Curiosity Killed the Temple

"That's ten scodas you owe me," said Mak as he approached with his left hand out.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?" said the promoter, giving his champion a rueful look.

"From someone that laid me out just like that," Mak pointed with a thumb.

"You let me coach you and we'll make a fortune," said the promoter, silently counting the money into Mak's hand.

"Not interested."

The crowd dispersed, some with rueful looks at the fallen champion, most laughing at some crude joke. Mak grabbed his possessions and walked away.

The thunderous laughter mingled with the music of badly played instruments and even worse singing from the women dancing atop the stage in riotous bedlam. No one criticized the quality of the show. As cloth slapped the air and skin gave a fleeting appearance, the men leered and laughed and raised their tankards in salute. After the show there would be that special time with a warm, soft body.

The men around the table rocked with laughter, their hands slapping the table, the benches and each other. Occasionally their eyes turned to their somber companion to see if his mood was changing. They would shrug and continue with their boisterous outbursts.

He leaned against the wall and nursed a tankard of ale. The eye that roamed the broad room, his left one covered by a black eye patch, was as black as the void between stars and just as cold. The lust that edged the features of every other man in the audience did not edge his. The physiological reactions of a man to the flirtations of a woman was unknown to him.

Rage and killer lust were emotions he understood. They were inbred. Love-?

Love was as alien to him as-as the life that was his before Vaheethian fishermen found him half-dead on an iceberg. Before that day his life only existed in flashes that haunted his thoughts and dreams. He made a wry face. Maybe love was not so alien. There was a beautiful, young face that he remembered-.

Mak rose from his stool and bent low to avoid hitting the overhang with his head. Those nearby eyed him with some surprise He weaved through the tables, rudely brushing past those in his way. There were those that with their eyes shot daggers in his back, but no one flung an angry word at him.

Outside, a fog had rolled over the dark streets, the moonlight filtering through permitting some visibility without the need for a lamp. A cool drizzle began. Mak glided through the semi darkness, a spectral apparition in his long cape and wide-brimmed hat.

He could hear the muffled revelry coming from the taverns as he approached the waterfront. There was scant movement in the streets. What there was moved quickly and secretively.

Mak turned into an alley. He walked past garbage gathered in heaping piles and reeking puddles. Muffled voices from behind closed doors reached his ears but he paid them little attention, continuing in his dark thoughts. He climbed an old, wooden stairway that had seen better days eons ago. Halfway up he stopped to listen to movement that splashed puddles of liquid stench. What or whoever it was ran as fast as possible between the heaps of garbage. Mak looked on, waiting for the shadow that would emerge from the fog, if it indeed came this far.

There, a shadow both small and slender. Mak lifted his eye patch to get the image in body heat and recognized a feminine figure. She stumbled, falling in a puddle just below where he stood watching. Mak grimaced. She got up somewhat slow. She was weary from running, no doubt.

"Lass, up here," growled Mak.

The shadow hesitated for a moment, heard movement coming her way, and decided to take whatever Mak was offering.

"I need to hide-please, master," she said, out of breath.

"Come, then."

Mak climbed the rest of the steps and opened the door as the girl stumbled up the stairs. He bent low to go in and held the door for the girl. Once inside darkness enveloped them.