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Spring was not doing nice things for the Yard. The accumulated snow had trapped a hard winter’s worth of ash and trash in its icy clutches. Warming temperatures was releasing all of it, leaving the place even worse for wear than its usual disreputable state of neglect. The place looked bad and smelled worse.

The coach rolled to a stop not far from the station. Dragons carrying passengers would be routed to the station before entering the actual shipping yards proper, and the narrow road leading away from there was a busy one. Traffic tended to be a constant snarl, affording opportunities for beggars and the desperate to have access to those attempting to be somewhere else, a fact which did not help improve the speed of anyone passing through. The many side streets and alleys were crowded with stalls and temporary little shops, some of them quite savory, but most tending the other direction.

The coach was parked in one of the alleys, just out of the way enough to not be a nuisance. Bravye climbed down out of it with the assistance of Bravye, then headed for the road. Upon reaching it, she looked around, feeling a bit bewildered by the traffic. She turned to Isoli, who had just come up beside her.

“Now what?”

Isoli frowned, then reached out and snagged a boy running past. His clothes were badly worn, and his appearance a bit gaunt. He quickly twisted free of Isoli’s grasp, and bounced back just out of reach before stopping to look at the large woman.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Widows, boy. Ones that want honest work and have no one waiting at home for them.”

The boy gave Isoli a considering look, then glanced over at Bravye, then nodded. “Wait here.” With that he dashed off.

“So what do we do now?”

Isoli gave Bravye a sidelong look. “We wait here and hope we don’t get bothered by too many beggars.”

“Lovely.”

It was not long before the boy was back. Beside him was a woman who seemed quite ancient. Her clothing had fared better than the boy’s, though they were still plain things. The woman herself seemed a match for them, plain of appearance but somehow well put together despite her age.

“The boy says you’re looking for widows willing to work for you,” she commented. Her eyes slid first to Isoli as the larger woman, and then to Bravye, whose clothes spoke of her status. “Why widows, mistress?”

“Great Lady Bravye has need for women with no attachments,” Isoli replied, her expression serious as she emphasized the title.

“We don’t see many Great Ladies down here,” the crone chuckled. “They can usually find better than the folk down here, and they don’t tend to care to see the likes of us. It makes them uncomfortable.” She pressed a coin to the boy’s palm and shooed him away. She stepped closer after he’d left, her eyes seeming to strip Bravye in order to see what lay beneath the finery. “Do I make you uncomfortable, Great Lady?”

In fact, she did. Many of the people who were loitering about rather than rushing to or from the station seemed to be shabbily dressed and in poor condition. Many of them appeared sick or hungry, and they had a hint of desperation to their eyes and movement. While waiting for the boy to return, none had actually approached in spite of Bravye’s clear wealth, as though that very wealth formed a barrier against beggars.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Good!” the woman cackled. “You’re honest. Brash, too, Great Lady.”

Isoli stirred, her expression offended. Before she could speak, however, the woman waved a hand at her. “Easy now. I mean no disrespect. It was just that we all know the name Bravye here. There’s been little else to talk about the past two days.” The woman grinned. “You’re that mad woman that has all the important people in an uproar because you refuse to act like a lady. A brash woman that doesn’t know her place.”

“You don’t approve,” Bravye commented.

“I don’t care,” the woman said. “Mad or sane, proper lady or outrageous chit. It makes no difference to those of us down here. None of us are proper, and a few too many of us aren’t particularly sane, either. We’re just trying to get by.” She gave Bravye a shrewd look. “That’s why you’re here looking for widows, isn’t it? You need improper people mad enough to join you just to keep their bellies full.”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“One hundred and forty.”

“Wonderful!” the woman cackled again. “There are plenty here that fit the bill then.” She paused, and then her face turned serious. “Don’t get any funny ideas, though. There’s not a one of us here that cares one way or another about your politics. We don’t care who gets to inherit what, who owns what, or what is proper and what isn’t. If anyone here is mad enough to agree to join you, it won’t be because they think you’re right about any of that nonsense, or even about the war.”

Bravye nodded. “What about sticking it to all the people who have put them here, dwarf and elf alike?”

The woman smiled again. “That might do. My name is Traiga. Follow me.”

The woman led them across the street and down a few buildings before slipping into a tavern. She gestured the two towards a table where two other women sat eating together. “Try those two to start with. Folga and Sheylee. I imagine they’re mad enough to join your venture. I’ll pass the word to others for you.”

Bravye smiled a bit and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank me, Great Lady,” the woman laughed. “They’ll be paying me a finder’s fee for finding them work they don’t have to wipe themselves after.” 

The woman was out the door before Bravye could think of anything more to say. As the door closed behind them, she managed to stutter out a “What was that?”

“A fixer,” Bravye replied. “She makes it her business to know what everyone around here is and fix them up with people that need their skills. She gets paid for arranging things.”

“Can we trust her?”

“We can trust her to find women who might join. Whether they will actually be good choices…” Isoli trailed off and shrugged.

“Well, let’s go find out.” Squaring her shoulders back against the doubt she had, Bravye approached the table.