The attendant blinks, her seductive smile faltering as she looks up at his intense, terrifying gaze.
"You," Aldo snaps, his voice sharp, clear, and ringing with undeniable authority. "Listen carefully. I don't want a companion. Here is what is going to happen."
He raises his left hand, holding up a single, calloused index finger.
"First, fill the largest private hot tub you have with boiling water."
He raises a second finger, stepping an inch closer.
"Second, take these clothes—boots, trousers, coat—and scrub every speck of Carravin dirt off them, iron them, and starch the collar."
He raises a third finger, his dark eyes narrowing into razor slits.
"Third, send up every single platter of tropical fruit, fresh cheese, and warm bread included in the package. If a single grape is bruised, we are going to have a problem."
The attendant stands frozen. Her sandalwood fan droops in her limp fingers. Her mouth opens slightly, then closes, then opens again. She blinks once, twice, staring in utter, speechless confusion at the dusty, scar-faced soldier who is currently addressing Flora City's most exclusive, decadent house of pleasure as if it were a combination of an aggressive military laundromat and an all-you-can-eat supply depot.
"S-ser?" she stammers, her purring, seductive tone completely vanishing, replaced by the sheer, unscripted bewilderment of a confused worker. "You... just want laundry, hot water, and fruit?"
Aldo pulls the polished bronze lotus key fob from his pocket and holds it right before her eyes, the metal gleaming in the amber light.
"I paid for the package," Aldo rasps, his jaw set like concrete. "I'm using the package. Lead the way."
The attendant stares at the bronze key fob, then at Aldo's unyielding eyes. She swallows hard, her composure entirely shattered. She bows hastily—not seductively, but with the frantic, nervous deference of a private officer receiving orders from a marshal.
"Y-yes, ser! Immediately, ser!" she squeaks, turning around and sweeping her translucent crimson robes out of the way as she hurries down the private corridor. "Right this way, ser! Room seven!"
Aldo steps into stride right behind her, his bronze key fob clutched firmly in his hand, his worn boots striking the floor with absolute, unwavering purpose. He is a man on a mission, determined to extract forty-five silver coins worth of raw utility from the Sanguine Lotus down to the very last slice of melon.
The private suite—Room Seven—is a sprawling chamber of absurd, overwhelming opulence.
The walls are panelled in dark, aromatic cedarwood that releases a rich, woody resin scent into the warm air. In the center of the room sits a massive, deep soaking tub cut from a single block of polished green marble, fed by twin copper pipes that are already roaring with streaming, boiling mineral water. On a raised wooden dais rests a wide daybed covered in dark red velvet sheets and heaped high with silk pillows filled with goose down. High brass stands hold silver oil lamps that spill soft, flickering golden light across the polished wood floor.
Aldo stands in the center of the room, his dark eyes sweeping over every single square inch with methodical, calculating scrutiny.
The young attendant stands near the door, wringing her hands nervously, watching him as if he were a unexploded military shell sitting on her rug.
"Is... is the tub to your satisfaction, ser?" she asks hesitantly.
Aldo walks over to the green marble tub. He leans down, plunges two calloused fingers directly into the churning, steamy water, and holds them there for three seconds. The water is scalding, hot enough to turn skin bright red in seconds.
He pulls his fingers out, wiping them on his trousers. A tiny, rare nod of approval touches his chin.
"Acceptable," Aldo says flatly. He turns to face her, unbuttoning his heavy, dusty officer's coat. "Now. The laundry."
He strips off his coat with sharp, efficient movements. The thick wool garment, heavy with weeks of road dust, sweat, and dried rain, comes off his broad shoulders. He turns it inside out, checking the interior lining, then tosses it directly toward the attendant. She catches it with a soft gasp, nearly stumbling under its surprising weight.
"Scrub the lining with lye soap," Aldo instructs, unbuckling his broad leather belt and tossing it atop the coat. "The seams have dirt trapped in them. Use a hard bristle brush. The collar needs ironed flat and starched until it stands stiff."
Next come his worn leather boots. Aldo sits heavily on the wooden bench beside the tub, unlacing the dirty leather thongs with quick, practiced hitches. He pulls the heavy boots off, revealing thick wool socks that have seen far too many miles. He sets the boots down near the attendant's feet.
