Zhi backed up. The woman advanced.
"Take me to it."
Zhi sure wasn't about to bloody die for the damn thing, but it came down now to a matter of chances and choices. Attention and focus on her staring down the barrel of a gun was a right quick way of getting killed, especially if she wasn't quite sober enough to climb. That was rich. Did she ever climb sober? When was the last time?
A wheezing, bubbling laugh forced its way past her lips. It was ugly. Just the way she liked it. "Yeah," Zhi said. "I'll do that. Get it? Don't be gettin' all itchy on that trigger, y'blimmin' churl."
"Move," the blimming churl said, sounding as if she'd used up the last tiny bit of patience ages ago.
Zhi couldn't well blame her.
The trip to the hiding place was long and circuitous. Zhi was having a hard time walking straight, and had to stop a couple times to spit and retch and lean against something solid. She had the spins. Everything hurt. She couldn't quite remember why she'd thought it was a good idea to have Jager beat the living crap out of her, and why she'd thought overindulging in smokes and booze and dust would make everything better. Well, okay, it had, but she'd skipped over the had and into some land of gods make it stop except the gods were cruel and capricious and probably making sport at her expense, before getting bored and leaving her to wallow in her own mess. She fuckin' hated them.
Zhi wasn't entirely precisely sure she remembered where she put the book. Lowtown, yeah, but lowtown was a sprawling, winding maze of spires and docks and bridges, and she'd hidey holes all over the damn place.
The lalafel was getting impatient. Zhi wasn't sure how long they'd been walking, but awhile was pretty much a certainty. She was heading towards one of the small stashes she kept right above the high tide line, but the problem with that was that she had to climb--
there was a sound.
A familiar sound.
Then another.
Syrupy-slow, Zhi spun on her heel, towards the sound-sounds, and the new smells, and the queasy feeling. Man-child: a scream. A yell. A woman's voice. A gun. A gun. Fired once; bodies and impacts.
It was dark now. She saw well in the dark, turned and saw wetness on the wood planks. It was frequently wet in lowtown, but not like this. Not like this.
Another shot, and she surged forward, feet tangling, and fell out flat, useless, the sudden jolt making her stomach move and roll and she felt acrid, stinking bile in her mouth, spat. Useless.
Everything tangled up in a jumble, too fast, too fast. Three sets of breaths, three sets of cries, her own the kind of drunkhigh whimpering sick useless that she hated most of all, and she knew that voice, knew that smell, got up on her knees and crawled, crawled.
She saw them moving, tangling together in some sick parody that would have made her grin if she was less pathetic. The gun was wrested free, and clattered away, leaving them groping and clawing at each other on the ground.
Two sets of breathing: one rattling, gurgling, wheezing, struggling voice had been cut out and was gone.
Gone for good.
"Brindle?"
Just like she'd taught him.
"Brindle?"
His blood.
Eternity, and she was on them. She didn't have the strength to fling the carcass away, to throw and stomp and spit on it like she wanted. But she shoved it away far enough, half kneeling on it so she could get to him.
Her fingertips walked over him until he made a noise of protest, his breath all stutter-pain. She started to strip.
"Found ye..."
He was so stupid. Such a ruttin', bleedin', sorry excuse of a damn brat.
"Shut up. Where's yer blimmin' sense, huh?"
She wasn't strong enough to tear cloth. Not even the shit she wore. She fumbled out her knife, cursing as she nicked herself. Took her two tries to get a strip, and once she had it she realized she couldn't do anything with it; skinny lad that he was, it wasn't long enough to wrap around him.
"There's men... lookin'... Zhio."
What was wrong with him? He was a complete lackwit. He should've cut and run. She cut more strips, cut herself again, managed to tie them together. His blood was soaking into her pants. She was wet with it.
"Yer more trouble than yer worth, y'scrag. Think I don't know that? Huh? Now lookit what ye've done, gettin' all bloodied up. Think I've time t'be fixin' yer mess?" The words were a raspy snarl. Zhi hardly recognized her own voice.
It took forever to get the mess of knotted strips around him. Everything was slick and hard to get a good grip on.
