The trouble with rogues

by myasmith1989

Rogues were never anything but trouble, so Jet had decided never to fall for one.
Her mother approved of this decision, and told her daughter that she was glad to have such a sensible girl. “When I was your age, I fell for a rogue, and look where that got me.” Where that had got Jet’s mother was a job waitressing at the tavern on the edge of the city, which was full of just the kind of man Jet intended to avoid.

“Don’t worry about me.”

Of course, Jet’s mother did worry. Clientele at the Wayfaring Eagle was salty at best, vile at worst, and rowdily drunk at least. It was one thing for Jet to avoid affection for them, barring the one or two old soldiers who treated her as an honorary niece or stand-in daughter. It was another thing entirely for her to dodge their attentions.

Because quite unfortunately, Jet was a lovely girl.

Lovely was all well and good for courtiers and ladies, but for a girl with little money and no prospects but a life of work and toil in the muddier sections of the city, it was an encumbrance. Not least because adventures always seemed to happen to lovely girls, especially if they were smart and just a wee bit restless.

Jet’s mother knew that no matter what she said about it, one day Jet would leave their small room over the tavern’s stables, and she was likely to do so on the back of some dashing boy’s stallion.

She was not wrong.

One particularly blustery night, when clouds scudded dirtily across the face of the moon and set the dogs to baying, the cocks to crowing, and the boards to creaking, a stranger stepped through the door.

He was dressed in all black. Black trousers, a long black coat of thick leather, a black shirt that bared a sliver of chest, and boots that, under the muddy grime and grey dust of travel were, probably, black.

He sat down at the bar.

Jet’s mother looked at her daughter, who was bringing more beer to the men closest by the fire. She hoped that the girl was not looking at the stranger, who was much too handsome for her liking, despite the caked-in dirt.

“I’ll have a pint of mead, please.” He said, in an accent that suggested mystery. Dunes and mountains and sailing ships, foreign spices and seraglios.

She slapped the pint on the counter, sloshing it a little. He gave her an ironical half smile, and then caught sight of Jet. This is where it all starts, thought Jet’s mother. Or perhaps, this is where it ends. Because Jet looked up, dark hair tumbling down her back and gray eyes widening with interest.

A few of the regulars whistled, and she ignored them.

Her mother sighed. Jet ignored that, too.

“It’s a wretched night for travel. Where’d you come from?” She asked, sitting down beside the man in black.

“I come from many places, and none. Most recently, I was in the Night Forest.”

“I thought no one ever went there.”

“No one does, unless they’re looking for something.”

“And what were you looking for?”

“I was looking for a midnight stag, so that I could take a piece of his antler.”

“Did you find one?”

“Oh, I always find what I’m looking for,” smiled the rogue.

“What are you looking for now?” Jet asked, smiling back.

“A little help. You see, I found the midnight stag, but only a woman can get close enough to get his antler. I paid rather a lot for this shirt, to see it torn apart by a raging beast, not to speak of what it would do to my innards.”

“And if you get it, what does this horn do?”

“It makes me a rather large amount of money. But if you’re asking what it does, it helps seal in a protection charm.”

“Would you be splitting said profits with this maiden, do you think?” Jet asked, scooting almost imperceptibly closer.

Imperceptible to everyone but her mother, who thought, it’s all going to end in tears, or worse, it won’t end at all, and she’ll be gallivanting for the rest of her days. Which, in the balance of probability, would not be as many as they might be, if Jet stayed home.

“Of course. 60-40.”

“Balls. 50-50 or nothing.”

“55-45?”

“Do you really think some girl is going to go into the woods where no light shines and pull a bit of antler off a stag who might decide to gore her, and not even get an even share of the profit? You’re lucky I don’t ask for 70-30.”

“I’m accounting for the fact that the initial investment of horse is mine.”

“I don’t care. You need me.”

“I could find someone else,” said the stranger, but it was clear since he’d laid eyes on Jet, it was never going to be anyone else. “Alright, alright. You drive a hard bargain, but I accept. 50-50.”
He held out his hand, and Jet shook it, feeling heat and calluses and strength. She met his eyes, matched his gaze, and said, “when do we leave?”

“As soon as the storm blows over.”

So it was that the next morning, the stranger loaded up his horse, and Jet said goodbye to her mother.
“Be careful. The world is a big place, and men are not to be trusted.”

“I know.” Jet said.

“I know you know, and I know you know how to use this, so take it.”

Her mother gave her a sheathed dagger–nothing very pretty or special, but it was sharp, and that was the main thing.

Armed and dressed in the cast-offs of one of her particularly well-liked regulars, Jet saddled up in front of the stranger, her heart skipping as they rode for the Night Forest. It was disconcerting, the abrupt shift from damply bright daylight to complete darkness as they entered the wood, and it took some time for her eyes to adjust.

They did not speak, all three sets of ears straining for danger as well as for their quarry. The stranger guided his horse carefully, as if he knew exactly where they were going, and indeed, before half the day was out, they found him.

The midnight stag was black, almost impossible to see against the dark of the forest, except that he was darker. And his antlers were golden. They branched out wide, seeming equally delicate and deadly.

“So, no problem, right?” Jet muttered.

The stranger chuckled and rustled the hairs at the back of her neck and said, “I believe in you.”
“Thanks.” She replied, rolling her eyes.
But she slid down from the saddle anyway, and padded slowly toward the enormous stag before her. He saw her, his great, glistening eyes following her every move. She held her hand placatingly in front of her, and edged closer.

What is it you want? asked a voice directly in her head.

“I only want a bit of your antler,” she said softly, “for a spell of protection.”

Take only what you need, and be careful of the ears, said the stag.

The midnight stag buckled at the knees and bent his head. Even then, the tips of his antlers were as high as the top of Jet’s head. She gave him a very brief, gentle pat on his nose, which was velvety and slightly cold. Jet drew the knife from its sheath at her hip, and whispered calming words to the stag as she sawed a piece of antler from him.

“Does this hurt?”

No.

“Thank you,” Jet said, when she was finished, curtsying low, and pressing a kiss on the midnight stag’s cheek.

“That was well done,” the stranger said, hoisting her back into the saddle.

“70-30?”

“Not a chance. But I won’t kick you off the saddle either.”

“That’ll do. For now,” Jet said.

“Alright then.”

“I accept.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

And it was.