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DargonZine Volume 21 Issue 02
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 21
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 2
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DargonZine Distributed: 06/14/08
Volume 21 Number 2 Circulation: 635
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Liam Donahue
The Game 2 Mark Murray Firil 15 - Naia 20,1018
and Pam Atchley
Stolen Thunder Jim Owens Seber 1, 1018
Let Me Help Jon Evans Seber 1, 1018
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dargon@dargonzine.org> or visit
us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
at ftp://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted
to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 21-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright June 14, 2008 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Liam Donahue <bdonahue@fuse.net>.
DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-
NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute
unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions
of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to
Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Jim Owens
<gymfuzz@yahoo.com>
Welcome to the second issue of Dargonzine for 2008. I am Jim Owens,
one of the writers for the Dargon Project, and guest editor for this
issue's Editorial. In this issue we present three offerings by long-time
contributors to the Dargon Project: "The Game 2" by Pam Atchley and Mark
Murray, "Let Me Help" by Jon Evans, and my own "Stolen Thunder". Each
presents a slice of life in our fictional realm of Dargon.
Life is about discovery. At birth, our world is small. It centers
around Mom and Dad and family and home. As we grow our world grows with
us, expanding out into school and church and work and community. We
learn lessons from life, if we are wise, and sometimes as we age we
discover entire worlds that were right under our feet, unnoticed until
something or someone prompts us to stop and look down and explore what
was right before us the whole time. In many ways the Dargon Project has
also been maturing. As our writers age and pass through the various
stages of life, so the Project has had to grow and adapt. There are many
discussion going on behind the scenes, on mailing lists, in our new
forum, and even offline in telephone conversations and over dinner in
exotic restaurants. We are making plans to grow and change, and you can
expect to see some of these changes emerge in the months to come.
Every year the writers of the Dargon Project hold a Summit. As part
of last year's Summit, a challenge made for each writer to create a
story, based in Dargon City, that takes place entirely within a 24 hour
period of time. The purpose of this exercise was to explore a city that
we have been writing in and about for 24 years but which remained
strangely unmapped in our canon. The result was stories such as last
issue's "Walking the Venilek" by our premier writer Dafydd Cyhoeddwr.
This issue of Dargonzine presents two more stories in that vein: my own
"Stolen Thunder", a brief tale of a flawed entrepreneur and his attempts
at sudden success, and "Let Me Help" by Jon Evans, a story of
reconciliation by two people who were never really estranged, but who
were never really together. But first we present the second part of "The
Game" by Pam Atchley and Mark Murray, a dark story of intrigue and
honor. This story is the tale of an honest man who weaves pleasant
fantasies for a living. His life teeters on the edge when an obsessive
woman implicates him in a horrible crime.
I hope you enjoy the stories in this issue, and I also hope you
continue to explore the world of Dargon with us as we grow into this new
century.
========================================================================
The Game
Part 2
by P. Atchley and Mark A. Murray
deepartha@yahoo.com and wv_mark@yahoo.com
Firil 15 - Naia 20, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 21-1
The woman standing in front of me was infuriating. Although she
never interrupted me as I told her my story, she mostly glared. My cell
is small and uncomfortable and I do not need her hatred. I wish she
would either confide in me or go away. Instead she prodded me about my
relationship with Jande. I told her that Jande visited me many times and
I start talking about one of them.
"Grana says that you're a very special man," Jande murmured. She
was resting with her head on my chest and I lazily played with her hair.
I'd made sure she had enjoyed herself, and now she was as comfortable as
she could be. I wondered briefly if she and her husband had been on good
terms before his death.
"Mmmm." I didn't know what to say to that. I tended to view most of
the conversations I had with my clients as either rubbish, which was
what they were most of the time, or confidential, when they were of
important and private matters. The problem was that I was never quite
sure which was which. So I played it safe and treated all my after-roll
conversations as private. For instance, it didn't appear that Jande knew
of Grana's poetry, so I wasn't going to share that bit of information.
"Talk to me, Delex," she whispered.
"What do you want to talk about?" I asked.
"How did you become ...?" she hesitated.
I smiled. "It was a long time ago."
"Tell me."
I didn't want to think about the past, much less talk about it, but
at the same time, I didn't want to change the tone of the conversation,
so I offered her a highly edited version of the true events. "Oh, I met
Eliza Tillipanary and she offered me the job. It seemed like a good idea
at the time."
"I can't imagine how it must be," she said softly, turning her head
to place a kiss upon my chest.
"I get to spend time with someone like you," I said. There was
something about her that I found interesting. For all her recent
widowhood, I'd found her to be both a vigorous and enthusiastic partner
in bed. I wondered about her dead husband, and it felt like a wrong note
in the middle of a song. I always avoided thinking of the personal lives
of clients.
She laughed, and her hands began to wander. That was the end of
that conversation.
A few nights later, I came down to find Grana and Jande waiting for
me again. I couldn't help feeling a surge of pride. I still had whatever
it took to attract women. Masian might be a novelty, but I had
experience. Still, why had Grana brought Jande to me? I didn't have time
for thoughts as Jande took my hand and we went upstairs.
This time, she was more aggressive, and her kisses were strong and
hard. She disrobed before I could get all the candles lit, and she
growled at me to leave the sconce be. It wasn't the same Jande that had
been here previously. It was as if a part of herself was slipping
through her outward appearance.
Afterwards though, it was the same. Our lazy conversation meandered
past the hot summer weather, the big scandal the previous month when one
Ludovic Thirsson, son of a very rich gem-merchant, had been accused of
the murder of his twin brother. She abruptly changed the conversation. I
managed to find out a little about her dead husband. He had also done a
spot of business in gems, and as a consequence, Jande knew the Thirsson
family well. She was hiding more but I didn't feel like prying any
further.
I let her direct the conversation then. She knew a good bit about
the politics of the duchy, and we had a spirited discussion about
whether the duke's wife was really a mage or not. Of course, the talk
could end in only one way, and when morning arrived and Jande took her
leave, I found myself puzzled and energized in a way that I'd never been
before. She was passionate and intelligent , but she was also a mystery
and there were things hidden that nagged at the back of my mind.
The days passed, and Jande continued to arrive promptly once every
three or four days. Our time together always followed the same pattern:
a little fun, a long serious discussion about whatever was happening in
Dargon, a little more fun, followed by a drowsy noncommittal
conversation. On one of her visits to me, Jande asked me something
strange.
