| Moonshine, Chapter 1 |
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This month we introduce a new story--the four-part Moonshine. Unlike our previous tale, which highlighted some of Mal Nassrin's richest and most talented, Moonshine offers a glimpse of how the other half lives through the eyes of Klavel, partner in one of the city's illicit pitfighting rackets. If you missed On the Fly, or want to keep up to date as this new adventure unfolds, see our complete list of serials here. Moonshine "It's hard to live in a world that is dying," Larius says, delivering this lofty pronouncement in the pious tones of a drunk. A drunk so sloshed that the very air is causing him to wobble slightly. But be that as it may, I cannot stop my eye from rolling, though I do it looking away so he won't see. I hate it when he's like this. That got better at least. I don't know why, it just faded away like hope and snow. The local temple priest had told me it was a blessing, right before he hit me up for tithes. Yeah, blessing. What kind of gods would fix that? Why bother? Mercy, my lame ass. What's that saying? Those that the gods love die young and those they favor go mad? What about the ones whose jaws they fix? A setup to the death and the madness, maybe? No thank you, holy father. "Klavel," Larius' voice is slurred and irritated. I glance up and he lifts his chin slightly, his gait has slowed, but not stopped. I look to where he indicated and see a group of people standing around a wide-open door, blocking the narrow street. Larius is on my left and I step in closer-an old habit, just in case we're walking up on trouble. He isn't young anymore but he's tough and I want him on my blind side. I can't say why I thought there was trouble, now that we're closer. The people are in simple clothes, and I don't see much more than a couple of carved candlesticks between them. Still, something is wrong. More wrong than usual, anyway. I hear crying-the quick hiccupping kind, like the sound some women make when surprised by a hard slap. It gets louder as we draw even with the door and start getting noticed. I can't imagine what they see, gods know the years haven't been kind. And tonight we are a bit showy with the gear. Not wearing the big blades or anything, but carrying steel nonetheless. One of the men approaches hesitantly. He's skittish and Larius isn't one for politeness. I don't bother with a greeting; Larius is the one who's interested. I spend my time trying to make sure by torchlight that my first impression has been correct. No weapons, that I can see. "We heard…" the man begins, his voice fading as Larius shoulders past him to stand near the doorway. I follow him. Larius keeps to one side, the room is dark and the moonlight spills in, making a long pale square on the floor like a shadow of light. I stand behind Larius; both of us are looking down at some sweet young thing kneeling next to an unmoving woman. I watch the woman's chest, but there is no rise, no fall. Doesn't look like she's breathing, but I can't be sure. She is lying on her back, but clothed. Tidy, even. I don't see blood, though the light is pretty bad. But I don't smell it either. Her eyes are open and her mouth gapes, beside her the girl weeps into open hands. Something about this scene-maybe it's the light, washing out the color-but it feels… not false, but wrong. Unreal. Of course, it could just be that I wasn't expecting to stumble on death tonight. I'd thought that was behind us, left back at the ring. "What happened?" Larius says. His voice is so low and strained that I twist my neck to see his face. His eyes are narrow, his gimlet gaze fixing the speaker into place. "We heard the girl," the man says. His own glance sliding sideways, it seems to fall upon the woman then shifts the other way. It's funny really. Watching him try to find a safe place to rest his eyes. "She was crying, loudly." The last word comes out as petulant, as if she'd done it on purpose to wake them. "How long have they been here?" Larius asks. I blink. Of all the damned strange questions. "We only just got here…" the man says, confused. "No! The woman and the girl, how long have they been here?" Larius points a finger down at the ground sharply. "Larius? It's not our trouble…" I say, pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders. "I'd like to be back to my room sometime before dawn." He ignores me. "Do you know them? What's her name?" "The woman was Lydia, a seamstress. And the daughter, I don't know." The man was backing away now; more interested in being out from under Larius' unhappy eye than out of any guilty conscience, I was sure. "Larius, who cares?" I tap his arm with the back of my hand, but