"So, is that what you call ass chewing?" Truca after they'd eaten and she was ready to go back to work.
"Not exactly, but it got the job done."
Chapter 18
If the escape pod was a coffin, the moon hopper was a flying soup can. To allow for the additional weight, two of the three seats had been removed along with the interior walls. Noodles of wire and cable ran along the walls attached to random boxes and gauges flashing lights and unreadable messages. Wynne shared the floor with Ish and Mohawk. They were tied in place with heavy straps, and wore light weight jumpsuits and clear plastic bags over their heads that fit so closely they reminded her of the bags her mother had warned her about when she was a child.
"Don't ever put one over your head. You'll suffocate and die."
These bags were actually helmets that conformed to the shape of the head and sealed below the chin. A hard ridge that ran down the center of the face kept them from touching eyes, nose, and mouth. Spidery legs of tubing ran from a round and pulsating ball that clung to the ceiling above them. The ends of the legs were attached to the helmets and provided air to breathe, but with her mother's suffocation warning foremost in her mind, Wynne had all she could do to breathe slowly as instructed and not rip the hood off.
No one spoke, another conservation method, and her legs were cramped by the time they arrived. They barely had time to unload before Tor was heading back to the Devil's Den to retrieve Truca, Posy and a second load of goods.
"Don't go wandering off on your own. Stay close to Ish and Mohawk and whatever Ish tells you to do, don't argue. Do it."
That was Tor's romantic goodbye when he'd dropped the three of them off miles away from their destination. Granted, he'd been hovering three feet off the ground in the moon hopper, doors raised like a second set of wings, when he called her over. And time was of the essence, but still, he could have followed it with something better than a pat on the head and an avuncular wink. Forget the kiss. She'd have been happy with an apology.
He'd lied to her. Twice. Maybe it was a lie by omission, and maybe it was with the best of intentions, but he still lied. It made her feel like she was back on Earth where everyone tried to protect 'poor Wynne' from the truth. She was tired of being poor Wynne.
Ish led them not toward the dark shape of the city in the distance, but perpendicular to the direct route. They slogged through gritty silt the way one would slog through powdery snow. The breeze was constant, but did nothing to relieve the heat. It did, however, help disperse the cloud of fine grit stirred up by their feet.
Walking became easier when they climbed over a low barrier and onto a stone roadway cleared by suction vents placed strategically along the way. They were the only ones on the road.
"The full moons draw the outlanders in to the southern market. Most offworlders enter through the east gate where the spaceport lies. If it wasn't for the need to ship their produce off world, most of the local growers would be happy to see Celos burn to the ground," Ish told them before issuing her list of warnings to Wynne for the third time. Don't raise your head too high. Keep your cloak wrapped tightly. Don't let anyone too close. Don't answer if spoken to.
"Aren't you forgetting don't take candy from strangers and don't follow dirty old men into the bushes to find their lost puppies. I'm not a child, Ish."
"Have you ever been to Celos before?"
"No, but..."
"Then shut your mouth and pay attention," the Osana said harshly. "The Galactic Confederation has laws against slavery. That doesn't mean slavery doesn't exist. Your people are new. That makes you unique. For the Godan, some of you are GCP, but for others, you'd be a prize to add to their collection, something to display to their friends. You could end up as one of the lucky ones, but you'd still be a slave."
"It can't be that bad if Tor brought Truca here," Wynne argued.
"He didn't take her into the section of the marketplace where we'll be entering. He'd never bring her through the west gate. He thinks he's protecting her." Ish made it clear she didn't agree. She then stopped and pointed to the massive stone walls looming ahead. "There it is and that dark spot is the west gate. Stop here for a moment. We need to get you shrouded up."
Celos was not the space age city of Wynne's imagination. There were no needle shaped spires shooting heavenward, no saucer shaped constructions precariously balanced on central pillars too slender looking to hold such weight, no steel beamed fans, or molded shells, or glass cube architecture. There were, however, several flying conveyances zipping by overhead and boxes, hundreds of oblong boxes built of grey stone and dun colored brick. They were piled one atop the other like children's snap together building blocks.