"I knew it though...that ye'd come this way. I waited, see? Cuz I knew ye'd..."
He was heavy.
"Shut up."
One.
Zhi'd always loved counting. Since the time she'd been old enough for her mam to teach her to count coins, she'd counted. Maybe in that way, gil had been her first love. Shining, pretty, important: her mam had obsessed over how much gil they had, and Zhi'd learned right along with her. Even when she wasn't supposed to, she'd take it out when her mam was sleeping, let the coins tumble through her fingers, each familiar and warmed by her hands.
Five.
When she'd gotten older, when she'd started living on the streets for the first time, there'd been more and more things to count. How many mates in the gang she'd joined. How many things they stole. How many minutes, bells, suns since the lad she'd gotten all tongue-tied about had spoken to her, touched her, told her he'd loved her: all sweaty-handed fumbling about in the dark. The dark. Her favorite time in all the world.
Twenty-seven.
Betrayals. How inevitable. How many heartbeats it took before it stopped hurting. Before she stopped caring. Before she learned better. How many breaths since she'd recognized life in her stomach. How many agonizing weeks since she knew he wasn't coming back? How many moons until she'd gone to a midwife, all snarling rage, and sorrow, and heartbreak.
Thirty-nine.
How many years. How many years? How many fucking years since that bloody mess between her legs, since she'd made that choice, since she'd fucked everything up, since the wire, and the gathering in that room, and the look on Bree's face, and that toneless voice telling her that she wouldn't have to ever worry about being a mam, that it was taken care of, that they were all the family she'd ever, ever need?
Fifty-two.
She retched. She'd gotten over it. Stopped counting those things. Learned better. Become harder. Wiser. Her hands slipped, despite her clawing fingers, and they folded together to the ground. Fifty-three was a bitch. She'd take a little break before fifty-three, them tucked away in some feckless alley, and pulled him so his head and shoulders were on her, cradled between her stomach and her bent knees. Her back was against the wall, like it was supposed to be. Light was touching the city, more's the pity.
Brindle wasn't hers to keep.
He wasn't hers.
She knew that.
She'd sleep. Just a bit. Sleep.
"Take me to it."
Zhi sure wasn't about to bloody die for the damn thing, but it came down now to a matter of chances and choices. Attention and focus on her staring down the barrel of a gun was a right quick way of getting killed, especially if she wasn't quite sober enough to climb. That was rich. Did she ever climb sober? When was the last time?
A wheezing, bubbling laugh forced its way past her lips. It was ugly. Just the way she liked it. "Yeah," Zhi said. "I'll do that. Get it? Don't be gettin' all itchy on that trigger, y'blimmin' churl."
"Move," the blimming churl said, sounding as if she'd used up the last tiny bit of patience ages ago.
Zhi couldn't well blame her.
The trip to the hiding place was long and circuitous. Zhi was having a hard time walking straight, and had to stop a couple times to spit and retch and lean against something solid. She had the spins. Everything hurt. She couldn't quite remember why she'd thought it was a good idea to have Jager beat the living crap out of her, and why she'd thought overindulging in smokes and booze and dust would make everything better. Well, okay, it had, but she'd skipped over the had and into some land of gods make it stop except the gods were cruel and capricious and probably making sport at her expense, before getting bored and leaving her to wallow in her own mess. She fuckin' hated them.
Zhi wasn't entirely precisely sure she remembered where she put the book. Lowtown, yeah, but lowtown was a sprawling, winding maze of spires and docks and bridges, and she'd hidey holes all over the damn place.
The lalafel was getting impatient. Zhi wasn't sure how long they'd been walking, but awhile was pretty much a certainty. She was heading towards one of the small stashes she kept right above the high tide line, but the problem with that was that she had to climb--
there was a sound.
A familiar sound.
Then another.
Syrupy-slow, Zhi spun on her heel, towards the sound-sounds, and the new smells, and the queasy feeling. Man-child: a scream. A yell. A woman's voice. A gun. A gun. Fired once; bodies and impacts.
It was dark now. She saw well in the dark, turned and saw wetness on the wood planks. It was frequently wet in lowtown, but not like this. Not like this.
