8th Ymiden, 717
The light was already fading when the dark-haired woman pushed open the tavern door and stumbled out into the street. She had not realised how late it was. It was her day off from her job at the baker's, Doracre's Delicacies, and as always she had celebrated by getting blind drunk the night before. This morning she had rolled out of bed not long before noon, a soft fur on her tongue and an incandescent throbbing between the eyes. She had quickly decided that her plan to spend the day shopping for spices at the market would have to wait, and headed down to her favourite haunt in the harbour area for a little hair of the dog. And now, somehow, it was evening. She decided to find some food, hopefully stave off the worst of tomorrow's looming hangover. There was normally a stand selling grilled sausages just a couple of streets away; the kind of sausages of indiscriminate origin that she avoided like the pox when she was sober but were perfect for sopping up a bellyfull of cheap ale. The wooden door behind her creaked open and disgorged another couple of revellers she recognised as having been on a nearby table, but she ignored them and kept walking towards the food stand, enjoying the cool early night air on her skin.
The sausage was meaty and greasy and perfect. Hot fat dripped down Ismene's chin as she stood swaying on the street corner and devoured mouthfuls of it, helped down by chunks of day-old bread soaked in meat juice. Her initial hunger sated, she slowed down and started to walk home, chewing as she went. The streets were almost deserted. At this hour everyone was either happily swathed in a fug of beer and sweat at one of the many taverns in the area, or safely tucked up at home.
The fresh night and the warm food worked their magic, and by the time Ismene spotted the legs sticking out from under a wagon, she was only halfway drunk. Normally she would have ignored them: there was nothing strange about someone deciding that the underside of a wagon looked like a good place to sleep off some excess ale. But these legs caught her attention. For one thing, they were small and thin, like a slender woman's or a child's. They did not look the sort of legs that might belong to the sort of person who would pass out in the street. For another, they were arranged at an angle that even the most regular street-sleeper would struggle to find comfortable. Ismene knew the wise thing to do would be to give whatever had happened here a wide berth, but her natural curiosity had been stoked by her state of intoxication, and so she carefully approached.
On closer inspection, she could see that her initial impression had been right. The skin above the sleeper's shoes was smooth and hairless, and the ankles were slim and delicate. The legs were completely motionless. Ismene bent down and laid a hand on one leg, and found with surprise and relief that it was warm. She tugged gently at one foot, hoping to awaken whoever it was, and was answered by a faint and incoherent moan. She tugged harder, bending down to try and see beneath the wagon. It was completely dark under there, and all she could make out was a vague shape, slightly blacker than the surrounding blackness.
She squatted and used both hands to pull firmly and steadily on the legs. She could hear buttons scraping along the stone paving stones as the body slid towards her. As it emerged into the fading half-light of the alleyway, she became more and more certain that it was a child. The thighs were spindly, the hips narrow. More of the body appeared, and Ismene could see it was wearing a soft green shirt that made her heart catch. She had seen a shirt just like it not two days before, being worn by a child she knew. Wrapping her arms around the little torso, she hauled the rest of the body out until she could see the head, face down and covered in a familiar tangled mass of dark blonde hair. The flutter of recognition turned into a knot of dread as she forced herself to reach out and turn the limp body over so she could see the face, already knowing what it would look like.
Elleth Doracre. The daughter of Isabelle, the head baker. The strange child who spent her days flitting through the bakery, glaring wordlessly at Ismene and hovering around her mother like a ghost. The girl's face was bruised and bloody, her shirt ripped at the front and smeared with more blood, the stains already turning brown. Ismene pressed a hand to her cheek. 'Elleth,' she said. 'Can you hear me?' She thought she could hear an answering moan, but it was so faint she couldn't be sure. She laced one arm underneath the girl's knees and the other around her shoulders, braced herself and lifted. The child was heavier than she was expecting, despite her narrow frame, but Ismene managed to straighten up and then began walking awkwardly up the gently sloping alleyway towards where she knew there was a healer's house.
