The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [50]
“Go on,” path said, trembling.
“But where?”
His father’s heart pounded so hard that path moved rhythmically in his sling.
Streets led away crookedly between buildings, like arthritic fingers from the palm of an old man’s hand. Behind them, the massive arch of dark stone, ornately carved with icons and gargoyles, loomed. Down each of these streets, crowded and noisy and terrifying, worlds of unknowable options.
As path’s father hunched over, the fabric of the sling rode up and obscured path’s view, so path shouted, “I can’t see! What are you doing?”
His father lurched, one step, two, and then they were falling. Immediately, path spilled painfully from the sling, tumbling across the cobblestones like an offering to Nowy Solum. He banged his shoulders and head, tasted blood in his mouth. He was kicked twice before he came to a stop. Looking wildly around for his father, all he saw was a patch of clouds, a leaning wall, legs.
A child with a black mark on his face peered down at him quickly, did not meet his gaze, and moved away once more.
“Help me,” he said. “Please . . .”
But the boy had gone.
Sure that he was bleeding, and that his bones were broken, path tried not to panic. What if this entire situation—the light, the visions, the knowledge that had changed him—had been a ruse to get him to this point, so he could lie, humiliated, injured on the streets of a foreign and hostile landscape?
People stepped past without so much as a glance. He might have been garbage, discarded there. He recalled what the salesman had said: one could die in the streets of the city and no one would take notice.
What had happened to his father?
A deep voice said, “Well, well, well, what we got here?”
Without a chance to react, path was roughly hoisted by a set of huge hands and stuffed into a rough and stinky sack.
Nahid fought, which—as he’d said to Name of the Sun—was number one on his list, and so seemed inevitable. The fight was brief but left him leaking melancholy from his nose, and somewhat sobered, for the fight had been with a hemo. Nahid was pushing his luck. Being with Name of the Sun for a fortnight had changed him. Or maybe watching his sister being led away by the chatelaine had changed him. Either way, he took too many chances, pretending to lead the life of someone whose fluids were not black and thick as treacle. He looked hemos in the eye. Now he had grappled with one.
Surging through the crowds, to get away from something he suspected he could never get away from, he wondered almost hysterically when the last time was that he had skimmed the Crane or cleaned gutters. He missed his old life like a throbbing, constant pain. He had been severed in two and was afraid he might never be whole again. He wanted to gather washed-up weeds and decaying garbage from rocks of the river. He wanted to pile offal at Hot Gate, and return to the crowded ostracon.
Neither kholic nor hemo, but a creature between; he no longer belonged in Nowy Solum.
To fight on a crowded street—with a red-blooded boy—was incredibly stupid. Fortunately, the grapple had ended quickly. During it, Nahid had kept his head down, so he would not draw too much attention (but thus had sustained three stiff uppercuts). At least the pudgy boy—who had been sitting by the curbside with his pudgy girlfriend—had seemed unlike the type to file any sort of complaint with officers of the palatinate.
A comment about Nahid’s mark had made him look up, directly at the boy, who was taken aback by the transgression of this kholic returning his gaze. Then Nahid looked straight at the girlfriend’s fat face.
The boy, unable to ignore this violation, of course, yet somewhat unsure and clearly shocked, rose.
Nahid grabbed him. The boy was shorter but broader, with blond hair and an upturned nose. Nahid threw the first punch. For the hemo, this was unthinkable—attacked