23rd Trial, Vhalar, 718a
Bolstrum
22nd Bell
Bolstrum
22nd Bell
Continued from here
He would never love her as she loved him, and she cursed herself or a fool, thinking that would ever change.
"Are you sure you can't make it tomorrow night?" There was no reply from the man at the desk; just a pen scribbling relentlessly across cold, lifeless paper. She was real and alive and vital and not a look did he toss her way. "I'm making stuffed chicken. Peppers and olives. You always liked that."
"Can't. Maybe in a few trials."
He didn't even look up from his precious ledger, the bastard. He seemed to spend more time poring over those letters and numbers and entries than he did inside or, or just talking to her, noticing her. More than before, anyway. She hugged herself and leaned against the door-frame. Her eyes glazed and her mind wandered. Those were better days, in the beginning. Where they were discovering each other, or to be honest, he had discovered her.
Marineq knew she was a whore. Which is to say, she didn't hide behind euphemisms or justifications. This was Etzos, after all, and commerce was that which all prayed to, not the endlessly-clashing eccentricities of the Immortals. She was a beautiful girl with a fine body, the sight of which immediately caressed that primal part of the male mind that was never far from the urge to fuck-eat-kill.
Some women, too. She didn't discriminate. Coin was coin, and her grocer and landlord sure as shite didn't care where the money came from.
Then Yancy found her. They just... connected. It wasn't love and she'd never say that word out loud. But he appreciated her; for more than just a cunt with legs and a mouth attached. He praised her wit and her grit as much as her bosom and face; he helped her when she needed a lease signed for her house, and potions for her womanly problems. Top nel, too. Yancy already had a child, and didn't want anymore. Not from her, anyway.
The day he'd told her that, in those words, with that emphasis, was when things changed for the worse.
"Sweetheart," she cooed, sauntering over to him and draping her arms over his neck. "I know you're leaving soon. C'mon, let's have a proper goodbye."
"Mary?" He used her pet name and that brightened her face. The fact he used it without facing her didn't seem to register. "I'm busy."
The brightness faded; the smile died. Her hands became lead around her lover's shoulders and still, still he did not notice. She stepped away from him and Yancy did not move. Nothing save for his hand and his lips, endlessly totting up figures and making calculations, barely audible to her ears. Mary bit her lip and stalked away from him. The scratching paused for a moment, as his married ears noticed the telltale stomp of a woman disgruntled in her pacing... but it resumed again shortly.
He didn't have time for a whore's nonsense. Even one as delightfully rare as Mary.
She always knew when he was done. She'd hear the bed being dragged back into place, over the floorboards he pulled up. His clever little hiding space. Not many burglars were willing to shift a big bloody bed halfway across the room just to check under the floor for loot. Yancy was betting on that, even if it did mean he had to huff and puff whenever he wanted to do some work.
He does plenty at the office, she thought bitterly, sipping at her third glass of brandy. Fuck does he need to bring it here with him?
He walked in and she made a point not to make a big deal about it. Just kept staring at the firing and sipping her drink and fuck him, fuck him, let him notice her for once! Yancy sighed and she didn't see his eye roll. Women. So damned changeable. He crouched on the carpet next to her, placed a hand on the plush sofa, the two of them surrounded by all the trappings of a house in her name, yet paid for by him.
All of it. Five arcs worth of "patronage". That's the word he'd used, long ago, when their "engagement" began.
I wish he hadn't called it that, she thought, and the words quivered slightly even in her mind.
"It was important work, my darling."
"Don't use that tone with me. Like I'm some scared foal you're trying to put at ease."
"You're prettier than a horse by some measure, Mary."
"Oh, so now you notice that?"
He straightened up and walked over to where his coat was hanging without another word. Going on twenty arcs of marriage and five arcs knowing this girl's moods, no fucking way was he going to be dragged into a argument by a woman who was dead-set on having one. He could tell by the pugnacious tone alone, and spoke as he shrugged on his coat.