"Apply black tallow grease to the leather," Aldo commands, pointing a finger at his boots. "The heels are wearing thin on the outer edges. Polish them until I can see my reflection in the toes."
The attendant nods frantically, holding the heavy coat in her arms, looking down at the dusty boots as if they were alien artifacts. "Y-yes, ser. Right away, ser. And... the trousers?"
Aldo unbuttons his canvas trousers, stepping out of them with crisp efficiency, leaving him in nothing but his simple linen undergarments. He folds the trousers along the seams—a habit beaten into him during his early years in the army—and hands them over.
"Don't shrink them," Aldo warns, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "If the legs shrink, you pay for the replacement."
"I... we will be very careful, ser!" she squeaks, gathering the heavy, dusty pile of military garments into her arms. She backs toward the door, bowing frantically. "I will take these to the lower laundry quarters immediately! And I will have the kitchen send up the premier food platters!"
She turns and scurries out the door, closing it behind her with a soft click.
Aldo stands alone in the warm, steamy suite.
He takes a long, slow breath. The hot, humid vapor fills his lungs, soothing the dry scratch in his throat. Without his heavy wool coat and stiff boots, his body feels light, almost weightless.
He steps over to the boiling green marble tub. Steam rises in thick, rolling clouds, coating the cedar walls in beads of moisture.
Aldo steps over the high marble rim and lowers himself into the boiling mineral water.
"Ghh..."
A low, guttural growl escapes his throat as his bare feet touch the bottom. The heat is agonizing for the first three seconds—a burning, sharp shock that makes his skin flush bright crimson. But as he lowers his thighs, his hips, and finally his torso into the deep marble basin, the intense heat penetrates deep into his aching muscles.
The water reaches his chest. Aldo leans his head back against the carved marble rim, closing his eyes.
The deep, stubborn knot in his lower back—the one that has been throbbing continuously since he left Carravin—begins to soften, melting under the relentless, boiling pressure of the thermal spring water. The iron stiffness in his calves releases its grip. The salt crust on his skin dissolves into the clear, mineral-rich water.
[Forty silvers...] Aldo thinks silently, his mind floating in the scalding mist. [The laundry alone would cost two copper bits in the lower city. The tub... perhaps five coppers for a hot fire. I am still thirty-nine silvers and three coppers in the deficit.]
A firm, polite knock sounds at the suite door.
"Enter," Aldo calls out, not bothering to open his eyes.
The heavy door creaks open. Two male servants clad in clean white tunics enter the room, carrying a massive, three-tiered wooden tray suspended between them on brass handles. They move with quiet, soundless steps, setting the tray down on a low carved wooden table right beside the marble tub.
"Your refreshments, ser," one of the servants says softly, bowing low. "Compliments of the Premier Sanctuary Package."
They bow again and exit silently, closing the door behind them.
Aldo opens his dark eyes, turning his head slowly toward the side table.
His dark pupils dilate slightly.
The tray is a monumental display of uninhibited, opulent wealth.
On the top tier sits a massive silver platter heaped high with fresh tropical fruits—things rarely seen in the northern markets. Deep purple figs sliced open to reveal their sweet, seeded interior; bright orange melons carved into delicate, cooling crescents; heavy clusters of dark crimson grapes shining with tiny water droplets; and pale green plums that smell of tart honey.
On the middle tier rests a wide wooden board displaying four different varieties of aged mountain cheese—hard, golden slabs edged with herb crusts, soft cream cheeses wrapped in green vine leaves, and sharp, crumbly white cheeses smelling of rich goat's milk. Beside the cheeses sit three small ceramic pots filled with golden wildflower honey, crushed walnut spread, and dark plum preserves.
On the bottom tier lies a high basket woven from sweet straw, filled to the brim with warm, freshly baked bread—soft white rolls dusted with flour, thick dark rye slices crusty from the oven, and sweet, buttery braided pastries twisted around almond paste. Beside the bread basket sits a sweating glass pitcher filled with chilled, pale yellow fruit juice, accompanied by a heavy crystal goblet.