The light was already fading when the dark-haired woman pushed open the tavern door and stumbled out into the street. She had not realised how late it was. It was her day off from her job at the baker's, Doracre's Delicacies, and as always she had celebrated by getting blind drunk the night before. This morning she had rolled out of bed not long before noon, a soft fur on her tongue and an incandescent throbbing between the eyes. She had quickly decided that her plan to spend the day shopping for spices at the market would have to wait, and headed down to her favourite haunt in the harbour area for a little hair of the dog. And now, somehow, it was evening. She decided to find some food, hopefully stave off the worst of tomorrow's looming hangover. There was normally a stand selling grilled sausages just a couple of streets away; the kind of sausages of indiscriminate origin that she avoided like the pox when she was sober but were perfect for sopping up a bellyfull of cheap ale. The wooden door behind her creaked open and disgorged another couple of revellers she recognised as having been on a nearby table, but she ignored them and kept walking towards the food stand, enjoying the cool early night air on her skin.
The sausage was meaty and greasy and perfect. Hot fat dripped down Ismene's chin as she stood swaying on the street corner and devoured mouthfuls of it, helped down by chunks of day-old bread soaked in meat juice. Her initial hunger sated, she slowed down and started to walk home, chewing as she went. The streets were almost deserted. At this hour everyone was either happily swathed in a fug of beer and sweat at one of the many taverns in the area, or safely tucked up at home.
The fresh night and the warm food worked their magic, and by the time Ismene spotted the legs sticking out from under a wagon, she was only halfway drunk. Normally she would have ignored them: there was nothing strange about someone deciding that the underside of a wagon looked like a good place to sleep off some excess ale. But these legs caught her attention. For one thing, they were small and thin, like a slender woman's or a child's. They did not look the sort of legs that might belong to the sort of person who would pass out in the street. For another, they were arranged at an angle that even the most regular street-sleeper would struggle to find comfortable. Ismene knew the wise thing to do would be to give whatever had happened here a wide berth, but her natural curiosity had been stoked by her state of intoxication, and so she carefully approached.
On closer inspection, she could see that her initial impression had been right. The skin above the sleeper's shoes was smooth and hairless, and the ankles were slim and delicate. The legs were completely motionless. Ismene bent down and laid a hand on one leg, and found with surprise and relief that it was warm. She tugged gently at one foot, hoping to awaken whoever it was, and was answered by a faint and incoherent moan. She tugged harder, bending down to try and see beneath the wagon. It was completely dark under there, and all she could make out was a vague shape, slightly blacker than the surrounding blackness.
She squatted and used both hands to pull firmly and steadily on the legs. She could hear buttons scraping along the stone paving stones as the body slid towards her. As it emerged into the fading half-light of the alleyway, she became more and more certain that it was a child. The thighs were spindly, the hips narrow. More of the body appeared, and Ismene could see it was wearing a soft green shirt that made her heart catch. She had seen a shirt just like it not two days before, being worn by a child she knew. Wrapping her arms around the little torso, she hauled the rest of the body out until she could see the head, face down and covered in a familiar tangled mass of dark blonde hair. The flutter of recognition turned into a knot of dread as she forced herself to reach out and turn the limp body over so she could see the face, already knowing what it would look like.
Elleth Doracre. The daughter of Isabelle, the head baker. The strange child who spent her days flitting through the bakery, glaring wordlessly at Ismene and hovering around her mother like a ghost. The girl's face was bruised and bloody, her shirt ripped at the front and smeared with more blood, the stains already turning brown. Ismene pressed a hand to her cheek. 'Elleth,' she said. 'Can you hear me?' She thought she could hear an answering moan, but it was so faint she couldn't be sure. She laced one arm underneath the girl's knees and the other around her shoulders, braced herself and lifted. The child was heavier than she was expecting, despite her narrow frame, but Ismene managed to straighten up and then began walking awkwardly up the gently sloping alleyway towards where she knew there was a healer's house.