"Have men like you ever quit the Lucky Lady?"
The question puzzled me. It felt like a wrong stitch in a tapestry.
The hair on the back of my neck was on end. "Well that depends," I said,
and paused, feeling my concentration waver. Her hands had begun to
wander. "Depends on whether the person wants to." I shifted
uncomfortably as her wandering hands distracted me even as she asked
another question.
"Have you ever wanted to?"
I could barely think, but that sobered me instantly, something
about the way she asked the question.
"No," I rasped as she rose above me. That was the end of that
conversation.
Over the next few sennights, Jande Tes visited the Lucky Lady and
me frequently. Every time she came, she would ask me the same question
about quitting the game. Each time it was as if her whole being was
focused on it. I always gave her the same answer: "No". She'd pause for
a moment after I replied and would then kiss me hard as if she were
trying to hurt me. She enjoyed giving pain, both mentally and
physically. And I think she enjoyed watching me squirm.
It wasn't as if I knew much about Jande Tes except the bare facts.
Every time our conversations touched on her life, she changed them. But
if Jande wanted to play word games and ask me the same question every
time she came to see me, then I would do it. She paid me to do it, after
all.
Grana stayed away, which surprised me. I asked Masian what had
happened that first night, but all he could tell me was that he had
pleasured Grana and she had left. They hadn't talked much, if at all. In
the past, Grana had always visited me at least once a sennight. I
wondered if Grana had decided to visit another hostelry. I'd begun to
think of her as a friend, and even though I knew I probably shouldn't, I
still trusted her at some level.
I sighed as I washed. Maybe I was getting too old and too jaded to
be a player any more. Or perhaps I just needed a break from the game. I
nodded to myself. I would ask Eliza for a sennight. I needed to go and
be alone so that I could stop thinking of a client as a friend.
I stepped out of the bath and used the old tunic I'd come in with
to dry myself. I slipped on the breeches and the damp tunic before
leaving the bath house. As I walked back toward the Lucky Lady, I saw a
couple of guardsmen in the distance, one figure distinctly female. They
were too far for me to recognize, but I couldn't help thinking of Masian
and his sister Nusa. Masian had cheered himself up since that meeting
after church, but I knew the sorrow would come back, for if I knew
anything about people, it was that they didn't change; Nusa was not
going to miraculously change her opinions on his lifestyle. He would
have to find some way of living with it, or it would destroy him.
As I went up the back stairs at the Lucky Lady, a runner came up. I
recognized him as Vennie, Grana's runner. I smiled, sure that he was
about to tell me that Grana would be visiting tonight. But I was
mistaken.
"Grana Baugar wants you to come to her house. Says she has
something to show you," the boy panted.
I frowned, shaking my head. "No, I don't go to other people's
houses."
"She says it's not for that, says she'll buy a little of your time
for a conversation."
The boy fell silent, staring up at me as I debated what to do.
Honestly, I was curious. In all the years I'd known her, Grana had never
invited me outside, a fact which was probably due to Eliza's strict
rules against socializing outside the Lucky Lady. But lately, Eliza had
been relaxing that rule, provided she was paid enough to cover the
inconvenience. Also, she was very picky about whose houses she let the
girls visit. Part of that was due to my own incessant harping upon how
dangerous it was; not three months past, one of the girls had returned
with her skin in tatters from being whipped. She was now unable to work.
Of course, my being a man, not to mention being on the tall and
muscular side of things, made the safety rule easier to ignore. Also, it
was Grana, and not only had I known her for years, she was my
almost-friend. I nodded at the runner.
"Come with me," he responded.
I said, "Give me a mene. I need to get a dry tunic." I took the
rest of the steps two at a time and entered the house. I grabbed the
tunic that Grana loved to see on me, the one that was so light that skin
showed through. Then I went through the usual routine of swishing my
mouth with chrysanthemum wine and dabbed a little perfume behind my
ears. I ran into Masian in the living room, and asked him to tell Eliza
where I was going. When I descended the steps, the runner and the potboy
were gambling while playing find-the-rat with three upturned, dirty,
chipped mugs, and one stone. The potboy was apparently winning, guessing
correctly underneath which mug the rat, or the stone, was each time.
The two boys saw me and scattered, the potboy to his duties in the
kitchen and the runner to lead me to Grana's house. It was not quite
dark, and the streets were still fairly busy.
The runner didn't talk to me, but whistled through his teeth,
trying to find a tune. He was really bad at it, but I didn't try to
dissuade him. At least he wasn't running. Not that I couldn't keep up
with him if I wanted to ... I laughed internally at myself, knowing that
I was a little vain. It was just that I didn't want to sweat as I went
to work. I knew that Grana had told the runner she only wanted a
conversation, but she hadn't been to see me in nearly a month. If she
wanted me, I certainly was not about to refuse.
The runner approached a house and I looked up. It was not very big,
but I could see a couple of glass windows, and my estimation of Grana
went up. It would seem that her fishing business was very successful
indeed. Of course, that was a given, considering that she could afford
Eliza Tillipanary's prices, but still, I was impressed. The runner
pulled the door knocker, a huge ornate affair, and then ran off toward
the back of the house without a backward glance. I waited in silence,
and then the door opened to reveal a young man, neatly dressed in a
tight tunic and loose breeches. He gave me a narrow, searching look, but
said nothing. He led me into a room and asked me to wait.
The room had big doors that opened out into the back yard, and so
was airy and bright, allowing the evening sun to come in. It lit up
everything inside with a brilliant orange glow: the rugs, the armchairs,
the carvings, and sculptures. Someone entered the room, and I turned,
blinking from the sun in my eyes.
"Jande." I blinked again, this time in surprise.
She was wearing the dress she had worn the first time she had
visited me at the Lucky Lady, the gray one with the practically
nonexistent bodice. Her wavy, corn-colored hair hung loose to her
shoulders. "Delex," she whispered as she came up to me and put her lips
on mine.
After a long kiss in which she almost devoured me, again she asked
the ritual question, "Have you ever wanted to quit the Lucky Lady?"
I shook my head, saying, "No," and watched her watch me. I knew
there was something wrong, for she did not follow up my response with a
kiss as she usually did. Questions crowded my mind one after another.
Why was Jande in Grana's house? Why did Jande always ask me that
question? Was she the one who had paid for my company this evening?