Aldo stares at the feast. His dark eyes narrow as his internal ledger opens wide once again.
A platter of imported figs in the central market... at least four silver coppers due to transit tariffs, Aldo calculates methodically, his arm rising from the steamy water, water droplets glistening on his skin.
A wheel of aged mountain goat cheese... two silvers. Fresh white wheat bread during a regional requisition... one silver. Chilled fruit juice brought from the mountain cellars... eight copper bits.
He reaches out his hand, his wet fingers grasping a thick, warm slice of dark rye bread. He slathers a thick layer of soft cream cheese over the top, drizzles a generous spoon of golden wildflower honey over the cheese, and tops it with two dark, sweet figs.
He brings it to his mouth and takes a massive, uncompromising bite.
The crust crunches loudly between his teeth. The warm, rich rye bread combines with the salty, creamy cheese and the explosive, floral sweetness of the honey and figs in a wave of decadent, staggering flavor.
Aldo chews slowly, deliberately, his jaw moving with rhythmic, focused efficiency. A long, deep rumble of absolute satisfaction vibrates in his chest.
Three silvers of value recovered,
Aldo notes internally, swallowing the bite.
Thirty-six silvers to go.
He pours himself a heavy crystal goblet of the chilled fruit juice. The liquid is freezing cold, sharp, tart, and intensely sweet, cutting through the heavy warmth of the steam tub like a cold blade. He drains the entire glass in three long, desperate gulps, setting the crystal goblet back down on the silver tray with a sharp clack.
He instantly refills the glass.
For the next hour, Aldo executes a relentless, systematic campaign of consumption against the Premier Sanctuary Package.
He stays in the boiling green marble tub until his skin turns a deep, dark pink, the hot mineral water drawing every last trace of fatigue, tension, and road strain from his bones. Whenever the water cools down by a single degree, he turns the copper tap, pouring fresh, scalding spring water into the tub, keeping the temperature right at the edge of human endurance.
Between soaks, he eats. He doesn't eat like an aristocrat—taking tiny, polite bites with silver forks—he eats like a veteran lieutenant processing high-calorie rations before a long march.
He consumes three full crescents of orange melon, sweet juice dripping down his wrist into the water. He eats two dozen dark grapes, inspecting every single one under the lamplight before popping it into his mouth. He finds a single grape near the edge of the platter with a tiny brown bruise on its skin; he sets it aside on the wooden table with a sharp, judgmental frown, marking a mental deduction against the establishment's service score.
He eats half a wheel of the crumbly white goat cheese, spreading thick layers of walnut paste onto warm white rolls. He drinks four full goblets of chilled fruit juice, feeling the icy liquid contrast violently with the boiling heat of his lower body.
By the time the water in the tub finally begins to settle into a gentle, warm simmer, the massive wooden tray beside him looks like it has been hit by a disciplined raiding party. The silver platter holds nothing but clean grape stems and melon rinds; the wooden cheese board features empty vine leaves; and the bread basket holds only a few stray crumbs of rye crust.
Aldo leans his head back against the marble rim, letting out a long, heavy, utterly contented sigh. The deep, dark circles under his eyes have softened. His skin feels immaculate, smooth, and clean. The agonizing knot in his back has completely vanished, replaced by a warm, heavy weight of absolute physical relaxation.
A soft, polite knock sounds at the door once again.
"Enter," Aldo says, his voice low, deep, and completely relaxed.
The door opens, and the young attendant steps back into the room. She carries his clothes neatly draped over both arms, her posture stiff and respectful.
Aldo turns his head to look at her.
His heavy wool officer's coat is immaculate. The dark wool has been scrubbed until every speck of grey Carravin dirt is gone, leaving the fabric looking fresh, dark, and rich. The stiff collar has been pressed flat and starched so rigidly it stands up like a crisp piece of armor.
His canvas trousers are pressed with razor-sharp folds along the front seams, completely free of salt stains or mud splatters.
And resting on a small wooden tray carried by a second servant behind her are his leather boots. The worn black hide has been greased, oiled, and polished to a dazzling, mirror-like shine that reflects the yellow glow of the silver oil lamps.
The attendant sets the folded clothes gently onto the velvet daybed, while the second servant places the polished boots on the floor beside the bench.
