The Peasant Queen

Chapter 3

The cold of the new lock felt satisfying in Temmi’s hands. She carefully selected a new combination and, almost reluctantly, let it rest back against the door frame. As she stepped from the narrow, slat covered boardwalk and into the just as narrow flagstone street, she did so with a slight skip. She could feel a new sensation coming over her, both alien and familiar. A tightness formed in her jaw that made her face hurt, her heart beat softly, but was also rappid. And every now and then she felt strangely like jumping. She pondered this for several moments before she realized….

… it was joy!

This realization caught her completely unprepared. How long has it been since I felt this giddy, she wondered as she made her way back to Steiner Pass and then up toward the High Loop that encircled the mountain just below the palace summit. It had been a long time indeed. Long before she had moved into her flat in the High Shanties. Even before she had moved to Marwon. Not since Dagga have I felt this way, she lamented.

Even upon remembering her native woodland homes name she was bombarded by emotions of every conceivable variety. It had been the place where she had begun learning the art of wood carving. It was where she had attended her first few years of formative schooling, learning the basics of reading and writing.

She could still hear the sound of crickets and zettz beetles humming in the vast canopy that held the woodland city hundreds of feet above the forest floor. The smells of fresh cut cedar and wet pine filled her nostrils almost as though they were caught up and born on the autumn breeze the entire 2,300 kilometers that separated the two cities.

Glancing at the orange dress Malia had insisted she wear, Temmi thought of how amazing it was that the two cities she had called home could be joined together by such a simple thing as emotion. I suppose there is truth to the saying that distance has no effect upon the feelings of the heart, Temmi thought. She glanced at a bulletin to her left that was dominated by missing person and wanted criminal posters. Though I suppose that only applies to the hearts of people. This city doesnt seem to have one.

Unless you count Francor.

Temmi had arrived in Marwon eight years earlier, when she was fifteen, after her mother had died. She knew no one and had no clue why Cafra, a friend of her mothers who had been charged with taking care of her, had sent her here. She had been told to meet a merchant named Magoni and that he would show her the art of trading, but upon arriving she learned that Magoni had been killed by a street drudge at the city's main gate just three days prior to her arrival. She was then informed that she would have to make her way like any adult as Marwon had no charity to give to the destitute and derelict.

For her first two years she worked scrubbing the planks outside of the various shops in the market districts. The pittance she was paid went mainly to feeding herself and buying new cleaning materials. She could not afford a home or even a bed. She had stayed in the Market East stable for a time after agreeing to wash saddles and muck stalls at least once a week. But as she approached her coming of age that all changed.

Torwit Moody had been eyeing Temmi for quite some time, and Temmi knew it. She had gone to his businessduring the summer of her first year in Marwon to clean up his entry. That was the only time she had ever gone in as she chose to stand at the door from then on to collect payment. Two weeks before her coming of age he approached her as she finished her work.

“Tis a sad thing youre forced to work yourself so,” he had said.

“True it’s hard,” she replied with a sigh. Then, looking him in the eye, she added, “But at least it be honest.”

“‘Tis nothing dishonest to bring joy to folks that have not a one to be joyful with. ‘Tis a noble and efficacious pesuit, it is.” He smiled proudly at using such a large word properly.

“On Market Main, perhaps. Or even in the Queens House of Nobles. But here,” she said, gesturing at the brothel, “it is the lewd enslavement of bottle-house fripsies befuddled by a pot-bellied serpent with acid lips and a golden tongue.”

The barb of her words didn’t seem to cause the pain they were meant to inflict. Perhaps his line about the noble profession of p**********n was simply something he momorized. That seemed more likely to her than giving him any sort of credit for being intelligent.

“I am not so soft-headed as those you so wantonly abuse,” she said tersely, anticipating his offer. “So do not try to tell me how benevolent an employer youd be. Just give me my pay so I can relieve myself of your company.”

Being accused of being an abuser seemed to have a greater effect on Torwit. The sparkle left his greasy looking eyes and rage took its place. His hands clenched into dangerous looking fists. You’ve no room to throw insults and accusations, you gutter trout,” he spat. “You’d do better to mind your tongue for I find a better use for it.”

The imagery that the whoremongers words birthed in her mind was beyond her mental endurance. Bile welled up in the back of her throat. The disgust she was now feeling became so overwhelming that she could no longer keep the contents of her stomach in place. And, so, with one magnificent heave she bathed his trousers and boots with her breakfast.

The sudden violence of her stomach draining itself left her feeling lightheaded and off balance. She lurched forward and twirled in a fall, but she never hit the ground. Her scalp felt hot from the pain as Torwit wrapped his hand in her hair, arresting her movement. But, no sooner did he have a hold of her, then he was dragging her back toward the brothel.

