The Warden Threat
The peppered smell of the pork-loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy from dinner still filled the room. The clang of a pot lid or jingle of silverware from those clearing the buffet table occasionally disturbed the only other sound in the room, a soft rustling of papers and scratching of pens.
Nash had never met such eager learners. When Trixie first suggested he give lessons to the girls at Madame Brockwell’s Boardinghouse for Professional Ladies, he eagerly accepted because of the enthusiasm evidenced by his prospective students. Today would be his fourth visit to provide instruction on anything from the alphabet to zoology, depending upon what each individual student wanted to learn. Trixie told him finding his new students might have been one of the easiest things she ever had ever done. Of the twenty-six women currently calling the boardinghouse home, about two-thirds stayed after the evening meal each night.
Three long, wooden tables in the large dining room now held the paraphernalia of higher learning—papers, pencils, books, quills, and inkwells—strewn around each person to mark the flexible boundaries of their study area. Two other girls cleared the serving dishes and steam trays from supper off a fourth matching table at the head of the room. One of them would join the other students later for basic reading lessons. Both were also residents of the boardinghouse.
Madam Brockwell told him she seldom put one of her guests out for not being able to pay the rent. When her girls found themselves between jobs, she allowed them to work for their room and board by cleaning, tending the garden, and cooking. The system worked well for everyone so far.
Nash patrolled the room, looking over shoulders, answering questions, and occasionally sitting with one or more of the women to provide some instruction.
A mousey young woman with short, dark hair raised her hand.
“Yes, Pyanette?” She worked as a day maid at an estate in Greatbridge Hills and always seemed to be staring at something on the floor just in front of her feet when she walked. She dreamed of someday writing poems and children’s stories. The fact she never learned to read or write prevented her from realizing her ambition.
“What’s this word?” she asked, pointing to a page from Run Bunny Run. She whispered so softly Nash doubted he would have understood her if not for his exceptional hearing.
Right after he told her, he heard a loud crash from outside.
Buque, an Amazon of a woman who spent her nights as a bouncer at an eastside bar, raced to the window. She took lessons from him on math, economics, and business law so she could open her own flower shop someday, a secret she kept from everyone but Nash. “There’s a bunch of men outside,” she said. “And they just tipped over my pot of nasturtiums!”
Nash, Madame Brockwell, and the rest of his students crowded at the windows.
“It’s all my fault,” Gorkelle said apologetically. She worked as a waitress at one of the city’s ethnic Gotroxian restaurants. No other stoutfolk girls currently lived here. “They’re here because I’m stoutfolk.”
Nash noticed a small but loud racist element in the city, which seemed to be getting louder, if not larger, as rumors of a possible war with Gotrox spread. The small group of rowdies outside carried signs reading, “Stumpy Go Hoam,” “Stumpys Steel Jobs,” and “Ariman Hates Brazzin Wimmin.”
“Actually, I think that last one is about me,” said Buque.
“I don’t care who it’s about,” Madame Brockwell said angrily. “This is my place, these are my girls, and I’m not going to put up with it.” She made for the door but Nash stopped her.
“Let me go talk with them. Get the ladies away from the windows in case those gentlemen start throwing things.”
“All right,” she said after a moment of hesitation. “But if they don’t go away, someone is going to get hurt.”
“Just lock the doors. You’ll be safe.”
“I meant them.”
He stepped outside and approached the man he judged to be the leader who stood about half a foot taller than Nash did. “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but notice several mistakes on your signs. I could help you correct those, if you’d like.”
“Huh?” the large man said.
“Well, first of all, on the one you’re holding, I think you meant steal, s-t-e-a-l, rather than s-t-e-e-l. There is a difference, you know. You can steal steel but you can’t steel steal, if you see what I mean.”
“What?”
“And the one your friend here is holding has at least two spelling errors, if I understand the intent correctly. There is no ‘i’ in either ‘brazen’ or ‘women,’ although I can only assume he intended for it to mean that your chosen deity looks unfavorably upon bold females. The way he has it now is open to interpretation. If you want to make a philosophical statement, it is essential to make sure you state it clearly so it can be understood.”
“Get out of here!”
