Page 33 of Tusks & Saddles

Chapter Six

Beatrix

T he Iron Basin had been difficult to pass up.

Ordinarily, Beatrix would have dashed to Cutter’s place to meet with Gimdor.

She would fill him in on the work she had done, he’d try to argue on the price.

By the time Beatrix threatened to shoot him between the eyes, they’d reluctantly agree to disagree.

They would share a drink and play a few rounds of Misfortune until one of Gimdor’s men would arrive to collect his drunken ass.

However, the day had grown hot and Beatrix hadn’t had a bath since she boarded the train.

Well, the luxury cabin had offered their magical cleaning service through Maewyrnn, Beatrix had declined.

She didn’t disapprove of magic—gods knew it was everywhere—but it was a very different experience from having a proper bath.

Yes, the magic worked, and yes, Beatrix did feel clean, but it was a different type of clean. The kind of clean that had no smell.

Beatrix knew it was a very specific thing to be bothered by.

Not to mention that smell was how a lot of creatures hunted out in the Searing Wastelands.

She could name a number of beasts native to the land that could smell ten miles away.

It wasn’t clever to wear perfumes or bathe with scented soaps or oils …

But every person has their vices , she thought with a content sigh.

From within the copper bathtub, Beatrix was blissfully submerged in hot water.

All courtesy of the Lazuli family and their smart business venture.

Water was a bit scarce in Irongarde, which meant water was expensive.

However, the Lazuli’s were a family of water helfen and their natural ability to pull water into existence was worth it’s weight in gold.

Opening a bath house had been genius, though Beatrix recognized her bias given that she was thoroughly enjoying the Lazuli’s establishment to the fullest.

Another boon to the sort of work Beatrix did was she could afford a private bath.

She left her clothes—minus Bad Company and her suitcase—outside her door for one of the bath attendants.

The Iron Basin offered laundry services on top of the wonderful hot water baths.

Yet another clever incentive to the Lazuli’s business model that even Beatrix’s own father would have found impressive.

Despite herself, Beatrix found herself thinking fondly of Balthazar Eaves.

Blue eyes, dark brown hair, and a slim frame wrapped in the kind of finery that had often suffocated Beatrix.

Behind the monocle and charming grin was a brilliant but mysterious mind.

One that Beatrix had spent most of her childhood trying to imitate.

Whenever he would find her hiding in his office—either behind the drapes or pressed against one of the statues—Balthazar would scold her.

Though, Beatrix knew his heart wasn’t in it.

Her father was sixty now, which by human standards meant more than half his life had gone by. Balthazar had entered his fall season ten years ago and if he were fortunate enough, he would enter his winter season with little fuss. At least, Beatrix hoped he would.

You’re being silly.

The sweet orange and sandalwood oil, the heat from the bath, and the moment of privacy all should have made for a relaxing environment.

Melancholy, or something like it, weighed on Beatrix’s shoulders.

She sank into the tub until the water was an inch from her nose.

It was troublesome to be caught between almost relaxed and disappointingly uncomfortable.

Beatrix’s mind had never been a restful place.

A trait she had inherited from her father.

In fact, Beatrix had taken after her father in nearly every aspect save for one.

It was only through a loophole that she had gotten anything from her mother at all.

And that particular bit of ancestral history had been…

well, not her mother’s favorite aspect about her daughter.

It had most definitely surprised both her parents when Beatrix had been born.

Most parents only wanted their children to be born safe and healthy.

At least, that’s what Beatrix had heard over the years from expectant parents and parents alike.

Even families with different bloodlines were more prepared than her parents had been.

Humans had human babies, elves had elven babies.

Humans and elves had half-human and half-elven babies.

Beatrix’s older brother had slightly pointed ears while her younger brothers had Balthazar’s human ears.

A daemon born to a human father and a half-elven mother was something neither of her parents had been prepared for.

Beneath the bubbles, Beatrix flexed her fingers.

The pastel purple skin looked pale in the dimly lit quarters as she stared with solid, glowing golden-white eyes.

The light purple strands of her hair clung to her shoulders.

Beatrix brought her hand near the surface, fingers dancing with the hair that touched the water.

Her horns were short, small enough to hide under the large hat she wore.

They curled neatly against her head, fading from her natural skin color to a darker shade of purple toward the tips.

Daemons weren’t rare by any means. It was 696, the fourth age, for goodness sake.

Folks from all realms walked the planes of Ordia with little fuss.

Generally, as long as you didn’t endanger entire villages, people tended to leave each other alone.

Still, most parents weren’t prepared for the implication of what it meant to have a daemon child or even an empyrean child.

Both shared the trait of mysteriously appearing in family lineages, no matter the ancestry.

However, Beatrix knew hers very well. A curious mind like hers made it impossible for her mother to conceal that secret.

The revelation hadn’t been too surprising given what Beatrix had found in the books and scrolls her tutors had.

Whether said tutors had noticed Beatrix sneaking material to learn the history of daemons existence, all reason pointed to unlikely.

Stop thinking about the past. It’s simply that, the past.

Beatrix took a deep breath and submerged herself into the water. While under, she tried to think of anything other than her family. When she came up for air a moment later, she was annoyed that Welborn had taken the place of her relatives.