As the reality of what was happening began to set in, Temmi seemed to transform. Her quick wit vanished along with her restraint. Her arms and legs flailed and thrashed and her body contorted in ways it was never built to bend. But this was not the panicked thrash of a helpless damsel. This was the violent assault of a zavrin upon its prey, bent on ripping flesh and snapping bones.

Despite all of the ruckus, only a few bystanders bothered to give the pair more than a cursory look. The site was all too familiar outside of Torwits place. To those who had raised their gaze he said, “Never you mind, friends. I’m only making sure she fulfills her end of our bargain.” Then, with a smile, he added, “We can't be letting bottle-house fripsies go making a stain on such an honest and noble profession now, can we?”

A chuckle tried to escape his lips, but was replaced by a curse and a scream. Having endured enough at the hands of this man--not just today but for the last several years--Temmi reached out and grabbed the leg of his trousers and threw all of her mass in the other direction. In mid-step his leg was pulled from beneath him, making him fall like a wounded hog. Which drove Temmis face into the dirt and flagstones.

As they impacted the ground Temmi felt and heard her hair rip free from her scalp. The pain was intense, but not nearly as intense as the instinct to get as far away from Torwit and his w***e house as she possibly could. Springing to her feet she bolted toward the nearest pass onto Market East. She could feel the blood trickling down her face and the back of her neck, but did not care. Safety was all that mattered. She glanced back as she rounded the corner and was mildly satisfied to see Torwit Moody on his knees slapping the flagstones with the flat of his hand.

She turned back toward where she was running, but it was too late. The long wooden handle of the handcart struck her right across the middle. Her forward momentum flipping her over the handle landing her squarely on her rump in a puff of dust. The embarrassment and indignation did not have time to mature in her mind before the flair of pain shot up her spine into her skull producing the low moan of someone who has lost all ability to form a coherent word.

The world was hazy and dark for several moments as the desire to faint battled for control over her mind. She could hear the shuffling of feet coming around the cart and the concerned muttering of an old man. She couldnt lift her head to look him in the face. To even try sent white hot sparks of flame up her neck.

“Oh, dearest me,” the old man muttered. He tucked his knuckles under her chin and gently lifted her hair. He had a very kind face that bore the creases of one who spent the majority of his life smiling. He had slight jowls which looked out of place on a man so thin. A scar was hidden in the fold coming off of the right side if his nose only peeking out near his mouth. It was as though it were ashamed of its existence and so created the sagging cheeks so it could go unseen. But Temmi only noticed these in passing. Her gaze was drawn to his eyes. One brown and one grey, they were like the eyes of a beloved grandfather that you could not help but trust. You could always know what he was thinking by looking into them and yet they always seemed to hold something back. Right now however they held nothing back. The tears began to flow freely down his cheeks and a black, hot rage rose in them that was both terrifying and comforting.

“Oh, my poor child.” He brushed the hair back from Temmi’s face exposing gaping gash running from the bridge of her nose through the length of her left eyebrow. “Who has harmed you in such a way, girl?” he asked.

Temmi was having a hard time focusing enough to answer. The adrenaline was starting to recede allowing the full extent of her injuries to take their toll. The pain was now running rampant through her head and back. She felt as though she had taken a head-first dive off of the cities outer walls. It was all she could do to raise one weak hand and point lamely back the way she’d come.

“The lust-dealer did this to you?”

Temmi nodded, ever-so-slightly. The movement made the world flashe all too bright, and a pain like someone sawing her head off with a rusty spoon flowed over her in a towering wave. She cried out in agony and placed her hands on either side of her head, as if to keep it from flying away.

The man looked in the direction shed come from. “And so he did,” he responded distractedly. Then, rising to his feet again, he declared, “Stay right where you sit. He’ll not lay his diseased hands upon you again.”

Temmi watched in awe as this feeble looking man strode off toward the brothel. As she turned to watch him go her body could no longer support her and she fell to her side. She could now see Torwit marching purposefully toward her. Her heart went cold with fear. The only thing standing between them was a man a quarter Torwit’s size and at least twice his age, who had no chance in a brawl. She knew that she was now doomed for a life of kitchen drudgery and s****l s*****y.

“Do yourself the service of running, Francor,” Torwit bellowed. “That woman is under contract with me!”

Franchor did not move.

“Has your age killed your ears, geezer? Or are you just senial?”

“I hear fine,” replied Francor. “And youd do better to not assume that my age has any ill effect on my mind.”