"Your garments, ser," the attendant says softly, bowing low. "Scrubbed, ironed, starched, and polished according to your exact specifications."
Aldo steps slowly out of the marble tub, water cascading off his broad, scar-marked shoulders in sheets. He grabs a thick, plush linen towel from a heated brass rack—a towel so soft and thick it feels like velvet against his skin—and wraps it around his waist.
He walks over to the daybed, reaching down to inspect his coat. He runs his calloused thumb over the starched collar. It is stiff, cold, and flawless. He checks the seams of his trousers; not a single thread is loose. He leans down and looks into the toe of his black leather boot—his own stoic face reflects back at him in the dark shine.
Aldo stands up straight. He turns his dark eyes to the attendant.
Scrubbing and pressing a heavy wool officer's coat in the city market... two silvers,] Aldo's internal ledger calculates its final figures. [Starching a military collar... six copper bits. Deep oiling and mirror-polishing worn military boots... three silvers. Full premier fruit and cheese platter... eight silvers. Boiling mineral tub access for two full hours... fifteen silvers.
He closes his eyes briefly, adding the final numbers together in his head.
Forty-two silvers and six copper bits of pure, unadulterated utility extracted.
A deep, profound sense of victory fills his chest. He has not only recovered his forty silver deposit; he has beaten the non-refundable policy of Flora City's premier brothel by two silver coins and six copper bits.
Aldo looks at the nervous attendant, his face remaining entirely stoic, though his dark eyes shine with a faint, quiet triumph.
"You have done well," Aldo says, his voice low, steady, and satisfied. "The collar is properly starched."
The attendant lets out a long, quiet sigh of relief, bowing low once again. "Thank you, ser. The Sanguine Lotus strives to satisfy every guest's... unique desires."
Aldo doesn't waste another second. He drying himself off with a second plush towel, then dresses with sharp, military efficiency. He pulls on his clean, starched trousers, sliding his feet into his oiled, comfortable boots. He slips his arms into his heavy wool coat, feeling the stiff, clean collar rest neatly against his neck.
He fastens his leather belt, hooks his bronze lotus key fob over his thumb, and marches out of Room Seven.
He strides down the plushly carpeted corridor, stepping through the crimson silk drapes into the reception hall.
The front manager is still standing behind the black marble counter, holding his silver quill over the leather register. As Aldo steps out into the hall—looking tall, clean, flawlessly ironed, and walking with a light, vigorous stride—the manager looks up, his sharp eyes widening slightly in genuine surprise.
Aldo walks straight up to the marble counter. He doesn't say a word. He takes the bronze lotus key fob and drops it onto the black stone.
Clack.
The manager looks down at the key fob, then up at Aldo's refreshed, immaculate appearance.
"Was everything... to your satisfaction, ser?" the manager asks, his smooth voice carrying a rare, subtle note of genuine curiosity.
Aldo adjusts his starched collar with a quick, crisp flick of his fingers. He looks the manager straight in the eye, his dark face unreadable, his chest filled with the quiet pride of a lieutenant who has won a difficult tactical engagement against overwhelming odds.
"The fruit was fresh," Aldo says flatly, his gravelly voice echoing off the high velvet walls. "And your laundry staff knows how to handle wool."
Without waiting for a response, Aldo turns on his heel, pushes open the heavy double-carved oak doors, and steps out into the bright afternoon sunlight of Flora City.
The warm, clean breeze of the avenue washes over him, rustling the leaves of the cypress trees. Aldo stands on the top marble step, taking a deep, long breath of the fresh, open air. His skin feels clean, his muscles are completely relaxed, his stomach is full of fine cheese and tropical fruit, and his clothes are cleaner than they have been in six months.
He pulls his heavy leather purse from his coat pocket, feeling the remaining silver coins inside.
A very successful operation,
Aldo thinks, a faint, almost invisible twitch of a smile touching the corner of his lips as he steps down onto the cobblestones.
Now, I wonder where Comtois and Onaga are hiding.
Aldo marches down the straight, sunlit avenue, his boots shining bright under the summer sky, ready for whatever the rest of Thromium has to throw at him.