The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [40]
“You’re drunk.”
“Like your idiotic roommates.” He could not stop now, though he knew he should; words spilled out. “They’re titillated by me, not because they like me, but because of what I am.” He touched his own cheeks, the inked skin. “You too. You march me around like a prize.”
“What?”
“You like what I am, what I stand for. A conquest, an experience.”
Name of the Sun’s eyes flashed rage at him. They both knew the truth in this statement, and they both knew that saying it out loud meant Name of the Sun really did have to get up now, and that they could never again have a shot at sharing what they had briefly tried to share.
During this argument, the owner of the tiny stall where the couple were sitting, Hakim, who had left his cooking fires to clean adjacent tables, moved nearer and nearer, trying to mind his own business but also, by his proximity, trying to remind Nahid and Name of the Sun to keep their discussion hushed. At the advance of his big hands, offended flies rose from remains on the big, curled leaves he served his food in. Nahid nearly looked straight at Hakim. He wanted to tell the man to stay out of it, but that would be adding insult upon injury: the stall was one of only two in Hangman’s Alley that served kholics, and it was the only stall in all of Nowy Solum that served kholics sitting with hemos. Despite relenting (or collapsing) mores, Hakim’s business was slow, vandalism frequent, and harassment concerning municipal codes or any other violation that the palatinate might be able to lift from the books relatively routine.
A large man, gruff and loud, with a huge stomach and scars either cheek, Hakim was not tattooed, though no one had seen him smile. First impressions were invariably that Hakim was mean, possibly a killer; the man had several grown children and numerous grandchildren, who clambered all over him when they came by, as if he were a rock. Patrons knew him as the source of sage advice. Sometimes Hakim let patrons eat for free if he saw they were skint and hungry or desperate enough. Nahid—who had been coming to Hakim’s with Octavia regularly, whenever they had any small coins, since they were old enough to leave the ostracon and work the streets—knew, even in his current state, that it would be foolish to lose a friend like him.
Instead, he motioned for another pint.
“If you drink one more beer,” said Name of the Sun, “I will truly leave.”
Between two structures just then, coming into Hangman’s Alley from across the way, a chanting song arose, getting louder: all three looked. Nahid, whose veins were positively singing with the combination of drugs and anger now, felt a small sense of relief at the distraction.
A group emerged from behind a stall on the opposite side of the Alley, all of them men, bare-chested. Crowds in the market parted to let the procession through. There were perhaps five, leading two cognosci in collars and muzzles. The shaggy beasts looked dazed, and over the muzzle of each was inked a parody of Nahid’s tattoo. Blood—hemo blood—trickled from numerous wounds on the stocky torsos of the creatures while, behind them, coming up the rear, a tall, narrow-faced man bearing a whip—who was leading the chanting—lashed out.
Hakim was there to place a heavy hand on Nahid’s shoulder, keeping him seated.
“What is this shit?”
“They circle Hangman’s and the ostracon each day. You’ve been busy. They’re confronting kholics that get in the way.”
“Confronting?”
“Don’t do anything. I’m warning you. This guy with the whip, he claims to be cleansing the city, so gods can return.”
“The gods?” Nahid spat. “Gods have nothing to do with me. What does he want with kholics?”
“He wants them to leave Nowy Solum. Or die.”
Nahid stared the group down, forcing himself to look directly at the man