after this ,’ he said.
Serfesson turned a shade of red that rivalled his wife’s, crimson thunder. ‘You scheming harlot!’ he shouted. Jeasin was pretty sure he had aimed that at her. She didn’t move. ‘You set me up, didn’t you?!’
The man in the tunic gingerly tried to grab the half-naked Serfesson and usher him out of the room. ‘Come along you!’ he ordered.
‘You won’t get a single coin, Karleah!’ bellowed Serfesson, but it was all useless. After much pushing and yelling and threatening, Serfesson was finally manhandled out of the room and was escorted down the corridor. Karleah hovered in the doorway until she heard the bang of the door below and the faint sound of laughter drifting up from the people in the street. Karleah reached inside her coat and tugged a fat purse from a pocket. She weighed it in her palm, looking at Jeasin out of the corner of her eyes. The purse jangled.
‘As we agreed?’
‘As we agreed. Fifty. Gold.’
Jeasin stood up and smoothed out her rumpled clothes. ‘An’ I can keep the dress?’
There was a snort. ‘Fine.’
Jeasin walked over to where she knew the woman was standing and held out her hand. A heavy purse dropped into it and she quickly tucked it between her breasts.
‘I don’t want to see you again, hear me? Otherwise this won’t work.’
Jeasin shrugged and tapped the corner of her right eye with her long, painted fingernail. ‘Can’t promise that. But at least only one of us ‘as to worry ‘bout it.’ She didn’t need her sight to know that Karleah was scowling.
‘Time to throw you out, then,’ she said.
Jeasin was marched out of the room, down the stairs, and to the front door, where Karleah made a great show of pushing the harlot down the steps and into the street. She stumbled, but stayed upright, and listened to the whispering of the crowd that had gathered. They already knew who she was. What she was. It was no secret. Just another little slice of gossip for the streets. Jeasin smirked as she heard her name shiver through the crowd like autumn leaves, skittering across the flagstones.
Karleah played her part well. She sauntered onto the doorstep with her hands on her big hips and waved her fist at the young woman. ‘And stay out, whore!’ she yelled, slamming the door. Jeasin combed her hair behind her ears and shrugged, leaving the crowd to mutter as she walked away.
Jeasin felt for the wall of the house, the touch of the sanded oak beneath her sensitive fingers, and followed it to the street. Somebody brushed past her and hissed, ‘Harlot,’ in her ear, but she barely even flinched. Insults fade after years of use, becoming blunt like battle-weary blades. Insults rely on probing the open wounds of shame and guilt. She had neither. Their opinions affected her as much as the passing of night and day. What was another insult thrown about by strangers in the darkness? After all, what is an insult, when it is true?
Jeasin traced the face of the wall to the next building, and then to the next, her arms out in front of her like the waving branches of a tree in the wind. Her fingers read the wall like the features of a map. A drainpipe here, a boarded window there. She knew them all.
She paused at a crack in a wall to flick an offending shard of gravel from her sandal, and when she reached up to balance herself, she put her hand on leather and firm flesh rather than wall, and she jumped.
‘You ought to be ‘shamed, sneakin’ up on a blind girl,’ she challenged.
‘There was no sneaking involved,’ said the stranger, a man with a deep, yet quiet voice, the fringes of which were frayed with tiredness and travel.
‘Farden,’ she breathed.
‘The very same.’
‘An’ what could you want, I wonder?’ said Jeasin, with a dry smile. She crossed her arms. His ability to sneak up on her, her of all people, was infuriating. She could never sense him until he was right under her nose. And now there he was, and suddenly Jeasin
Serfesson turned a shade of red that rivalled his wife’s, crimson thunder. ‘You scheming harlot!’ he shouted. Jeasin was pretty sure he had aimed that at her. She didn’t move. ‘You set me up, didn’t you?!’
The man in the tunic gingerly tried to grab the half-naked Serfesson and usher him out of the room. ‘Come along you!’ he ordered.
‘You won’t get a single coin, Karleah!’ bellowed Serfesson, but it was all useless. After much pushing and yelling and threatening, Serfesson was finally manhandled out of the room and was escorted down the corridor. Karleah hovered in the doorway until she heard the bang of the door below and the faint sound of laughter drifting up from the people in the street. Karleah reached inside her coat and tugged a fat purse from a pocket. She weighed it in her palm, looking at Jeasin out of the corner of her eyes. The purse jangled.
‘As we agreed?’
‘As we agreed. Fifty. Gold.’
Jeasin stood up and smoothed out her rumpled clothes. ‘An’ I can keep the dress?’
There was a snort. ‘Fine.’
Jeasin walked over to where she knew the woman was standing and held out her hand. A heavy purse dropped into it and she quickly tucked it between her breasts.
‘I don’t want to see you again, hear me? Otherwise this won’t work.’
Jeasin shrugged and tapped the corner of her right eye with her long, painted fingernail. ‘Can’t promise that. But at least only one of us ‘as to worry ‘bout it.’ She didn’t need her sight to know that Karleah was scowling.
‘Time to throw you out, then,’ she said.
Jeasin was marched out of the room, down the stairs, and to the front door, where Karleah made a great show of pushing the harlot down the steps and into the street. She stumbled, but stayed upright, and listened to the whispering of the crowd that had gathered. They already knew who she was. What she was. It was no secret. Just another little slice of gossip for the streets. Jeasin smirked as she heard her name shiver through the crowd like autumn leaves, skittering across the flagstones.
Karleah played her part well. She sauntered onto the doorstep with her hands on her big hips and waved her fist at the young woman. ‘And stay out, whore!’ she yelled, slamming the door. Jeasin combed her hair behind her ears and shrugged, leaving the crowd to mutter as she walked away.
Jeasin felt for the wall of the house, the touch of the sanded oak beneath her sensitive fingers, and followed it to the street. Somebody brushed past her and hissed, ‘Harlot,’ in her ear, but she barely even flinched. Insults fade after years of use, becoming blunt like battle-weary blades. Insults rely on probing the open wounds of shame and guilt. She had neither. Their opinions affected her as much as the passing of night and day. What was another insult thrown about by strangers in the darkness? After all, what is an insult, when it is true?
Jeasin traced the face of the wall to the next building, and then to the next, her arms out in front of her like the waving branches of a tree in the wind. Her fingers read the wall like the features of a map. A drainpipe here, a boarded window there. She knew them all.
She paused at a crack in a wall to flick an offending shard of gravel from her sandal, and when she reached up to balance herself, she put her hand on leather and firm flesh rather than wall, and she jumped.
‘You ought to be ‘shamed, sneakin’ up on a blind girl,’ she challenged.
‘There was no sneaking involved,’ said the stranger, a man with a deep, yet quiet voice, the fringes of which were frayed with tiredness and travel.
‘Farden,’ she breathed.
‘The very same.’
‘An’ what could you want, I wonder?’ said Jeasin, with a dry smile. She crossed her arms. His ability to sneak up on her, her of all people, was infuriating. She could never sense him until he was right under her nose. And now there he was, and suddenly Jeasin
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