The Folded Lily, Chapter One

Tags: Plot.

	It was finally happening; I thought with relief as the guard checked the last of the caravan’s paperwork and waved us through the village gates onto the open road. It had been an interesting three months since my mom had unexpectedly passed away in her sleep. Almost immediately debtors descended upon our small ranch and to pay them off I had to sell the property and acreage and horses and even the small bit of jewelry mom still possessed from father and his own cittern. Of course that had left me with nothing to my name but the small amount of clothes that I could stuff in a sack and an empty belly. Broke and homeless, I quickly found work serving drinks at the local tavern in exchange for a bedroll in the attic and three meals a day. That worked fine for a time, but the owner, a portly man by the name of Adam, seemed to think that I could do more for his business and had come to see me one night after a nine hour shift of getting my sixteen year old butt pinched by a bar full of drunken patrons that have known me since I was in nappies.

	“Lucia,” said Adam, patting his glistening bald spot with a maroon handkerchief as he entered the washroom behind the kitchen. Adam was a portly man with circular glasses resting atop a wide nose. His moustache was thick and gray and stretched back to join with even thicker mutton chops.
	I looked up from the silver serving tray I had been polishing to a mirror finish, and turned around after setting the tray on the counter next to the wash basin. “Yes, sir, what do you need?” I asked, always polite to this man who held my livelihood in the palm of his chubby hands. 
	“Nothing, nothing,” he said, waving a hand airily. The silence stretched uncomfortably and I made to turn back around and continue my cleaning tasks so I could get upstairs, wash the day’s sweat off with a rag, and get a few hours of sleep before I opened the tavern in the morning, but he caught my attention once more and asked abruptly: “Do you know about our side business, Lucia?”
	I blinked. Surely he wasn’t talking about… I had heard rumors, of course; the tavern got enough sailors from Oceana that it had gained a bit of a reputation amongst the citizenry. That is to say that some of the serving wenches could, if properly… persuaded… be convinced to take a man or men to the private rooms and… satisfy their urges.
I felt my face flame scarlet. I was a stranger to sex; a distant acquaintance at most. I hadn’t bothered touching myself down there since before mother died; I had simply been too busy to worry about self-gratification. 
Adam nodded and smiled, probably in an attempt to put me at ease.
	It wasn’t helping, my face burned and I swept my brown hair behind my ear, a nervous tick from my childhood.
	“For the last few days now, I’ve been getting many requests for your participation in our… side business.”
	My head shot up and I stared at him. “Me,” I asked, “why?” I was nothing special, especially compared to some of the other servers who had buxom down to an art. I was shorter than average, merely five foot and three inches, and my hair fell limply to the bottom of my shoulder blades; my skin was far too pale and freckled in the sun. I wore glasses and had plain brown eyes and I couldn’t quite figure out the heels like the other girls and without them it probably looked like I had a flat butt. My chest wasn’t bad but I was already sixteen and they were barely a handful for me so they’d probably look pathetic if a sailor or mercenary or adventurer tried to palm them with their grown-man hands.
	“You are pretty cute, Lu,” said Adam, using the diminutive form of my name, something I had always found irksome when the person using it wasn’t family or a close friend. His eyes slid down my body, lingering on the bit of cleavage the bodice of my uniform left visible. “I think you could make a lot of money if you could cure your inexperience.”
There was something in his tone, something suggestive; was he asking me to… with him? “I-I don’t know, sir,” I said hesitantly, hoping I wasn’t about to get myself fired. “Mom always talked about how she and dad had only ever loved one another and I kinda want that for me, y’know.” 
	His shoulders visibly deflated but his face remained placid. “Of course,” he said and I sighed a bit in relief; I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath, “ask the other women what their day-to-day is like and if you ever change your mind come talk to me; my door will always be open.”

	“Yeah,” I mumbled as the wagon I was sitting in started its procession out of the town, “I bet it would be, pervert.”
The beaten dirt road out of the town turned almost immediately towards the south west, away from the little fishing village I had grown up in and towards Aterra’s capital city. The capitol was called Lux Aetorum, the City of Light, and was home to hundreds of thousands of people from many different races including King Jowan and the House of Wizards who advised him. I had never been there, but I had read about it in my father’s journals. According to dad’s writings, the immediate power of Lux Aetorum was in the hands of the dozens of guilds who employed the vast majority of working-class peoples, with the King only really worrying himself with matters of international concern. 
	I sighed and rubbed my chin as the cart went over a stone jutting from the dirt road, shaking me from my thoughts. Looking behind, I could see my little village disappearing over the horizon. I had managed to spirit away enough tip money to afford my spot in the caravan but it wouldn’t last me long once I got to the capitol. I’d have to get a job, which meant registering with a guild, but which one? It would need to be one that governed a career path I felt the most comfortable with. Groaning, I stretched out and picked up my pack; I had been so nervous that morning that I had skipped breakfast, but I was really feeling my hunger now, so I rummaged around in my canvas bag and pulled a fresh green apple from its spacious depths. 
Savoring its crisp tartness in the mid-morning sun, I couldn’t help but feel that whatever awaited me in Lux Aetorum would have to be better than prostituting myself to fishermen and privateers.

