In Quinn's Line, whorehouses were the best places for information, and the Viper's Den was the only place where prostitutes didn't try to upsell their services to the patrons of the 'drinking' side of establishment. It was classy, and classy meant separating sex and alcohol with the heavy end of a bouncer's club.

Also, when a den of iniquity allowed Gale to carry his sword in, they must have been pretty confident in their security measures. Flashes of steel inadvertently accompanied every move of a barmaid that focused the male gaze upon their cleavage, and the male workers too seemed likely concealed daggers in their thighs. Perhaps every employee within this place was armed, and they granted their customers the luxury of that.

But they didn't actually keep their weapons when having sex. He didn't know that personally, but Bailey told him.

[i]"Why don't you go there and fuck someone? I ain't judging if it's a lady."[/i]

Gale flinched. The conversation ran through his head again. It was almost 2 years since he last saw Bailey, but this conversation always stuck out in his mind.

[i]"Hell, a lady's better for you. No need of silphium or any of that nasty smelling herbs that those whores munch on to 'get the blood flowing out of their bits' again."[/i]

Gale recalled Bailey's hands performing finger quotes beside him. And Gale recalled his reply to him.

[i]"Not interested."[/i]

[i]"Ya'll be missing out on the best parts of life! Hell, I'll forge a medical certificate for you that says you're a man!"[/i]

[i]"Not. Interested."[/i]

[i]"Aw, you're no fun, Gale. Always a stubborn bitch."[/i]

The memory faded from Gale's surface thoughts, and the knight's eyes wandered to the doorway that separated the drinking side from the tavern side. A bulky man stood at the doorway, his lazy piggy eyes glancing into the distance. The fingers upon his right hand wrapped upon a club resting on the edge of the bar counter just beside him. He was bald, and wore only white cotton pants with brown boots, but the massive bulk he carried, likely a mixture of muscle and fat, was enough to scare any rowdy drunkards. He was the dumb muscle of the separation between whorehouse and respectable watering hole.

Just beside him, a bespectacled, wiry man stood, his fingers clasped and twitching together. With a balding scalp and a wrinkled face, Gale could see no weapons upon the man, nor did his posture inspire confidence in anyone, least of all the man himself. He was dressed in a smart black uniform that the very same butlers in his household once attired themselves in, but the perspiration from the man was thick enough to show up against black. The man was most likely able to read, and the brains of the operation. If anyone wanted a prostitute, they needed proof of their cleanliness.

Well, it wasn't his problem.

Gale turned to the bartender, not caring if it was a man or a woman. 

"A beer, please," said Gale. He forced his voice deeper as he spoke. Being called 'Knight of Footstools' was an insult Gale adopted to signify his besting of knights far taller than him, but being called the 'Knight of Woman's Tone' wasn't going to help his case.