Jande watched me as the realization of something seriously wrong
filtered through my eyes. She put out a hand, palm outward signaling me
to wait and left the room. When she returned a moment later, she was
propelling someone before her. It was the young man who had opened the
door to me, and my heart pounded loudly in my throat as my eyes took in
the bloody mess that was his body, a knife in his stomach. Jande shoved
him at me, and I caught him, broke his fall, laying him down to the
floor gently. Life still showed in his eyes.
"Get help," I shouted, pulling out the knife in his stomach.
"Have you ever wanted to quit the Lucky Lady?" Jande asked me. The
young man exhaled.
"She did it," he whispered, and then his breath stilled forever.
"He could have fallen on the knife or any number of circumstances,"
Jande said. "But, for you ... have you ever wanted to quit the Lucky
Lady?"
What was she trying to do? I still couldn't understand her. Did she
want me to quit and be with her? Or just to quit? Was this some game she
was playing and didn't tell me the rules?
Jande screamed, in short bursts, her shrill voice echoing in the
room. When I looked up, her dress was in shreds, one breast fully
exposed, the skirt torn down the side, a big scratch on her thigh. There
was blood on her face and gown, on her hair. I stared, open-mouthed,
appalled, disbelieving. What had happened? She continued to scream.
The door burst open, and Grana ran in, closely followed by the
runner, Vennie. Grana took everything in with a horrified look, and went
to Jande, who was still screaming. Grana slapped Jande, and silence
descended on the room. It was as if everyone had become lifesize
sculptures like the wooden ones that I loved to make, Grana and Jande
standing together, the runner staring at me with terrified eyes.
Then the moment broke, and Grana said sharply, "Vennie, get a
guard!"
"Grana," I said, wanting desperately to remove the horror in her
face. "I didn't do it!"
She shook her head. "No, don't say a word. I should have believed
Jande when she first told me about how you were so obsessed with her.
How could you do this, Delex?"
Jande's whimpers got louder, and all of Grana's attention was on
her friend. My mind couldn't hold a coherent thought, and I didn't
believe that anything was wrong. The young man had died, but I hadn't
done it. Surely when Jande got over her hysterics, she would explain
what had happened, because I hadn't done it.
The door clattered open, and this time, Vennie entered followed by
two guards, both male. I was a little surprised at how little time it
had taken him to get them.
"They were patrolling just a street away, mistress," Vennie panted.
The guards took a comprehensive look at the room, and then one of
them stepped forward. "You have to come with us," he said laconically.
"You killed him."
I stared, jaw falling open. "But I didn't. Jande, tell them the
truth."
The guardsman, whom I'd never seen before, gave me a look in which
disbelief was clearly written. "Look at her, man." He pointed to Jande,
and her full appearance sunk in. She looked ... I couldn't finish the
thought, but the guard could.
"You tried to rape her and he tried to stop you, so you killed him.
It's obvious."
I gasped, looking from one face to another. "You're not serious!"
My stomach was in knots by now. I stood up, and my bloodstained hands
caught my eyes. I saw Grana's gaze move from my hands to meet me, and
horror was written upon her face.
Jande said piteously, "Grana, see what he did."
I watched her look from me to Jande and I could literally see
Grana's allegiance shift away from me, a common prostitute, to her real
friend.
"Take him away, guards. Jande is not well."
The guards listened to her; of course they did. They moved toward
me purposefully. Bitterness filled me as Grana's betrayal stung. She
hadn't even bothered to listen, instead she'd assumed that I'd done what
Jande had accused me of doing. Grana, whom I had mistakenly believed to
be my friend, had believed that I would commit that ultimate violation
against a woman. Women paid me willingly.
As the guards silently led me through the streets of Dargon toward
the guardhouse, I railed against myself for believing in women. From
Nusa Abarris who could refuse to talk to her young brother she'd
practically raised, to Grana Baugar, a woman who'd known me for over a
decade, all they ever did was hurt and betray the men that they knew.
The woman brought me back. She had kicked the door, though I don't
know why.
"So you see, Nusa," I told her. "Why would I do something horrible
like that when women pay me willingly?"
She stood there silently staring at me. I began to wonder if my
last hope was either picturing me at the end of a rope or starting to
believe me. Either way, the cell walls started to close in on me and for
now, I am a prisoner of the Town Guard.
========================================================================
Stolen Thunder
By Jim Owens
gymfuzz@yahoo.com
Seber 1, 1018
Nessis Romen knew that this was that day, the day he was finally
going to make his mark. He sat on an old abandoned crate at the
intersection where Main and Commercial Streets met the Street of
Travellers. The air was ripe with possibilities, as well as with the
odor of fish, spices, and unwashed sailors. The docks were a riot of
movement, as workers carried freight from ships to warehouses, from
warehouses to ships, and from ships to other ships. Vendors hawked
merchandise, traders bargained with shippers, and the sound of their
voices blended together with the cacophony of screegulls and sailors.
Nessis waited, and watched, knowing that if he just kept his eyes open,
the right opportunity would present itself.
And so it did. There in the distance, Nessis noticed an
overburdened sailor about to lose his sack. The hapless wight proceeded
slowly up from the docks toward Travellers. To Nessis it looked like the
sailor was carrying everything he had ever owned, and that was quite
possibly true. A rucksack, large and tied with red rope, hung off the
sailor's shoulders. A smaller sack of calico was tucked under one arm.
His other arm clutched a third bag of old sailcloth. None of those sacks
or bags, however, caught Nessis' eye nearly so much as the faded green
bag tucked precariously under the bag on the sailor's right side. It
wasn't big, but Nessis could see it would soon fall to the ground. Once
there, it could be anyone's property.
Nessis wondered what was inside the green bag as he dropped his
coat into his own dirty rucksack and walked into the stream of traffic
flowing through the intersection. Nessis set a fast pace and soon
slipped in behind the sailor. From the way the green bag was bulging, it
seemed to be filled with some sort of rods. Nessis aped the man's pace
and posture, staying close behind him but out of the man's sight. Nessis
carried his own rucksack as if it were heavier than it really was,
shifting it from side to side like he were trying to balance a load. He
watched the green bag slip further out of its resting place. Soon it
would fall.
Suddenly the sailor turned aside. Caught unaware, Nessis was slow
in reacting, and a passing workman came between them. As he waited for
the worker to pass, Nessis saw that the sailor was heading for two
guards who were on their morning rounds. Nessis knew one of the guards,
a sour individual by the name of Liat. They had encountered each other
often over the years. Nessis usually didn't fare well in those meetings.
