home until daylight.
Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery—and in the hope of maybe somehow fixing whatever it was that was tearing apart his formerly happy home—Rory decided to find out what was going on for himself. He had followed Patria one night as she made her way through the muddy streets of the slums on the outskirts of Talabar until she came to Restinghouse Street with its countless taverns and music halls and houses of ill repute. He almost lost her when she turned into the street. It was Fifthday evening and tomorrow was Restday, which meant the taverns were full of men who didn’t have to work in the morning. Pushing through the crowd, Rory hurried in Patria’s wake. As she passed one tavern after another, he began to worry. Perhaps she wasn’t working in a tavern at all. Perhaps she’d found work cleaning one of the brothels, or worse, one of the music halls. That might explain why everyone was so upset. It would certainly explain why Patria was lying about her job.
Just as Rory came to the conclusion that Patria had betrayed what little decency the family could lay claim to by working in a music hall, his cousin stopped on the corner of Restinghouse Street and the inaptly named Victory Parade. There were a number of other girls standing around, who greeted the newcomer with suspicious eyes and then turned away, intent on their own business.
Rory stopped across the street and waited, curious to see what Patria was up to. If she had a job, surely she didn’t have time to hang about on the corner with these girls? None of them seemed to be doing anything useful.
Rory was still puzzling over it when a man walked up to the brunette standing on Patria’s left and said something to her. The girl replied, coins changed hands, and the two of them moved off down Victory Parade, arm in arm.
After she was gone, Patria moved a little to the right, as if laying claim to the space just vacated by the other girl. A moment later, another man stopped and started talking to Patria. He was a big man, his bare arms covered in tattoos, his beard threaded with tiny glass beads. Rory frowned as the man placed several coins in Patria’s outstretched hand and then she walked off with him in the same direction the other girl and her companion had gone.
Rory was streetwise enough to realise what the transaction must mean, but still innocent enough to think his cousin incapable of selling herself for a few measly copper rivets. If she’d wanted a career as a court’esa , she should have said something sooner, he reasoned. It wasn’t unheard of for a girl from the slums to be accepted into one of the court’esa schools, provided she was pretty enough and willing to give up her freedom. Many young men and women signed up gladly, because a court’esa school meant an education and a pampered life if you were lucky enough to get a good master. To willingly become a working court’esa , however—untrained, unsupervised and unprotected—wasn’t so much wrong, to Rory’s way of thinking, as it was stupid.
He followed them, of course. There was no way he could just turn around and go home now, not without knowing for certain. Patria had no idea he was behind them. As she turned into a rubbish-strewn lane beside a tannery just around the corner in Victory Parade, her customer was already unlacing the front of his trousers. Patria turned to face him. The man shoved her against the wall and pushed up her skirts.
As he watched the brute manhandling his gentle cousin, Rory’s anger began to build and with it came a headache of monumental proportions. Patria didn’t complain as the man guided himself into her with a powerful thrust. Abandoning any pretence of stealth, Rory stepped into the lane behind them and stared at his cousin, his head pounding in agony. Patria just stood there, her face turned to the side, her expression one of blank resignation. The man grunted as he pressed himself inside her, pushing
Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery—and in the hope of maybe somehow fixing whatever it was that was tearing apart his formerly happy home—Rory decided to find out what was going on for himself. He had followed Patria one night as she made her way through the muddy streets of the slums on the outskirts of Talabar until she came to Restinghouse Street with its countless taverns and music halls and houses of ill repute. He almost lost her when she turned into the street. It was Fifthday evening and tomorrow was Restday, which meant the taverns were full of men who didn’t have to work in the morning. Pushing through the crowd, Rory hurried in Patria’s wake. As she passed one tavern after another, he began to worry. Perhaps she wasn’t working in a tavern at all. Perhaps she’d found work cleaning one of the brothels, or worse, one of the music halls. That might explain why everyone was so upset. It would certainly explain why Patria was lying about her job.
Just as Rory came to the conclusion that Patria had betrayed what little decency the family could lay claim to by working in a music hall, his cousin stopped on the corner of Restinghouse Street and the inaptly named Victory Parade. There were a number of other girls standing around, who greeted the newcomer with suspicious eyes and then turned away, intent on their own business.
Rory stopped across the street and waited, curious to see what Patria was up to. If she had a job, surely she didn’t have time to hang about on the corner with these girls? None of them seemed to be doing anything useful.
Rory was still puzzling over it when a man walked up to the brunette standing on Patria’s left and said something to her. The girl replied, coins changed hands, and the two of them moved off down Victory Parade, arm in arm.
After she was gone, Patria moved a little to the right, as if laying claim to the space just vacated by the other girl. A moment later, another man stopped and started talking to Patria. He was a big man, his bare arms covered in tattoos, his beard threaded with tiny glass beads. Rory frowned as the man placed several coins in Patria’s outstretched hand and then she walked off with him in the same direction the other girl and her companion had gone.
Rory was streetwise enough to realise what the transaction must mean, but still innocent enough to think his cousin incapable of selling herself for a few measly copper rivets. If she’d wanted a career as a court’esa , she should have said something sooner, he reasoned. It wasn’t unheard of for a girl from the slums to be accepted into one of the court’esa schools, provided she was pretty enough and willing to give up her freedom. Many young men and women signed up gladly, because a court’esa school meant an education and a pampered life if you were lucky enough to get a good master. To willingly become a working court’esa , however—untrained, unsupervised and unprotected—wasn’t so much wrong, to Rory’s way of thinking, as it was stupid.
He followed them, of course. There was no way he could just turn around and go home now, not without knowing for certain. Patria had no idea he was behind them. As she turned into a rubbish-strewn lane beside a tannery just around the corner in Victory Parade, her customer was already unlacing the front of his trousers. Patria turned to face him. The man shoved her against the wall and pushed up her skirts.
As he watched the brute manhandling his gentle cousin, Rory’s anger began to build and with it came a headache of monumental proportions. Patria didn’t complain as the man guided himself into her with a powerful thrust. Abandoning any pretence of stealth, Rory stepped into the lane behind them and stared at his cousin, his head pounding in agony. Patria just stood there, her face turned to the side, her expression one of blank resignation. The man grunted as he pressed himself inside her, pushing
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