descended on the flats like a flock of minouskine. I doubt there are any shifflets left. But with your help, we can go after bigger prizes.”
Crutchsump did not elaborate, and Lazorg refrained from inquiry. Just as well, since the bone scavenger was a trifle awed at her own nascent ambitions, and might have quailed stating them aloud.
“Let’s go now.”
“Where?”
“To Lustrum’s Domestics.”
Out on busy Weepmark Lane, Crutchsump led the way. Lazorg, she noted, tended to lag, fascinated by the commonplace surroundings, his gaze bouncing around excitedly from one unexceptional street tableau to another. Only Pirkle chivvying at his heels kept the fellow moving.
So intent was Lazorg on the passing parade that he failed to note or be offended by the taunts and giggles and shocked gasps elicited by his empty and flaccid introciptor pouch. But Crutchsump felt hurt and offended on his behalf. If only people knew that a stranger from another Cosmocopian plane walked among them, they’d be more respectful. …
Caul-clad citizens carrying their market baskets. Mothers trundling prancer prams. Shouting children playing raggle taggle. Hawkers touting their wares, licit and illicit. A stray noetic, a brave yet circumspect uniformed member of the civil guardia, an ethical advocate proudly wearing the scarlet and gold midriff wrap of her profession. …
Smells of guttermire, spices and the sea infiltrated the alleys and mews of the district. Adding to the soup of smells, Pirkle met another wurzel and exchanged aromatic scat lozenges.
Without a second look, Crutchsump passed a vendor standing beside a tray of cheap ideations, unimaginative renderings of awkward abstract shapes. The seller seemed too bored with his own wares even to praise them to potential customers.
But even without invitation, Lazorg stopped short beside the display. He picked up a palm-sized sample, all interlocking curves that frustrated intuitive vision rather than allured it.
“What is this? It’s made of the same strange material as the model of the Cosmocopia at Palisander’s.”
“Put that down,” said Crutchsump. “We have no money or time for geegaws.”
Lazorg obeyed, and they moved on.
The decrepit block of conjoined buildings housing Lustrum’s Domestics was composed of buttery cheesestone from the famed Boumalik quarries, legacy of the building’s past fashionable existence. The combined light of Watermilk and Zarafa rendered the distressed facades luminously polychromatic, lending the tawdry street a bit of romance in Crutchsump’s eyes.
The dusty interior of Lustrum’s Domestics held various oddments of furniture and fabrics, most of the goods secondhand. The desultory sales staff adequately mirrored the merchandise.
Savoring this rare consumerist splurge, Crutchsump tracked down the best bargain in relatively clean bed clothes and doss pads. She selected the thickest, cheapest curtains, some rods and fittings. Lazorg did the toting. Once she had paid the toll, Crutchsump found she had just enough scintillas left for a few days’ meals for the two of them.
Out on the street again, Crutchsump announced, “Back home now.”
Burdened with the purchases, Lazorg still managed to dawdle and act the lookyloo.
Down in their basement quarters once again, Crutchsump directed her new partner. The second pallet was established as far across the room from the original as the limited dimensions of the space allowed. Standing on a wobbly crate, Lazorg erected the curtain rod up high down the middle of the room, and hung the sliding drapes on their clattering wooden rings. Retracted, the divider was hardly noticeable. But once extended, the curtains formed a seamless privacy barrier between the two sleeping pads.
Finished, they went out to shop for food.
At the market square, Lazorg became intrigued by the Belkys Tower, the time-humbled remnant of vanished Fort Verveer, which in another age had occupied the market grounds.
“Can
Crutchsump did not elaborate, and Lazorg refrained from inquiry. Just as well, since the bone scavenger was a trifle awed at her own nascent ambitions, and might have quailed stating them aloud.
“Let’s go now.”
“Where?”
“To Lustrum’s Domestics.”
Out on busy Weepmark Lane, Crutchsump led the way. Lazorg, she noted, tended to lag, fascinated by the commonplace surroundings, his gaze bouncing around excitedly from one unexceptional street tableau to another. Only Pirkle chivvying at his heels kept the fellow moving.
So intent was Lazorg on the passing parade that he failed to note or be offended by the taunts and giggles and shocked gasps elicited by his empty and flaccid introciptor pouch. But Crutchsump felt hurt and offended on his behalf. If only people knew that a stranger from another Cosmocopian plane walked among them, they’d be more respectful. …
Caul-clad citizens carrying their market baskets. Mothers trundling prancer prams. Shouting children playing raggle taggle. Hawkers touting their wares, licit and illicit. A stray noetic, a brave yet circumspect uniformed member of the civil guardia, an ethical advocate proudly wearing the scarlet and gold midriff wrap of her profession. …
Smells of guttermire, spices and the sea infiltrated the alleys and mews of the district. Adding to the soup of smells, Pirkle met another wurzel and exchanged aromatic scat lozenges.
Without a second look, Crutchsump passed a vendor standing beside a tray of cheap ideations, unimaginative renderings of awkward abstract shapes. The seller seemed too bored with his own wares even to praise them to potential customers.
But even without invitation, Lazorg stopped short beside the display. He picked up a palm-sized sample, all interlocking curves that frustrated intuitive vision rather than allured it.
“What is this? It’s made of the same strange material as the model of the Cosmocopia at Palisander’s.”
“Put that down,” said Crutchsump. “We have no money or time for geegaws.”
Lazorg obeyed, and they moved on.
The decrepit block of conjoined buildings housing Lustrum’s Domestics was composed of buttery cheesestone from the famed Boumalik quarries, legacy of the building’s past fashionable existence. The combined light of Watermilk and Zarafa rendered the distressed facades luminously polychromatic, lending the tawdry street a bit of romance in Crutchsump’s eyes.
The dusty interior of Lustrum’s Domestics held various oddments of furniture and fabrics, most of the goods secondhand. The desultory sales staff adequately mirrored the merchandise.
Savoring this rare consumerist splurge, Crutchsump tracked down the best bargain in relatively clean bed clothes and doss pads. She selected the thickest, cheapest curtains, some rods and fittings. Lazorg did the toting. Once she had paid the toll, Crutchsump found she had just enough scintillas left for a few days’ meals for the two of them.
Out on the street again, Crutchsump announced, “Back home now.”
Burdened with the purchases, Lazorg still managed to dawdle and act the lookyloo.
Down in their basement quarters once again, Crutchsump directed her new partner. The second pallet was established as far across the room from the original as the limited dimensions of the space allowed. Standing on a wobbly crate, Lazorg erected the curtain rod up high down the middle of the room, and hung the sliding drapes on their clattering wooden rings. Retracted, the divider was hardly noticeable. But once extended, the curtains formed a seamless privacy barrier between the two sleeping pads.
Finished, they went out to shop for food.
At the market square, Lazorg became intrigued by the Belkys Tower, the time-humbled remnant of vanished Fort Verveer, which in another age had occupied the market grounds.
“Can
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