"borrowed" breeches. She'd only taken them to cover her undress and to protect her from the cold. She'd really meant to give them back. But it did close that possible avenue. She realized just how hungry and scared she must be to even think that way. The odd practical voice inside her head said that for women enduring a fate worse than death, at least they didn't appear to be starving. The practical voice horrified her village morality sometimes.
Meb began to wonder if she could make her way back to the windfall apples and the hay-rick.
The Gate-horn signaled that she'd left it too late, however. And the sky, which had been growing ever more heavy and dark, decided to add rain to her woes. It came cold and thin, blowing in gusts chased by a bitter wind. The last stall-holders began folding up their awnings and packing their barrows. They turfed their scraps into the gutters and onto the cobbles, and then, collars up, pushed the barrows away down the streets and alleys. Meb had hung around the market area for just this reason. There had to be some scraps she could eat?
Too late she realized that she wasn't the only one waiting for them to leave. Half a dozen feral-looking boys had beaten her to it. And they weren't keen on sharing either. They surrounded her. "Get out of here," said the largest of the ragged urchins. "This is our turf, see. Get away before we fix you good."
Meb backed away. At least two of them were bigger than she was. She had no desire to be "fixed good." But she had to find some food, and some shelter. The wind that brought the autumn rains came all the way from winter. She went hunting a drier spot. The alley seemed tempting, overhung by buildings, it must be nearly dry, even if it stank of urine.
She walked into it, without thinking much about the comments the men made about keeping out of the alleys in town. It was indeed nearly dry under the eaves.
In the darkness somebody grabbed her from behind. Wrapped their arms around her, and held her. And someone else hit her over the head as she tried to scream. Her shoulder had taken part of the blow as she tried to pull free, but it was still painful and left her feeling stunned and weak.
She was vaguely aware of someone feeling in her breeches pockets. And lifting her shirt and feeling her bare skinny stomach. The voice seemed to come from some great distance off. "Damn. No money belt either. I were sure he were a runner. Pretty boy like that, usually works for them."
"Fool kid to come down here," said a second voice. "Shall we toss him in the canal?"
"Nah," said the first voice, dismissively. "Who's going to care if he got a rapper on the bone-box? Skinny street brats a-plenty out here. Come on. We might as well go to the alley just past the Green Lantern. There's bound to be drunk or two come in for a leak."
"Usually not much gelt on them by the time they get there," grumbled the second voice. "And it's wetter than here." But he was moving away. Or was that her consciousness?
Meb blurred upward out of the painful darkness to be sick. There wasn't much more than bile in her stomach, but she threw it up anyway. She was cold, she was damp. The eaves above her dripped steadily, splashing to join the trickle in the middle of the noisome alley. Her head hurt. How her head hurt! With an effort she sat up properly, leaning against the wall. What was she doing here?
Slowly it came back to her. They'd tried to rob her. Succeeded—except that she had had nothing to steal. Scared, her eyes probed the darkness. Other than a vague lighter patch she could see nothing. Hear nothing either . . . except . . . squeak . . . skitter . . .
Desperately Meb got to her feet. Not rats! She couldn't stay here with rats, no matter how awful she felt. With one hand on the half-rotten bricks of the wall, she staggered out into the rain.
There was little enough light here either. Slivers of a warm yellow
Meb began to wonder if she could make her way back to the windfall apples and the hay-rick.
The Gate-horn signaled that she'd left it too late, however. And the sky, which had been growing ever more heavy and dark, decided to add rain to her woes. It came cold and thin, blowing in gusts chased by a bitter wind. The last stall-holders began folding up their awnings and packing their barrows. They turfed their scraps into the gutters and onto the cobbles, and then, collars up, pushed the barrows away down the streets and alleys. Meb had hung around the market area for just this reason. There had to be some scraps she could eat?
Too late she realized that she wasn't the only one waiting for them to leave. Half a dozen feral-looking boys had beaten her to it. And they weren't keen on sharing either. They surrounded her. "Get out of here," said the largest of the ragged urchins. "This is our turf, see. Get away before we fix you good."
Meb backed away. At least two of them were bigger than she was. She had no desire to be "fixed good." But she had to find some food, and some shelter. The wind that brought the autumn rains came all the way from winter. She went hunting a drier spot. The alley seemed tempting, overhung by buildings, it must be nearly dry, even if it stank of urine.
She walked into it, without thinking much about the comments the men made about keeping out of the alleys in town. It was indeed nearly dry under the eaves.
In the darkness somebody grabbed her from behind. Wrapped their arms around her, and held her. And someone else hit her over the head as she tried to scream. Her shoulder had taken part of the blow as she tried to pull free, but it was still painful and left her feeling stunned and weak.
She was vaguely aware of someone feeling in her breeches pockets. And lifting her shirt and feeling her bare skinny stomach. The voice seemed to come from some great distance off. "Damn. No money belt either. I were sure he were a runner. Pretty boy like that, usually works for them."
"Fool kid to come down here," said a second voice. "Shall we toss him in the canal?"
"Nah," said the first voice, dismissively. "Who's going to care if he got a rapper on the bone-box? Skinny street brats a-plenty out here. Come on. We might as well go to the alley just past the Green Lantern. There's bound to be drunk or two come in for a leak."
"Usually not much gelt on them by the time they get there," grumbled the second voice. "And it's wetter than here." But he was moving away. Or was that her consciousness?
Meb blurred upward out of the painful darkness to be sick. There wasn't much more than bile in her stomach, but she threw it up anyway. She was cold, she was damp. The eaves above her dripped steadily, splashing to join the trickle in the middle of the noisome alley. Her head hurt. How her head hurt! With an effort she sat up properly, leaning against the wall. What was she doing here?
Slowly it came back to her. They'd tried to rob her. Succeeded—except that she had had nothing to steal. Scared, her eyes probed the darkness. Other than a vague lighter patch she could see nothing. Hear nothing either . . . except . . . squeak . . . skitter . . .
Desperately Meb got to her feet. Not rats! She couldn't stay here with rats, no matter how awful she felt. With one hand on the half-rotten bricks of the wall, she staggered out into the rain.
There was little enough light here either. Slivers of a warm yellow
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