Free The Grass King’s Concubine by Kari Sperring

her first expedition to be more circumspect, to walk more slowly and dress less well. Now she wore an old dress that Ketty had found in a ragbag and wrapped herself in a shawl, not a coat and hat. Bit by bit, she learned the narrow streets. She found mean small markets, redolent of old cabbage and cheap beer. She wandered under the shadows of the chimneys, flinching from the thunder of machines. Farther from the gate she found the bones of older houses, their once-fine walls mended with rags and driftwood, shutters cracked, reeking of overcrowded poverty. A once-grand old theater was now a gambling house; the great coaching inns were brothels or flophouses. Even the bridges had lost their fine carvings. Nowhere was beautiful or restful or clean. She passed tight-packed knots of lean-to huts, each wall supporting another, each space sheltering clutches of hot-eyed, skinny men, women, and children. Children! They were clad in rags; their bodies stank, and in their thin faces their eyes were those of adults. She choked behind her shawl, groped in her pocket for coins and found nothing. The adults glared at her as she passed, though none spoke or approached. The smallest children cringed from her, clinging to their mothers; the older ones snarled or spat. These were not the children she had known in her own childhood, but something else, some warped mockery. And she could do nothing. Even if she had money, how far would a few coins go? She turned away, ashamed.
    Everywhere men crouched in gutters, drinking, spitting at her feet. Uncountable stone-faced children labored in the open maws of workshops or ran wild, dodging wheels and curses. All the women seemed old, even those who gathered outside taverns in threadbare finery. Everywhere tasted and smelled sour, everywhere drowned in shrill voices, everywhere seemed to be sinking under the burden of dirt. The river ran sluggish, heavy with rotten food and rags, fragments of wood and broken glass, dead animals,discarded machine parts, oil and sewage. It wound through the factories and tenements, licking up their misery.
    Once she went to a temple. It was not grand, this building, nor historic nor well used. It squatted at one corner of the Grass Market, its frontage dark with soot and mud, its steps worn and unswept. Inside, it was dark and dirty, scented not with incense but mildew and boiled cabbage. The statues of the gods were old: lumpy wooden figures in chipped painted finery and broken crowns, but they were free of dust. A knot of wilting wildflowers lay in front of two of them, stems crushed and petals drooping. Fishing in her pocket, Aude found a small coin to drop in the offertory box. It fell with a thin thud, suggesting it found few mates within. The temples, it seemed, were no better at sharing their wealth across the two cities than men were. This place, built, no doubt, for the use of the men and women who hauled their loads of animal feed into the city, had never been high status. A poor place for poor people, as unkempt and neglected as they were.
    She bowed low to the wooden gods. Did they care if their worshipers were rich or poor? She had no idea. Such things were not discussed. As she turned to the last one, the door creaked open behind her, making her jump. She turned to find an elderly priest entering, carrying a rush basket holding half a loaf of dark bread and some rather grubby vegetables. Reflex had her drop a curtsy. The priest raised his eyebrows. “Mademoiselle? You are, perhaps, lost? You have become separated from your companions?”
    “No.” It was not the question she had been expecting. She fidgeted with her gloves. “I was curious.”
    “Ah,” he said. “Then you have seen. We are not so grand in our devotions here.”
    “No, Monseigneur. But…” Aude drew in a breath. He was here. She might as well ask. He did not know who she was, after all, so it could not get back to her uncle or her fiancé or any of the Silver City gossips. She said,