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Description
Lysandre St. Quillon was seated on a barrel, his head wreathed in a halo of cigar smoke, peering down with incurious eyes at a pair of yellowed teeth half-buried in the snow. They couldn't have been there long; the blood clinging to the roots was only just starting to congeal into a brownish-red gum, as if the weather couldn't quite be bothered to muster the energy to freeze it solid.

His feet, snug in their fur-lined boots, were propped up on the next barrel over, crossed at the ankles, his shoulders pressed against the alley wall. His eyes swept the well-trod slush, searching for any other discarded pieces of someone's identity, but apart from the confused mass of footprints that were already fading away, there was nothing -- or at least, nothing he could see from his current vantage point. For all he knew, there could be a trail of blood leading straight to the wounded person unknown, rendered invisible by the red glare of sunset pouring into the mouth of the alley from the harbour beyond. Lysandre took a deep drag on his cigar, held the smoke in, and contemplated getting up to look more closely. When he let his lungful of smoke out through his nose, he found that his desire to move had gone with it. He relaxed, mildly relieved at having his mind made up for him, and let his head thunk back against the wall.

His cigar had nearly burned itself down to the roach by the time someone else entered the alley. Two sets of footfalls: one slow, weighty and deliberate, forcing the snow to crunch beneath, while the other was light, nervous and birdlike, the snow only squeaking beneath them, and grudgingly at that. Lysandre painted pictures in his mind, attaching them to the sounds; a great bear, walking on its hind legs, with an awkward gangle of a stork at its elbow. When he opened his bloodshot eyes, he found he was reasonably near to the mark. The bear was not a bear, but a sailor, just come from the harbour judging from the salt-sprayed stiffness of his open-throated coat and breeches. The stork was a girl -- no, not a girl, a woman, waifish and impossibly thin, clad in a ragged dress apparently held together by crusted filth, with strips of leather bound around her feet for shoes. He could see the tell-tale fishbelly color of scalp beneath her thinning hair, the stained redness of her lips and the corroded brown of the teeth behind them. A sweet-eater.

She was speaking, he realized, that ugly-pretty mouth bent into the broken curve of an ingratiating smile as she danced along at the bearded man's side, quick-footed and clumsy. Her feet had to be numb, he knew, and it wouldn't be long before her toes began to blacken if she stayed out much longer. The sailor was laughing at her with hard eyes, his grin baring too many of his own teeth, making him look wolfish. Neither of them had noticed Lysandre reclining on his stack of barrels.

"Please, mister, you promised, you promised, I did like you said, did it just like you said, now you promised, please, mister, please--" It was an endless, flutey whine, like the wind moaning through the eaves of a rotting house, stuck in a high and eager monotone that made Lysandre want to cover his ears.

"Aye," growled the sailor. "Aye, lass, I hear you, now shut your gob." He stopped walking, turning to face her, his thumbs pushed into his pockets and his hips cocked, standing like a mummer portraying 'at his ease' with enough exaggeration that the back row could see. "You want your sweetie, aye?"

"Yes, mister, please, you promised me mister, and I did just like you said--"

"I said shut up," he barked like a slap across the face, and she fell quiet, whimpering. Lysandre said a silent prayer of thanks. The sailor- the bear, he thought- reached into his pocket, and drew something out, holding it out toward the woman- the stork. Lysandre couldn't see it, but he knew what it would be: a ball, no bigger around than an iron penny, and colored the bright red of a child's candy. Her whimpering grew louder, and she began to shift from foot to foot, her eyes wide, transfixed by the pill.
"I'll give it to you," the bear growled in a low, greasy tone accompanied by an equally greasy smile. "But you've got to do one more thing."

"Oh yes, mister, please, mister, anything, mister-" she gasped, clutching at the faded wisps of her hair.

"You take that dress off," he growled with slow, rumbling relish, "and you do a little dance for me."

Lysandre was touched, briefly and distantly, with the incredibly stupid hope that she would refuse. She would shut her mouth, he fantasized, draw herself up to her full, awkward height and spit in his face, refuse categorically to debase herself for his amusement, go without the tooth-rotting thing that would give her enough dreams of a live lived out of a gutter to last her until morning. But, of course, even as he was fantasizing, she was complying, her eyes lit with the brittle glitter of hope. He couldn't stand to look any longer; it was like watching a mangy dog too desperate for a scrap of food in a man's hand to heed the kicks his foot delivered.