"Pardon me, sir," the sailor started. The nearest guard, the new
one that Nessis didn't know, turned to face the sailor, who continued.
"Where might I find the home of Aardvard Factotum?" The guard shifted
uncomfortably from one foot to the other and stammered incoherently.
"Up this road, over the causeway, and in Old Town," growled Liat.
Without even stopping, Liat continued on his round, and the other guard
quickly turned away to follow him. Nessis breathed a sigh of relief.
"Straight," replied the sailor, just as Nessis intentionally walked
into him. The impact finally dislodged the green bag. Just as it fell
free Nessis dropped his own light sack over the smaller green bag,
hiding it.
"Oy, pardon," Nessis muttered in a fake accent, making a fuss over
his own sack. The sailor scowled at him.
"No problem," the sailor grunted, and moved off. Nessis watched him
go out of the corner of his eye, making a show of opening his sack and
repacking his coat until the man was out of sight. Then Nessis lifted
his sack, grabbed the small green bag, popped the bag into his sack, and
returned to his starting spot at the corner of Travellers and
Commercial.
When he arrived back at his makeshift lookout, Nessis found it
occupied by a lad named Josey. As the man approached, the boy hopped off
the abandoned crates, yielding the perch. Nessis was older than Josey by
at least a decade.
"Whatcha got?" asked Josey.
"Goods and things, stuff and rings," Nessis rhymed as he sat down
and opened his sack. He looked around to see if he was being watched,
but no one seemed to be trying to pick him out of the milling crowd. He
reached down into the rucksack and examined the knot that tied the green
bag shut. It was a right sailorly knot, but Nessis had been stealing
around docks for a while and he easily untied it. He opened the green
bag and looked inside. Sure enough, it was filled with tubes. He took
one out and examined it. The tube was heavy, and made of colorful paper
rolled tightly together. One end had been crimped together and covered
with a blunt cap of clay, the other was plugged with clay and had a
stout bit of twine sticking out. The twine was also covered in clay.
"What's in it?" asked Josey.
"Nothing you can't see without a coin," replied Nessis.
"Let me see!" piped Josey, ignoring the double negative, and Nessis
showed him the tube. Josey held the tube string end up and shook it.
"It's full! Can I open it?"
"No, let me," Nessis replied, hoping to hide his own ignorance. He
took the tube back and, feigning confidence, pulled the stiff cord. It
came out, crumbling the clay cap. The end of the string was covered in a
gritty black substance. Nessis tasted it, then spat.
"Has it gone off?" Josey asked.
"No, it's just right," Nessis said. "It's saltpeter, and sulfur.
It's supposed to taste like that."
"Like what?"
"Like that," Nessis replied, as if the matter were obvious. He
thought for a moment. "Like a love tonic."
"A tonic is a drink," replied Josey, sardonically. "That's a
powder. You don't really know what it is, do you? I bet you pinched it!"
Nessis knew that Josey knew that Nessis didn't know what it was,
just as Josey also knew that Nessis had, in fact, just pinched the bag,
but he needed to keep up appearances.
"What an idea!" Nessis replied, tapping the tube against his hand
and examining the glistening powder which came out. "Pinched it? Why, I
am an honest businessman, out on a fine day like today to make an honest
living selling my wares." The powder inside the tube was staying inside
the tube, so Nessis gave it a smart rap against the side of the crate.
The powder now poured more freely.
"You don't even know what it does," sniffed Josey, and slipped off,
leaving Nessis to consider his newly-gotten wares.
A bell later Josey again passed by the corner of Travellers and
Commercial Street. At first he did not see Nessis there, so he sat
down on the old crate. After a mene his roving eye picked the familiar
face out of a small knot of folk on the other side of the wide
intersection. Josey got up and sauntered over, arriving just as the
group broke up, with everyone but Nessis wandering off. Nessis was
wearing a small vendor's ware-box that he used occasionally. In it lay
the paper tubes.
"Sell any yet?" Josey asked as he walked up. He reached in to pick
one up, but Nessis slapped his hand away.
"Not with riff-raff like you scaring off the customers, I'm not. Go
away!" Nessis was obviously tense, but Josey could tell most of his fury
was feigned.
"What are you calling them?"
"What they are, of course! You, sir, hello!" Nessis tried hailing a
passerby, who ignored him thoroughly.
"And what are they?" Josey asked, picking one up. Nessis snatched
it away and put it back in the box.
"My business, and none of yours, thank you! Good day, madam! Might
I interest you ...?" The woman in question didn't even turn her head.
"How much are --?"
"Look, I'm quite busy now, so if you don't mind, push off!" Nessis
gave Josey a shove and turned away, following a well-dressed man up the
street. "Excuse me, sir ...?"
A few bells later, Josey was again down by the docks. He had some
smoked pigeon, and was gnawing at it appreciatively, making it last. He
again spotted Nessis at the intersection, and wandered over. Nessis was
sitting crosslegged beside his vendor's box, which sat empty on the
ground. With one tired hand he steadied a pole, from which the paper
tubes were suspended by threads. Nessis' small movements were making
them dance merrily.
"I see you sold one," Josey said. "Who bought it?"
"No one bought it. Meekee stole it from me as a prank when I was
setting this up. He unwrapped it and ate the powder inside, then got
sick and puked it all up on the wrapper. I threw it away."
"I see they got a new delivery of Corathin pottery at the Venilek
today. They looked a lot nicer than those ones you were selling a
sennight ago."
"Those were the more economical model," replied Nessis proudly.
"From an alternate vendor."
"Why did you stop selling them? Weren't you making good money off
them?"
"The guard made me stop. I think they were paid off. Professional
jealousy from rivals."
Josey nodded sagely. He held out his food. "Wanna bite?"
Nessis eyed the treat disinterestedly for a long moment, then spoke
without lifting his head. "I'll trade you what's left for one of my
tubes."
Josey looked them over twice then shook his head. "No thanks. But
you can have a bite for free."
Nessis shrugged. "Straight."
By dark Josey had a small fire going behind the crate. He had
roasted a large fish that Nessis had found and was beginning to pull the
skin off and eat it. Nessis appeared from the gloom, a small bundle of
driftwood in his hands. He carefully piled the wood by the fire and sat
down. He accepted a bit of the skin from his cook and nibbled it. They
ate silently together for several menes.
"How long have have I known you?" Nessis finally asked Josey.