“Then youd best use that horde of smarts you have and hand the woman over,” Torwit proclaimed, “‘for Im forced to take her forcibly.” He paused a moment, realizing what he had just said, and grinned evilly at the implication of his words.

Temmi cowered into the dirt.

“The girl will be going nowhere with you, Mr. Moody,” Francor replied, stressing Temmi’s age.

“She is under contract to me,” Torwit yelled.

“She is not,” Francor bellowed back. “For no one with a royal seal would authorize a child to contract. Now go back to your house of whordoms before you expose your secret lusts to your neighbors.”

Torwit seemed to wither for just a moment. Francor’s words seemed to miss their mark, but then understanding dawned in his eyes. A look of fear flashed across his face, reaplaced by rage in the very next breath. “You vile-mouthed…” his hands turned to fists and stepped toward the older man.

Temmi tried to stiefel a cry as her prediction of the next few moments blazed across her pain addled mind. Francor, however, held his ground, and when he opened his mouth to speak Temmi was surprised at the level of power and confidence his voice carried.

“Stow it, Moody,” Franchor commanded. “This is not a fight you have a hope to win.”

But Torwit had already made up his mind. Taking one last step and drawing back with all the skill and finess of a drunken tavern brawler, he swung for the old mans head.

With a grace and agility Temmi would have thought impossible for a man of his age, Francor dropped to his knees and threw two quick jabs into Torwits lower abdomen. Before the shock could even register on the brothel owner’s face Francor planted his palms in the dirt and swung his legs around once taking out the ankles of his opponent.

Torwit was thrown into a cartwheel, still not fully comprehending what was had happened, or just how horrible his life was about become.

Bouncing from one hand to the other, Francor brought his legs around again and landed a kick against the side of Torwits head to stop his spinning and smashed the heal of his other foot squarly against his quarries nose. The people on the street, who had finally stopped to watch what was going on, experienced a slight thrill as they watched Torwit take a short flight to his battered face.

Francor leaped atop his back and spun the man around, grabbing a handful of his hair. Lifting Torwits head free of the dirt, Temmi could look into his eyes as he leaned in close and whispered to the fallen man. As he listened to the older man realization dawned in those eyes and then… fear.

Torwit began to shake. Whatever Francor had said had made this man more afraid than if he had insulted all the Royal Families and the Council Of Days. He was dragged to his feet by his hair and pointed back toward his smut house and kneed squarely in the back. Torwit bolted for safety.

Francor turned back toward Temmi and let the knot of hair and scalp fall into the dirt. She was still trying to make sense of what happened when Francor helped her to her feet. She had seen the old man at least a few times a week for the last three years running his cart at that very corner. She even recalled buying a bundle of carrots from him the previous year. Her impression had always been that he was a sweet, kindly man who worked hard for what little he earned selling his produce in the Market District. She had no idea anyone his age could move like that and her curiosity on the matter got the better of her.

“You’re old,” she said.

Francor chuckled.

“You’ve got a keen eye,” he replied, still smiling. “But age is all in the eye. Only a fool trusts what they see.”

“So youre not old?” The confused look she wore made Franchor laugh again.

“I mean to say, dear,” he replied, examining the cut on her forehead, “that old does feeble or frail.” He escorted Temmi around the front of his cart and retrieved a satchel from under his stool. “A man like Moody sees the world through his own reality. He believes his thinking makes a thing real or true. It never occours to him that the world goes on in its own untamable way,” he smiled warmly while adding, “even after it’s kicked him in the face.”

Temmi chuckeled but again winced in pain. Francor was cleaning her forhead and applying a bamdage, but she hardly felt it over the blinding pain in her neck and back. What had that man done to her?

“The dressing should mend that nicely, wasn’t too deep really.” He stepped back and looked her over. “As for the rest of ya, I think it best to take you to an actual healer.”

He quickly closed down his cart and grabbed hold of the handles. Temmi shuddered as he grasped the one that had caused her to flip end over end.

“My friend Malia spent a spell healing stone cuters in the quarry storehouses….”

Temmi traced what little remained of the scar as she strode up the darkened street. After she had signed the deed to the store, she had returned to Malia to finish their outing. So high were her spirits that she had even allowed the old woman to buy her a few more things.

When they had finished Temmi had insisted that Malia take everything with her and she’d collect it all the following day. She still had business to atend to in the Market District and did not want to hold the older woman up.

Not bothering to hide her suspision, Malia agreed. “More to do with that secret meeting you ditched me for, I have no doubt. Keep your tongue in it's ivory prison.” She raised her pointed finger at her. “But, mind you, I’ll be shading your door the moment the sun finds it. And you’d best be awake this time.”