Oathday, Gozran 12, 4700 afternoon
Bailer’s Retreat Inn, Korvosa

The dark narrow stairway smelled of fish and tobacco smoke, and the treads complained loudly as Shalelu climbed to the second floor hallway. Flickering lamps set at irregular intervals provided the only illumination, and the warped floorboards made a stealthy approach virtually impossible. The elf stopped before a door and tapped a staccato beat. A moment later and she heard the expected response from the other side, and the door cracked open.

The room itself was surprisingly neat and bright. Two windows facing west were open, letting in the daylight and the aromas of the wharf below. Without saying a word Qatana, who had opened the door, settled back down in a chair before one of the windows and looked out.

Despite the pungent odor from the docks, Shalelu could still smell the girl from across the room. She was dressed in the same boys rags Shalelu had brought her nearly two weeks ago. It had been a long journey on foot, and while Qatana had kept her hands and face reasonably clean, the only time she had been completely submersed in water was when she had slipped and fallen while fording a stream. The damp had done little to improve the smell of her clothes, which were by now, as the housekeeper so succinctly put it, “Ripe.”

“Qatana, those clothes have served their purpose, and it is time to give them a decent burial… or cremation. There is a clean set on the bed for you to put on after your bath.”

This was actually the second set of clothes Shalelu had brought for Qatana. Originally she had purchased a colorful skirt and blouse, thinking to cheer the girl up, but Qatana had been adamant, “I never want to wear a skirt again.” She then added, with even more vehemence, “And I hate the smell of clean laundry!”

Of course she did. Having been forced to do laundry as a slave for three months was enough to sour anyone toward the smell of lye and starch. Shalelu thought that eventually Qatana would move beyond her recent unpleasant associations given time, and so she had bought her a used pair of trousers and a shirt and jacket. These still laid untouched upon the bed.

Shalelu patiently waited, standing by the door.

Eventually Qatana let out a long sigh and standing up walked over to the bed. She quickly began to pull her old stained shirt over her head when Shalelu interrupted, “Bath first.”

Qatana sighed again, fingering the clean clothes.

“Don’t you want a bath? I would have thought you’d not had the chance since you left Sandpoint, and it would be a treat after so long on the road.”

“Oh, we had baths at the inn. At least once a week they’d haul a big copper tub up from the cellar and fill it with hot water and soap, and we’d take turns.” Qatana paused, as if remembering some important detail, and resumed, “The charge for the women who worked upstairs was five copper pieces, but for me they charged a whole silver piece, and so they made sure I never missed a bath.”

“I don’t understand,” said Shalelu, “How could they charge slaves anything? Where did you get the coins?”

Qatana looked puzzled by this for a moment, before realizing what Shalelu had meant. “No,” she stammered, “they didn’t charge us to bathe. They charged others to watch.”