interrupted by Haruk, who rushed from behind his counter, shouting at the girl and gesticulating for her to be gone. His stick-thin frame looked almost menacing as raised arms caused his robes to billow out, increasing the coffee seller’s apparent size.
The girl turned away reluctantly, pushing herself towards the market with surprising speed once she built up momentum, and leaving an insult trailing in her wake as thanks: “Brekkin’ foreigner, why don’t you go back where you came from?”
Hardly original; it was an over-used barb which had become blunted and ineffectual a long while ago. After a mumbled apology in Dewar’s direction, Haruk returned to the counter, muttering in a language Dewar didn’t recognise. The incident did cause him to reflect, though, on how times had changed. The girl had clearly singled him out. He was now an outsider here and that fact was obvious to all.
There! Movement again from the curled figure, torso and arm; there was no mistaking it this time, though it had only been a twitch. Then a reptilian head appeared from the body’s far side and a spill dragon clambered up to sit on top of the man, its snout glistening with fresh blood. The scavenger repositioned itself so that only hind legs and tail were visible as it went back to feeding.
Dewar snorted; so much for movement.
People continued to pass the dead man without sparing him a second glance: there was nothing unusual here. Somebody would alert the razzers at some point and the body boys would appear, to carry the corpse away and dispose of it in the usual fashion, depending on who was paying the most for human parts at present.
One woman did pause, to give the body a cursory once-over, but she then continued on her way without attempting a closer examination. Presumably the street-nicks had already relieved it of anything remotely valuable.
He glanced back towards the market square and spotted Martha at last, though he almost failed to recognise her. Dewar thought he had seen the girl in all her moods, but he had never seen her looking like this. She was hunched over, with a shawl clutched tightly about her, as if to provide protection from the cold, though the temperature was anything but. Gone was the familiar provocative strut, instead she moved with a careful deliberation which suggested that each step was an invitation to pain. There were bags under her eyes and a ripe bruise on one cheek, though she had attempted to hide it with makeup. All in all she looked worn out and used up, a mere shadow of the haughty, long-legged beauty he remembered.
She dropped into the seat opposite him, clearly glad to do so.
“You look like shit,” he told her.
“Thanks. You always did know how to turn a girl’s head.”
“What happened?” His eyes focused on her bruised cheek.
She shrugged. “Some of the sailors can get a bit rough once the liquor’s inside ’em.”
Dewar knew from experience that Martha had no problem with things getting a bit rough. In fact she positively enjoyed it, which was one of the things that first attracted him to her. This particular episode must have been a good deal more than that.
“Are you all right?”
She seemed momentarily taken aback, as if such a question was the very last thing she expected from him, but then nodded. “Comes with the territory.”
Which was true enough, he supposed; a working girl always ran the risk of violence every time she went with a new punter. Those like Martha who operated without a pimp relied on experience, instinct and luck to avoid the occasional dangerous customer. Sometimes, that simply was not enough.
“This was last night, I take it?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he have a name, this sailor?”
“What’s with all the questions?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that I might have a use for a man who’s handy with his fists; especially one who’ll be sailing out of the city in a day or two and so out of reach of the razzers.”
The girl
The girl turned away reluctantly, pushing herself towards the market with surprising speed once she built up momentum, and leaving an insult trailing in her wake as thanks: “Brekkin’ foreigner, why don’t you go back where you came from?”
Hardly original; it was an over-used barb which had become blunted and ineffectual a long while ago. After a mumbled apology in Dewar’s direction, Haruk returned to the counter, muttering in a language Dewar didn’t recognise. The incident did cause him to reflect, though, on how times had changed. The girl had clearly singled him out. He was now an outsider here and that fact was obvious to all.
There! Movement again from the curled figure, torso and arm; there was no mistaking it this time, though it had only been a twitch. Then a reptilian head appeared from the body’s far side and a spill dragon clambered up to sit on top of the man, its snout glistening with fresh blood. The scavenger repositioned itself so that only hind legs and tail were visible as it went back to feeding.
Dewar snorted; so much for movement.
People continued to pass the dead man without sparing him a second glance: there was nothing unusual here. Somebody would alert the razzers at some point and the body boys would appear, to carry the corpse away and dispose of it in the usual fashion, depending on who was paying the most for human parts at present.
One woman did pause, to give the body a cursory once-over, but she then continued on her way without attempting a closer examination. Presumably the street-nicks had already relieved it of anything remotely valuable.
He glanced back towards the market square and spotted Martha at last, though he almost failed to recognise her. Dewar thought he had seen the girl in all her moods, but he had never seen her looking like this. She was hunched over, with a shawl clutched tightly about her, as if to provide protection from the cold, though the temperature was anything but. Gone was the familiar provocative strut, instead she moved with a careful deliberation which suggested that each step was an invitation to pain. There were bags under her eyes and a ripe bruise on one cheek, though she had attempted to hide it with makeup. All in all she looked worn out and used up, a mere shadow of the haughty, long-legged beauty he remembered.
She dropped into the seat opposite him, clearly glad to do so.
“You look like shit,” he told her.
“Thanks. You always did know how to turn a girl’s head.”
“What happened?” His eyes focused on her bruised cheek.
She shrugged. “Some of the sailors can get a bit rough once the liquor’s inside ’em.”
Dewar knew from experience that Martha had no problem with things getting a bit rough. In fact she positively enjoyed it, which was one of the things that first attracted him to her. This particular episode must have been a good deal more than that.
“Are you all right?”
She seemed momentarily taken aback, as if such a question was the very last thing she expected from him, but then nodded. “Comes with the territory.”
Which was true enough, he supposed; a working girl always ran the risk of violence every time she went with a new punter. Those like Martha who operated without a pimp relied on experience, instinct and luck to avoid the occasional dangerous customer. Sometimes, that simply was not enough.
“This was last night, I take it?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he have a name, this sailor?”
“What’s with all the questions?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that I might have a use for a man who’s handy with his fists; especially one who’ll be sailing out of the city in a day or two and so out of reach of the razzers.”
The girl
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