Chapter 17

Romance: Another country heard from:17.

Oh, she showed him alright. The working folks ate the excellent stew, drank the watered wine, and left. The ones who stayed decided that Sultry was worth fighting over ... until she, and that stick she carried, killed two of the more experienced fighters. One with a jab in the throat and the other, a thump in the chest that broke his sternum and stopped his heart.

A good doctor could have saved the man ... if there was such a thing on Chaos. As it was, the people watched him die ... and it wasn't fast or pretty.

Then she wasn't quite so attractive.

One of the leftovers couldn't understand that that red oak heartwood staff was the match for his local made sword and got both knees broken for it. She let him live ... but only after she took everything he owned. It was probably a mistake. But he was just a kid and maybe he'd learn something from it.

When it was clear that the "might makes right" folks were on the wrong side the survivors started vacating the building by any and all exits available.

"Did I do good?" Sultry asked.

"Fishing for compliments?" Jack said. "You know you did well. We'll spar on the road west."

"Oh, goodie."

The serving girl stepped out of the kitchen, "What do I do now?"

She must have been all of fourteen, but very pretty ... in a Chaos sort of way. Worn, tired, and bruised, she looked very lost.

"Who is the owner?" Seven asked.

"He was," she pointed at the barkeep.

"Well ... he's in no position the run the place," said Seven. "Jack. We need to get these bodies out of here." She disassembled. Her constituent female parts started cleaning up. Setting up tables and benches and gathering up stew bowls, eating knives and the general wrack and ruin associated with a minor combat.

Jack, Four and Six commenced removing the dead.

Part of every medieval village is the midden. If it's dead, broken and worthless, the midden is where it goes.

Centuries in the future, assuming the natural progression of things, archaeologists will exclaim over the trash of the past; the broken pot; declaring the sherds to be thus and so, the bones of eaten animals with their knife marks or gnawed evidence of "poor unfortunates" last resort.

The human remains will be declared sacrifice unless the thrust of sword or the discovered arrow head denotes a fierce battle with invaders. Those ghouls, the excavator, or the Principal Investigator, never will understand that these bones were the result of a bar fight.

The three men muscled the dead out the back door, reserving the stripping off for the out of doors in daylight. The spoils, pouches of Pinches, Quads, Shells and the rare Conch laid aside for counting later; the hidden dagger; the sleeve knife rig; the money belt. Boots or Pattens were laid aside to judge the worth of later.

The naked bodies were tossed on top of the pile, to stink, rot and dissolve; havens for maggots, beetles and worms. Unless the feral dogs get to them first.

No ceremony, no last words, no weeping widow to worry. Garbage ... like everything else in the midden.

Jack and his companions had no more than shut the backdoor than they were presented with rag mops and a wooden bucket with some kind of primitive soap solution and ordered to "Get the worst of the stains. Jeanie will scrub the floor later."

Then the women worried the pile of belongings while the men toiled.

Soon, Sultry exclaimed, "What! No coffee? No tea?"

Jeanie, unaware of the existence of such an animal, offered watered wine, or beer. Poor Jeanie, employed one second and unemployed the next clung to her position ... it came with a roof and a cot ... and sniffled a lot. The night cook came in.

"Hear now," she said, "There's t' night crowd to feed and nowt to feed 'em. There's shopping to be done and somat fetched. You lot needs to shake it."

"Sultry," Jack started, and had a better idea, "Who does the shopping daily?"

"Himself ... and he's dead. Since you did the killing, I reckon this be yours. Snap to it."

"What's your name?" Sultry asked.

"Gertrude. Me man calls me Gert. Friends calls me Trudy. And you, young woman, needs to get yoursel' decent," Trudy said. "Showin' out like that. Shameful is what that is. I needs this job, what with himself down in the knees ... shuffle is what he's good for. Oh, in his prime, he was strong with the provender. Tis for better of worse, I've had better. Now I'ze got the worse."