Another shot, and she surged forward, feet tangling, and fell out flat, useless, the sudden jolt making her stomach move and roll and she felt acrid, stinking bile in her mouth, spat. Useless.
Everything tangled up in a jumble, too fast, too fast. Three sets of breaths, three sets of cries, her own the kind of drunkhigh whimpering sick useless that she hated most of all, and she knew that voice, knew that smell, got up on her knees and crawled, crawled.
She saw them moving, tangling together in some sick parody that would have made her grin if she was less pathetic. The gun was wrested free, and clattered away, leaving them groping and clawing at each other on the ground.
Two sets of breathing: one rattling, gurgling, wheezing, struggling voice had been cut out and was gone.
Gone for good.
"Brindle?"
Just like she'd taught him.
"Brindle?"
His blood.
Eternity, and she was on them. She didn't have the strength to fling the carcass away, to throw and stomp and spit on it like she wanted. But she shoved it away far enough, half kneeling on it so she could get to him.
Her fingertips walked over him until he made a noise of protest, his breath all stutter-pain. She started to strip.
"Found ye..."
He was so stupid. Such a ruttin', bleedin', sorry excuse of a damn brat.
"Shut up. Where's yer blimmin' sense, huh?"
She wasn't strong enough to tear cloth. Not even the shit she wore. She fumbled out her knife, cursing as she nicked herself. Took her two tries to get a strip, and once she had it she realized she couldn't do anything with it; skinny lad that he was, it wasn't long enough to wrap around him.
"There's men... lookin'... Zhio."
What was wrong with him? He was a complete lackwit. He should've cut and run. She cut more strips, cut herself again, managed to tie them together. His blood was soaking into her pants. She was wet with it.
"Yer more trouble than yer worth, y'scrag. Think I don't know that? Huh? Now lookit what ye've done, gettin' all bloodied up. Think I've time t'be fixin' yer mess?" The words were a raspy snarl. Zhi hardly recognized her own voice.
It took forever to get the mess of knotted strips around him. Everything was slick and hard to get a good grip on.
"I knew it though...that ye'd come this way. I waited, see? Cuz I knew ye'd..."
He was heavy.
"Shut up."
One.
Zhi'd always loved counting. Since the time she'd been old enough for her mam to teach her to count coins, she'd counted. Maybe in that way, gil had been her first love. Shining, pretty, important: her mam had obsessed over how much gil they had, and Zhi'd learned right along with her. Even when she wasn't supposed to, she'd take it out when her mam was sleeping, let the coins tumble through her fingers, each familiar and warmed by her hands.
Five.
When she'd gotten older, when she'd started living on the streets for the first time, there'd been more and more things to count. How many mates in the gang she'd joined. How many things they stole. How many minutes, bells, suns since the lad she'd gotten all tongue-tied about had spoken to her, touched her, told her he'd loved her: all sweaty-handed fumbling about in the dark. The dark. Her favorite time in all the world.
Twenty-seven.
Betrayals. How inevitable. How many heartbeats it took before it stopped hurting. Before she stopped caring. Before she learned better. How many breaths since she'd recognized life in her stomach. How many agonizing weeks since she knew he wasn't coming back? How many moons until she'd gone to a midwife, all snarling rage, and sorrow, and heartbreak.
Thirty-nine.
How many years. How many years? How many fucking years since that bloody mess between her legs, since she'd made that choice, since she'd fucked everything up, since the wire, and the gathering in that room, and the look on Bree's face, and that toneless voice telling her that she wouldn't have to ever worry about being a mam, that it was taken care of, that they were all the family she'd ever, ever need?
Fifty-two.
She retched. She'd gotten over it. Stopped counting those things. Learned better. Become harder. Wiser. Her hands slipped, despite her clawing fingers, and they folded together to the ground. Fifty-three was a bitch. She'd take a little break before fifty-three, them tucked away in some feckless alley, and pulled him so his head and shoulders were on her, cradled between her stomach and her bent knees. Her back was against the wall, like it was supposed to be. Light was touching the city, more's the pity.
Brindle wasn't hers to keep.
He wasn't hers.
She knew that.
She'd sleep. Just a bit. Sleep.