Some were small and square with a business area below and living quarters above. Some were large and sprawling and laid in a brick pattern so that the overhanging floor of one floor of one level formed a covered patio for the floor below. None looked more than four stories tall.
In some of the adobe type structures along the main road, the street side of the floor above ground level was open to the street to show off the goods and services available in the shops below beneath frayed and faded awnings. Some of those goods were people in various states of undress. Their services were hawked by others in pale blue robes and the demonstrations were lewdly detailed. The sex trade was apparently big business in Celos.
Wynne had no problem keeping her head bowed and her hair down to either side to cover her face. The rough blanket Ish cut to size and insisted she put on before they entered the city served as hood and cape to cover the rest of her. What the blanket didn't cover, her old skirt did. Ish walked on her right side, curved sword unsheathed. Her malicious smile was an effective warning to any who dared approach. She would enjoy killing them it said.
Wynne hadn't understood why Tor thought Truca needed protection. Now, she did. If the compound had been the Devil's Den, this place was his playground.
"I can see why Tor didn't bring Truca through here, Ish. A young girl shouldn't be subjected to this," she admitted after another drunken fool made a grab for her cape to see what lay beneath. He sobered quickly when Mohawk's hand at his throat cut off his air supply and lay gasping in the street when Mohawk let him go.
Ish's look said that Wynne was as stupid as Tor. "If a venomous serpent shares your land, you don't hide your children from it. You teach them where it lives and how to kill it. Survival depends on recognizing that which will kill you." She was too busy watching the crowds to point, but Wynne knew the slight lift of the woman's head was for the second story performers. "That would kill Truca. Or you."
"But not you?"
Ish didn't turn to look at her, but Wynne could see the edges of her mouth. Like the one Ish offered to passersby, the smile wasn't friendly.
"No, not me. They would know me for what I am, the more dangerous serpent."
"Gotta love the woman," Mohawk snorted. He walked to Wynne's left. He carried a long and heavy looking firing weapon that looked like it could take out an army. If Wynne felt like she was suffocating in the heat beneath her bed sheet robe, Mohawk had to be dying of it under the vest he'd found in the Devil's Den. Made of heavy looking leather, it encased his torso and made his body look like a barrel with legs.
"Isn't that a bit of overkill?" Wynne had asked when he'd strapped it on.
"No. It'll protect me while I protect you," he said as he handed her a wicked looking knife in a sheath that would strap to her thigh. "If anyone gets past me, don't hesitate. Use it."
Wynne switched her bag to her left hand to keep her right hand near the hilt. Looking around at the throng of people surrounding them, she began to think that maybe Mohawk was right. A little body protection wouldn't hurt. Everyone she saw was armed in one way or another. The smell of unwashed bodies, odd smelling smoke and stale beer filled the air.
They'd walked for hours through the fading light toward the wall that surrounded the city. Wynne carried a cloth satchel filled with clothing. I
t wasn't all that heavy, but by the time they reached the gate, her arm was aching with its weight. She could only imagine what Ish and Mohawk's burdens felt like. Both carried heavy packs on their backs. Neither showed any discomfort.
Ish led them to the heart of the western market where the narrow central road opened into a plaza complete with a fountain at its center. The surrounding stalls looked better kept. Their awnings flapped bright and colorful in the breeze. The rancid smells were replaced with more interesting ones. The crowd here was better dressed and cleaner smelling.
Above them, vehicles similar in size and shape to the skitts the military used sped back and forth among the rooftops. They were known as street skimmers, though they operated far above the narrow streets. There was barely room for a handcart to maneuver near the ground. She found the high tech transportation incongruous against the almost medieval feel of the market below.