"Me?" Josey pulled a slab of meat off the fish, broke it in two,
and gave one half to Nessis. "I dunno. A sennight? A month or two? Ever
since you pulled me out of the river."
"That was less than a month ago," commented Nessis, then fell
silent for another moment before continuing. "Do you think I'm a good
businessman?"
"Sure you are," replied Josey enthusiastically. "You're the best in
the business in the whole city, better even than the king himself."
"Of course I am," replied Nessis, partly to himself. "And even a
good businessman can't sell goods that are broken or defective, now can
he?"
"Of course not," replied Josey, glancing over at the green bag.
Nessis followed his gaze, and together they stared at the cylindrical
lumps within. Finally Nessis roused himself and got to his feet.
"Well, if they won't sell, then maybe at least they'll make good
firewood." He took the bag, walked to the fire, and poured the rods out
into the flames.
Not far away, bobbing gently at dock, sat the Sanctuary. The
original owner of those colorful rods sat on deck with a mug of warm
grog. Beside him sat a fellow shipmate.
"No," Lars was saying, "I've never seen anyone wearing clothes like
that before, but this is Dargon, after all; everything strange comes
here at least once. I heard more than one person say they'd seen someone
like that come through before."
"If nothing else they seemed very polite," Hestor replied, then
shook his head ruefully. "I still can't believe I lost those things."
"Give it up, man," Lars said. "I'm sure you'll never see those
firetubes again."
"The worst part is," Hestor said slowly, "is that whoever stole
them probably has no idea even what they are."
Just then, from down the street, there came a sudden burst of red
light. A shrill shriek followed as both men quickly stood. Strange
flaming objects screamed up into the night sky from some hidden spot,
then disappeared with a flash, a bang, and a shower of sparks. As the
last one exploded, a man ran out into the street, his hair on fire. He
hooted and hopped about for a moment, swatting at his head. Then he
dashed to the shore and flung himself head first into the waves.
Lars and Hestor looked at each other, clinked their mugs together,
and then burst out laughing.
"Well," said Lars after a mene, "there you go!"
"Serves him right! And! And I got to see them go off!" Hestor shook
his head and chuckled mightily. "Ow! I bet that's gonna leave a mark."
The next day was cloudy but dry. At the corner of Temple and
Atelier a man and a woman sat on the stoop of a large house.
"... should help keep those rats out of your grain for at least
three sennights. Just be sure to keep it away from plaids."
"Yes, Lord Arbogast, I certainly will," the old woman said as she
accepted the parcel and rose to her feet. "Sorry for taking so much of
your time. Thank you!"
"You are welcome. And please stop calling me 'Lord'. I'm just an
old man who knows a thing or two." He got to his feet as well, watching
her go. He then turned and went into the house. He nodded at the two
young scribes working at a desk in the entrance, and they bowed their
heads in deference. Arbogast entered the main room and turned off
towards his study. He paused at the door, then moved down a long hall
and out the back door. A few feet away there was a tiny house, standing
all alone. He entered and closed the door. In the darkness he uttered a
brief saying. There were no windows, but suddenly a green light filled
the air. Satisfied, Arbogast began to undo his belt.
Suddenly the door opened. Arbogast cocked an eyebrow as he examined
the man who stood in the door. "Can I help you?" Arbogast asked.
"Yes," the man said, looking furtively around. His face was bright
red, and marked with soot. His hair was singed down to mere tufts, and
his clothing was burned and pocked with small holes. He reached into his
cloak and pulled out a brightly colored tube. "How much will you charge
me to make a hundred of these?" he asked with a grin.
========================================================================
Let Me Help
Jon Evans
thegodling@verizon.net
Seber 1, 1018
Belisandra woke before dawn, as she did every morning, and started
to rise. She stretched languorously and groaned. She felt the ache in
her back as she rolled over to sit up, and heard the small popping noise
her knees made when she stood up. She removed her night shirt and felt
the chill morning air on her body before putting on her day clothes: a
simple blouse and dress combined with a light wrap to keep the morning
air at bay. She walked to the table at the end of her bed, poured some
water from the pitcher there into the waiting bowl. She splashed the
algid liquid in her face and rubbed it against her arms to help her wake
up. It was refreshing, if not exhilarating.
She walked to the window in her room and opened it, letting the
cool morning air flow in. Belisandra shivered slightly and pulled her
wrap close. Even in the warmer summer months, she kept the window closed
to stay warm at night, and to discourage the infamous rooftoppers of
Dargon. But now, as the autumn breezes filled the evening, keeping her
window closed was a necessity. With the window open, however, she could
hear the sounds of a city starting to awaken: a few scattered carts
rolling down the cobblestones of Main Street; the splash of refuse being
tossed into alleys from windows; and even from this distance, the cry of
screegulls fighting for their breakfast at the docks. She smiled. She
loved this city.
She noticed two guardsmen walking down Main Street. She knew the
elder guard, Liat, in his worn blue uniform, but did not recognize the
second one; he was younger and wearing a new uniform and shiny new
boots. Belisandra guessed by the way he stared at Dargon's buildings
that he was probably quite new to the town.
As the sun rose, Belisandra was behind the counter of her tavern,
cooking up the morning's batch of Special Stew: a few carrots, some
potatoes, a ham hock, water to boil, and the secret spices that made it
distinct. She reflected on the simplicity of stew: simply reheating a
pot that contained the remainder of yesterday's stew, and adding
more ingredients. While she finished her preparations, the sole boarder
at Belisandra's entered the room from the rear stairwell. Jergen was a
sailor by trade, and while he spent most of his time at sea, he
preferred to keep a room at Belisandra's so he could have a place to
call home. Belisandra knew that Jergen also fancied her, but she was too
old for such nonsense, she told herself. She would soon count her
forty-fifth summer.
"Good morning, Bel," Jergen said. He had a sleepy smile on his
wind-worn face, and gnarled knuckles in his large, boney hands. He
rapped those knuckles twice on the wooden counter as he took a seat.
"Good morning, Jergen. Didn't see you come in last night."
Belisandra put a plate of day-old bread in front of him and poured a mug
of water.
"My ship dropped anchor late. I took a dinghy in so I could use my
bed."
"If I'd known you were coming, I could have kept it warm for you,"
she said. He smiled when she winked at him.
"Now, Bel, you know it's not fair, flirting with me when you don't
mean it. If I thought you really were waiting in my bed, I'd never go
back to sea." It was the same game they played every time he came in to
town. She missed it, sometimes. And she worried about him.
