They had wanted her gold and had gone down for it. She saw in Mama Becho’s men who would have done the same and welcomed the death she gave. And why not? For such as these, life had little to offer, little to hold them.
She thought of the bridge again, of men who poured their blood into the dirty street for a handful of spark, and for one moment, Chenaya hated what she had done.
Fortunately, the moment passed. She reminded herself she had come to this cesspool on business.
“You want somethin’, honey, or you jus’ come to see the sights?” A mountainous woman in a tattered smock leaned one elbow on the board that served as a bar and leered at her. She wiped at the interior of an earthen mug with a grimy rag that hadn’t seen a rinsing in weeks. Wisps of grizzled hair floated about her thick jowled face as she worked.
“Uptown bitch,” someone muttered into his cup. Pairs of eyes began slowly to turn back to their drinks, to the private fantasy worlds found only in foul brews.
“Honey,” Chenaya said smiling to Mama Becho, “I want a couple of things. First, a cup of some decent beverage, Vuksi-bah if you’ve got it in this dump.” The eyes all turned her way again, whether at her mention of the expensive liquor or because of the insult, she didn’t know or care. “A respectable wine or cool water if you don’t.” She leaned on the board facing the fat proprietor and felt it sag under their combined weights. The old woman’s breath was worse than fetid, but Chenaya managed to force a grin. “Then I want Zip.”