Relieved to be free of the vulgar displays, Wynne pulled her makeshift hood forward to better hide her face so she could look up and out over the scene. It reminded her of pictures she'd seen of bazaars in exotic places she never believed she'd visit. The water shooting upward from the fountain and cascading into the pool beneath cooled the air around it. She turned her face toward it to catch a bit of the refreshing mist. At the sight of the statues posed at the center of the fountain, she stumbled to a stop.
Statues of naked men and women were found at the center of fountains everywhere. They were art and only the most prudish would find them offensive. Wynne was no prude. Figures of children playing in the water were common and the little boys depicted often peed water into the pools with the innocence of childhood. Who could take umbrage at that? Certainly not Wynne.
The figures at the center of this fountain scene were not children and the acts they represented pushed art to its limits.
"Welcome to Celos," Ish snickered. "Where nothing is illegal and everything can be had for a price."
"Is it all like this?"
"The southern market looks more like the open markets you see everywhere, though some of the produce is unique. Don't eat anything that I haven't purchased. And keep your head down," the Osana woman ordered.
Wynne tried, but it was hard when there were so many curiosities on display. Some she recognized. Others she didn't. Some made her cringe, like the one offering Danian boar testicles. A hairy blob the size of a grapefruit sat on a tray between two men who were haggling over the price.
"What do they do with them?" she asked in a horrified whisper.
"What do you think they do?" Mohawk asked in return and without the need to lower his voice. "You eat 'em. Makes the old widow whacker stand up and take notice for the whole night."
"Does it work?"
"Only if you eat 'em raw."
Ish snickered. "Ever try them?"
"Of course not," he answered, clearly affronted. "What kind of Perithian would I be if I did?"
Ish huffed with disgust when Mohawk made them stop at a stall that carried strange looking weapons. She shifted impatiently, eyes roving over the crowd while the old Perithian bargained for a two bladed weapon with what looked like brass knuckles at the center of the adjoining blades.
"Always wanted one of these," he said happily after he found the one that fit his grip and the deal was done. He flipped it this way and that using the finger holes at the center. He made stabbing motions turning the blade to suit his imaginary attack. He looked like a kid with a new toy, but Wynne knew Mohawk didn't play with his weapons. He was practicing.
"What have you there?" a woman called out from the stall at the corner. She was dressed in a blue flowered dress that hung from jeweled pins at her shoulders and tented over the rotund body beneath. The flesh beneath her arms hung loose and flapped with each gesture of her hands. Heavy gold earrings hung from lobes that matched her ears in size. Her skin was a deep reddish brown, dry and cracked with age and sun.
Her color, her long, narrow nose, and her sharply pointed chin were replicated in the two younger men who stood behind her, arms folded, feet spread, and looking bored. Both were heavyset, but unlike the woman, time had not turned them to fat and flab. Their arms were thickly muscled.
She sounded friendly enough. "How much is it worth?"
"More than a Greckin's gonads." Mohawk laughed. He sounded friendly, too. After tucking his new toy away, he picked up a large silver pin with a light blue stone at the center. He weighed it in his hand, turned it over, and inspected the back.
"Fine quality," he said, "From a fine woman."
"It's a fine man who recognizes quality when he sees it."
They began a conversation that was filled with Mohawk's flattery and all about the jewelry business.
Good God, Mohawk was flirting. Wynne knew for a fact the man had no use for jewelry. Flowers or candy, either, if it came to that.
"Waste of good money," he'd told her once. "Fill 'em with liquor and fuck 'em till they smile, that's my motto."
She'd always known he never lacked for female company, but she'd always wondered why. She'd grown to love him because beneath the bluster, he was a good man, but she'd never seen the sexual attraction women found in him. Mohawk wasn't handsome, and the Lord knew he had no charm, yet every time he said he was off to the alehouse to get his 'rod polished', he didn't return until midmorning the next day. And she knew some of the women he'd spent the night with. Not all of them were old or desperate.
Wynne wanted to interrupt, to make it clear that this wasn't the time to think about getting his dingle dangled, or whatever today's euphemism was. But she couldn't, not without giving herself away. She wondered why Ish didn't say something.