As Lysandre shut his eyes and drew in what he knew would be the last lungful of smoke from his cigar, he heard the rapid, slushing patter of the whimpering stork as she danced her desperate dance, naked, exposed and oblivious to the cruel chill of the air against her skin. The bear roared with laughter; Lysandre could picture his deadened, beady eyes crinkled up at the corners, his mouth gaping open like a red wound in the tangle of his beard. The bear laughed, the stork danced, and Lysandre lost himself in a vision of burning angels bearing down on the alley, laying about them with flaming swords, spilling steaming blood on the snow and spreading out to mete out their glorious justice on the rest of this stinking hole of a city.

The sound of the stork's knees splashing down into the slush brought him back. The light was dimmer now; the sun had set, the last glimmers of orange giving way to gray dusk, and the stork was weeping into her hands as the bear turned away from her. Lysandre saw the glint of the pill just before it disappeared back into the man's pocket.

Heading for the mouth of the alley, the bear was suddenly impeded by a length of steel touching against the flesh of his throat. Lysandre's eyes were bloodshot and shadowed, surrounded by bruised circles, but his hand was steady, and so was the sword he held in it.

"I'll have the sweet," he said, his voice uninflected, and carrying the furry rasp left by the cigar. The bear snarled at him, baring his teeth in an expression more animal than human.

"Constabulary taken to thieving now?" he growled. Lysandre watched him steadily, turned the blade so that the edge was against the bear's throat instead of the flat, discouraging the bigger man's hand from twitching toward the knife on his belt. He waited. The bear eyed him closely, taking in the tarnished badge on the heart-side of his jerkin, the polished length of the sword, the aquiline gleam in his assailant's bloodshot eyes. Then he turned his head, spat, and reached slowly into his pocket, pulling the pill out and letting it drop into the slush. "There's your poison, lawman. Might be she'll dance for you, too, if you ask."

Lysandre didn't answer; he took the sword away from the man's throat and stepped back, jerking his head toward the mouth of the alley. The bear went, trailing the sort of curses sailors are renowned for. Lysandre watched him until he was gone, looking almost wistful, the pitiless fire of his avenging angels burning, unspent, through his fingers. He returned his sword to its scabbard with the feeling of leaving something vital undone, and turned back to the only other remaining occupant of the alley.

The stork was still kneeling, still naked in the slush. She wasn't weeping anymore, but watching Lysandre with wary eyes that reminded him less of a bird and more of a cornered rat. He drew his foot back and kicked, sending the garish red ball splashing toward her. It never had the chance to come to rest; her greedy hands snatched it up, cradling it to her chest like a mother with her child, but her eyes remained fixed on him, waiting.

He knew that he should have some reaction to this woman, some deep-seated, instinctive response to her inherent wretchedness. There were two tried-and-true methods to dealing with her sort that he knew of: compassion, or cruelty. Both were tied tightly to the question he found himself asking every time he woke up, the question that was a luxury almost anywhere else in the world, but an imperative here: who do I want to be today? Now, he found he couldn't even dredge up the will to make the choice. Neither would do him any good, neither would have the slightest effect on her.

"Just put your dress back on," Lysandre said, fighting a sudden surge of bone-weariness, reaching out to lay a hand against the wall to keep from stumbling.

She did, and scurried away without a word to find a safe midden from which to dream.

Lysandre emerged from the alley minutes later, and lifted his eyes to the line of the city stretching back from the harbor. The lights were just being lit; smoky, foul-smelling torches for the harbor, giving way gradually to softer illumination the further away from the water one travelled. In this light, you couldn't see the ugly brick of the buildings, only the stark black of their silhouettes and the bright stars of the torches.

It was like having a whore when you were drunk, he reflected; pay her well and she could almost be beautiful once the sun was down. When you woke up, though, there she'd be, in all her aged, ugly splendor, and you with a sour taste in your mouth and another night of half-memories you'd rather not have.

Lysandre needed a drink. He turned his eyes downward, and watched the cobbles pass beneath his feet as he went to get one.

