Page 11 of The Wind Dancer
I unfolded the paper, but it was impossible to make out what it said in the dim lantern light. Clenching the note, I shoved it into my pocket. I’d figure it out later. Right now, I urgently needed to grab a drink and clean my wounds.
The tavern door creaked when I pushed it with my shoulder. As usual, I was greeted by a thick cloud of tobacco smoke mixed with the smell of fried meat, rice wine, sweat, and drugs. Everyone who had something to hide came here, under the low ceilings strung with paper lanterns that cast an amber glow.
Long wooden tables covered with worn tablecloths were stacked with bowls of noodles, drinking cups, and smoking pipes. In the corner, on a small stage, musicians were playing stringed instruments, their relaxed melody barely heard over the chatter. There were merchants, tramps, mercenaries, and even some people who hid their faces with wide brimmed hats or masks. The conversations were quiet, tense, as if they were worried the wrong person might overhear them.
The bar was made of dark wood and was covered with scratches and old stains. Behind it stood the bartender, a tall man with a scarred face. His hands moved quickly and confidently, re-filling wine cups, pouring soup, and taking orders practically at the same time. There were weapons on the wall behind him — daggers, swords, and even a pair of crossbows. In case someone was stupid enough to break the rules. He had served two whole terms at the Perimeter.
Catching the bartender’s attentive gaze, I nodded in greeting and jerked my head toward the first floor. He responded with a slight nod, which told me everything was in order and I could go up whenever I wanted.
But I needed a drink first.
I went to the bar and he immediately put a cup of hot rice wine in front of me. I drank, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread through my body, and looked around the room. No one was looking in my direction, but I knew that everyone was paying attention to the rest of the guests. I wanted to reach into my pocket, where the note was. What was it? A warning? A threat? Or just scribblings of a senile old man?
The wine filled me with that warm pleasant feeling. This day had been too long. Too bloody. I had never killed so manypeople before, and the scariest part was that I did it so naturally and easily, that I felt uneasy. Quickly, I dismissed these thoughts and motioned for another cup. The bartender poured it without a word, handed it to me along with my key and left to serve another customer.
I went up to the first floor, leaving the noise of the tavern behind. The hallway was narrow, and the walls were covered with worn wallpaper the patterns of which had almost fully faded. The doors of the rooms were shut tightly, keeping the lives and secrets of their current owners private. I found mine — number seven. The key rattled in the lock, and I went inside.
The room was small but cozy. The wooden floor creaked slightly underfoot, and in the corner was a bed with a thick mattress and a nice cover. I lit the lantern on the table, its light reflected in the mirror hanging on the wall. I threw my jacket on the chair and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a wave of fatigue wash over me. I had to get myself cleaned up first though.
I went out into the hallway and stopped a passing servant.
“A bath, a healer, and a change of clothes,” I said, thrusting a couple of coins into his hand. “Quickly.”
He nodded and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. I went back into the room, gathered my freshly stained clothes and put them away. There would be more work for Mother Ho.
A few minutes later, the servant returned and escorted me to the prepared bath. It was a small room full of thick steam. In the center was a wooden bath filled with hot water, which was surrounded by jugs of oils, herbs, and salts. There were mats on the floor and a clothes hook on the wall. I left my towel there and then got in the steamy bath. The hot water pleasantly tingled myskin. I closed my eyes, feeling the tension gradually drain from my body.
After a while, the bathroom door opened. I didn’t immediately open my eyes, assuming that the servant had brought something for the bath. But the footsteps were too light, almost inaudible.
I opened my eyes and saw her.
The woman standing in the doorway was breathtaking. For a heartbeat, I forgot the hot bath, my aching muscles, and the blood I had spilled.
The thin robe she had on did little to hide how perfect her figure was. She was tall, with long legs, and her curves were soft, feminine. Her long, slightly damp hair fell onto her shoulders, delicately framing a face with graceful features. Dark eyes as deep as the night looked at me with curiosity, and her full lips twitched as though she was about to say something. Her skin was glistening as though she had come from a bath herself.
To the Demons with the brothel, what did I need to do to be with her?
“Did you come to rub my back?” I attempted a joke, or a flirt if she took it as such.
“I’m a healer,” she said, her voice quiet but confident. “My name is Mei Lin.”
I nodded, trying to think of something to say. She came closer, her movements smooth and elegant. She was holding a small basket with herbs and oils. I could smell the light scent of jasmine coming from her.
“Show me the wound,” she said, kneeling down next to the tub.
I raised my arm, showing the cut on my side. She bent down, her hair brushing lightly against my skin. I felt chills go through me. Her deft slender fingers carefully moved over the wound as she examined it.
“It’s not deep,” she began. “But it needs to be cleaned so it doesn’t get infected. Same goes for the one on your arm, but your shoulder is worse.”
She took out a bottle of oily liquid from the basket and began to gently cover the wound before stitching. Her touch was soft but confident. I closed my eyes, feeling the pain gradually ease.
“Do you get into fights often?” she asked, not looking up from her work. Her voice was so soothing I could almost swear it was doing more for my pain than the actual treatment.
“On occasion... I haven’t seen you here before,” I said, looking into her dark eyes.
She smiled, and I felt something inside me stir. There was something magnetic about her, not just her beauty, but something far deeper.
“Done,” she said, ignoring my question. She was an incredible healer. “You need to rest and take the stitches out in a week.”
