A knife’s blade, held delicately between two of Dago’s fingers, dragged through the cream foam he had lathered across his cut hair. Tiny black hairs were strewn across the blade as it finished its track, and a dunk into the washbasin removed them. Again, he pulled the razor across his scalp, and again washed it. It was a ritual for him, a shedding of the last two months of chaos and sin.
Though he stood in a bathhouse, in the city of Ith, amidst a plethora of naked men, and though he was anything but religious, Dago felt that he stood closer to his centre as he shaved. The tangent of survival was quieted, he considered, and he was back on track. He wasn’t certain what track, but presenting himself how he wanted was the first step to being him again. He’d been Jobless Dago too long—he was starting to smell of it.
“May I bring you anything else?” asked the slave woman who had brought him the shaving kit. She was, of course, not dressed in much, but she held her head higher than most slaves Dago had spoken to. She had either lived too long as a slave, or had been someone before. The bathhouse was not a cheap one, but one of the expensive variety. Perhaps she was owned by someone who had claimed her as a trophy.
“No,” Dago said. She turned to leave, but he tapped the sink with the knife and she turned back to him. She was a cute, small faced woman, with broad shoulders and a dark braid hanging beside her neck. Dago smiled. “If I had a skill at combat, and sought work, who would I speak to?”
“I can ask the newsboy, if you’d like,” she asked. “Or you could speak with one Master Omion, here at the baths.”
“Master Omion? Thank you,” Dago said. He lifted the knife to continue shaving his head.
She was still waiting. “I—” The slave quieted herself and turned to go.
“What?” The razor lowered.
The woman shrugged. “I should not ask anything of you, for I am but a servant.” The brand between her bare shoulder blades indicated she was less than one. “But, please do not tell Master Omion that I spoke to you of him.”
“I don’t even know your name,” Dago said. He dried his hands briefly on the loose linen waist-robe he wore.“He won’t hear a word of you.”
She inhaled. “Thank you,” she said. With a bow, she left him.
Dago finished shaving without further interruption. When he was done, he splashed water over himself. He stood in an alcove in the outer wall of an enormous, column-supported room. There were three pools in the room, of varying temperature. The warm water from the basin splashed over his bare head, washed across his face, and splattered on the granite tiles under his feet. He felt clean. He dried his face with a towel, quickly running it over his dripped scalp.
He had entered Ith by one of the southern gates, passing the guard checkpoint unhindered. At Yolen’s Bunkhouse, he found a cheap cot to sleep on, amidst the city’s refuse. He had to arm wrestle a man for the bed, for Mister Yolen had sold all of his available space. Entering the bathhouse, which was nestled between a more pricey tavern and a sort of palace close to the centre of Ith had cost all of his remaining coins—most of those had been stolen from people in the streets of Elpan, or earned gambling with refugees on the road. Getting a job from one Master Omion, in the building itself, seemed like a good option.
As he expected for someone who might have work or information for a sellsword, he found Master Omion in a private tub surrounded by guards, nude slaves—men and women—and even a table of food. The guard halted Dago before he could approach the Master.
“What’s your business? Master’s not expecting anyone,” the guard said. He was a lot taller than Dago, but Dago thought he’d be able to take him if he had to.
The mercenary shrugged. “I was told I could find work here.”
“Let him enter,” Omion called. He was an elderly man, with the remnants of muscles and greying hair framing his olive features. He was submerged in water covered in suds of soap and incense. The whole space smelled of flowers.
“We’re in a bathhouse, my boy,” he said to Dago. A man of 31 years, Dago was taken aback by the phrase. Omion bit his lip. “What sort of work are you looking for?” Then he guffawed as his own humour.
“I’m very good at killing people,” Dago said. “Or guarding things. Or obtaining things.”
“I don’t care,” Omion said, instantly dry. He looked at one of the slaves in the pool next to him. “People these days…” The slave nodded understandingly. Anything for his master.
“I will take any job,” Dago murmured.
Omion looked up again. “What? Be gone.”
“I need a job!” Dago’s fists clenched and his eyes itched.
The guards stepped inward, concerned by the tight voice that berated their master. The Master himself scoffed. “What’s wrong with you, my boy? Get gone.”
Dago ran a hand over his scalp as he thought about what to do. Had he spent too long without a job? He wanted to fight Omion and all his guards, shake them against the wall and demand the right to work again. “I’m not a savage!” he would shout. “I’m not a bandit! Give me a damn job!” But what kind of job could be demanded? None. With trembling fists, Dago dragged his feet away from Master Omion’s pool. Had Miss Puzzle broken him? She’d been dead a month, and her actions had still not been moved past.
“I am past them,” Dago muttered. “I just need something to do. I need it.”
He heard Omion and his men laughing about him as he walked away. He walked past his shaving pedestal on his way toward the exit of the bathhouse. The slave who had helped him earlier was walking by, her nudity only adding to the stress Dago felt. He stared at her, then raised a hand to stop her. “I—I. The newsboy. Where?”
“Well,” she stammered, “He’s in the servant’s section. He works at a court, not for the house. He’s cleaning himself—”
Dago was already walking in that direction. The slave tagged along, trying to keep up with him. As he neared the door into the servant’s section, she pranced in front of him.
“Mister,” she blurted. “Is something wrong? Can I help you?”
She was blocking the door. “Get your tits out of the way!” Dago barked, and shoved her aside. The slave girl tumbled across the stone tiles with a loud clap of flesh on rock. Her cry, though well controlled, echoed off the door’s arch and resounded into the bathing chamber. Everyone looked at them, and Dago regarded the room with a scowl.
“This way, sir,” a guard said, approaching at once. The slave just started up at him, terrified or angered. Others were moving too, to contain the angry patron. Dago lifted his hands to massage his temples.
“Now I’m a humiliation?” Dago asked. “Gods, all I want is a cause. Fine, lead the way you damn armoured fool. I could break you in half with my bare hands!”
“Don’t make threats, sir. We’ll discuss this in private,” another guard said. “Please, come with us peacefully.”
Dago spread his hands. “Well, start walking then! Let’s go.”
They led him to another door. This one, hidden behind a lattice, opened into the building’s alley, where they shoved Dago against the opposite wall. The door of the bathhouse slammed shut, and locked. Dago leaned against the wall of the tavern next door. He slowly sank down onto his buttocks, and leaned his head back against the wall. It was warm, almost as warm as the inside of that bathhouse.
It was a good thing he’d left his rusty bronze sword with Mister Yolen, at the bunkhouse.