Page 104 of Thief of Silver and Souls

The structure Torstem headed into is tall, some four stories high, with small windows dotted across its side. Raucous male laughter booms from the nearest one. A whiff of pipe smoke reaches me from where the pane is cracked open.

That has the flavor of a gentlemen’s club. Is this all Torstem has gone off to do—engage in manly gossip and other indulgences?

I slink along the narrow path down the side of the building, checking for a window I can reach that isn’t cloaked by curtains. I’ve almost reached the rear of the building when a figure marches past from a back door, heading down the alley behind.

My feet stall beneath me. The simple tunic, trousers, and cap the man is wearing are those of a laborer, not a noble. But I know that resolute stride and silvered brown hair.

Ster. Torstem is only using this place as a front to slip off somewhere else. Somewhere he doesn’t want to be identified as a noble.

Nowthatis certainly a development worth following up on.

This is quite odd,Julita murmurs as I dart after the professor’s hurrying form.

I don’t dare speak now, but her remark is exactly why I need to find out what he’s up to. Because chances are, it’s nothing good.

The gentlemen’s club was around the center of the middle wards, a couple of streets over from the river. Torstem sneaks along a few alleyways, never realizing I’m creeping a safe distance behind him, and then seems to feel he’s gained enough distance to ease up on the caution.

Once he’s stepped out onto the proper streets, I can relax a little more too. I trail along at a distance, keeping an eye on the dented top of his cap but letting plenty of pedestrians pass between us.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, but the heavy clouds overhead hold on to their rain for now. The law professor crosses a bridge and hurries on through the dirtier streets that mark the start of the fringes.

We’re back in Siltston, though on the opposite side of the river from the orphanage. Is he taking a roundabout route there or heading to a different destination?

As we pass through dingier streets where fewer people have reason to be strolling, I let myself drift farther back. More grit from the ground flecks the skirt of my dress, but that only helps me fit in better.

Torstem veers down a strip of dreary storefronts, several of the front windows boarded up or papered over with the failing of the businesses. But the two-story structure at the end of the street appears to be doing all right.

Two dark-leafed trees sprout from its sides, melded with the walls, and cast their hunched branches over the patchwork of tiles on the vaulted roof. The door stands partly open, strains of music filtering from inside.

A minor conjuring winds around the sign above. It highlights the etched sigil of Ardone—godlen of love, beauty, and sensuality—and the place’s name: The Night’s Calling.

The logo shows a crescent moon framing a silhouette of a woman’s face. A placard next to the door lists the day’s specials—meals and mixed drinks—but I know that isn’t the main “calling” the place trades in.

Ster. Torstem walks straight inside.

A couple of women in dresses that do more to accentuate their curves than cover them brush past the gauzy curtains on the front window. Julita lets out a startled sound.Is that what I think it is?

“A brothel,” I murmur, dashing closer as quickly as I dare. “One of the outer wards’ more exclusive ones, as exclusive as anything in these parts gets.”

A brash female voice filters from inside, jovial with greeting. “Tomas! Good to see you again. Let me make sure your ladies are ready for you.”

Tomas? Is that the name Torstem is going by here?

I suppose it makes sense that he’d use an assumed name when he’s going to so much trouble to disguise his trip here. Apparently it’s far from his first visit.

I hesitate, sidling off to the side of the street so I don’t look as if I’m gaping at the building.

On one hand, a whorehouse is a perfectly normal place for a man to be sneaking off to that doesn’t indicate any horrifying magical conspiracy. On the other hand, there’s no way of telling that Ster. Torstem is here simply to wet his dick any more than that he funds the orphanage only out of the goodness of his heart.

Even if heishere for no reason other than to get his rocks off, men often open their mouths when they’re in the stupor of the afterglow. At least, Milo did—that was how I found out about his horrible side business.

Torstem might have given away something useful to his “ladies” inside.

Well, there’s only one way to find out: go in and ask.

I don’t think I’ll get very far as a supposed patron. Mulling the idea over in my head, I approach the building cautiously and spot a window halfway open past one of the supporting trees.

All it takes is a quick scramble, and I’m landing with a soft thump in a darkened dressing room. Mingled perfumes clog the air, and dresses lie strewn across the settee, chair, and vanity.

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