Brexan nodded. ‘You’re right. But perhaps it was a gift anyway.’
‘To live like this?’
‘To live at all. Do something with it, Sallax: make them regret not killing you.’
The sun finally crested the horizon and the salt marsh burst into glistening gold as the sun’s early rays refracted off the thin ice that covered everything.
Shielding her eyes, Brexan said, ‘I think we ought to distract you.’
‘Carpello?’
‘That’s a good place to start.’
Turning back to the window, Sallax squinted. ‘It’s the perfect day for it.’
Carpello leaned back in his chair, watching the girl, Rishta, Rexa, whatever her name was. She had disposed of her skirt as she entered the room and the gossamer-thin, loose-fitting tunic that had already fallen off her shoulders barely covered her tightly encased bottom – those breeches looked painted-on, he thought to himself, barely restraining the drool as he watched for the curve of her breasts through the almost see-through material. Craning in his chair, he felt like a schoolboy. RishtaRexawhatever’s brown hair hung in drooping ringlets, jouncing about and getting in the way: just when he felt certain he was going to get a warm-up glimpse of that delicious young package, her cursed hair swept down like a dressing-room curtain.
What kind of a prostitute was she? You don’t take your skirt off as soon as you come into the room; that’s not how it’s supposed to happen. Carpello felt a flush of anger redden his face; with it came a stirring in his groin. Yes, give her a good beating: teach her some good whoring technique. He felt his body respond to the thought of violence as he watched her pour drinks and slice off slivers of fennaroot – that was mostly for herself, but he would have a slice himself tonight, perhaps two. Have all you want, my dear, he thought lasciviously, for tonight you are going to learn how to be seductive – and what happens when you get it wrong…
RishtaRexawhatever stood up, the loose neckline of her tunic falling closed, and stared vacantly at Carpello: too much fennaroot. Now she was adrift in a narcotic dream of colourful nymphs, floating castles and great winged horses, and that made Carpello angry, that the girl was so wrecked before she’d completed her night’s work. His anger fuelled his erection; he didn’t care; his pleasure was yet to come and she would do just fine – in fact, once she realised what was about to happen, that might even sober her up; it did so many of them.
Although he didn’t much like using whores, especially fennaroot addicts like this one, they all retreated back into that state of youthful shyness he desired. It was true that they couldn’t cry like the virgins when they finally understood where he was about to take them; those nights were like grand holidays, glorious events – but even the most street-hardened prostitute managed a satisfactory squeal or two when she realised what was happening to her.
There was no fighting back, of course: Carpello was not a strong man, but he knew how to use his considerable weight to his best advantage. This street whore with the droopy hair and the floppy breasts would be shrieking in terror and pain before the night was over, and no fennaroot haze was deep enough to protect her from that.
As she eyed him in what he was certain she considered a seductive manner, Carpello thought she looked like she had just smelled something disagreeable. He longed to beat that absurd pout off her face. Standing fully erect now, rock-hard in his excitement, he moved to take her. RishtaRexawhatever pulled the thin tunic over her head, exposing a soft roll of flab hanging over her skin-tight breeches. Carpello, distracted by it, ignored the breasts he had been trying so diligently to glimpse earlier; having them bared in front of him wasn’t nearly as enticing.
‘You’re fat,’ he said, amused.
She giggled, sucking on one fingertip and beckoning him closer.
Carpello smiled, but made no move to unfasten his belt; there would be time for that later.
When he punched her in the face, she screeched, a short, high-pitched, wavering cry, and as RishtaRexawhatever tumbled over the table, spilling the wine and fennaroot onto the floor, Carpello felt himself about to burst. She rolled onto her side, still too lost in her drugged haze to cry, and pushed herself up on one arm, shaking her head as if to clear it. Then Carpello kicked her in the ribs and she fell back to the floor again, wheezing, fighting to catch her breath.
RishtaRexawhatever reached up feebly to ward off the huge man descending through the hazy fog of her nightmare, but it was too late.
He was on her.
Normally he preferred to start slowly, squeezing a breast a bit too firmly, or biting a little too deeply, and sometimes he would be gently corrected, told he was playing too rough, and then, then he would deliver his first few punches, still nothing brutal, not that early, for he liked to feel his excitement build, the great waves of pleasure in his loins intensifying and he raised the levels of brutality: beating, biting, scratching, choking- until he felt himself explode in pleasure.
But tonight he was too angry, angry that he had allowed her so much fennaroot; that he had allowed her tunic and hair to infuriate him; that he had not made her put her skirt back at the start… Although he was aroused, the little slut had already cheated him out of a night of true ecstasy by forcing him to hit her so hard and so early. She was a sneaky whore, a trickster slut prostitute with a roll of flab, two floppy breasts and a filthy, sneaky demeanour, and he hated that about her, and now he would make her regret tricking him into punching her.
Carpello’s heart was hammering; he was soaked in sweat and panting. He had to get himself under control or he would fall over, dead… He raised his fist, his fat fingers closed together tightly in a vicious human cudgel. On the floor, RishtaRexawhatever squirmed, moaning and slapping at his great bulging gut with her hands, tiny little things in comparison with his; Carpello barely felt them.
‘You ruined what could have been a pleasant evening,’ he gasped. ‘You tricked me, and I don’t appreciate that. I wanted this to be a nice night for both of us, but now you’ve ruined it, and I have to punish you.’
‘No, plea-’ RishtaRexawhatever’s voice failed as Carpello’s fist slammed into her face, shattering her nose and sending frothy, mucus-filled blood splattering across her cheeks and onto his expensive rug.
‘There we go,’ Carpello shouted, almost singing, rubbing his erection furiously against her stomach as she writhed, desperate to escape. He reared back again. ‘One more just like the last, what do you say?’
The prostitute screamed, the fennaroot fog well and truly dissipated now, and a great white light burst in her mind as unbridled terror took over. She wailed like a child, terrified of the dark, still hitting fruitlessly at his immeasurable bulk, but he didn’t budge. RishtaRexawhatever tumbled away into the dark recesses of her mind as she waited for the great hammer of his fist to fall back into her face.
There was a thud, an audible grunt.
Then Carpello fell off her. He slumped to the floor and she heard the wine goblets clink together. Something broke – maybe the ceramic plate she’d sliced the fennaroot on.
Then there was silence, broken only by her ragged, uncontrollable sobs.
‘Up here, dear,’ a soothing voice said after a while. Rishta-Rexawhatever felt someone take her by the forearms and she lashed out again, shrieking, ‘No! No! Get off!’
‘It’s all right,’ the same voice said calmly, kindly, ‘It’s all right. He’s gone. She felt the hands take hers; they were small, a woman’s hands. Slowly she forced open one eye – the other was already swollen shut – and she could dimly make out a pleasant-faced woman kneeling beside her holding a blanket. ‘Here, wrap yourself up in this and let me help you up,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’
Name? The question rattled around in her head; after a while she whispered, ‘Rishta.’
‘Here we go, Rishta, drink some water, and then let me look at your face. Is anything broken?’