The January Dancer

An Craic

“And so you see him,” says the scarred man, “for the treacherous bastard that he was, and why this quest of yours was always a waste of your time.”

The harper says nothing but toys with her now-empty plate. She looks around for Mamacita, but the wide woman is gone. Darkness has fallen outside the shed and only the string of decorative lights provides an island of illumination. The busier sounds of the City seem distant, and the lamps along Greaseline Street and the Bourse are like the suns on the far side of the Rift, blurred and indistinct. The harper wipes at the corners of her eyes and hates the scarred man for the mocking grin above which he watches her.

“Let’s finish this,” she says harshly.

“We’ll warn you. The finish is no better.”

“But there must be an end of it. You said so yourself.”

“You shouldn’t listen to everything we say. He’s been known to lie.”

She stands and slings her harp over her shoulder like a carbine. “Will you at least escort me back to the Hostel?”

“Why not?” says the scarred man. “I’m in a hostile mood.” He grins at his own pun. “I hate them all. The pompous Grimpen. The priggish Greystroke. The cocky Hugh O’Carroll. The ice-cold witch-woman.”

“Men are more than adjectives. I find that I have come to love them all. What of the Fudir?”

“Him, I hate the most, for he betrayed all the others.”