Rajana had always been good at finding things, and even better at losing people. Actually finding a particular woman, even within the confines of Bree, had not been easy. She had watched and waited for days, patiently lingering and ignoring the whispers. She had considered taking to the rooftops, but thanks to her back injury, she was neither as spry or quite as sure-footed as she used to be. So, instead, she had started conversations with random people, picked over market stalls for things she neither needed or wanted, sat and pretended to read, anything that would appear to be a legitimate excuse to be where she was.
Her perseverance had paid off. She had sighted the thrower of tomatoes earlier this morning and quietly followed the woman to a more secluded location. She had been gentle, kind, friendly, even in the face of the woman’s anger and had left her with an invitation. Now, she sat within the confines of the Mess Hall, sipping at a cup of tea whilst she waited to see what, if anything, would come of it.
A blast of cool air from the far door made the flames in the fireplace shift and sway. The closing of it was a sharp slam, even to her single ear. Rajana didn’t move. There were many ways this could go wrong, many ways it could turn out badly for her. Now was not the time to second-guess her own plan.
“Well?” a rather petulant voice demanded. “What do you want?”
Only then did Rajana look up, a pleasant smile upon her lips. The woman stood there, hands upon her hips, her expression a mixture of distrust, disdain and displeasure. An ample bosom strained against the worn cotton of her dress; too tight for her plump frame, but she wore it anyway, and certainly nowhere near new. She had come alone; a good sign perhaps. There was always the possibility of her having brought friends to wait outside, or perhaps more would yet slip through the door.
“As I said earlier,” Rajana gestured toward the chair opposite. “I only wish to speak with you. My name is Silver. Would you care for a cup of tea?”
The woman stared down at her for a long while, her jaw clenched. With a single nod, she lowered herself into the chair opposite, ingrained good manners winning out over mistrust for the time being. “Rosalin.”
Rajana inclined her head in acknowledgement of the name, then called the server over. She waited for the woman to make her order of the best tea in the house, paying for it without comment. If a few extra copper was what it took to keep the woman listening, then so be it.
Silence reigned as the fresh tea was brewed. Rosalin stared at Rajana the whole time, visibly seething. Rajana, in turn, kept a pleasant demeanour, although she did take the opportunity for a closer inspection of the one before her. A few wispy grey hairs tied severely back in an otherwise chestnut bun. Strong, dry-skinned hands. Deep frown lines; this was not a woman who smiled often, or even had much to smile about.
“You need to lift that curse,” the woman demanded once the tea had been set down upon the table and the server moved away.
“There is no curse,” Rajana replied with open honesty. “As you can see, I’m not from around here. Westron is not the only language that I speak, but insults in a foreign tongue are still just insults.”
“Then why’s he lying in bed complaining of pains in his chest and head? Why’s he not gone to work in days?”
“I think you know the answer to that better than I,” Rajana said gently, fingertips tapping lightly against the ceramic cup of cooling tea. “Just as I think you know exactly what happened in the Pony. This isn’t the first time, is it?”
The woman said nothing at first, simply turning her face so that she’d not have to look at the dark-skinned guesser. She glared toward the fireplace, her jaw working alike a cow chewing cud. “What would you know?” she eventually spoke up, casting a brief, sidelong glare to Rajana.
“I know that the man who accosted me wore rich clothing,” Rajana lifted her arms to place her elbows upon the table, her cup delicately balanced between the fingers of either hand at a level just below her chin. “Yet, the workday is long over and you wear a very clean, but very old, dress. It’s your best, isn’t it? He gets to wrap himself in fancy threads whilst you are kept in worn clothes.”
Rosalin turned her head then, momentarily startled by the assessment. The glare faded into a frown, brown eyes widening as Rajana continued.
“I know that he is not a man used to being refused. He doesn’t take that well, does he? Even when sober, I suspect. The bruises you’re trying to conceal upon your wrists, they’re not normal work-day fare for a washerwoman. I’d wager that they’re not the only ones you have.”
“How did you..?”
“Your hands,” Rajana nodded toward them even as the washerwoman moved to conceal them beneath the table. “And you’ve a pleasant smell of soap that is yet too strong to have been from a recent face-washing. It lingered around you earlier as well.”
The woman shifted in her seat, looking uncomfortable and exposed for a few heartbeats. Rajana kept her silence. Now was not the time to press further. Patience was needed now. Patience and a light hand. She sipped at her tea, subliminally prompting the washerwoman to remember her own. Good. A few sips, a few moments for the woman to settle and think.
“I’ve no wish to cause you trouble,” Rajana spoke again when it became clear that Rosalin had no intention of leaving. “But it’s not the first time he’s acted this way, though I'm willing to bet it's the first time he’s had his teeth knocked loose for it.”
The woman almost smiled at that. Almost. Her natural scowl was restored in short order. “I never said that!” she snapped.
“You didn’t have to. I know the type, just as I know the signs.”
The woman eyed her up and down for a long while, struggling with what to say, what to feel. Rajana watched her in turn, though she kept her expression gentle, understanding. No pity. Pity would get her back up and render this whole thing a failure.