"I can engrave a gold collar to mark her as yours," the woman was saying with a nod toward Wynne. "A diamond for her navel or a place of your choosing. Earrings, nose rings, nipple rings, whatever you wish. We can pierce or embed as you choose. For a few credits more, we can brand her in gold. Or," she added with a wink, "I can take her off your hands for a reasonable sum."
"Damn shame that it is, she's not for sale."
The woman laughed at that. "This is Celos. Everything is for sale. Why don't you bring her in where you and I can have a look in private? If she's worth it, I'll offer a fair price and take her off your hands. Then we can find a way to celebrate our good fortune." She jiggled her pendulous breasts suggestively and then motioned to the display of jewelry on her table. "After all, stone is easier to defend than flesh and worth more in the end."
"Not if the flesh is mine," Mohawk countered with a wink.
Did he just pump his hips? Wynne was saved from retching when Ish interrupted the gag inducing display.
"The sale's already made," she said impatiently. "If you want her, talk with Honarie."
With her head bowed and her eyes rolled painfully upward, Wynne could see the stance of the men behind the stall keeper shift slightly at the name. They became more alert. Their eyes shifted to Wynne and she shut her own. There was more going on here than she understood. Whatever game Mohawk and Ish were playing, she wouldn't jeopardize it, but she felt its humiliation. They were talking about buying and selling her as if she were no more than the silver pin Mohawk had held in his hand.
If she felt this way knowing it was a ruse, how much worse it must be for the Brides Brigade when for them it was real.
She didn't have to see the woman's face to know the name affected her, too. The change was in her tone. "Honarie? Why would he buy? He gets his women for nothing and he never keeps them for long."
"Not my business what he does with her," Ish answered. "I get paid to deliver the goods and collect the balance and time is like credits. We don't have any to waste. Do you know where we can find him? We're a day early and we have another job waiting if we can get there in time."
The jeweler answered readily. "The Dagger and Sheath. He was there last night and he'll be there every night that he's in town. It was a shock, I can tell you that. We thought he was dead. We haven't seen
him in years." She snapped her fingers. "And then last night, there he was just like old times. He was sitting at the same old table, lording it over the rest of us just like he always did, buying rounds for the boot lickers, and boasting how he's about to make a deal that will set him up for life. He didn't say anything about her, but she's part of that deal, isn't she." It wasn't a question.
She leaned across the table and with finger extended toward Wynne's face, lifted the blanket hood. It was so sudden, Wynne didn't have a chance to draw back. Mohawk's hand flashed out and caught the woman's wrist. The two guards drew weapons, but Ish was faster.
"How much is your mother's hand worth?" she asked. The curved edge of her blade lay across the woman's arm an inch above Mohawk's hand. A trickle of blood leaked from beneath the razor sharp edge.
"Now, now," the stall keeper said with a falsely jovial chuckle. "I only wanted to see what finally caught old Honarie's eye. You can't blame an old lady for trying."
"I can." With her free hand, Ish lifted the blanket edge back into place. She eyed the two guards as she withdrew her blade. "You should teach your sons that size isn't enough. They should be better prepared."
"They won't make the mistake again," the jeweler glared at her sons. Her words were conciliatory, but there was anger there, too. "I meant no harm," she told Ish. "Honarie is no friend of mine. He owes me five hundred credits and refuses to pay. If you want him, his table is at the back. He likes to be close to the kitchen. He never comes in early. It's his way of saying he's better than us. He can drink all night and sleep all day. He doesn't have to get up in the morning to earn his living."
"She meant no harm." Mohawk's grip turned to hand holding. He rubbed his thumb over her wrist. "Ladies are always curious about what lies beneath the covers. Hmmm? Never know what kind of whoopie-whacker might be winking at you." He handed her a credit tag he dug from his pocket. "Take fifty to help ease your loss. If he's there, we'll owe you a whole lot more. If you're there, I'll be sure to pay it off. We both can celebrate."
Tor (Women of Earth Book 2) Page 17
