Dinadan Noir III: Phile Under "Murder"

The first thing I noticed about the ‘Phile was the smell. Or rather, its complete and utter lack. Bordellos (and I’ve seen a few in my more usual professional capacity) are usually drenched in perfume and incense and whatnot to cover the stink of bodies doing what bodies do. The ‘Phile, tucked into one of Borales’ upper, more spacious caverns, had the usual discreet red lantern over the door. It had the usual overstuffed, over-velveted furniture. The eyes that glanced my way when the curtain parted had the usual studied indifference. But the lack of, well, any smell, really, set me on edge.

I was happy to note that the hostess was actually breathing, and not just pretending to out of habit. (Crypt’s a strange place that way.) She was pretty enough, a boelir who had a good foot and a half on me…putting her artfully arranged and brocaded bosom just above my eye level, and making the reality of her breathing very apparent. “Welcome to the ‘Phile, Master Satyr. We don’t often see your people.” She was a true tenor, startlingly clear.

“Well, truth be told, miss, we’re not overfond of caves, and that’s all you’ve got here.”

“Do you suggest that exploring in the dark is unpleasant?”

I chuckled. “Not necessarily, lady, but I hope you don’t take offense.”

“Far from it. You will find that we take offense at little but violence, and we have even a place for that.” Her cyclopean wink managed ‘disturbing’ and ‘suggestive’ at the same time.

“That’s why I came.”

“Really? You don’t strike me as the type.”

“Violence done to one of yours, I believe. Did you keep under your roof a homarid by the name of Arbonne?”

“Arbonne? What happened?” Alarm…and resignation.

“She’s dead, miss. Ran afoul of the Family.”

“I see.” She frowned, gestured at a woman who, during her living years, had probably been quite beautiful, then beckoned me forward. “Why don’t we talk about it in my office.” The undead woman bowed and discreetly took up a position at the door as we ducked into one of the side passages.

Her office, it turned out, was not much of a step up from mine. A plain desk, a few chairs. A moderately priced illusionary wall concealing what was no doubt a safe. For me, it was spacious, but any of the ‘verse’s larger denizens would likely have found it cramped. I waited a moment before taking a seat. Put my back to the door, but I was hoping any more acute forms of trouble would wait.

“I suspected this would happen sooner or later.”

“Oh? Arbonne had a habit of getting into trouble?”

The madame shook her head. “Not Arbonne. Aagren. You know of him?”

I went fishing in the waters of memory. “Yaag-nesh, yeah? Doesn’t he go with the Igneous crew?”

“The ‘Phile is neutral territory, master satyr.” I appreciated the careful way we avoided learning each other’s name. “We cater to rather…specialized…tastes. All variety of them, as a matter of fact. The unliving and the elder races have centuries to tire of the more normal forms of intimate attention, and few of them are particularly concerned with those to begin with. There are not many places in the Retroverse where such tastes can be pursued in tasteful surrounds.”

“Ah. That explains the lack of smell.”

“And the lack of sound. We keep both dampened with magic. Our clients prefer not to be distracted from their unique delectations.”

“And the Family doesn’t push for a cut?”

“Even when they’re squabbling, members of the Family leave the ‘Phile alone. They are as prone to specialized tastes as any, if not more so. My people are off limits.”

“Except, apparently, for Arbonne.”

She nodded grimly. “Except for Arboone.”

“And Aagren was one of her…devotees?”

Again, she nodded. “We always run the risks of clients becoming…attached. A hazard of our profession that, for us, is perhaps magnified. Given their predilections, our guests seldom have the option of pursuing more usual relationships. Not that many of them are interested in such. Aagren has been a client here for decades, but had not proved a problem until he began seeing Arbonne.”

“This was how long ago?”

“Perhaps a year and a half.”

My turn to nod. “He wanted to be closer. Did she reciprocate?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Says something, I guess, that she came running to me and not him when she got wind of trouble. Any chance Aagren could have put the hit out on her, do the jilted lover routine?”

The hostess considered this for a few moments. “I doubt it. He’d become foolish for her, which is why I suspected trouble would follow.”

“When was the last time he paid a visit?”

“Three days ago.”

“Anything unusual about it?”

“He seemed excited about something, but he often seemed excited when he came to see Arbonne.”

I wondered, then, about the jade monkey that was sitting in a pile of odds and ends at my tower. “He bring her presents?”

“Often, but that is hardly unusual. Our guests do not lack funds; gifts provide them a means to show their appreciation without the crassness of sacks of coin.”

“Did Aagren have a routine with her?”

She shrugged. “Not particularly. Who can fathom the mind of a yaag-nesh? He would arrive at all hours. He never tarried in the common room. I think he may have been visiting Arbonne more frequently in the last few fortnights.” She pulled a heavy ledger from her desk. “Yes. Every day or so.”

“He was anxious about something?”

“Or in lust. Or having a good business run. We try not to speculate on our guests’ motives.”

“He ever see anybody else?”

“No. Only Arbonne. At least since she’s been here. Her predecessor retired and passed on of old age. The crabfolk are not particularly long-lived.”

I drummed my fingers on the chair for a moment. “And Arbonne drew a shorter straw than most. Any idea why the Family might want her dead?”

“No. Only her association with Aagren. We are quite good at shutting our eyes and ears to each other’s activity, master satyr. It is better for all of us if the Family doesn’t intrude on our operations and we stay out of theirs.”

I fished out a card, pressed my name into it. “If Aagren shows up, give him this for me. And you can probably expect a visit from the greencoats before too long.”

Her eyebrow rose a bit as she read the card. “A real bard, the Storyteller, no less. This seems a bit…unusual for one such as yourself. Do you typically go out of your way to investigate murders and tangle with organized crime?”

“Everybody needs a hobby, miss.”

“Indeed. Most choose hobbies of a less dangerous sort.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a hobby’s gotten me killed, miss. The Gifted have to find some way to pass the time.”

“Please see to it that your pastime does not get any more of my people killed.”

“Believe what you want, but I try and keep idiotic risks and their consequences entirely to myself.” I stood. “I can find my own way out.”