THE BOOKS OF THE SMALL GODS

 

     The beating Teth and his thugs laid on the young man was difficult enough to watch, but when he drove the fancy sword into the boy’s guts, Elishbieta put her hand over her mouth to keep from gasping.

     Bieta and Stirk sank back into the shadows as Teth and his boys stalked away with the sword, coins, and clothes they’d stolen. One of them kicked the torn back pack, but the ripped fabric wrapped around his foot and stuck. If not for her rescuer lying bleeding in the dirt, Bieta might have laughed at him for it. The fellow shook his leg like a dog dislodging a flea, and the satchel fell off.

     When the group of men was halfway along the block toward the corner, Bieta straightened and took a half-step, but Stirk’s hand on her arm stopped her.

     “Wait,” he whispered, all urgent-like.

     Bieta glared at him, but did as he said. Getting themselves killed alongside the young man wouldn’t help the lad.

     Cheek pressed against rough stone, she peeked around the corner and watched them leave with her one good eye. Viewing things was always easier with the scarred and empty socket hidden behind something. When her head didn’t expect input from the eye unable to give it, it fooled her into thinking she saw the way everyone else did, though she knew it a lie.

     The men rounded the corner, a burble of laughter following them, and Bieta pulled away from Stirk’s grasp. Truly, he’d released his grip, but it came out the same result, either way.

     She hurried to the fallen man, rocks and chunks of broken flagstone pressing into her feet through the worn-thin soles of her shoes. Upon reaching the fellow, she meant to fall to her knees dramatically but noticed a pool of blood seeping out around him, so searched for a better spot before kneeling. Stirk skidded to a stop beside the poor man, spraying him with a shower of dirt. Bieta shook her head at how stupid her boy could be, but bit back any admonishment. No point giving him hell if the guy was dead, anyway.

     The man neither moved nor made a sound. Bieta’s tongue found the space once occupied by her two front teeth and the tip chafed against the ragged gum. She pressed hard enough to feel the bone beneath as she leaned forward and pried one of the lad’s eyelids open with her thumb and finger.

     “Why d’you think they took his clothes?” Stirk asked, staring at her.

     Bieta shot her son the admonishing look she’d been holding back. “Must have thought they was worth taking, dummy.”

     “Don’t call me that.”

     “Then stop acting the part.”

     She peered back into the injured man’s eye, but it stared unfocused at the night sky without seeing the Small Gods twinkling in it. Nothing under his lid let her know for sure if he still lived or not.

     “Is he dead?”

     Bieta shook her head. “I think he might be living.”

     “I ain’t got a good feeling about this, Ma. Let’s leave him and head on home.”

     She moved her hand to pry the other eyelid open. “He helped me, Stirk. Can’t just let him be if there’s any chance of returning the favor.”

     The woman leaned in close, the tip of her tongue grinding into her gum, and aligned herself to match her one eye up with his. The coppery scent of his spilled blood found her nose, so she held her breath to keep it out. She bent low and peered into his peeper, saw the way the white had gone pink, and hope seeped out of her the way his blood leaked out onto the ground. She couldn’t imagine any way he’d still be alive.

     Until he groaned.

     Bieta jerked her gaze toward her son. “You hear that?”

     Stirk shook his patchy-haired head without lifting his eyes from the lad.

     “He made a sound,” she said, standing. “Groaned.”

     “Didn’t hear nothing.”

     “We can’t leave him.”

     Stirk raised his wide-eyed stare to her. “Well, it don’t look as if he’ll be walking nowhere.”

     “You gotta carry him.”

     Her son raised one brow and lowered the other, fixing her with a disbelieving expression. Bieta crossed her arms and glared at him.

     “Carry him? I’d get his blood on me. And he ain’t going to make it, at any rate.”

     She let her gaze trail down Stirk’s grubby, gray shirt with the rip in the sleeve and the front bulging open over his generous belly where two buttons were missing. One leg of his breeches ended just below the knee in a jungle of dangling thread where it had torn off after the hole in it got too big.

     “You afraid to get your clothes dirty?”

     Stirk shrugged. “Don’t wanna get blood on me, is all.”

     “We’re taking him, so pick him up or you won’t be getting any of this.” Bieta cupped her ample breasts and jiggled them; Stirk sagged like a man beaten.

     “Alright, but you gotta help me.”

     Bieta shook her head. Her son was strong as a horse—and near smart as one—so didn’t need her help, but she obliged to keep him happy. She took up a position at the injured man’s head and grasped him under the armpits, leaning him forward for Stirk to reach under. A moan shuddered in the fellow’s throat when she propped him up, startling her so she nearly let go. She fixed Stirk with a hard gaze.

     “Yeah, yeah. Heard him that time.”

     He bent and hooked one arm around the lad’s back, the other under his knees, and picked him up as though he weighed no more than a sack of grain. Bieta pushed on the injured fellow’s back to make it appear as though she helped; her palms came away smeared with his blood.

     “You got him?”

     “Yeah,” Stirk grunted. “I got him.”

     They started along the dimly lit street, following the same path as Teth and his mates because it was the quickest way home. The next closest bridge would take them too far out of their way and through parts of the city Bieta wouldn’t want to go even when Stirk wasn’t carrying a load.