Then she winced. She did not want another man coming into her life.
"I know that look, Bel," Jergen continued. "But I could be a lot of help
to you around here."
"Help?" She bristled at the suggestion. "I've got Mika and Thuna
working regular shifts, G'veldi still working part time, and Aviato
taking some night shifts. I don't need your help, Jergen. You're a fine,
handsome man. And a good sailor, I'm told. But your kind of help, I
don't need."
"Well," Jergen said softly, "I've obviously started the morning off
wrong. I'm sorry, Bel."
Belisandra softened when she realized she had snapped at a good
friend. "I'm sorry, Jergen. Truly. But you don't want to just give me
your help." She smiled softly at him, then. "And as tempting as your
offers are, I'm afraid I'm a bit too old for that kind of thing." She
held her hand up to stop the protest before he could utter it. "Thuna
will be out with your breakfast in a few menes," she said, changing the
subject. "I've got things to do."
Belisandra walked around the bar and across the common room. The
lanterns she kept lit in the evenings hung empty and dark from the
rafters, their candles used up and useless in the morning dawn. She
sympathized with them as she opened the door and stepped into the
morning light.
Dargon's population was coming alive now, making itself known.
Vendors pushing carts full of vegetables and small goods from the
outlying farms and small villages made their way down Main Street. Based
on the numbers she saw, she could guess that Venilek Market, where
Thockmarr Street meets the Street of Travellers, must have been
especially busy.
A fortnight past, the causeway -- a bridge that connected the Old
City with the New City -- had buckled and fallen under the impact of a
rogue barge. That one incident seemed to be a harbinger of things to
come thereafter: the heavy rainfall that had followed caused buildings
to collapse; tame animals bolted and smashed through the marketplace;
and several ships were rumored to have been lost off the port.
Belisandra did not understand it.
Now, however, much of the city was under repair. Shop owners all
along Main Street had worked diligently to repair their buildings as
quickly as possible. The faded colors of the cobblestone road contrasted
with the freshly painted buildings that bordered the street. So many of
the buildings outside her tavern looked as if they were newly built. The
rates the laborers charged had escalated significantly -- as had the
fare for crossing the river, now that the causeway was inoperable -- and
the shop owners were forced to pay high rates or perform the work
themselves.
Belisandra gingerly crossed the street, wary of horses and
passersby, and turned to appraise her own building. She'd had a shutter
repaired when a stray apple - thrown by no one, apparently, as there
were no witnesses - smashed through it. "An apple," she thought,
"smashing through wood. How does that happen?" The one remaining repair
that needed doing was that her sign, a painting of herself with the name
"Belisandra's" written in red letters, needed to be replaced. But
finding someone who could paint well, when every premises in Dargon was
asking for the same, would cost her plenty, and she did not relish the
thought of what those workers would ask now.
As she looked at the front of her building, she recognized the
woman who entered her tavern carrying a baby. She smiled. G'veldi and
Nicholas' daughter, Niki, was always welcome, but especially in the
morning when the business was still slow. Belisandra retraced her path
across Main Street and entered the common room moments after G'veldi.
"Hey!" she called to G'veldi. "Bring that little girl over here.
Aunt Bel needs a hug this morning."
G'veldi smiled and handed her daughter over to Belisandra. "Take
her, she's yours. Want to keep her?"
As Belisandra cooed to the child, she noted the tired tone of
G'veldi's voice. The baby's smile showed a toothless mouth framed by a
pair of dimples. Her eyes were green like the northern sea. "She's such
a beautiful girl."
"Not sleeping, though," G'veldi said. "I think she's getting teeth.
I'm exhausted."
"Why don't you take the day off, then?" Belisandra suggested. "I've
got Thuna behind the bar ..." Belisandra looked over to where Jergen had
been seated at the bar, only to find him standing behind it.
"Jergen, where's Thuna?" she asked.
"Not feeling well," Jergen replied. "Sounded like she'd had a rough
night. No matter, I can feed myself."
"Well, I'm here, and Mika will be in today," Belisandra said to
G'veldi. She noted the woman had sat down, and was holding her head in
her hands. "I'll make you a deal. I'll take care of the little one here,
for a couple of bells, and you go upstairs and get some sleep in my
bed."
"That sounds wonderful," G'veldi replied. "I owe you."
Belisandra had an idea. "Well, I know how you can repay me. Send a
message off to your husband. He's a scribe, isn't he?"
"Yes ..." G'veldi said slowly, eying her boss.
"Well, my sign needs to be replaced, which includes both artwork
and lettering. A perfect job for a scribe."
G'veldi winced. "I'm sorry, Belisandra, but I can't do that. With
all the damage that happened to Dargon, the duke has hired all the
scribes to take a ... what did Nic call it? A survey of what broke. And
what was fixed. And how much it cost. And what still needs to be fixed.
And was it broken before the causeway was damaged, or after? And can
they prove it? He's in deep waters, right now, with no sign of land."
"Oh," Belisandra said. She made a small frown before returning her
attention to the baby. "Well, my offer still stands. Go upstairs; I'll
take the little one."
As Belisandra watched G'veldi sluggishly climb the stairs, she saw
Jergen make his way over to the table.
"She sure is a cutie," Jergen said as he tweaked the child's nose.
Niki make a small giggling noise and smiled again.
"She is a wonder," Belisandra agreed. She had never had children of
her own, but she did love them dearly. Both of her marriages had ended
all too quickly, and she did not have the time to raise children of her
own while running an inn. She sighed. She had the next couple of bells
to enjoy the child, then she would have to go back to her normal
routine.
"Bel, why don't you let me help out a bit?" Jergen asked.
"Are you kidding?" she chided playfully. "And give up my time with
this little dear?"
"No, I mean the sign."
"What about it?"
"Well, I'm a rare breed, you see." He smiled. "I'm a sailor who can
write letters. And a pretty good job at it, too. There's a lot to do
aboard a ship that requires writing. And when I'm not aboard, I like to
keep myself busy. Do a bit of sketching here and there."
"I've never seen you," Bel said honestly.
"Well, you never know where to look for me," he replied. "I know a
couple of girls around town that like pretty things. They pay me for
them."
"I'm sure," Belisandra said dryly.
"No, really. Let me do it."
"Forget it," Belisandra said.
"Bel, what harm could come of it?" Jergen's frustration was evident
in his voice. If you don't like the sign, you don't have to take it!"
