sighed.
“Wow, a piglet!” Huck exclaimed.
“What a find. But next time you don’t have to run so far, okay?”
Quinton looked at him, glanced back
at the ship, frowned and nodded.
“Come on, we still have one more
bag to fill before the day’s out.”
The boys spent the rest of the day
picking pockets, knocking down vulnerable citizens and practicing general
thievery. Nothing matched the quality of the piglet, though. The rest of the
haul was a few coppers, one silver coin, a few stale muffins, a small wedge of
cheese with only a slight bit of mold on it and some dried beef sticks that
looked inedible but helped fill up the bags. The sun was starting to set by the
time they gave up and began heading back.
“Come on this way,” said Huck,
cutting down a side street. “There’s something I want to show you.”
The boys wound carefully through
the narrow streets until they came to a wide avenue filled with taverns,
brothels and a population of dangerous-looking people. The buildings here were
a little better to look at, some with exposed half timbers and others with
stucco. They rose two and three stories high, each level set slightly further
in than the last, so when you looked down the street, it looked as though the
buildings were all leaning in, as if trying to see what was going on below. At
one end of the street, far in the distance, was a large gate with two flanking
towers. The tall stone towers looked forbidding in the fading light, their tops
covered with a timber roof that rose to a point to keep the rain from
collecting. Small openings were visible at the top, like eyes peering down on
you.
“This is Pismire Street,” said
Huck, as proud as if he were showing off a beautiful family mansion. “Down
there’s the Lord’s Gate. On the other side of the gate is the good life. We’re
not allowed on that side. Fist has some sort of deal with the lord. They leave
us alone, we leave them alone. Anything on the far side of the wall is off
limits. Going there is a death sentence. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” said Quinton, who wondered where the ship was by now.
“Pismire, though, is paradise. At least as close as we’ll ever get to it. Come
on, I’ll show you around.”
Huck led him down the street toward
the gate, pointing out every brothel, prostitute, conman and gambling hall as
if he had created it all himself. He was smiling ear to ear, giving an
occasional wave to someone who more often than not gave him an obscene gesture
back, cursed at him or just ignored him, none of which seemed to affect his
enthusiasm for the place. They were almost to the gate. Quinton could see the
large iron teeth of the portcullis raised up into the arch between the two
towers. The gate was closed, and Quinton couldn’t imagine how you could ever
force your way through it. The wood of the double gates was old and gray, but
still in good condition and banded in iron. There was a man-door cut in the
gates, and it stood open like a missing tooth on the gate’s smile. A large
guard, armored in chainmail and leaning on a spear kept watch as people bustled
by. Occasionally someone approached, said something to him, he’d nod and they’d
pass through the gate.
“They give some sort of password or
something,” Huck told him when he saw where he was looking. “Not that it
matters. We could just go over the wall if we wanted to. But the place is
filled with guards, and if they didn’t get you, Fist would. Come on, you have
to see the Pink Lady.”
The Pink Lady was another brothel.
It was three stories high and every window had a half-clothed lady hanging out
of it yelling at the revelers below. The whole place was covered in stucco,
which at one point had been painted what looked like bright pink, but the years
of rain and sun had faded it to little more than a pinkish white. The
double-sized doorway was wide open and light was spilling out into the fading
day. People, mostly drunken men, were stumbling in and
“Wow, a piglet!” Huck exclaimed.
“What a find. But next time you don’t have to run so far, okay?”
Quinton looked at him, glanced back
at the ship, frowned and nodded.
“Come on, we still have one more
bag to fill before the day’s out.”
The boys spent the rest of the day
picking pockets, knocking down vulnerable citizens and practicing general
thievery. Nothing matched the quality of the piglet, though. The rest of the
haul was a few coppers, one silver coin, a few stale muffins, a small wedge of
cheese with only a slight bit of mold on it and some dried beef sticks that
looked inedible but helped fill up the bags. The sun was starting to set by the
time they gave up and began heading back.
“Come on this way,” said Huck,
cutting down a side street. “There’s something I want to show you.”
The boys wound carefully through
the narrow streets until they came to a wide avenue filled with taverns,
brothels and a population of dangerous-looking people. The buildings here were
a little better to look at, some with exposed half timbers and others with
stucco. They rose two and three stories high, each level set slightly further
in than the last, so when you looked down the street, it looked as though the
buildings were all leaning in, as if trying to see what was going on below. At
one end of the street, far in the distance, was a large gate with two flanking
towers. The tall stone towers looked forbidding in the fading light, their tops
covered with a timber roof that rose to a point to keep the rain from
collecting. Small openings were visible at the top, like eyes peering down on
you.
“This is Pismire Street,” said
Huck, as proud as if he were showing off a beautiful family mansion. “Down
there’s the Lord’s Gate. On the other side of the gate is the good life. We’re
not allowed on that side. Fist has some sort of deal with the lord. They leave
us alone, we leave them alone. Anything on the far side of the wall is off
limits. Going there is a death sentence. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” said Quinton, who wondered where the ship was by now.
“Pismire, though, is paradise. At least as close as we’ll ever get to it. Come
on, I’ll show you around.”
Huck led him down the street toward
the gate, pointing out every brothel, prostitute, conman and gambling hall as
if he had created it all himself. He was smiling ear to ear, giving an
occasional wave to someone who more often than not gave him an obscene gesture
back, cursed at him or just ignored him, none of which seemed to affect his
enthusiasm for the place. They were almost to the gate. Quinton could see the
large iron teeth of the portcullis raised up into the arch between the two
towers. The gate was closed, and Quinton couldn’t imagine how you could ever
force your way through it. The wood of the double gates was old and gray, but
still in good condition and banded in iron. There was a man-door cut in the
gates, and it stood open like a missing tooth on the gate’s smile. A large
guard, armored in chainmail and leaning on a spear kept watch as people bustled
by. Occasionally someone approached, said something to him, he’d nod and they’d
pass through the gate.
“They give some sort of password or
something,” Huck told him when he saw where he was looking. “Not that it
matters. We could just go over the wall if we wanted to. But the place is
filled with guards, and if they didn’t get you, Fist would. Come on, you have
to see the Pink Lady.”
The Pink Lady was another brothel.
It was three stories high and every window had a half-clothed lady hanging out
of it yelling at the revelers below. The whole place was covered in stucco,
which at one point had been painted what looked like bright pink, but the years
of rain and sun had faded it to little more than a pinkish white. The
double-sized doorway was wide open and light was spilling out into the fading
day. People, mostly drunken men, were stumbling in and
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