Description
Lysandre St. Quillon was seated on a barrel, his head wreathed in a halo of cigar smoke, peering down with incurious eyes at a pair of yellowed teeth half-buried in the snow. They couldn't have been there long; the blood clinging to the roots was only just starting to congeal into a brownish-red gum, as if the weather couldn't quite be bothered to muster the energy to freeze it solid.

His feet, snug in their fur-lined boots, were propped up on the next barrel over, crossed at the ankles, his shoulders pressed against the alley wall. His eyes swept the well-trod slush, searching for any other discarded pieces of someone's identity, but apart from the confused mass of footprints that were already fading away, there was nothing -- or at least, nothing he could see from his current vantage point. For all he knew, there could be a trail of blood leading straight to the wounded person unknown, rendered invisible by the red glare of sunset pouring into the mouth of the alley from the harbour beyond. Lysandre took a deep drag on his cigar, held the smoke in, and contemplated getting up to look more closely. When he let his lungful of smoke out through his nose, he found that his desire to move had gone with it. He relaxed, mildly relieved at having his mind made up for him, and let his head thunk back against the wall.

His cigar had nearly burned itself down to the roach by the time someone else entered the alley. Two sets of footfalls: one slow, weighty and deliberate, forcing the snow to crunch beneath, while the other was light, nervous and birdlike, the snow only squeaking beneath them, and grudgingly at that. Lysandre painted pictures in his mind, attaching them to the sounds; a great bear, walking on its hind legs, with an awkward gangle of a stork at its elbow. When he opened his bloodshot eyes, he found he was reasonably near to the mark. The bear was not a bear, but a sailor, just come from the harbour judging from the salt-sprayed stiffness of his open-throated coat and breeches. The stork was a girl -- no, not a girl, a woman, waifish and impossibly thin, clad in a ragged dress apparently held together by crusted filth, with strips of leather bound around her feet for shoes. He could see the tell-tale fishbelly color of scalp beneath her thinning hair, the stained redness of her lips and the corroded brown of the teeth behind them. A sweet-eater.

She was speaking, he realized, that ugly-pretty mouth bent into the broken curve of an ingratiating smile as she danced along at the bearded man's side, quick-footed and clumsy. Her feet had to be numb, he knew, and it wouldn't be long before her toes began to blacken if she stayed out much longer. The sailor was laughing at her with hard eyes, his grin baring too many of his own teeth, making him look wolfish. Neither of them had noticed Lysandre reclining on his stack of barrels.

"Please, mister, you promised, you promised, I did like you said, did it just like you said, now you promised, please, mister, please--" It was an endless, flutey whine, like the wind moaning through the eaves of a rotting house, stuck in a high and eager monotone that made Lysandre want to cover his ears.

"Aye," growled the sailor. "Aye, lass, I hear you, now shut your gob." He stopped walking, turning to face her, his thumbs pushed into his pockets and his hips cocked, standing like a mummer portraying 'at his ease' with enough exaggeration that the back row could see. "You want your sweetie, aye?"

"Yes, mister, please, you promised me mister, and I did just like you said--"

"I said shut up," he barked like a slap across the face, and she fell quiet, whimpering. Lysandre said a silent prayer of thanks. The sailor- the bear, he thought- reached into his pocket, and drew something out, holding it out toward the woman- the stork. Lysandre couldn't see it, but he knew what it would be: a ball, no bigger around than an iron penny, and colored the bright red of a child's candy. Her whimpering grew louder, and she began to shift from foot to foot, her eyes wide, transfixed by the pill.
"I'll give it to you," the bear growled in a low, greasy tone accompanied by an equally greasy smile. "But you've got to do one more thing."

"Oh yes, mister, please, mister, anything, mister-" she gasped, clutching at the faded wisps of her hair.

"You take that dress off," he growled with slow, rumbling relish, "and you do a little dance for me."

Lysandre was touched, briefly and distantly, with the incredibly stupid hope that she would refuse. She would shut her mouth, he fantasized, draw herself up to her full, awkward height and spit in his face, refuse categorically to debase herself for his amusement, go without the tooth-rotting thing that would give her enough dreams of a live lived out of a gutter to last her until morning. But, of course, even as he was fantasizing, she was complying, her eyes lit with the brittle glitter of hope. He couldn't stand to look any longer; it was like watching a mangy dog too desperate for a scrap of food in a man's hand to heed the kicks his foot delivered.

