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No. I’m not doing this here, among the tourists ambling past and the townspeople who know me. If they see me crying, they’ll stop to ask questions I really don’t want to answer.
I straighten my spine and sniff a few times, shaking back my hair. I’ll allow myself a good cry later. Right now, I have to find Prain before he spends all the coin we brought.
But I need a few minutes to work up the courage to wander into the west side of town. Last time I ventured there looking for Prain, I endured a hundred lewd comments about my big breasts, my thick thighs, and my large ass. One of the brothel madams ran her fingers through my abundant hair, pinched my cheek, and said, “If you ever want to make a bit of easy money now and then, I could put you to work. Big beautiful girl like you, with those juicy thighs and huge tits, and your pretty eyes—you’d be able to charge top price.”
“I don’t judge anyone who chooses this life, but it’s not the one I want,” I told her.
“Fine.” She sucked on her pipe and blew fragrant smoke into my face. “I thought you might want to start now, while you have a choice. But I can wait. You’ll be on my doorstep one day, when that foolish brother of yours drives you to desperation.”
I can still hear her mocking laugh. I shiver a little and focus on the cooing of the pigeons, perched above me on the stone arms of the King’s statue. This fountain was added three years ago, shortly after King Falron inherited the throne at age fifty-two. Here he’s depicted as a nude, toned young man, each extended arm holding a pitcher that pours lifegiving water into the stone mouths of the small kneeling figures clustered at his feet. That’s us, the impoverished beings who squirm beneath him. Inevitably my gaze falls to the statue’s massive, flaccid cock, which hangs nearly to his knee. Recently a set of odd scrawls and symbols showed up on that oversized appendage, and the Lady Mayor’s lackeys had to chip the paint off to restore the statue’s doubtful glory.
The Lady Mayor ordered the constable to investigate the incident. A few boys had been spotted near the statue that night, but when questioned, they swore their innocence and claimed the Elves did it. No one believed them, of course. The Elves retreated to their own havens long ago, and they don’t come into our towns.
The boys only suffered a couple hours of discomfort in the stocks, as prescribed by the constable. If Maystead lay nearer to the royal city of Giltos, defilers of the King’s statue wouldn’t have gotten off so easily. I’ve heard the King can be ruthless to those who disrespect him.
The pigeons, though—they can shit on the King with impunity. There’s one perched on his jutting hipbone right now, relieving itself with a white splatter onto the stone cock.
“You think it’s really that big?” says a male voice.
I turn, peering up at the hooded figure beside me. How did I not notice his approach?
“Pardon?” I say.
“His cock. You think the King’s cock is that enormous?”
“I wouldn’t know. But I doubt any cock is that large, honestly.”
The man looks down at me. His face is too shadowed for me to make out his features, but his eyes are bright blue—almost luminescent. “You’re a fair judge of cocks, are you?” There’s a smirk in his voice.
“Not really, no.” A blush is creeping up my neck, which frustrates me, because when I blush I go all splotchy from tits to forehead. “I think, for the purposes of the statue, its length is more symbolic than realistic.”
“Symbolic?” asks the stranger. “How so?”
“Well… symbolic of the King’s masculinity, I suppose. His dominance, his virility, his right to rule.”
“And how, pray tell, does virility make someone more fit to reign?”
“It doesn’t.” I push myself up, off the stone edge of the fountain. “As stimulating as this conversation is, I must go find my brother. I leave you to your contemplation of His Majesty’s penis.”
“But you haven’t heard my treatise on the size of his balls yet.”
“I’m sorry to miss it, but I really have to go.”
“Very well. But first, I must ask—can you spare anything for a poor traveler? My pocket’s been picked, and I’m terribly hungry. A few coins would help.”
“Coins?” A pang runs through me at the thought of Prain slipping his hand into my shopping basket, stealing the coin-purse while I laid out the loaves for Mistress Godward. The only coins I have are the ones she paid me, and I need those. “I don’t have any money to spare, but I can offer you this.” I crouch beside the basket, lay back the cloth, and survey the muffins inside. There are two with candied orange peel, another apple-cinnamon one, and a lemon-blueberry. The lemon-blueberry is my favorite—I’d planned to enjoy it later this afternoon.
I reach for a candied-orange muffin… and then I hesitate.
I have an inner sense sometimes, an instinct about the people I meet. I can guess what types of food or baked goods they’ll enjoy, just by looking at them and speaking to them for a short while.
I can’t see much of this stranger except his heavy brown cloak and his oddly bright blue eyes. We’ve barely spoken. And yet I know, somehow, that the lemon-blueberry muffin is his favorite.
“Here.” I pluck it from the dish and hand it to him. “For your hunger. I made it myself. I wish I could do more.”
“Thank you.” He holds it carefully. “Your kindness will be remembered.”
“It’s nothing.” I shrug. “Go on, eat it. Tell me what you think.”
