SUMMER 19, 511
"Fish-o-the-dock! Fish-o-the-dock!"
It was the last catch of the day - even without the time, Minnie could tell for it had last catch smell: that is, it smelled of the last catch interspersed carefully with the sun-aged leftovers of the day's other catches. She loved the smell, had always loved it, less a woman's response than a dog's. When she was young, it was the scent of the possibility of extra dinner, for what the hawkers could not sell, if it was not something that could be salted or smoke, they would toss into the Mire, where a determined hand could fish it back out, rinse it in seawater, and eat. She smiled even, a little at the memory, as she tottered down the street, bag clutched tight to her chest: she could almost taste the hot-stringy flavor of uncooked mackerel on her tongue. IT was funny, how some things never left one.
The smile faded, as she turned and saw the low, heavy form of the inn just past the docks. Its chimney poured smoke, and its door poured the scent of unwashed sailors and slopped kelp-beer, and these two combined to tickle her sense of dread.
You stupid gutterslut. She's a real person, a world traveller even. She won't have time for this.
She closed her eyes and with one of the hands across her chest, dug a sharp middle finger into her palm, hard. She focused hard on the little point of pain - she was growing old, and her palms dull, with age. It took more pressure to produce enough of the sharp, clean feeling to give her focus.
"She needs work. This is a transaction of business is all." She spoke the words aloud, her face high and reedy with strain, but not desperate. A big fellow, a common sailor maneuvered around her, with a bemused grin, touched his cap.
"Goody Lefting."
She blinked, pushing her glasses up, at the man, knowing him, but unable to pull his name from the jumble in her brain at the moment, "Evenin', muster."
He turned and headed in, then, waving to a fellow inside - in the heat of high summer, now, of course, the windows and doors were thrown wide.
Minnie followed, the high, uneven steps making her look childish as she clutched the tottering railing, blinking behind her blown-glass spectacles, eyes like great, sluggish dust moths. She would be here, Minnie hoped, or guessed anyway. Clearly, the lass hadn't two coppers to rub together, after all, and travelers tended to gravitate down hill anyway, so the chatters and sinks of the Uni district didn't seem her style. Besides, for all the noise of the port tavern, it was a much better place to be left to one's self. She understood the sentiment - while she might frequent the uphills for people-gazing sometimes, this, the humbler smells of the kelp-fry and harbor beer, this felt to her more like home.
She tottered up to the bar, climbing one of the stools rather as one might climb a ladder more than a chair, settling her fleshy body atop the seat to look at the bartender. He didn't even ask, but went to the far end of the bar, snatching up a curl of kelp fritters and bit of lukewarm kelp-tea, nodding agreeably.
"Usual, goody," it was not a question.
"A thanks on 'e, Scups. I had a...a bit on a question too, if its all the same."
The bartender stopped, vaguely interested, "Question, doc?"
"I'm after a girl, 'en. Dunny know she's her, but I 'spect it, you may 'ave seen her? Foreign, young, student-ish, but quiet-like. Drinks... a bit... I believe..."
x
"Fish-o-the-dock! Fish-o-the-dock!"
It was the last catch of the day - even without the time, Minnie could tell for it had last catch smell: that is, it smelled of the last catch interspersed carefully with the sun-aged leftovers of the day's other catches. She loved the smell, had always loved it, less a woman's response than a dog's. When she was young, it was the scent of the possibility of extra dinner, for what the hawkers could not sell, if it was not something that could be salted or smoke, they would toss into the Mire, where a determined hand could fish it back out, rinse it in seawater, and eat. She smiled even, a little at the memory, as she tottered down the street, bag clutched tight to her chest: she could almost taste the hot-stringy flavor of uncooked mackerel on her tongue. IT was funny, how some things never left one.
The smile faded, as she turned and saw the low, heavy form of the inn just past the docks. Its chimney poured smoke, and its door poured the scent of unwashed sailors and slopped kelp-beer, and these two combined to tickle her sense of dread.
You stupid gutterslut. She's a real person, a world traveller even. She won't have time for this.
She closed her eyes and with one of the hands across her chest, dug a sharp middle finger into her palm, hard. She focused hard on the little point of pain - she was growing old, and her palms dull, with age. It took more pressure to produce enough of the sharp, clean feeling to give her focus.
"She needs work. This is a transaction of business is all." She spoke the words aloud, her face high and reedy with strain, but not desperate. A big fellow, a common sailor maneuvered around her, with a bemused grin, touched his cap.
"Goody Lefting."
She blinked, pushing her glasses up, at the man, knowing him, but unable to pull his name from the jumble in her brain at the moment, "Evenin', muster."
He turned and headed in, then, waving to a fellow inside - in the heat of high summer, now, of course, the windows and doors were thrown wide.
Minnie followed, the high, uneven steps making her look childish as she clutched the tottering railing, blinking behind her blown-glass spectacles, eyes like great, sluggish dust moths. She would be here, Minnie hoped, or guessed anyway. Clearly, the lass hadn't two coppers to rub together, after all, and travelers tended to gravitate down hill anyway, so the chatters and sinks of the Uni district didn't seem her style. Besides, for all the noise of the port tavern, it was a much better place to be left to one's self. She understood the sentiment - while she might frequent the uphills for people-gazing sometimes, this, the humbler smells of the kelp-fry and harbor beer, this felt to her more like home.
She tottered up to the bar, climbing one of the stools rather as one might climb a ladder more than a chair, settling her fleshy body atop the seat to look at the bartender. He didn't even ask, but went to the far end of the bar, snatching up a curl of kelp fritters and bit of lukewarm kelp-tea, nodding agreeably.
"Usual, goody," it was not a question.
"A thanks on 'e, Scups. I had a...a bit on a question too, if its all the same."
The bartender stopped, vaguely interested, "Question, doc?"
"I'm after a girl, 'en. Dunny know she's her, but I 'spect it, you may 'ave seen her? Foreign, young, student-ish, but quiet-like. Drinks... a bit... I believe..."
x