"Like I said before, I've been busy. I'll be back in a few... damnit..." The left sleeve always gave him trouble. Stupid shoulder injury. "Trials, and then... then we can-"
He was about to curse again, when gentle hands lifted the coat the rest of the way, until it was properly on him. He felt a warm, soft press against his back, that grew hands wrapping around him from behind. Found his heart and clasped over it, and he smiled down, into his chest.
"Mary..."
He didn't want trouble with this one. She was delightful, and she was smart... but she was a whore. Even as he turned around to look down on her, at her soft eyes and full lips that always raised a smile from him when she did some small, thoughtful thing for him, he internally shook his head. She was clearly getting too attached to him. It had taken her arcs, but it had happened. She wanted more time from him, more attention, more talking, not just gold-for-fucking.
Nothing sadder than a whore who's a fool for love.
"What will I do with you?"
"I don't know," she said, eyes saying much different, adding to the effect by taking his thumb in her mouth and biting down on it. "I can think of a few things."
"Oh, no-no-no, wicked girl," the older man said, kissing her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks (yes, they always like that romantic bollocks) and finally her lips. He breathed the air straight from her lungs, feeling the life of it, the arcs she didn't carry that he did. "Not tonight. Three trials. Then I'll be happy to have that chicken."
She smiled. "You were listening."
"Of course I was."
Nicely done, my son.
Hope came back to her, and she clutched it like a child that had gone missing then returned. She knew there'd be other days for worries and fretting, but for the moment, she embraced the man at the front door and kissed him again. Deeper. Longer. With more passion than that dry old trout he'd married could manage, she was sure. Sure enough, too, she'd never lower herself with the things she'd do for her man. As if they were to be ashamed of, pleasing a man and having him please her, too.
Hope for him, yet, she thought as she bid him farewell, waving from the doorway as he walked out. Big Pelham was out there, still waiting, still watching, as always. Hope for us...
"Everythin' all right, sir?"
"Yes, yes," Yancy said with a sigh, buttoning is coat against the rising cold of a turning season. "Women, you know? Always a crisis to head off, when they're concerned."
The big thug grunted and kept pace with him. He spoke without looking at him, like he usually did. His eyes were for the people and alleys and roads they passed. Glimpses of potential threat. Even looks over his shoulder when footsteps came a little too close to them.
"Time t'get a new one, mebbe?"
"Oh, not quite yet," Yancy said with a quiet little smile. "Leagues left on this filly, if you follow me? Why trade her down at the knackers now?"
"F'you say-"
"Spare a coppa, sirs?" A derelict that smelled like corpses covered in feces that had been set alight waved a worn wooden bowl at knee-level. "Keep an' aul man in a warm room t'night?"
"Oh, for... Pelham, would you?"
There was a grumbling, grunting sound that was barely human, but a couple of copper nel soon plinked into the bowl. The area that was roughly head-shaped bobbed up and down madly, like a puppet with a broken string, still going when the two men began to walk away.
"Fank yuh, suhs, fank yous!"
"Good grief," Yancy said, rubbing his hands clean though they'd never even touched the man. "Where do they come from?"
"Crosstown, I 'ear," Pelham rumbled, like a volcano yet to erupt. "Lotsa' refugees, y'know? No work, not enuf rooms, so they take t'beggin'."
"No work, pah." The beggar in their wake heard the contempt in Yancy's voice practically spew over his words. "No will to work, from what I can see. Loathsome creatures, one and all..."
The beggar watched them go from under his hood, where no light could be found and his body was protected from the light rain that was starting to drizzle down. He'd thought the same thing, when he'd seen the ragged men with their hopeless eyes and begging bowls around the town. More than just despair in their eyes, but an imprint of horror from what they'd seen. Lives and loves and families, snuffed out by those monsters from the South, set them to fleeing their homes and forced to beg and grovel for their lives.
He thought it a good enough cover. And now the two men were gone, leaving the woman alone, the hooded figure swung its gaze back to the house they'd come from. A simple, efficient little place. Front door, back door, plenty of windows, but also plenty of curtains... and locks that didn't seem anything special.
Kasoria got up, pocketed his bowl, and walked with soft steps to the back of the house.