	The caravan traveled for days in the same southwestern direction, stopping twice daily to feed and water ourselves and the horses. We left the coast behind, the sounds of gulls fading with the end of that first day, and passed along the outskirts of the Greenwood, a long, yet thin forest. An easterly wind blew the scents of sweetness with an undercurrent of earthy decay across my nose as we passed.
	After leaving the shadow of the Greenwood the road veered more to the west for a few leagues and then south again. By this point the sun was setting and the sky was more orange and purple than blue, so the head of our caravan called a halt to the day’s progress. Fires were quickly erected and soon cooking meat could be smelt on the smoky wind. 
My stomach rumbled; I hadn’t been able to afford any fresh meat (and if I could I wouldn’t have had any place to store it) and suddenly my leathery strips of salt-cured venison seemed wholly unsatisfying. Taking a moment to wander through the camp, my pack thrown over my shoulder so as to keep an eye on all my worldly belongings, I nodded greetings to some of the people I had had friendly words with on our travels. I wasn’t too proud to turn down any offered food or courtesy. Unfortunately for me, it seemed as though the other parties were all guarding their food stores as jealously as I did my meager pack and I returned to the wagon feeling just as hungry as before we stopped.
	The next day we finally met up with another group of people. We were within two days of the capitol and my pack was worryingly light. I had been careful with my supplies, but that had not been enough and I was thinking that I might have to buy some from another party at a markup, when the caravan slowly ground to a halt. Shading my eyes from the sun, I stood in the wagon and saw a dust cloud steadily growing larger as it approached. Ignoring the nervous mutters of bandits, for I had spied the caravan’s hired guards relaxing their stance as they recognized the other group, I threw my pack over my shoulder and jumped off the wagons, being sure to hold the skirt of my dress down.
	I arrived at the front of the caravan in time to see the driver shaking hands with a person who very clearly wasn’t human, the first of another race I had ever seen. With the head, arms and torso of a human male and the lower body of a rust-colored horse I realized from my father’s journals that I was seeing my first centaur. He had a strong face with a wide nose and a square jaw and the hair atop his head was the same color as his body, but it was thick and curly and caught the midday sun like amber. Word soon spread amongst the different parties and wagons that our guests were merely a traveling trade camp; a group of people who made a living selling wares to wanderers, adventurers, and caravans like mine. The driver called an early halt to the day’s procession and shook hands with the centaur, before leaving to set up his own tent.
	In under an hour both groups were sprawled out while the peoples mingled freely. I found myself counting out the small bunch of coins I still had to my name, figuring now would be a good time to look at their stock. I passed quickly erected stalls where male and female centaurs who garbed their human halves in colorful shawls and draped beads were hawking their wares, drawing attention to this trinket or that bauble and telling grand stories to any who would listen about how wizards had ensorcelled their rare artifacts and how great warriors once wielded their blades.
	I had always been a practical girl and was more interested in food than swords so I paid little attention to them until I heard someone calling out to me directly: “Oi, you, the pretty girl in the olive dress!” 
	I looked down; sure enough the knee-length skirt of my dress was a grayish-green color. Whipping my head around for the source of the voice, I saw a shrewd-looking male centaur with dark hair and eyes and a thick beard staring directly at me. He stood behind a waist high (for a human) table containing different bits and bobs. 
	Cursing the politeness that my mother had drilled into me, I wandered over to talk to the centaur. “Hello?" 
	He grinned. “Hello, lass, I just saw you walking by alone and thought that you might need a bit of help.”
	“Help?” I asked. I had gotten by fairly well since my mom died (rest her soul) and was feeling pretty confident in my ability to rely on myself.
	The centaur smoothed his hair back and smiled and I felt myself smiling back in enquiry. “I don’t know how it is in human culture, young one, but in a centaur tribe even the foals have a means to defend themselves.” He gestured towards the table where an assortment of blades rested in their scabbards. There were short swords one could wield in one hand with a shield in the other and great swords that required one to use both hands. There were straight edged ones and some with a gentle curve and still more that looked like a large farming sickle. He had knives of different sizes, the shortest of which was no longer than my hand to daggers that were almost swords themselves! He had blunt weapons as well, hanging along the wall; hammers and maces to crush and rend rather than slice and stab. He also sold things that were not weapons at all but were supplies that no adventurer should do without; packs of oiled leather and canvas and a set of cooking pans that were lightweight and stacked tightly so as to take up less room.