“Beatrix Eaves, as I live and breathe—”

“Not for long, Gimdor, not for long,” Beatrix said.

The mercenary recruiter was precariously perched on a chair that was on the verge of tipping back.

The only thing that kept him from falling was Beatrix’s firm hand on the back of the chair.

Gimdor’s grin was placating beneath his salt and pepper mustache, his dark brown eyes betraying not a hint of unease.

He was a stocky man in beat up leathers and worn boots.

Shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, showing thick muscle covered in traditional dwarven tattoos and scars from his daring youth.

“Bee, the job wasn’t that bad—”

“Arcanists,” Beatrix interrupted, daring to tip the chair farther. “You said it was a simple escort job, but there were arcanists, Gimdor.”

Arcanists were always tricky. In some ways, they were the deadliest casters in all of Ordia.

Unlike bards, clerics, or tinkerers, arcanists were the ones who were dedicated to the study of the arcane.

Their magical capabilities didn’t come through devotion to the gods, nature, or from natural talents.

Which meant most of them had educated minds, the kind of minds that most folk didn’t want to be up against.

Most folk being me, Beatrix thought.

“I never said these jobs I put ya on were easy, Bee,” Gimdor replied with a smile that was much too at ease for Beatrix’s liking. “So, you ran into a little spell slinger! That ain’t nothing new in Ordia. Variety is the spice of life!”

There were few times Beatrix wished she hadn’t committed to keeping her privacy by wearing the veil. Her desire to level Gimdor with a glare almost made her impulsively rip the fabric away.

“Acanists, Gimdor. Arcanists . Emphasis on the last ‘ s ’ as there were more than one,” Beatrix managed through her fanged teeth. “One arcanist is tricky, several are a disaster waiting to happen!”

Beatrix wasn’t a stranger to the adventuring life.

If the gods had kept an eye on her, they would have seen her exploits.

The amount of times Beatrix had nearly gotten her head blown off by a power- hungry arcanist was one time too many.

And while not all who chose to study the arcane were prone to such antics, Beatrix had noticed the pattern of behavior long before she had ever donned a traveling cloak.

“Oh, c’mon,” Gimdor sighed. “When it comes to arcanists the only disaster is how little it takes to knock them down. A quick shot like you against the likes of them? Please, Bee—”

Rolling her eyes, Beatrix let go of the chair.

Gimdor tumbled back, the resounding crack of wood drawing the attention of the other patrons.

Beatrix caught the bartender’s light blue eyes from across the room.

The air helfen, Thaisen Cutter, raised an expectant eyebrow.

Grumbling underneath her breath, Beatrix reached into her coin purse and threw a gold piece.

Cutter caught it in their hand, pocketed it, then nodded as if it were business as usual.

Despite how mad Beatrix was, this was all part of the normal routine, too.

“All right,” Gimdor huffed as he pulled himself off the sticky floor. “Ya feelin’ any better now that you got that out?”

“A little,” Beatrix replied, placing a hand on her hip. “But you know what would do me better? The second half of my payment.”

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses. Let a man straighten his old back first.”

“Gimdor, you’re one hundred and ninety-three…correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s hardly old, is it?”

“I’m not old, my back is,” Gimdor grumbled as he planted himself into another chair. “I got ya coin, but go get us some booze.”

“Misfortune?” Beatrix asked .

“Of course,” Gimdor grinned. “What’s the point of paying you for work if I don’t have a chance to win it back?”

“That’s funny, you actually think you have a chance,” Beatrix said over her shoulder.

Gimdor’s laughter carried all the way to the bar.

Cutter’s was one of many tavern and inns in Irongarde, but it was the one Beatrix frequented the most. All Gimdor’s influence, as there were certain bars he avoided.

The man never volunteered the reason and Beatrix never asked why.

While their relationship was…well, theirs, there was still a level of underlining professionalism at play.

Nothing said was ever personal despite their personalities clashing over drinks.

The interior of Cutter’s wasn’t half bad, either.

Standard tavern but built more in the style of Irongarde with simple wood designs and minor iron flourishes.

Torch lights were affixed to the support columns, but they wouldn’t be lit until much later on in the evening.

Like most of the city, what wasn’t sticky with old ale and whiskey, was coated in a layer of dust. No barmaid or magic could ever truly be rid of it, but the locals liked it just fine.

Behind the bar, Cutter was organizing bottles.

Their long, dark blue hair was pinned back in a messy ponytail.

A gentle wind circulated around their head, cooling the small sheen of sweat that was gathering near their temple.

That didn’t mean their apron hadn’t gotten damp from washing the last load of tankards from the group of miners who were shuffling off for the day.

“If you and Gimdor keep breaking my furniture, I’ll have this place updated in no time,” Cutter said, dryly .

“If Gimdor would give me accurate information before I put my life on the line, you’d have more furniture and less blood stains,” Beatrix retorted.

“Fair,” they said. “What’re you having?”

“Eshorion whiskey and your darkest ale for the old man.”

“And for you?”

“Any maple mush?”

“Just came in—on the same train you did, I suspect.”

“Perfect. I can’t tell you how badly I need it after—”

“Miss Eaves?”

Gods be damned.