Adventures in Heroland

One

Harriet Ironspike woke. Then lay where she was for a moment, enjoying the quiet.

The boarding house was cheap, and the walls were thin, and it tended to be noisy at all hours of the night. The early morning was the only peaceful time there was, and often the only peaceful time in all of Karmelt, too. Harriet liked peacefulness, so she lay for a moment, enjoying it, before she got out of bed.

She stretched, ignoring the mirror in the corner, and splashed water on her face to wake herself up. She dressed, pulling on breeches and the leather jerkin that was her official uniform. It was worn and patched in a few places, and had dulled metal studs she could never quite polish the rust off, and had the letters TAX stitched onto the front and back.

Harriet yawned. She was tired. She hadn't slept well. There had been a hero staying in the room next door for the past week who had been having loud, noisy sex all night, every night. Harriet didn't know the hero's name, and didn't really care. It would be something like Storm the Steely or Terrence the Toothy or Gary the Generally Grim. Or something of the sort.

This hero, whoever he was, had begun to get on her nerves. He was young, and rich, and arrogant, and fairly stupid. He had rippling hair, and rippling muscles, and he had probably inherited the money which had paid for his shining teeth and shining sword and golden hair, too. Paid for, because they were beauty enchantments, if Harriet had ever seen beauty enchantments, and badly-done, obvious beauty enchantments too. And he would probably be trying to claim them in his income tax next year, if she was any judge of character, and of that, she didn't approve.

She didn't like the hero. She had run into him in the common courtyard a few days before, on her way back from the privy, and had been remarkably unimpressed. Much less impressed than he had obviously thought she ought to be. He was the kind of hero who looked at her, and her sensible clothes, and hadn't really bothered noticing her beyond that. Except to wink at her, and jerk his head towards his bedchamber, assuming she ought to be grateful for the offer and willing to accept without him actually saying a word.

Harriet wasn't. Either grateful or willing. Not a hero like this. She had been in heroland long enough, now, that she wasn't going to fall for any smug, winking, golden-haired sword-swinger who came along. And especially not this one.

She had grunted, and pushed past, and gone back upstairs, and the hero had been ignoring her ever since, presumably offended that she refused him. And, as far as Harriet could tell, he had been being noisier on purpose, too. The volume of noise from his chambers had gone up ever since then.

Last night he had been with an elf, from the breathless squeaks Harriet hadn't been able to avoid overhearing, and she was fairly sure he was only in bed with an elf in the first place because he had heard the stories which everyone heard. That sex with elves, or contract with elven bodily fluids, made humans live longer. Or made them more beautiful. Or something of the sort.

Whatever the exact rumours were, elves got a lot of sex.

Fortunately their innate magic prevent them catching most diseases, but still. Harriet half-assumed it was a story the elves had started themselves.

She sighed, and pulled on her boots, and laced them up, carefully. She picked up her sword, and her shoulder-satchel, and left her room, locking the door behind her. She heard loud snores as she went past the hero's room, next door, on the way to the stairs. She was tempted to thump loudly on the wall, and then walk off. She didn't, because it would be inconsiderate to the other guests.

She desperately wished she could organise an audit of the hero, but that would be an improper use of her position. The hero was fairly obviously a merchant's younger son, and was only a hero in the same way that owing a lute made someone a bard. The hero wouldn't be actually earning any money from his heroing, Harriet assumed, which made his financial affairs none of Harriet's business.

She wanted to audit him, but she couldn't, not while still respecting the sacred duty of her office, so she put him from her mind, and went downstairs, and into the common room where breakfast was served, and said good morning to Esme, the elderly widow who ran the boarding house.

"First up," Esme said. "As always."

Harriet nodded. "Of course. It is good to get an early start on the day."

"Perhaps if you had more fun at night..." Esme said.

Harriet looked at her, and Esme fell silent.

"I'm just suggesting," Esme said, a little defensively.

Harriet ignore Esme, and ate slowly. Breakfast was a thin broth and bread, but she genuinely liked it. She liked simple food, and a simple, friendly place to live.

She ate, and sipped a little ale to wash out her mouth, and then went off to the tax office to begin her day.