	I admit that if I wasn’t so pressed for money I might consider buying something to more effectively protect myself, for I was going to be one of many in the city and alone at that, but I needed to solve my immediate problems first. “D-do you stock food?”
	He frowned a bit, probably in fear of losing his sale. “No food, young one,” he said, stroking his hairy chin, “you’ll have to try a different centaur for consumables.” 
	He made to turn away when a new voice spoke up and I felt a presence to my right. “I agree with the trader, lass,” he said; his voice was a deep tenor and had a hint of an accent that made me think of islands, “Everyone should have a blade, especially unescorted womenfolk.” 
	The new man had dark hair a shade or two lighter than the centaur’s own black mane and had stormy gray eyes. He had tanned skin and his own beard was trimmed neatly. He had two gold studs in each ear and a thick-limbed bow slung across his back along with a quiver full of arrows, their fletching the russet color of a hawk’s feather. He wore a jerkin of brown leather over a green tunic and dark breeches tucked into well-worn boots. Attached to his belt I saw a hatchet and a long knife; both showed signs of frequent use.
	“And you are?” I demanded of this nosey stranger, hands on my hips. 
	He raised his hands in surrender and leaned back as though cowering before me. 
	I scowled; unamused at his teasing.
	“Keaton,” he said, whipping an imaginary hat off his head and bowing with a flourish, “Huntsman by trade, temporarily guarding this caravan for a free ride to the capital.”
	“I’m Lucia, currently without trade – though looking to change that upon arrival at Lux Aetorum,” I said, giving a small curtsey and then gesturing to the centaur, “If you heard him trying to sell me a blade then you must’ve heard me ask for food. How can I justify a weapon I might never use against feeding myself for the rest of the journey?” I smiled. “We can’t all be skilled hunters-turned-guardsman.”
	Keaton grinned, as though he had expected to be ignored and was pleased with my question. “I should hope a fair lady such as you should never have to defend yourself and would always be able to look to your menfolk for protection.” He shrugged and said: “Alas, for this dangerous world in which we live nothing is assured.”
	I stifled a giggle behind a hand; for a woodsman he was remarkably well spoken. “And that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it, Master Keaton - to keep me safe?”
	He grinned hugely and he suddenly looked my age instead of a man in his mid-twenties. “Of course,” he boasted, “just last night, my compatriots and I routed a sirian raid!” My eyes went wide behind my glasses and he must’ve realized that he had spoken sensitive information because his smile became brittle. “But enough of that,” he said, putting an arm around my shoulders and directing me to the table of weapons while the trader looked on with amused patience; “why don’t you pick out a blade, I’ll help you choose one suited to your slight frame.”
	I shrugged his arm off my shoulders; a sirian raid was ill news and no news to brush off. Sirian slavers are a savage, dog-like peoples who preferred the mountainous terrain of the north. To hear that a war band had made it so far south and had indeed come so close to the caravan was frightening.
	Suddenly the idea of a blade didn’t seem so absurd. 
	“Come now, Lucia,” said Keaton, “It’s fine; we killed a good number of them and drove the rest away. We have watchers posted and many fine warriors to protect all of you. You are all perfectly safe.” Suddenly he smiled, and leaned over the table. After searching for a moment, he plucked a dagger from the selection and slipped it from its sheath with a whisper of sharpened steel. It was a straight blade; nearly half-a-foot long and gleaming in the tall torches that had been pounded into the ground and had a simple crossguard to protect the hand. The handle was wrapped in darkened leather and it had a circular pommel. The sheath itself was made of a dark wood and had steel banding and a hook to clip it to a belt. He slipped the blade back into the scabbard and handed it to me. “Hold this,” he said before turning back to the centaur and pulling the drawstring on his money pouch. Keaton quickly counted out three silver bits and gave them to the centaur who accepted them with a smile.
	Keaton then once more threw an arm around my shoulders and fairly dragged me after him. We had made it nearly twenty feet when I realized three things. One: The dagger had been for me as he hadn’t asked for it back. Two: It was meant as a bribe so I didn’t start spreading the news of the sirian near-raid. Three: I was being dragged who-knows-where by a strange man I just met; a man who might have ideas about what a young woman might owe him. Raising my boot, I slammed the heel down on his toes. 
	Keaton quickly let me go to grasp at his foot, yowling in pain, and I just about ran towards my wagon. Adrenaline pumping and head pounding, I didn’t see when an armored body stepped in front of my path to knock me to the ground. 
	Wincing, I looked up and saw that it was not a man who knocked me over; it was a woman. She was tall and, as I judged from all the metal it took to make her armor and the large two-handed greatsword resting in a frog on her back, very wealthy. She had deep auburn hair done up in a bun and olive-toned skin. Icy blue eyes peered down at me in concern and she offered a gauntleted hand. “Are you all right?” she asked, and I gulped when this formidable woman had the same faint accent as Keaton.