Chương 215: 33. Investigation in the Pleasure Quarter 2

By the time I'd gotten properly dressed and been half-pushed, half-herded out of the inn by Jessi, the sun was well up. Morning light cleared the harbor rooftiles and spilled onto the street below—and onto the head of one wretched emergency envoy who should, by every law of gods and men, still be horizontal, but was instead being conscripted straight back into national service. I yawned so hard my soul briefly considered relocating.

"So where exactly are we investigating today?" I complained as we walked, voice steeped in a fundamental distrust of the universe.

"I'm an envoy. I'm supposed to be doing diplomacy. Instead I'm doing detective work, and not even getting a nap in between. If the Kingdom of Eckhaus keeps running its diplomatic corps like this, we're going to go extinct from overwork before any war finishes the job."

"I can help you sleep," Alvira said, one hand resting on her hilt, voice devoid of warmth.

"Permanently." I woke up about halfway.

"No thanks. I'm not ready to retire in quite that peaceful a manner just yet."

"Young master." Jessi cut cleanly through the daily exchange between Alvira and me—the kind that regularly teetered on the edge of becoming a coroner's report—and went straight to business.

"Today is young master's favorite kind of investigation." A profoundly bad premonition bloomed in my chest. Jessi stopped walking, turned with a bright smile, and gestured behind her. I followed her hand. And went silent. The red-light district of Iscapubla Harbor was waiting for me in full morning glory, wide awake and entirely unashamed of it.

"…Don't say it like I enjoy brothel-hopping." I rubbed the back of my head and accepted the list Jessi handed over, which looked less like an itinerary and more like a writ of execution. One glance made my eyelid twitch.

"Thirty-two brothels, fifteen songhouses, nineteen… Quickie inns…" I paused, looked up at her.

"They sell food here too?" Jessi blinked. Then burst out laughing, the full-shoulder kind.

"If I hadn't been with you from the very beginning, young master," she said, wiping tears of laughter away, "I would absolutely think you were playing dumb." Alvira had already turned her face away, as if even looking at me was a personal embarrassment. By the time the three of us stepped into the red-light district, the sun had only just cleared the rooftops, but the entire street was already wide awake, as if it had never gone to sleep at all—which, to be fair, it probably hadn't.

They called it a red-light district. Honestly, the place looked less respectable by day than by night. At night you could at least blame the lanterns, the wine, and the moonlight for conspiring against you. Daytime offered no such excuse. The signboards were clearer, the rouge more obvious, the women at the windows smiled with a more efficient economy of effort, and even the boys splashing water at the doorsteps wore the expression of people may have died last night, but business waits for no one.

Port lockdown, a fire outside the walls, a dead governor, an all-night interrogation at the command post—anywhere else, that combination would have kept a city holding its breath for three days. On this street, it barely qualified as breakfast conversation. I looked down at the death-warrant-shaped list in my hands and sighed again.

"Thirty-two brothels, fifteen songhouses, nineteen Quickie inns…" I pressed two fingers to my temple.

"Is this workload not deeply disrespectful to the office of envoy? I feel less like I'm conducting diplomacy and more like I'm doing year-end inventory for the Harbor Authority."

"If you were ever actually this diligent about year-end inventory," Jessi said around a bite of bread, "I'd start suspecting you'd been swapped for an imposter."

"I'd honestly welcome being swapped. Preferably for a version that doesn't get tired and has a sweeter mouth."

"The ladies of the harbor would be devastated," she said.

"Why?"

"Because that wouldn't be you anymore, young master." I was about to tell her that was oddly touching when Alvira's voice cut in, cold as harbor water.

"Quiet. Move." I glanced at her. She was immaculate as ever—hair bound back, shoulders straight, radiating an expression of "why am I standing in a place like this" disgust that outshone the morning sun itself. Drop Jessi and me on this street alone, and any passerby would reasonably assume we were here for the usual reasons. Alvira read entirely differently.

Standing here, she looked like an elven rapier someone had accidentally dropped into a powder compact—radiating, from hilt to tip, one unmistakable message: I don't belong here. But whoever touches me will belong to the grave. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Honestly, on that face alone, she could probably out-price half the women standing in doorways along this street. I decided not to say that out loud. Not while her hand was resting on the hilt, anyway.

"Fine, fine, moving." I folded the list back into my coat and surveyed the street.

"Which one first?"

"Wherever it's easiest to reach officials, wealthy merchants, and foreign traders, obviously," Jessi said, pointing with her bread roll.

"Skip the pure flesh markets for now. Start with the places that also do performances, private dining, and reserved rooms. More foot traffic, messier ledgers, easier to hide a false name."

"You keep impressing me," I said, genuinely.

"You've just been following me around, and somehow you've developed the instincts of an underground investigator."

"Thank you, young master." Her smile was immaculate.

"I'll try very hard not to take that as an insult." We walked deeper in. The further we went, the more elaborate the buildings became. The outer ring was cheap, honest establishments—red curtains, half-worn door panels. A block further, the signboards gained gilded trim, the window lattices were carved with birds and flowers, and incense burners and copper basins flanked entrances that were unmistakably in the business of "respectable" clientele only. The women here no longer simply stood at the door.

