Quincunx Posted January 29, 2010 Report Posted January 29, 2010 His corpse had--he had thudded onto the tiles when the clearing-house slaves yanked the coverlet out from under him. Still wet with his dying, yet they tossed it out the window and to the waiting cart nonetheless. She no longer had the words for that. Pallet stripped; pallet dismantled. Book-box emptied; book-box dismantled. Cypress trunk emptied; cypress trunk under the pry-bar, but one slave laid a hand on the other's arm, and cypress trunk carried out whole. All the rest was fed through the window, cloth or parchment, clay or plank. She rested against the inner edge of the cart, grim and waiting. One slave pulled in the donkey's stead, the other heaved the cart from behind, but still she and the cart juddered every few steps over worn spots in both wooden wheels, and rippling sounds of clay jars sliding back and forth over every bump echoed in her ears. No words for that. No words for the slaves' words funneled upwards by alley walls. "Buggerin' camel-faced WATCH WHERE YOU'RE DRIVIN' THAT BULLOCK almost took me foot off--" "--thinks he's so high and mighty, he's got an animal to pull his cart for him--" "--drivin' for the Alexandrian toff, he is--" "--is he now? Well, wouldn't you like to go pick over _his_ estate-at-the-time-of-decease--" "--I'd like to not 'ave to wait for it!" Coarse, living laughter, and the jars clanked to a halt as they set down its shafts beside the wickerwork gate. The inset door whisked open, and the bitter-faced woman who emerged dipped her hands into the cart without so much as a greeting, picking apart a flaking scroll of his parchment, and perhaps she could speak-- "What's these strange short lines?" --perhaps not. "They all look the same to me, lady. Give me 'glyphics, then I might be able to tell you." The slave standing between the cart shafts only shrugged. The bitter-faced woman weighed the bundle in her hands, counted the planks with a glance, dropped parchment and picked up damp and stiffening cloth. "Ugh! It's still wet! What am I paying you for?!" "Not washin', lady!" More laughter, male. No words for this that she ever wanted to say. Under her appraising hands, the cart's contents seemed to organize themselves. Planks migrated to either side of the cart; jars lay straight, wedged in between; cloth and parchment tumbled into the empty cypress chest. She lowered the lid and turned to the clearing-house slaves. "Six." "Lady, you are not serious. Not a coin less than eleven!" "'Lady' first of all? Flatter me with a title? Seven." "'Right then," he drew in breath, "me flowery free-born lady--" "Stow it," but her eyes glinted, "seven and a tip." "Tip first." She tipped her head towards the door. "We've just had a very important visitor." "Important enough to fetch the wagon?" "Yes." ". . .Done. Seven and a tip." The bitter-faced woman stepped through the door, pulled it shut, and pushed open the gate. They took hold of either shaft of the wagon and pulled it out to the alley, one hauling harder than the other. She had no words, and they only needed a few-- "The Alexandrian has visited us. He's here right now." --they trotted down the alley, hauling the wagon. The bitter-faced woman stepped to the cart, drew it into the yard, shut the gate. She followed the chest to the room where the Alexandrian lay. He clutched--his corpse clutched--strips of cloth and lumps of colored clay; blue beetle, black quill, red heart. She could have spoken to him, once. The bitter-faced woman fetched parchment from the chest, sliced it into ribbons, bound the clay charms closer to the corpse with those words.
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