“Speakable pleasures, indeed!” The old warlord was displeased. “What sort of bordello offers such milk-and-water sports? I have been at the Eastern Marches for five moons. I have seen more perverse lusts and improbable forms of dalliance in more lands than you’ve had hot dinners!”
“Perhaps— but, no,” drawled the elegant pimp.
“‘Perhaps’ me not, worm,” threatened the customer, brandishing his powerful cudgel. “Perhaps what?”
“For our most, ah, broad-minded, clients, we can grant a glimpse of our sister establishment, the Garden of Unspeakable Pleasures.”
“A glimpse, ho! Show me the way, lambs-pizzle.”
“If sir would care to look through this archway,” the pimp said as he drew a tawdry bronze curtain.
“Ah—” said the old warrior. “Uh.”
His face paled as he looked at the scene beyond the arch.
The pimp took the old warlord gently at the elbow and led him away from the archway, into the Garden of Speakable Pleasures. “Most of our clients prefer speakable pleasures: it makes the accounts easier and assists greatly in bragging about your visit to your comrades.”
“Yes. Of course, yes.”