Some leaned over second-floor railings, laughing behind folding fans. Some sang half a phrase through gauze curtains, enough to slow the pedestrians below without their quite realizing why. Others dressed almost conservatively, and hid every last suggestion of what lay beneath in the precise angle of a turn. These were the dangerous ones. You know perfectly well they're fishing. You look twice anyway. And most men start losing from the exact moment they take that second look.

"Don't stare too long, young master," Jessi remarked lazily beside me.

"Any longer and I'll start wondering if you're here to investigate or to open a tab."

"This is called professional observation."

"The woman you've been professionally observing has stood in that same window for three consecutive days. Did your professional observation determine that her right false lash sits slightly higher than her left?"

"…Why are you observing that closely?"

"Because I'm not a man. My eyes are free to do actual work." I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Some people you don't lose arguments with because you can't win—you lose because opening your mouth only widens their margin of victory. Alvira walked ahead, treating every stray glance as if it were simply weather. Which, naturally, drew more of them.

At least three madams, one manager, and two probable bouncers turned to look at her as we passed—not the way you look at a beautiful woman, but the way you look at a flawless piece of jade that has just washed ashore, provenance unknown, quality unmistakable. A quiet, unpleasant premonition stirred in my gut. Naturally, it came true. We had barely crossed the threshold of a songhouse bearing the plaque Azure Silk Pavilion when the madam running the floor lit up like she'd been struck by lightning.

She wasn't young, but her makeup was applied with unshakable precision—green cross-collar jacket, gold hairpins, two strings of fine bells chiming at her wrists as she moved without a single wasted step. She looked exactly like an old fox who could balance a ledger, eat a man alive, and still sell his corpse for a fair price afterward. The instant she saw Alvira, her eyes went blank for a heartbeat, then bloomed into a face-splitting smile as she swept forward.

"Oh, thank heaven, you're finally here!" She seized Alvira's wrist with the natural ease of someone greeting an old friend over tea.

"I thought Frost Miss had stood me up again! Quick, girl, the gentlemen upstairs have been waiting, the musician's about to bite clean through his strings from nerves—" Alvira went rigid on the spot. In the next instant, I practically heard something crack behind her forehead.

"Let go," she said, ice-cold. The madam, apparently deaf to funeral bells, kept smiling and looking her over.

"Such a voice too—what presence! A touch cold, perhaps, but cold has its price. The clients love the kind that pricks when you get too close—""I said. Let go." This time even I caught the temperature drop in Alvira's voice—the kind that doesn't threaten, it simply informs you your next few seconds are about to get considerably worse. I stepped in fast.

"Wait, wait, you may have the wrong—" I genuinely meant to finish with person. I really did. But in that exact moment, my eyes caught the shape of the room. Wide front hall. Multiple private rooms upstairs. Backstage curtain half-drawn. Ledger desk positioned where it could be seen but not easily approached. This kind of layout was perfect for hiding internal accounts, room-rotation records, transfer logs—everything that looked like ordinary songhouse business on the surface and wasn't underneath.

And the madam had just mistaken Alvira for some elven substitute singer sent to fill a gap. An opening like this doesn't come twice. I swallowed the word person, rearranged my face into something that said I know how this works and would rather keep it quiet, and lowered my voice.

"…Not necessarily mistaken," I murmured.

"She's just difficult. She can sing—but don't let anyone touch her, and nothing too vulgar." Alvira's head snapped toward me fast enough to feel the wind. That look had already composted me for garden use. While the madam's attention was elsewhere, I mouthed two words at her, small and fast. Back room. Her eyelid twitched. Her expression went colder. But—she didn't kill me on the spot. Which meant we were still negotiating. Hearing me relent, the madam lit up like she'd struck a self-replenishing gold vein.

"Understood, understood—the more talent, the more temperament, that's only natural." She waved upstairs at once.

"Someone, take the lady up! No need to redo her face, just swap the shawl and—""No." Alvira didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. The madam absorbed the blow with impressive resilience and kept smiling.

"Fine, no changing then—even more character this way." I nearly choked on my own spit. Character? Madam, one more word and this entire building is about to develop a very bloody character. Alvira stood radiating an aura of "I could cut both of you down right now and sleep just fine afterward." I had no choice but to lean in and speak fast, low.

"Please. Just this once."

"You're dead."

"I know. Just—not today."

"If I go up there and sing—""It'll be the most expensive undercover performance in this harbor's history."

"Cedric."

"I swear. You do this one set, and I won't touch your age as a joke for at least three days." She narrowed her eyes.

"Only three?"

"…Five?"

"Seven."

"Deal." She stared at me two full seconds, clearly weighing whether pushing me off the second-floor railing would be too merciful. Finally, she turned, face carved from ice, and followed the two hostess girls up the stairs. Her back was straight, severe, carrying the resolve of someone marching off to slay a dragon. She did not look like a courtesan being invited on stage. She looked like a Valkyrie being marched to a sacrifice she'd never agreed to.