On a Street off the Wharf
As well they should, Niccolette thought.
She had cried; she would not call it weeping. She was familiar, by now, with all the subtle differences amongst types of crying. She knew sobbing from weeping from merely crying. These had been tears, and there was no mistaking it, but they had been only tears. They had trickled down her cheeks, but not wracked her, not left her helpless and dashed upon their shores, not tossed her about in a maelstrom, directionless and grasping for help.
And, eventually, she had stood. Niccolette had found the seat of the stool in her hands; one was bleeding from the palm, a small cut half-scabbed already, and from round crescents where nails had dug in sharply at the wrist. Her skin was darkening from red to purple-blue, bruises in the shape of a man’s hand and fingers wrapped around her skin.
The purple silk shirt – Uzoji’s shirt, Niccolette thought with a desperate burst of pain – was ruined, ripped open at the side; it gaped open, revealing a swath of pale skin beneath, ribs visible in the light, and the edge of a curved burn scar that ran from hip to her lower ribs, with odd definition through it – like the lifelines of a palm, seared into her skin. The pants – Uzoji’s pants, too – were smeared with filth as well, no better than the rest of her.
Niccolette wobbled; she pushed her hair back off her forehead with a dirty hand. It hung lank and loose around her head; her ear was throbbing, though she could hear nothing. It sent spikes of pain through her head all the same; something she did not wish to think about had dried on the skin beneath the lobe of it. Her lips were dry and chapped; even the soft silk ached where it brushed her skin.
Walking was harder than she expected. Niccolette pushed herself off the bar, drawing herself up as best as she could, and went. Her hip ached; she had banged it against the human who had dragged her down to the floor when he fell, the same one who had grabbed her and refused to let go, who had fled almost as soon as he had released her. It was stiff when she first moved, but Niccolette forced herself onward through it. She knew it for bruising, and nothing deeper, and she could not stay there on the floor forever.
No one got in her way; no one spoke to her.
Niccolette was glad for it.
Niccolette dragged herself through the bar with slow, uneven steps. Her ramscott held indectal in the air around her, but it was an indectalness with an edge; it buzzed, ever so faintly, and shifted, and flickered, the brightness uneven. It was powerful still; no one intruded on the edges of it, not as she walked.
Slowly, the galdor made her way outside. She shuddered; the night air of Roalis was cold against her, ripping through the fragile shirt. She made it a few more steps; she stopped. She was a street or two shy of the Wharf. This was no place to stay, Niccolette told herself, shaking. She needed to go – she needed to –
It was hard to hold onto her thoughts; it was hard to hold on to anything. Niccolette took a step, and then another; there was a wooden crate, nearby, propped above a filthy, disgusting puddle. Niccolette gripped it, leaving a smear of blood with her palm, sending an ache through her bruised arm; she lowered herself down onto it, slowly, sitting. She cradled her face in her hands, smelling beer and sick and blood still; she knew she was crying again, but they were only tears, and she did not see what she could do about it. The world was half-empty; the other side was a rush of noise that she could not pick apart, drifting through strands of tangled hair.
At least, Niccolette told herself, feeling the street spin all around her, feeling the queasy heave in her stomach as it pitched – as least she was upright. She surrendered, briefly, and sank a little deeper into the tears; she let the world pass her by, and did not try to know anything more.