Sharkswell Streets • Old Rose Harbor
Evening on the 18th of Intas, 2708
I
t was Deirdre he went to, ‘course.
Wasn’t nobody else. Fuck the lot of ‘em, the boys. They’d all been looking at him sideways since he smashed that laoso’s mug at the Quince, but none of them’d much fancied their own sap spilt and running to the gutters, neither. Real fucking temper, he’d heard Donovan mutter all sour-like, like any one of them hadn’t laid kov out flat for that and less. Jus’ a word, Alan’d said, jus’ a floodin’ word.
They’d all been looking at him sideways, ever since that trip to the Queen. Well, fuck the lot of them. He could lay them all out.
Tom’s head was pounding like a tyek drum even now, stalking the alleys silent in the soft snows. Looking for the window, same as it always was, same as it’d been when he was a lad. Shattering out like a spider’s web. He remembered when some kov’d thrown a bottle at it, oes, when all the chips’d gasped, when Lettie’d shrieked like a hingle.
Deirdre all business, even then, snapping out staccato, you here, you there, get me this, get me that, what the fuck’re you standin’ there gawkin’ about, lass? Her own hands shaking on her hips, barest quiver in her voice, hard spark in her smeared-kohl eyes like a riff pulled mid-fistfight.
They’d cleaned it up, and no blood spilt. A month later, there was still tape; then, the holes had got filled in, slow but sure. Greene pissing and moaning about it. The window might’ve always looked so, now, the last window to the left out back Greene’s whorehouse. He’d thought once, sitting smoking in the back room, it was pretty like that. Even though you couldn’t see through it no more. Even so.
He went looking for her, through the snowy streets of Sharkswell. Tenements familiar and unfamiliar, makeshift porticoes and broken fences, his breath steaming white like the belch of a smokestack against a dark sky. Windows he remembered being just tall enough to see through, once, when everybody was younger.
This winter, they’d begun to ache, the scars; he could feel it in his fingers, too, in his busted-up knuckles. Lot of shit ached.
He saw her before he saw the window, this time, smoking out by the back stoop. He recognized her by the waterfall pile of wheat-colored hair on her head. It wasn’t his favorite – his favorite was the honey-colored wig, the one he’d learned to braid on – but he saw it and he knew it, saw it before she turned his way.
She was leaning against the wall by the old chipping-paint door, coat dark in the pale morning. Underneath the hem of it, he could see the pointed tip of her burgundy skirt, notched to tell her qalqa.
Then she looked over, and she saw him coming down the alleyway, and she grinned.
Deirdre had the hollow-eyed, narrow look they all got; she’d looked so for as long as he could remember. She had a long, sharp nose, hawklike, and dark eyes, and crooked teeth as made her smile hatcher-sharp – and kind, fair kind, kind in the lines trickling round her eyes and deep round her mouth, kind and crooked. She held her spur delicate-like between two knobbly fingers, and blew benny rings of smoke out through plum-painted lips.
And she was smiling her crooked way when she saw him, like she was expecting him for maw, her head tipped back against the old crumbly brick. She looked thinner, he thought, but he always thought so.
He hadn’t known his throat was so tight ‘til he knew, ‘til he felt the prickling at the edges of his eyes, the warm burn of embarrassment behind them.
“Hey hey,” she said, real soft in her low rasp, and held her arms wide.
He fell into the smell of smoke and ganja, with her skinny arms wound round him, fingers knotted in his coat.
Smaller and smaller, too, though that wasn’t properly her fault. He buried his head in the crook of her neck and shoulder, felt the scratch of her dangling earrings against his cheek. “My weepy lad,” she said. “Weep, weep.” He felt her fingers come up and wind through his hair, wind out the tangles, her long nails sharp against his scalp.
They never untangled, not proper; she kept one arm looped through his, and they leaned on the wall under the awning together, breath steaming. The sky’d started flaking down snow, just a pina, just enough to settle on shoulders and hair, just enough to taste in the air.
He hadn’t culled the hitch of his breath, neither, nor scragged the tears that slipped his eyes and wet his beard. He bowed his head, but she took one cigarette-smelling finger and tilted his chin up, and he looked at her blurry face through the stinging cold. “Speak, lad,” she said, the oldest words.
“I’m a man, Dee, ain’t I?” was what he could say. He bowed his head, and she knew to let him; he choked another little sob.
“Enough t’ smell of spirits,” she said with a wry smile, “an’ ’s a benny manna beard you got on that bochi-face.”
He sniffed, breathed in the ice-cold air. “Enough,” he said, barely a breath. He shut his eyes, breathed, then opened them, after a moment. “Far’ye, Dee? What’s the news?”
“Another year, dove. Greene keeps me round.” She offered him the spur; he took it, took a drag. “New lass.” She shrugged, laid her head on his shoulder. “Puts me in mind of Addie. You remember Addie, lad?”
“Before my time.”
Deirdre laughed. “Not before your time. You remember her. Good wi’ cats.” Another pause, comfortable lull. “Taught her Bastian braids.”
“I braided a kov’s hair once,” Tom said, even softer. “Soft like down, it was. Like you taught me, hey?”
Snow-muffled silence. Deirdre took back the spur, took a drag. “They’re macha hands, dove,” she said, “wi’ such a qalqa.”
He watched the smoke drift. His knuckles ached – the bruises, the split skin; the battered bone – even buried in his pockets. It bubbled up in him, then, sudden as it always was. Like a storm, like a riff pulled mid-fistfight. He wept; she smoked, and kept her arm looped through his.
t was Deirdre he went to, ‘course.