“Actually, that is quite similar to what I was about to recommend to you. In addition to your poor spelling, you are being extremely discourteous to the ladies living here, and you have caused some minor damage. I feel it only proper for you to apologize for your rude behavior, pay a reasonable amount for damages, and depart peacefully.”
“Hey, old man. What are you? Some kind of nut?”
“No, neither actually.”
“There’s six of us.” They now all stood abreast facing the front of the boardinghouse.
“Yes. I can see that. I’m actually quite good at math.”
“Okay. You asked for it.”
Nash easily dodged the punch he expected. His original plan revolved around making them angry enough to chase him, after which he could lead them away and lose them in the dark city streets in the hope they would be too tired or bored to return. Apparently, Madame Brockwell and her tenants had something else in mind. Buque hit his attacker on the head with a flowerpot from behind.
The man next to him swung around to hit her with his placard and seemed surprised to find it no longer in his hand.
“You really shouldn’t try to hit people. It just makes them angry,” Nash said, breaking apart the sign.
“Gods damned stumpy-lover,” the leader spat, rubbing his head.
“I seem to have an incurable fondness for all people, which is why I’m suggesting you leave. After you pay Buque for the flower pots, that is.”
“I ain’t payin’ no stumpy-lovers for nothin’, and you and that female gond can’t make me.”
“How are you at math?” said a voice from the darkness behind him. All six of the belligerent protesters turned around. “There are six of you, and twenty of us,” said Trixie. “Can you count that high?” She held her rapier in her hand but restrained herself, with obvious effort, from holding the point to his chest. Several other women emerged from the shadows of the dark street.
“I think we should get their names too,” said a mellifluous voice. A buxom, red-haired woman holding a skillet approached and stood next to Trixie. A suggestion of dangerous intent whispered across her otherwise beautiful face. “I’ll let the queen know and see what she wants to do about them.”
“That’s an excellent idea, Simone.” Trixie moved her sword a little higher, “So, what do you say?”
The large man turned to run but found himself and his companions surrounded. Each of the women blocking them held something to use as a weapon—pans, rolling pins, scissors, kitchen knives, and more than one other with a sword.
“Oh, shit.”
“Quite,” Madame Brockwell said. She stood a few inches shorter than Nash did with far less weight and far more menace. She also held a sword, and she used it to make her point. “And you’re in it deeply. Now, let me see. Two flowerpots worth, I’d say, six silver-fruit, damage to other personal property, disruption of the ladies’ lessons, oh, and making me very angry. I think one gold-tree will cover it. Pay up!”
“What? You can’t do this! And besides, I don’t have that kind of money, and even if I did—”
“Excuse me, Madame Brockwell” one of her other tenants
interrupted. “Since they trespassed on your property with obvious malicious intent, you are legally allowed to use physical force to restrain them, up to and including, well, pretty much anything you want, in accordance with city code 943-24M, under owners’ rights to protect personal property.” Gretchen worked in a law office.
“Good to know. Okay, since they’re obviously still resisting…” She drew back her sword.
“Wait!” screamed one of the other men. “I got two silver pieces.”
“I do, too,” said another.
A frantic fumble through pockets produced the equivalent of one gold piece in assorted change, which they handed to Buque.
“Can we go now?” one of them said in a humble voice. The leader scowled at him.
“Not just yet,” Simone said sweetly. “We still need an apology and your names.”
Simone collected six apologies and six names. Some may even have been real.
When the running men disappeared in the shadows of the dark streets, Nash turned to Trixie, Simone, and the other women near them. “You shouldn’t have come out here.”
“You just said not to stand by the windows, so we went out the back doors and down the side alleys,” Simone said with a smile. “We never went near the windows.” She always displayed keen interest and ability in her lessons and he considered her one of his most promising students. She also possessed a special status among the boardinghouse residents because she spoke to the queen. She worked at the castle nursery caring for the very young children of the various members of the castle staff while they attended to their duties. Queen Patricia also spent a lot of time in the nursery and, at least according to Simone, looked upon all of the other caregivers as friends, although obviously of lower station. Simone’s beautiful voice helped her be especially good at her job because when she sang, everyone stopped to listen, including crying babies. She hoped one day to be a teacher. “I hope we taught them a lesson.”
“As do I.”