he jerks away. He advances on the man and I shrug, stepping behind him and into the room with the girl to see what interests him so much. "Why don't you light a lamp, birdie?" I suggest. She looks up with watery eyes and I feel myself cringe back. She's not quite a pretty thing, no matter how trim her figure. Her face is swollen, her nose running all over her upper lip. "My mother…" she says lifting one thin hand, then her face falls down and she wails, clearly useless. I look around, I don't see a lamp right off. And I don't really want to be bothered to look. The room is spare; the reeds on the floor are sparse and need changing. The air smells stale, heavy with the mealy aroma of potatoes or some other vegetable meal. It needs airing out. I bend down to peer at the woman. Her girl stops her mewling and stares at me with what I guess is apprehension. Maybe it's my face, but the young ones are always the most aghast. Unless of course, they're fascinated. The fascination is worse. "If she's dead it can't have been for long," I say. "She die here?" I ask the girl. She says nothing, just sitting there, wiping at her nose with her shirtsleeves. I reach out and prod her. "Birdie, this your ma?" She sniffles and nods. I wonder if we could find a candle, a small flame in front of her nose would find her breath if there were one. What did this girl know after all? I reach down and put two fingers on the woman's chin and turn her neck a bit. There are marks, I think, dappling her neck. It's darker in here than outside and suddenly I can't stand it. That's what's wrong. The moon casting light in at night, instead of a house throwing light out. It's backwards, and I automatically fold my fingers into the warding gesture that my own ma used to make on the muggy nights when the fog rolled in. I straighten, no longer in the mood to stand over some dead woman and wonder why or how she got her fool-self killed. I step over the woman's legs, but quickly more than ready leave the room. "Whaddya doin'?" Larius says, and for all his sober steely-eyed glares at that poor man I see that he's not bothering to try and hide his drunk from me. His bulk blocks what little light that there was and I sigh. "Nothing, Larius," I shrug. "She dead?" He asks, his lower lip sticking out like a bully about to pick a fight. "Yeah, I guess," I say. I try for absolute neutral, not interested and not uninterested. I'm not sure which way he's about to feint and I want to be ready for whichever way he turns. "You guess!" Larius glares at me, his eyes narrowing into slits so thin that I'm amazed he can still see me in the darkness. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Klavel? Is the bitch dead or not?" I feel my head want to back off my shoulders; had I a few less drinks under my own belt I might not have flinched like I did. I can't for the life of me guess why he's so pissed off. He's moving toward me now, and my only retreat is over the dead woman. I shrug again. "She looks pretty damned dead to me," I say. I know dead and she's dead. "What do you know?" He demands and his eyes, catching what little light there is, glitter wetly. "I know dead," I tell him. And I stop backing up. It won't get you anywhere or anything with him when he's in a mood like this. "You alright?" He reaches for me, stumbles and swings his hand toward my face. I slip backwards and trip over the woman's foot. Flailing, I go down in time to hear Larius' angry shout and see him barrel toward me. He grabs me before I fall and half-throws me away from the woman. I catch myself on the edge of the table, tipping its contents over and we all slide sideways down to the floor. "You dumb son of a bitch," he says. And then drops to his knees by the woman's side. The girl reels back, shoes scraping as she scrambles away. He doesn't even look at her, he just sits there, his face stretching down into a frown that auguries a wail. I stare at him, I can feel the urge, hell, the need to lash out with my one good foot and catch him in the jaw. Knock him back, like he did me, but my hip is screaming at me and I know it won't hold me for any fancy footwork. I hate that dammed old man. This is all because of him, after all. I struggle to my feet and lurch for the door, hating my damned gimpy leg and Larius and even the dumb dead woman whose fault all this was. "Some dead whore," I snap nastily, for the pure mean joy of it and his head whips around. I grin at him. "Take whatever fun you want, Larius. I'm going home." I stand there for a moment longer, then, turning, walk away. |
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| Last Updated ( Monday, 12 March 2007 ) |
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