Niki startled when Jergen's voice raised, and Belisandra held the
child close to calm her. "See what you've done?" she said to Jergen.
Then she wondered what harm could come of it. First it would be the
sign, then he'd be sweeping up the common room, and helping out at the
end of the evening. Soon enough, when the singers and dancers had
cleared, he would be looking at her with that 'end of the evening' look
men get. He'd be wanting to go upstairs into her bed, instead of taking
his room down the hall. Well, that wasn't going to happen. Not if she
could help it.
"Fine," Jergen said tersely. "If you change your mind, I'll be over
at Sharin's."
Belisandra looked coldly at him. "She's that girl what has the
second-story apartment on the corner of Nochtur Street, isn't she?"
"Yes," Jergen said defiantly.
"The silk flows freely from her window," Belisandra said coldly.
"Yes, Bel, she's a whore."
"Then I'll know where to find you," she said, her eyes stabbing at
him.
Jergen left without saying another word to her.
When the fifth bell rang out from the campanile at the Venilek
Market, Belisandra's tavern was at full sail with the mid-day crowd.
With Niki back to her mother, Belisandra was able to concentrate on her
customers. She moved quickly about the common room, darting among the
tables to deliver drinks and food, gathering the coins owed her, or
sometimes extending credit to those she knew were good for it. She
remarked to herself that those people were rare.
The noise of the tavern swelled like the ocean, rolling to
crescendos and dropping down to near silence. Every few menes, the
entire room went absolutely silent. She wondered what made that happen.
A few customers always seemed to notice the effect as well, and took
great joy in being the first ones to yell out for more food, another
drink, or a song.
Soon enough, the crowd thinned again, with just a few hangers on.
She would have perhaps a dozen more customers until the ninth bell, when
the shops began to close. Belisandra told Mika to watch the common room,
then headed into the kitchen. Passing the bloodied chopping block and
the mess of pots over the cooking fire, she found the back door and
stepped into her back yard. She often sought solace here at the end of
the night, but this day's business -- and the morning argument with
Jergen -- made her want it sooner than usual. Unfortunately, she was not
alone.
A large sheet had been spread over the yard. It was covered with
wood chips and a few spare slats. There were six stoneware bowls on the
ground, and a man standing in the middle of the tarp with his back to
her. She knew in an instant that it was Jergen.
"What in Ol's name are you doing back here?" She called to him.
"You're going to clean this place up, Jergen."
Jergen turned around and faced Belisandra, a quiet smile on his
face. Behind him, no longer hidden by his body, was a stand of some
sort, and hanging from the stand was a board that read, in bright red
lettering, "Belisandra's." She paused for a moment, then walked the
eight paces to where Jergen stood. Beneath the red letters was an
excellent likeness of Belisandra as she was now. Not the youthful,
buxom, low-bloused image of a wench that adorned her present, cracked
sign, but a warm, smiling face surrounded by dark red hair.
"That's pretty good," she said.
"Thanks," Jergen replied. "The grain in the wood is adding some
lines around your eyes, I didn't do that."
"It's okay, I like it." She reflected in the dramatic contrast
between the old image, that of a youthful lass full of life, and this
new one that was more mature, yet warmer and more inviting. It was a
better symbol of her establishment, which she had worked hard to keep
from being a common whore market filled with drunkards and thieves. It
was a better symbol of her, as well.
"Jergen, this is wonderful of you. Really." She reached out and
touched his arm. She felt a sudden fondness for him. He had created
something for her that was more suited to her than anything she would
have done for herself. He understood that part of her.
"It was my pleasure," he replied.
"How long have you been working on this?"
"Since this morning," he replied.
"You liar," she scolded him jokingly and squeezed his forearm. "You
said you were going over to Sharin's."
"I did," he said. "She was busy, so I'm going back later."
"What?" Suddenly, all the anger she had felt for him that morning
came rushing back. She released his arm.
"I'm going back later," Jergen said. "She said she would have some
time around tenth bell."
Belisandra's voice was icy. "Have a good time." Belisandra turned
and walked back into her tavern.
"Another round for the threesome in the corner," Mika said as she
approached the bar. The tavern was teeming again, full of evening
patrons eating and drinking their fill while a company of musicians
played in the corner. The sounds of flute and dulcimer struck lively
chords, while a dampened drum thrummed a steady beat. In another bell,
perhaps less, Belisandra would have the tables in the center of the room
moved back, and the patrons would really begin to let loose. She eyed
the two guards that worked as security for her in the evenings, ensuring
they were watching the crowd for any undue rowdiness. Belisandra's was a
place where people could relax and let go of their troubles ... but not
cause any.
"Bel?" Mika called to her again. "You hear me?"
"Yes, another round ... what were they drinking?"
"The soup," Mika said dryly.
"I'm sorry," Belisandra replied. She shook her head absently. "I
don't know what's wrong with me." She took out three wooden bowls and
ladled soup into them.
"Couldn't be Jergen, could it?" Mika said teasingly. Belisandra
just stared at her. "Straight. Well, the gents want some extra spice in
their soup. They said it lacks the kick they're used to."
"Oh, they want a kick, do they?" Belisandra asked. "I'll give them
a kick." She reached for the jar of dried pepper she kept below the bar.
"I'll give them a hell of a kick." She opened the jar and poured an
excessive amount of pepper into their bowls. "Give them that."
Mika pursed her lips. Slowly, she said, "Okay. Perhaps that's a
little more than they're looking for."
Belisandra couldn't hold back anymore. "Don't be ridiculous, Mika,
men are always looking for more. More, more, more! And they don't stop!
And when you think you've given them something, something really
special, and perhaps they understand you after all, and so you reach out
to them, and what do you find? They want more! Things that you can't
give them -- refuse to give them! -- not like some slut hanging silk
curtains out her window, anyway. What do they expect? Every woman to do
their bidding? Be their toys? Not this woman. No ma'am!"
Mika looked at Belisandra and smiled. "Do you love him?"
"Who?" Belisandra asked incredulously.
"Jergen."
"Of course not!"
"Then why do you let him get to you so?" Mika asked coyly.
"I don't know," Belisandra replied. She emptied the three wooden
bowls and refilled them with more soup, making an effort to scrape the
bottom of the cauldron. Nodding at the corner she said, "Tell them I dug
deep for extra flavor."