Wasn’t nobody else. Fuck the lot of ‘em, the boys. They’d all been looking at him sideways since he smashed that laoso’s mug at the Quince, but none of them’d much fancied their own sap spilt and running to the gutters, neither. Real fucking temper, he’d heard Donovan mutter all sour-like, like any one of them hadn’t laid kov out flat for that and less. Jus’ a word, Alan’d said, jus’ a floodin’ word.
They’d all been looking at him sideways, ever since that trip to the Queen. Well, fuck the lot of them. He could lay them all out.
Tom’s head was pounding like a tyek drum even now, stalking the alleys silent in the soft snows. Looking for the window, same as it always was, same as it’d been when he was a lad. Shattering out like a spider’s web. He remembered when some kov’d thrown a bottle at it, oes, when all the chips’d gasped, when Lettie’d shrieked like a hingle.
Deirdre all business, even then, snapping out staccato, you here, you there, get me this, get me that, what the fuck’re you standin’ there gawkin’ about, lass? Her own hands shaking on her hips, barest quiver in her voice, hard spark in her smeared-kohl eyes like a riff pulled mid-fistfight.
They’d cleaned it up, and no blood spilt. A month later, there was still tape; then, the holes had got filled in, slow but sure. Greene pissing and moaning about it. The window might’ve always looked so, now, the last window to the left out back Greene’s whorehouse. He’d thought once, sitting smoking in the back room, it was pretty like that. Even though you couldn’t see through it no more. Even so.
He went looking for her, through the snowy streets of Sharkswell. Tenements familiar and unfamiliar, makeshift porticoes and broken fences, his breath steaming white like the belch of a smokestack against a dark sky. Windows he remembered being just tall enough to see through, once, when everybody was younger.
This winter, they’d begun to ache, the scars; he could feel it in his fingers, too, in his busted-up knuckles. Lot of shit ached.
He saw her before he saw the window, this time, smoking out by the back stoop. He recognized her by the waterfall pile of wheat-colored hair on her head. It wasn’t his favorite – his favorite was the honey-colored wig, the one he’d learned to braid on – but he saw it and he knew it, saw it before she turned his way.
She was leaning against the wall by the old chipping-paint door, coat dark in the pale morning. Underneath the hem of it, he could see the pointed tip of her burgundy skirt, notched to tell her qalqa.
Then she looked over, and she saw him coming down the alleyway, and she grinned.
Deirdre had the hollow-eyed, narrow look they all got; she’d looked so for as long as he could remember. She had a long, sharp nose, hawklike, and dark eyes, and crooked teeth as made her smile hatcher-sharp – and kind, fair kind, kind in the lines trickling round her eyes and deep round her mouth, kind and crooked. She held her spur delicate-like between two knobbly fingers, and blew benny rings of smoke out through plum-painted lips.
And she was smiling her crooked way when she saw him, like she was expecting him for maw, her head tipped back against the old crumbly brick. She looked thinner, he thought, but he always thought so.
He hadn’t known his throat was so tight ‘til he knew, ‘til he felt the prickling at the edges of his eyes, the warm burn of embarrassment behind them.
“Hey hey,” she said, real soft in her low rasp, and held her arms wide.
He fell into the smell of smoke and ganja, with her skinny arms wound round him, fingers knotted in his coat.
Smaller and smaller, too, though that wasn’t properly her fault. He buried his head in the crook of her neck and shoulder, felt the scratch of her dangling earrings against his cheek. “My weepy lad,” she said. “Weep, weep.” He felt her fingers come up and wind through his hair, wind out the tangles, her long nails sharp against his scalp.
They never untangled, not proper; she kept one arm looped through his, and they leaned on the wall under the awning together, breath steaming. The sky’d started flaking down snow, just a pina, just enough to settle on shoulders and hair, just enough to taste in the air.
He hadn’t culled the hitch of his breath, neither, nor scragged the tears that slipped his eyes and wet his beard. He bowed his head, but she took one cigarette-smelling finger and tilted his chin up, and he looked at her blurry face through the stinging cold. “Speak, lad,” she said, the oldest words.
“I’m a man, Dee, ain’t I?” was what he could say. He bowed his head, and she knew to let him; he choked another little sob.
“Enough t’ smell of spirits,” she said with a wry smile, “an’ ’s a benny manna beard you got on that bochi-face.”
He sniffed, breathed in the ice-cold air. “Enough,” he said, barely a breath. He shut his eyes, breathed, then opened them, after a moment. “Far’ye, Dee? What’s the news?”
“Another year, dove. Greene keeps me round.” She offered him the spur; he took it, took a drag. “New lass.” She shrugged, laid her head on his shoulder. “Puts me in mind of Addie. You remember Addie, lad?”
“Before my time.”
Deirdre laughed. “Not before your time. You remember her. Good wi’ cats.” Another pause, comfortable lull. “Taught her Bastian braids.”
“I braided a kov’s hair once,” Tom said, even softer. “Soft like down, it was. Like you taught me, hey?”
Snow-muffled silence. Deirdre took back the spur, took a drag. “They’re macha hands, dove,” she said, “wi’ such a qalqa.”
He watched the smoke drift. His knuckles ached – the bruises, the split skin; the battered bone – even buried in his pockets. It bubbled up in him, then, sudden as it always was. Like a storm, like a riff pulled mid-fistfight. He wept; she smoked, and kept her arm looped through his.
