What little trepidation I might have had disappears at the feel of its leather on the palm of my hand.
There are people in the square, men mostly, staggering and laughing. A group of three sing a bawdy song discordantly, yelling the most offensive words. There are a few women, too, dressed in soiled and torn dresses that may once have been beautiful. They call to the men, shouting to be heard above the drunken din, promising passion for a small sum as they cup their breasts with grubby hands and cracked fingernails. One woman is bent over the wooden railing outside a bustling public house, her skirt hiked up above her waist as a man thrusts into her from behind. She cleans dirt from under her fingernails with the tip of a small knife while he rams his hips against her.
As I watch, he finishes and swats her bare ass, then steps away fastening his breeches. He’s barely three steps away before another man takes his place, gives the woman a coin and undoes his pants. Part of me is sickened, anguished by the memories stirred within my breast, but another part is sympathetic. I understand one must do what one must to survive.
I divert my attention away from the dispassionate coupling and head toward the public house where light spills through loosely shuttered windows, and conversation, shouts and music bubble through the doorway. I pull my cloak tight around my shoulders and against my cheeks. Better I fool some into thinking I’m a man for a while.
At the doorway, I’m uncertain if I look upon a party or a riot. Bodies press together, their sweaty heat keeping the chill night outside the room. A man stumbles past and vomits on the porch outside the door, some of his spew splashing unnoticed onto the bare calves of the man more concerned about getting his money’s worth from the disinterested whore.
In a corner of the room, a scared-looking musician strums a lute and sings words no one hears above the noise of the revelers. To my right is a long bar, its surface nicked and splintered by years of misuse. People dance on it, kicking over others’ drinks; one such incident sparks a fight, but the crowd swallows the combatants and I can’t see the outcome of the skirmish, so I move toward the bar, hoping to gather information.
It’s impossible to tell if the man dispensing drinks is the barkeep or just another inebriated partier. He’s at least as drunk as everyone else and spills more liquor on the stained wooden surface than he pours into the chipped cups. There’s no point asking questions of any of these people. If I interrogated and threatened until the sun rose, I wouldn’t receive coherent answers.
Resigned to wait until the morrow, I take a cup from the bar and carefully choose an edge from which to drink to avoid cutting my lip. The strong liquor burns my throat. It doesn’t refresh me but leaves a warmth in my stomach that’s not uncomfortable. Too much would certainly leave a pain in my head.
I push my way back through the throng toward the door. A man grumbles as I force my way past, another simply topples at my touch, his drink spilling down his companion’s front. The man looks like he’ll make trouble over it, but my stern expression changes his mind.
Halfway to the door, a hand catches my arm, spins me around. I grab the hilt of my dagger and free half an inch of steel, expecting to see the man with the wet shirt, but it’s not.
“I knows you,” this new man says, the lanterns’ light gleaming in the line of saliva running from the corner of his mouth. He might be attractive if not for that and the missing teeth. And the bulbous nose. And the patchy beard. “If I don’t knows ya, I sure wants to.”
His hand finds my breast at precisely the instant my blade finds his belly. I pull him close, burying the steel all the way to the hilt, enjoying the surprised look on his face.
“You don’t know me,” I whisper. “You never will.”
I pull the blade free and step away, holding it in
There are people in the square, men mostly, staggering and laughing. A group of three sing a bawdy song discordantly, yelling the most offensive words. There are a few women, too, dressed in soiled and torn dresses that may once have been beautiful. They call to the men, shouting to be heard above the drunken din, promising passion for a small sum as they cup their breasts with grubby hands and cracked fingernails. One woman is bent over the wooden railing outside a bustling public house, her skirt hiked up above her waist as a man thrusts into her from behind. She cleans dirt from under her fingernails with the tip of a small knife while he rams his hips against her.
As I watch, he finishes and swats her bare ass, then steps away fastening his breeches. He’s barely three steps away before another man takes his place, gives the woman a coin and undoes his pants. Part of me is sickened, anguished by the memories stirred within my breast, but another part is sympathetic. I understand one must do what one must to survive.
I divert my attention away from the dispassionate coupling and head toward the public house where light spills through loosely shuttered windows, and conversation, shouts and music bubble through the doorway. I pull my cloak tight around my shoulders and against my cheeks. Better I fool some into thinking I’m a man for a while.
At the doorway, I’m uncertain if I look upon a party or a riot. Bodies press together, their sweaty heat keeping the chill night outside the room. A man stumbles past and vomits on the porch outside the door, some of his spew splashing unnoticed onto the bare calves of the man more concerned about getting his money’s worth from the disinterested whore.
In a corner of the room, a scared-looking musician strums a lute and sings words no one hears above the noise of the revelers. To my right is a long bar, its surface nicked and splintered by years of misuse. People dance on it, kicking over others’ drinks; one such incident sparks a fight, but the crowd swallows the combatants and I can’t see the outcome of the skirmish, so I move toward the bar, hoping to gather information.
It’s impossible to tell if the man dispensing drinks is the barkeep or just another inebriated partier. He’s at least as drunk as everyone else and spills more liquor on the stained wooden surface than he pours into the chipped cups. There’s no point asking questions of any of these people. If I interrogated and threatened until the sun rose, I wouldn’t receive coherent answers.
Resigned to wait until the morrow, I take a cup from the bar and carefully choose an edge from which to drink to avoid cutting my lip. The strong liquor burns my throat. It doesn’t refresh me but leaves a warmth in my stomach that’s not uncomfortable. Too much would certainly leave a pain in my head.
I push my way back through the throng toward the door. A man grumbles as I force my way past, another simply topples at my touch, his drink spilling down his companion’s front. The man looks like he’ll make trouble over it, but my stern expression changes his mind.
Halfway to the door, a hand catches my arm, spins me around. I grab the hilt of my dagger and free half an inch of steel, expecting to see the man with the wet shirt, but it’s not.
“I knows you,” this new man says, the lanterns’ light gleaming in the line of saliva running from the corner of his mouth. He might be attractive if not for that and the missing teeth. And the bulbous nose. And the patchy beard. “If I don’t knows ya, I sure wants to.”
His hand finds my breast at precisely the instant my blade finds his belly. I pull him close, burying the steel all the way to the hilt, enjoying the surprised look on his face.
“You don’t know me,” I whisper. “You never will.”
I pull the blade free and step away, holding it in
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