Belisandra watched as Mika delivered the soup. Mika danced between
the tables, flirting with the men, but catering especially to the women.
Belisandra recognized a born actress, playing her part for the crowd.
Mika always made excellent tips, she remembered. When Mika returned, she
had orders for more drinks, and a question about available meats.
"Someone wants some mutton," she said.
"Tell them we're out," Belisandra replied. As she poured the
drinks, she asked Mika, "What if I just like him a lot?"
"Do you?"
"Maybe. But I don't want to marry him."
"Who says you have to?" Mika asked. She reached over and picked up
the mugs of ale.
"And why would I?" Belisandra asked. "He spends his time with that
whore --"
Mika dropped the mugs down hard on the bar, sloshing ale on the
counter. "What do you expect, Bel?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"He's on a ship six months or more a year. He dotes on your every
word. For three years now, he's rented that room upstairs, even when
he's not here to use it. He helps keep the riffraff out of this place a'
night, even though you don't pay him. Many's the time he's cooked meals
when someone couldn't make their shift, or served ales for customers
when you were running errands."
"So?"
"So if you're not going to give him what he wants, should he
forsake pleasure altogether? Don a Cyruzhian shroud and take an oath of
chastity? He's human, Bel. Give him a break. If you're not going to bed
him, he's allowed to go elsewhere."
She picked up the mugs again. "And just so you know, Sharin may be
a prostitute, but she's a good enough person. I've met worse people with
better jobs." Mika turned back to the customers and began her dance
again.
A few menes later, Belisandra saw G'veldi come through the wooden
door and approach the bar. "What brings you back?" Belisandra asked.
"Nicholas came home. He stopped at the apothecary and picked up
some herbs to rub in Niki's mouth. She fell asleep while I was feeding
her, and Nicholas was already abed. So, I thought I'd come in and work a
few bells to make up for this morning."
"Take the bar, would you?" Belisandra asked. "I've got something to
do."
As she walked through the cool night air, she wondered if what she
was doing was good for her. A few doors down from her tavern was another
door that led into Mrs. White's boarding house. Belisandra looked up at
the second floor from the outside. The shuttered window was open, green
silks flowing out the window. A shaded lantern glowed yellow inside the
room: Sharin had a customer.
Belisandra glanced back up Main Street, seeing pockets of firelight
and lanterns glowing from inside the buildings. Most of the ground floor
lights were out, indicating the businesses had shut down for the
evening, but the second floor lamps were lit: that's where people lived,
after all. She gritted her teeth and opened the door.
She had never been inside the boarding house before. She wasn't
sure what she would see when she entered. Part of her feared the worst:
scantily clad, nubile girls running around in sheer green silk scarves.
Men drinking and groping after them, running around like dogs after some
meat. Instead, she saw a small hall that led to a stairway going up. On
either side of the hall were closed doors, but they were not her
destination.
She climbed the stairs slowly. What was she doing? She hadn't even
kissed the man. Now she was going to open a door and find him in the
arms of another woman, and try to tell him she liked him. That sounded
so ridiculous. She got to the top of the stairs, and turned toward the
door she knew went to that corner room on the second floor. She kept
telling herself this was foolish. It was a bad idea. She should turn
around now and go back to the bar.
Then the door opened, and out stepped Belisandra's nightmare: a
young, petite, dark-haired woman with blue eyes, her face expertly
painted, clad only in a bed sheet. Her lips were full and red, her
eyelashes long and darkened with coal. Belisandra hated her immediately.
She was not prepared for what she heard next.
"Belisandra! Oh, good, you're here. I was afraid I'd have to go
downstairs looking like this. Can you do me a favor?"
Belisandra's eyes turned to slits. "And what would that be?"
"This belongs to Jergen." Sharin handed Belisandra two Royals.
"What, is this change?"
"It's just a simple payment," Sharin explained. "I can't afford to
pay him all at once." Her voice had a touch of pleading in it.
"Wait ... You're paying Jergen?"
"Well, yes. He does marvelous work."
Belisandra paused and looked at Sharin sideways. She was uncertain
she wanted to know what Sharin meant. "Where is he, right now?"
"He's downstairs, in one of the waiting rooms. He didn't send you
up here?"
"Thank you, I'll give this to him." Belisandra turned and went back
down the stairs, not waiting for a reply. At the bottom of the
staircase, she chose the door on the right and saw Jergen sitting on a
couch, waiting patiently. Belisandra smiled inwardly when she saw the
shocked look on his face at her appearance.
"Bel!"
"Jergen. Before you say anything, and we get our communication all
fouled up, do me
a favor and tell me one thing."
"Anything."
"What are you doing with Sharin?"
Jergen blushed for a moment, then said, "Well, she saw one of my
paintings, and she liked it. She wanted to pay me to paint her. I was a
little uncomfortable with the prospect ... it was a rather ... delicate
bit of work. You see, she wanted to be in a very seductive position,
leaning backward, with her hands --"
"That's enough," Belisandra said, raising her hand. She took a deep
breath. "So, when you were coming over to her today, you weren't looking
for a roll?"
"No!"
"Ah." Belisandra smiled. She could accept that.
"Bel, don't get the wrong idea. I'm no saint, and I don't want you
to think that I am. But Sharin was just a customer. Not my first, and
hopefully not my last."
"Jergen, what do you want from me?" Belisandra asked.
"I want you," he said plainly. "I want to be with you. I want to
help you."
"I don't need another husband, Jergen. I lost one to the sea
already, and --"
"And the other to war. Yes, I know that, Bel." He paused and looked
down at his feet. In his sitting position, Belisandra thought he looked
a bit childish; or perhaps youthful. Then he looked back up at her. "I
don't need a job, Bel. I don't even need a place to live, though I'm
happy to call your place my home. But it's a home I've been stealing.
It's not really mine; it's yours, and I pay for the privilege. I'm tired
of trying so hard. If you don't want me, I'll find another place to
stay." He smiled briefly. "It'd be cheaper."
"Come home with me, Jerg," Belisandra said. "Come home."
Later in the evening, Belisandra once more stood by her open window
and looked out over the town. Jergen stood close behind her, his arms
folded around her waist. She leanded backward and enjoyed the press of
her skin against his chest. His arms tightened and squeezed her.
Suddenly, bright bolts of fire leaped skyward from the direction of the
docks, bursting into balls of light and sound. She had never seen
anything like them.
"Must be a sign," Jergen said. Belisandra smiled. She loved this
town.
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