     “What was he doing here?” she mused. “Don’t everyone know to stay out of Thieves’ Alley?”

     “Don’t think he’s from around here, Ma.”

     “That’s the truth.”

     “And he wouldn’t’ve been here if you hadn’t been screwin’ around with Teth.”

     She glared at Stirk, lips pressed together tight, tongue working hard in the gap between her teeth. He was too busy concentrating on keeping one foot moving in front of the other to notice.

     “Someone’s gotta make money, or how’re we going to eat? You getting a job?”

     “Ain’t no jobs.”

     “That’s right. And you ain’t willing to put some fellow’s cock betwixt your lips for a coin or two, are you?” This time, Stirk didn’t respond. “Didn’t think so.”

     She stopped him short of the corner and Bieta stuck her head out to peer around. The street was empty, so she signaled Stirk to follow as she continued.

     “Hurry.”

     Stirk grunted and increased his pace, the young man hanging limp in his arms, weighing him down with the worst kind of load. Bieta wished there was more she could do to help—by reason of wanting to get home quicker, not due to caring about the strain on her son’s back—but there wasn’t. Being lookout for Teth and his boys would have to be her contribution.

     They stopped to rest halfway along the next block, Stirk leaning against a wall with its daub chipping off the wattle, though he likely didn’t need the pause. He sucked a few heavy breaths to give his mother the impression he’d done some hard work, tilted his head and wiped sweat from his brow off with his shoulder. Bieta rolled her eyes and peeked over her shoulder, surveying the street ahead.

     Empty.

     Not much traffic at this time, but they’d pass The Dented Cup on their way to the bridge. Day or night, people frequented the tavern, and there’d be a good chance Teth and his thugs might stop in on their way by.

     “Come on,” she said, snagging Stirk by the ripped sleeve of his shirt.

     “Can’t we leave him? I think he’s dead. He’s getting cold.”

     Bieta touched the back of her hand to the lad’s forehead and found it warm and moist. A faint breath caressed her fingers when she held them in front of his mouth.

     “He’s alive.” She started out again, expecting her son to follow. “Just his blood on your shirt cooling off.”

     “Great.”

     Around the next corner, they walked into the busy tavern’s noise spilling along the street. Bieta hesitated and Stirk lurched to a stop beside her.

     “If we’re gonna do this,” he said, feigning panted breath. “Let’s just do it.”

     She knew his strength would last and he just liked to play at getting tired to illustrate his contribution, but she worried about being discovered toting a blood-covered fellow through the streets, especially if one of the rarely-seen city guards picked tonight for an evening stroll. No See-Gee would believe for a second they weren’t the ones who poked him with a sword.

     They hurried up the street, Stirk’s feet dragging in the dirt and broken cobbles, sending rocks skittering across the ground. Had it been quieter, Bieta might have hushed him, but the tavern’s clamor was louder than usual. Loud enough it made her nervous.

     Stirk was busy concentrating on hauling his load, but it didn’t take Elishbieta long to realize it wasn’t normal tavern sounds seeping out through the door. The harsh clash of swords cut through the crowd’s chatter, followed by a man’s pained cry. As they drew even with the building, the place went deathly silent. A hush fell like a fog bank appearing out of nowhere to swallow the shacks along the river and Bieta stopped in her tracks, grabbed Stirk’s arm.

     “Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

     Stirk grunted. Bieta tugged his sleeve, pulling him toward the alley opposite the tavern’s entrance.

     They melted into the shadows as best a big man with another fellow in his arms can hide. Bieta held her breath, both to keep from being heard and to prevent the stink of garbage and offal invading her nose. Her tongue rubbed back and forth against her gum, her one eye hard on the door as she wondered what might cause the drinking house’s normally giddy crowd to go quiet. Were Teth and his cohorts menacing them? He wasn’t the biggest thug in the outer city, but maybe the fancy sword he’d stolen from the young man was enough to make the others take note.

     A few seconds later, the door swung open. Bieta pushed Stirk and his load deeper into the alley, their feet squelching in damp refuse.

     The one-armed man who exited the tavern and the young woman with him were strangers to her, but she recognized the sword in his hand. Even her untrained eye couldn’t mistake the value of that sort of weapon. The pattern etched along its blade caught the light, twinkling and flashing, a beacon signaling this sword was different from all others.

     The two strangers backed out of the public house, acting tense and wary. Through the open door, she glimpsed the faces of some of the tavern-goers watching them with eyes opened wide with shock. A path split between them led back into the room, and she spied bodies lying on the floor, recognized Teth amongst them. Her gut jumped at the sight, part of her pleased he’d paid for what he’d done to the lad, another part distressed she’d have to find a new man to pleasure for money. She decided to be pleased—men loved the feel of her gap on their cocks, so it shouldn’t be difficult to replace the meager coin Teth provided.

     The door swung closed and the man and girl turned away from the tavern. He glanced up the street, but her gaze fell on the alley in which Bieta and Stirk hid, the bleeding man draped in his arms. The injured lad chose that precise moment to groan.