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Authors: Susan R. Matthews
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horribly with the wine-flask. She thought it was the wine-flask, he’d had a wine flask, but whatever it was forced her belly up into her throat with agony.
“Damn thing’s broken, well, if you think I’m going into your stinking cunt after that, you can just think again. Not to disappoint you, I know how much you crave it.”
Where were the musicians? Hadn’t it been an hour, two hours, half a day since she had come up here to set the table, and she still left here all alone at the mercy of this monster’s brutal whims?
“Of course in the end the simple things are best. Traditional. You Nurail like tradition? You’ll like this.”
She was choking on her own screams, trying to breathe.
And she could not stop screaming even so.
###
The Port Authority had come and gone, the emergency aid team had left with the injured woman, and the word went out into the silent whispering streets of Port Burkhayden.
The Ragnarok’s First Lieutenant, in the service house .
There were menials on night shifts, ready to provide hot food to comfort the patrols coming in off the streets for their warming-periods, and the message followed each mobile vendor from station to station as the night deepened.
One of the women, making his meal ready. He tried to make her sing her father's weave.
The city’s communications nets were old and poorly maintained, and now that the Jurisdiction had pulled its resources out there were chronic problems with lapses in the net. Strictly licensed Nurail maintenance crews were on call to respond at any hour of the day or night. There was a steady stream of emergency restore orders, and the news was left at nexus after nexus as the hours wore on.
Support staff, not a bed-partner, only setting the table out. Beat her with his fists, put his boots to her. Cut her with broken glass, you can guess where, because nobody wants to have to say.
During the coldest hour, the oldest hour, the least respected of the city’s servants rose up out of their meager beds to see that all was waiting, nothing wanting, when the city’s maisters rose. Fuel for furnaces, water-heaters brought up in time for them as had the luxury of showers, baths. Fresh sweet milk from outside the port’s boundaries, the morning’s fresh-picked flowers for the fast-meal table. A bite to eat for the Nurail that lived in lodgings, that had to be up and doing before the kitchen would be open to provide for them: and the sorry tale came whispering to Skelern Hanner as he stood in the darkness of his gardener’s shed and washed his hands and face in icy water, getting dressed.
The woman Megh, the Nurail, at the service house. Raped by the First Lieutenant, and with a flask, a piece of broken furniture, nobody knows what else. Taken off to charity ward, but there's no healer there for such wounds as she's taken. She may be dead already.
Skelern stood in the dark silence of his shed, half-dressed, his face still dripping with the cold water of his early morning wash, frantic phrases rushing through his mind. Megh, poor Megh, he had to go and see her.
He couldn’t hope to go see her, not on his own, they wouldn’t let him in.
He could wake Sylyphe, that he could, she was pitiful if misguided, she could take him to the hospital.
He could not possibly involve Sylyphe.
She was young and privileged. She did not understand the cruel truths in life, and the cruel truth was that a Command Branch officer in any civil port could do such crimes without reproach. Without reprisals.
If he even told Sylyphe she might make a scene in public, and her mother could be compromised by implication. He owed the Tavart for too many favors to want to see her compromised, nor her daughter permitted to make a fool of herself in public. He couldn’t see Sylyphe.
He could ask permission to ask the Tavart, but the Tavart was out of town on business, and by the time he could make his request — the day after tomorrow, sometime, and he’d need a chit from
“Damn thing’s broken, well, if you think I’m going into your stinking cunt after that, you can just think again. Not to disappoint you, I know how much you crave it.”
Where were the musicians? Hadn’t it been an hour, two hours, half a day since she had come up here to set the table, and she still left here all alone at the mercy of this monster’s brutal whims?
“Of course in the end the simple things are best. Traditional. You Nurail like tradition? You’ll like this.”
She was choking on her own screams, trying to breathe.
And she could not stop screaming even so.
###
The Port Authority had come and gone, the emergency aid team had left with the injured woman, and the word went out into the silent whispering streets of Port Burkhayden.
The Ragnarok’s First Lieutenant, in the service house .
There were menials on night shifts, ready to provide hot food to comfort the patrols coming in off the streets for their warming-periods, and the message followed each mobile vendor from station to station as the night deepened.
One of the women, making his meal ready. He tried to make her sing her father's weave.
The city’s communications nets were old and poorly maintained, and now that the Jurisdiction had pulled its resources out there were chronic problems with lapses in the net. Strictly licensed Nurail maintenance crews were on call to respond at any hour of the day or night. There was a steady stream of emergency restore orders, and the news was left at nexus after nexus as the hours wore on.
Support staff, not a bed-partner, only setting the table out. Beat her with his fists, put his boots to her. Cut her with broken glass, you can guess where, because nobody wants to have to say.
During the coldest hour, the oldest hour, the least respected of the city’s servants rose up out of their meager beds to see that all was waiting, nothing wanting, when the city’s maisters rose. Fuel for furnaces, water-heaters brought up in time for them as had the luxury of showers, baths. Fresh sweet milk from outside the port’s boundaries, the morning’s fresh-picked flowers for the fast-meal table. A bite to eat for the Nurail that lived in lodgings, that had to be up and doing before the kitchen would be open to provide for them: and the sorry tale came whispering to Skelern Hanner as he stood in the darkness of his gardener’s shed and washed his hands and face in icy water, getting dressed.
The woman Megh, the Nurail, at the service house. Raped by the First Lieutenant, and with a flask, a piece of broken furniture, nobody knows what else. Taken off to charity ward, but there's no healer there for such wounds as she's taken. She may be dead already.
Skelern stood in the dark silence of his shed, half-dressed, his face still dripping with the cold water of his early morning wash, frantic phrases rushing through his mind. Megh, poor Megh, he had to go and see her.
He couldn’t hope to go see her, not on his own, they wouldn’t let him in.
He could wake Sylyphe, that he could, she was pitiful if misguided, she could take him to the hospital.
He could not possibly involve Sylyphe.
She was young and privileged. She did not understand the cruel truths in life, and the cruel truth was that a Command Branch officer in any civil port could do such crimes without reproach. Without reprisals.
If he even told Sylyphe she might make a scene in public, and her mother could be compromised by implication. He owed the Tavart for too many favors to want to see her compromised, nor her daughter permitted to make a fool of herself in public. He couldn’t see Sylyphe.
He could ask permission to ask the Tavart, but the Tavart was out of town on business, and by the time he could make his request — the day after tomorrow, sometime, and he’d need a chit from
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