As Lysandre shut his eyes and drew in what he knew would be the last lungful of smoke from his cigar, he heard the rapid, slushing patter of the whimpering stork as she danced her desperate dance, naked, exposed and oblivious to the cruel chill of the air against her skin. The bear roared with laughter; Lysandre could picture his deadened, beady eyes crinkled up at the corners, his mouth gaping open like a red wound in the tangle of his beard. The bear laughed, the stork danced, and Lysandre lost himself in a vision of burning angels bearing down on the alley, laying about them with flaming swords, spilling steaming blood on the snow and spreading out to mete out their glorious justice on the rest of this stinking hole of a city.

The sound of the stork's knees splashing down into the slush brought him back. The light was dimmer now; the sun had set, the last glimmers of orange giving way to gray dusk, and the stork was weeping into her hands as the bear turned away from her. Lysandre saw the glint of the pill just before it disappeared back into the man's pocket.

Heading for the mouth of the alley, the bear was suddenly impeded by a length of steel touching against the flesh of his throat. Lysandre's eyes were bloodshot and shadowed, surrounded by bruised circles, but his hand was steady, and so was the sword he held in it.

"I'll have the sweet," he said, his voice uninflected, and carrying the furry rasp left by the cigar. The bear snarled at him, baring his teeth in an expression more animal than human.

"Constabulary taken to thieving now?" he growled. Lysandre watched him steadily, turned the blade so that the edge was against the bear's throat instead of the flat, discouraging the bigger man's hand from twitching toward the knife on his belt. He waited. The bear eyed him closely, taking in the tarnished badge on the heart-side of his jerkin, the polished length of the sword, the aquiline gleam in his assailant's bloodshot eyes. Then he turned his head, spat, and reached slowly into his pocket, pulling the pill out and letting it drop into the slush. "There's your poison, lawman. Might be she'll dance for you, too, if you ask."

Lysandre didn't answer; he took the sword away from the man's throat and stepped back, jerking his head toward the mouth of the alley. The bear went, trailing the sort of curses sailors are renowned for. Lysandre watched him until he was gone, looking almost wistful, the pitiless fire of his avenging angels burning, unspent, through his fingers. He returned his sword to its scabbard with the feeling of leaving something vital undone, and turned back to the only other remaining occupant of the alley.

The stork was still kneeling, still naked in the slush. She wasn't weeping anymore, but watching Lysandre with wary eyes that reminded him less of a bird and more of a cornered rat. He drew his foot back and kicked, sending the garish red ball splashing toward her. It never had the chance to come to rest; her greedy hands snatched it up, cradling it to her chest like a mother with her child, but her eyes remained fixed on him, waiting.

He knew that he should have some reaction to this woman, some deep-seated, instinctive response to her inherent wretchedness. There were two tried-and-true methods to dealing with her sort that he knew of: compassion, or cruelty. Both were tied tightly to the question he found himself asking every time he woke up, the question that was a luxury almost anywhere else in the world, but an imperative here: who do I want to be today? Now, he found he couldn't even dredge up the will to make the choice. Neither would do him any good, neither would have the slightest effect on her.

"Just put your dress back on," Lysandre said, fighting a sudden surge of bone-weariness, reaching out to lay a hand against the wall to keep from stumbling.

She did, and scurried away without a word to find a safe midden from which to dream.

Lysandre emerged from the alley minutes later, and lifted his eyes to the line of the city stretching back from the harbor. The lights were just being lit; smoky, foul-smelling torches for the harbor, giving way gradually to softer illumination the further away from the water one travelled. In this light, you couldn't see the ugly brick of the buildings, only the stark black of their silhouettes and the bright stars of the torches.

It was like having a whore when you were drunk, he reflected; pay her well and she could almost be beautiful once the sun was down. When you woke up, though, there she'd be, in all her aged, ugly splendor, and you with a sour taste in your mouth and another night of half-memories you'd rather not have.

Lysandre needed a drink. He turned his eyes downward, and watched the cobbles pass beneath his feet as he went to get one.