The Irish Warrior

“Yes,” she said more firmly. “You need to charge more.”

“They’re not even paying now,” laughed one of the women. “And you’d have us charge more? As if they have more.”

“Oh, they have it,” Senna said in an ominous tone.

Finian took another sip of his drink. It wasn’t bad ale; someone here knew her business.

“The rabble-shite that come ’ere?” snapped one of the prostitutes. She leaned her thin elbow on the bar and shook her blond head. “Money? Pah. They’ve got bollocks, that’s what. Not coin.”

“They have it,” Senna demurred, “and if you demand it, they will pay. You’ve simply got to charge more for yourselves than you do for a mug of this ale—no offense meant, madame.” Senna sailed the apology over to an old woman who, Finian suddenly noticed, was sitting on a crate in the back room, just beyond the counter.

The old woman, face cragged, waved off Senna’s words with a bony hand.

“And this business of collecting payment after the service is rendered…?” Senna shook her head sagely. “That is poor practice indeed. You collect beforehand. In your business—not that I know much of it,” she added quickly, “but I’ve a brother and a father, and I know them rather well. You simply cannot expect their assessment of the value of the…goods to remain as high after they have…sampled.”

Finian smiled in the shadows.

“Och, well, then they won’t be sampling at all,” protested one of the women. Irish. This group was a mix of Irish and Saxon, he realized, and a few Scottish flowers as well.

“I wager they will,” Senna countered. “You’re the only…establishment…in the town, is that so?” A few affirmative nods. “Then they’ll be back. But if you make it harder to get, they’ll want it even more.”

“And I want food to eat every day,” muttered one of the more heavily painted women. A cobwebbing around the edges of her eyes bespoke an age older than most of the others. “The less I have, the more I want it. And if they don’t come in, I won’t have it a’tall.”

The tall, willowy owner spoke then, her voice like smoke, low and sultry and just a little hoarse. “They always come back.”

Finian watched Senna smile at her with the full force of her accountant’s mind, which was quite a shining thing, even here in this dingy tavern.

“Of course they’ll be back,” she agreed.

The owner extended a long, elegant arm and lifted a cup to her lips. Wine. Finian knew it without seeing inside. The way she lifted the cup, the way she swallowed, everything about the woman said she was drinking very good wine.

Senna leaned her side against the counter, totally absorbed in the impromptu business meeting. Finian put his boots up on the bench across from him, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned the back of his head against the wall.

She met their eyes, one by one. “Your customers know exactly what they’re asking you to sell. And they’ll pay for it, if you make them.”

The group fell silent, considering this.

“There is not a great deal more to be gotten out of our current clientele,” observed Esdeline in her smoky, thoughtful voice.

“You’re right,” Senna allowed after a moment’s reflection. “You’ll eventually need to move the operation to a larger town or a city. Where there are lords. Merchants. Soldiers of fortune. Ones who’ve actually experienced fortune.” The willowy owner smiled in a mysterious way but said nothing. “But in the meantime, you really should aim higher.”

Confused silence.

“There are soldiers about here?” Senna persisted. “Well, look to their captains. A shire reeve, mayhap? The bishop—”

A gasp went up and Finian opened his eyes. Three of the girls had thrown their hands over their hearts. Senna’s eyebrows went up, but she obviously decided not to have that conversation. The tall owner’s smile expanded. Finian half closed his eyes.

“Perhaps not the bishop. But his steward. Do I misdeem the matter? Or is this conceivable?”

“You appraise rightly.” The owner’s low, sultry voice lifted like smoke. “I do believe I had forgotten it.”

Finian swept up his drink and downed the last of it.

“You’ll have to pay your girls more,” Senna said.

Esdeline looked at her sharply. “They are not mine. My conscience is a reservoir for no one’s soul. They do this themselves.”

“No. Indeed. That is as it should be. You are a…a business commune. What you need is money. And you must bring in pretties, hangings and the like, to enrich this place, so it’s nothing they’ve ever encountered before, not even in their dreams. And yourselves. New dresses. Ribbons. Throws on the floor.” Someone gasped. She paused before returning to her original and most important point. “And you need to charge more. A great deal more.”