"Your child is lovely." Irene brushed a finger across the little girl's plump cheek. A smile touched her lips--a rare, true one, less stiff than usual.

  "Ah," Frantans sighed. "I would have preferred a son."

  "There's nothing inferior about daughters," Irene replied, her voice cooling noticeably.

  "I don't mean daughters are somehow lesser," Frantans explained. "Look at my eldest, Kitty. She's conscientious, has helped in the tavern since she could barely reach the tables. But regardless of her qualities, her future was determined at birth, simply because she's female." She paused, weighing her words. "She'll wed some unremarkable man, bear him children—perhaps a few, perhaps dozens—tend to him until death, existing as little more than his possession. Should she prove disobedient, she'll face abandonment or the seminary; should he possess a violent temperament, she might simply... disappear, like Carnegie's wife." Frantans's expression mirrored the desolation of those imagined fates. "Were she born male, she'd be free to chart her own course. She could wield a sword, ride horses, aspire to knighthood; she could pursue literacy, scholarship, even become a doctor... pen or sword, both paths open to her. The truth remains," she gazed at the child in her arms, "throughout this age, as in all ages past, only noblewomen can reasonably hope for a decent existence."

  After a long pause, Irene finally spoke. "You are wrong." She took a deep draught of her ale. "Even highborn ladies often find their lives are gilded cages."

  "Can't you step a bit bloody closer?!" A sudden roar cut through their talk. Carnegie, mug in hand, bellowed at Kitty as she brought his plate. "You get close enough to serve the others, but for me, you keep your distance like I've got the Grey Rot!"

  "Trouble," Frantans muttered through clenched teeth, hastily entrusting her younger daughter to the Monster Slayer. "I should intervene..."

  "Because you stink," Kitty replied with deliberate calm, placing the sausage before him. "You've clearly avoided bathing. And," she wrinkled her nose pointedly, "the stench of stale ale permeates your very skin..."

  "Whore!" The militiaman scrambled to his feet as Kitty gave ground a step or two, then stood firm. He grabbed her face, his calloused fingers digging in. "One last chance, you little bitch. One last chance to open that pretty mouth..." Kitty answered by spitting squarely in his eye.

  "Kitty!" Frantans clapped her hands to her mouth in horror. Carnegie's two companions immediately placed their swords upon the table, effectively preventing Frantans from intervening. Carnegie froze momentarily, his right eye now glazed with spittle. "How's that for an answer? Satisfactory?" Kitty advanced a defiant step. "I can certainly open my mouth again." She spat once more—her aim impeccable, striking directly into his left eye.

  Carnegie erupted in laughter. The girl before him, momentarily confused, offered a nervous laugh in response. In the next instant, she was unprepared for the blow that sent her crashing across the table, splitting her sausage into three distinct pieces.

  "Bitch!" The man pinned her chest down with his left forearm, while his right hand struck her face again and again. "Seen plenty of your kind, I have," he snarled, laughing and hitting with each word. "Flaunting yourself for every other prick, then playing the innocent little saint with me!" He seized her by the hair, slamming her head against the wood over and over. His cronies' blades rattled on the table. "Go on, speak up! Open that mouth again if you've got the stones!" Her eyes rolled back in her head, but somehow she spat again.

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  "Gods preserve us!" Frantans whispered, hands shaking as they pressed against her face. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, Kitty?!"

  "Her. This little bitch," the militiaman fixed his glare on plump Frantans, "she spat on me before, when she was just a chit of a girl. Let it slide then. But not this time, Frantans. Oh no. This time she learns a lesson."

  "Please, let her go!" Frantans pleaded, tears falling before the leveled swords. "She remains a child, even now!"

  "A child capable of enticing men, of carrying a child herself," interjected one of the former farmers with a leer.

  "Well observed, indeed," Carnegie agreed, tightening his grip on Kitty's now-crimson throat. "She'll learn the price of provoking me. She's never known a man, has she?" He didn't bother seeking confirmation from Frantans. "Excellent." He began unfastening his belt. "This lesson will accompany her throughout her life."

  "You fiend!" the landlady wept into her hands, while Kitty, barely conscious, offered little struggle. Emry the halfling vaulted off the table in a rage, but Banli caught him fast.

  "Carnegie," Roche turned toward the scene, "she merely possesses a spirited temperament. What purpose does this serve? Besides," he added, "your personal hygiene genuinely leaves much to be desired."

  "Shut your hole, runt. This ain't your concern. One more peep out of you, and I'll shove your cock down your throat." Carnegie hefted his mug. "Tell me, lads!" he roared, flushed with ale and anger. "Should I take this bitch's maidenhead? Grant her the bloody honor?"

  No one answered. Even his faithful followers, who had anticipated joining the spectacle, awkwardly lowered their half-raised mugs. Carnegie glared about, jutting his chin forward, struggling to maintain his posture of indifference.

  "Now, Carnegie," slurred one of the former peasants--bald save for a few greasy strands combed over his pate--swirling the dregs in his cup with a nasty drawl. "If Snow White had seven dwarves tending her needs, seems a shame for this little tavern cunt to only have the one man servicing her, eh?" Lewd chuckles rippled through his fellows.

  "Getting greedy, Forlin?" The militiaman bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. "Don't forget, you and your pack of curs," he gestured loosely with a finger, taking them all in, "are just shit-stains calling yourselves militiamen. Still--" he used the same finger to scratch at his greasy hair, "it's an interesting notion. You're in, lads." He leaned closer, heedless of Kitty choking for breath beneath him.

  "To Carnegie! Our glorious militiaman!" The gaggle of former peasants staggered upright, hoisting their mugs in a ragged cheer. Carnegie gave a smug nod and ripped the girl's skirt down. "Who wants to go first?"

  "Of course you, sir," the initiator of this new development offered a mockery of formal deference. Carnegie drained his beer in a single swallow, hurling the empty vessel against the wall. "Prepare yourself, little Kitty." Beer foam sprayed from his mouth onto her tear-streaked face, mingling with spittle and silent anguish. Plump Frantans remained paralyzed as he unfastened his belt, the cold steel of the sword reflecting her rigid, horror-stricken expression.

  (Not your fight.) Irene deliberately speared the last piece of sausage. (Stay out of it, Irene,) she warned herself again, barely moving her lips. Around the tavern, the men reacted as men do: some stared down into their cups, pretending the world held only ale; others shifted for a better view of the show; a few looked ready to join the fun themselves. A thick silence had fallen, broken only by the girl's ragged gasps and the heavy, eager breathing of the men closing in.

  (Keep out of it.) The low warning hissed from Irene again.

  Carnegie's head snapped up, scanning the room for the source of the voice. Irene realized her whispered self-admonishment had attracted unwanted attention. She maintained her silence, hoping her discretion might divert his focus elsewhere. "Forgive me, madam," the militiaman tilted his head, cocking one ear in her direction. "Did you offer some commentary just now?"