.

The man saw Quentin and flinched. Quentin didn’t hold it against him. He closed the distance and offered his hand. “Mr. Q. I own the place. Your son will be in good hands here.”

Like usual, his hand was stared at while the man debated whether or not to touch him. In the end he did, giving Quentin a quick shake before withdrawing. “Stavos,” he said. He nudged Jason and said, “Go mingle and figure out who you want.”

By unspoken agreement, he and Quentin stepped away from the group. There were a few seconds of awkward silence before he remembered that he was supposed to be more social. Quentin wasn’t fully sure of the character he was supposed to be, but it all started with pretending. “What do you do, Stavos?” he asked. “How did you find out about us?”

“Advocate,” he said, grateful to have something familiar to talk about. “I work for the magistrate. Funny enough, that’s how I heard about this place, this Moonlit Garden. We got complaints about you.” Quentin sighed, which made Stavos chuckle. “Yeah. It got people talking, and here we are. Jason’s just been approved for an apprenticeship. He wants to be an advocate too.”

“Ah, so it’s a celebration as well as a deflowering,” said Quentin, nodding. “You picked the right place. I can promise you that we’re clean, discreet, and my girls are dedicated to performing.” And from the warm feeling in his chest, he realized he not only meant it, but he was proud of his girls.

Over on the couches, Jason sat between Samantha and Lynne, with his arms around both and a big, stupid smile on his face. Samantha was talking animatedly, keeping her hand on his thigh while Lynne had hers on his chest. “Looks like he has good taste,” said Quentin, nodding towards them.

Stavos laughed. “They’re gonna overwhelm him. It’ll be the best 30 seconds of his life. Any chance of getting a drink?”

“Of course. Tricia!” Quentin called out. Shortly after, Tricia came out of the kitchen, where she had been reading. After some discussion with her and Samantha, it was decided that she’d work there, if not as a whore. Quentin was more than happy to have an excuse to give Tricia a job that paid and kept her close. Tricia stopped a few feet away, cocking her head to the side. “What’ll it be?” Quentin asked.

“You got any good wines?”

Quentin smirked. “Depends. Cheap wine is free. The good stuff, it’ll be added to your tab.”

Stavos shrugged. “To be expected. If I walk away with any shards left by the end of the night I’ll be surprised.”

“Tricia, please bring Mr. Stavos here a cup of Salucci’s. And one for me as well.”

“Sure thing.”

This was something new, something unfamiliar about the job. In the past, Quentin largely just sat back and let people come to them and they made their choices. He was just there to bust heads if they got grabby and lay down the rules. Here, it seemed like he wasn’t just a protector, he was a salesman. It wasn’t just Razia’s job to talk to people and make them comfortable anymore. Taking the cup of wine from the returning Tricia, he felt another odd surge of pride. Maybe he could do this.

“Oh, that’s good,” Stavos said, smacking his lips. “Might have to have a few while Jason has his fun.”

“No fun for you, then?” Quentin asked, taking a sip.

“I guess that depends, Mr. Q,” said Stavos. He pointed to Samantha and Lynne. Jason currently had his hand on one of Samantha’s breasts and looked like he was going to overheat. “What’s this going to cost me?”

The girls could set their own prices, but Samantha trusted him implicitly and Lynne didn’t have much choice for the next while. They’d discussed the various price points and options for hours - until Quentin was at the point of feeling his brains leaking out his ears. This was on him, to make the offer. “That depends, Stavos. How much do you want to spoil your boy?”

The man laughed, shaking his head. “Oh boy. Let’s say, a lot. He’s my only child and he’s worked his ass off this past year. He deserves the best. This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”

On the other side of the atrium, more guests showed up. Razia went forward to greet them, spreading her arms and linking them around the two mens’ as she led them in. Quentin couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but he trusted her to handle it. Just like she trusted him. “Here’s my offer, Stavos. Because you’re our first customer and your son deserves the best…Both girls for a few hours, a girl for you, and all the wine you can drink for two aquilos.”

Stavos’ eyes widened comically. Quentin almost immediately wanted to take it back. It was Razia who came up with the prices, and Quentin deferred to her expertise. It all still seemed like a lot to him, but it was all part of pretending. Seeing Stavos reconsidering, Quentin cleared his throat and added, “If your son isn’t perfectly satisfied, I’ll knock five castura off. Call it a friendly wager that we’re that good.”

He considered it, taking another drink of wine. Maybe it was the wine that sold him, because Stavos sighed and shrugged. “Fuck it. He only becomes a man once. It’s bound to be better than my first time.”

Quentin flashed him a grin. “You both will limp away satisfied.” He left the man there and went for the couches. He motioned with his head for Samantha and Lynne to come with him. They got up, leaving a very disappointed looking teenage boy looking after them longingly.

“What’s up Mr. Q?” Samantha asked.

“I made an offer to the boy’s father. 2 aquilos for you two to double up on the kid for as long as he can keep going. That’ll be four castura a piece after the house cut. That acceptable?”

“I dunno,” said Lynne, smiling wryly. “Teenagers can go for a while.” But she wasn’t serious. “Sounds good to me. Cheers to us, huh?”

“Cheers,” Quentin echoed. The two of them went back to the couch and pulled Jason to his feet. He looked happy enough with his choice more or less made for him. Quentin turned and saw Stavos was already talking up Jenna. One of the two newbies was gone, and the other was sitting next to Isa, talking animatedly while she had her ‘I’m tolerating this’ look. Then he met Razia’s gaze.

She cocked her head to the side and Quentin shrugged. He realized after the fact that he had a big smile on his face, and some of the built up fears weren’t there anymore. They could do this, and they’d be way more successful than out on the town. He was happy. Of course, that’s when the gods decided to ruin it for him.

“What a place you have here, Mr. Q,” an amused, almost smug voice said. Quentin turned to see Mr. Cicero standing there, flanked by two bodyguards. The king of the Orchrisan underworld spread his hands and said, almost apologetically, “I think we’re due for a talk.”