Free Our Lady of the Islands by Jay Lake, Shannon Page Page A

feet, but everywhere she turned, she was struck by the bone, cascades of pain pouring through her. “Why are you doing this?” she choked out, spitting salty blood onto the ground.
    He did not reply.
    She was trapped by the encircling crowd; he could kill her easily. She fell back down in panic, curling once more into a fetal position, sobbing. All her former pretense to strength dropped away as his blows fell. The beating became everything — would it never stop? The circle of men around her continued to chant; their words and tones falling into a pattern. Would rape follow after all? So much for the protection of high-placed relations.
    It was a long while before Sian realized that the blows were coming in time with the chanting. Not only that, but the priest seemed to not be beating her as hard as he had before. Or perhaps she was at last becoming numb. Still, every blow, coming atop some already bruised or bloody part of her body, sent even more excruciating waves of pain through her. She drew her arms over her head more tightly, trying to protect herself, to make it stop, even as she struggled to retain consciousness.
    She lost all sense of time as the beating continued. And then the priest stopped. “That is enough.” She heard his footsteps on the gravel, moving away. “Truly. I am sorry.”
    Sian lay trembling on the stone, bleeding, sobbing. A moment later, strong arms picked her up, and she was tossed roughly over a large, sweaty shoulder. She tried to open her eyes, but they were swollen shut. So she merely felt and smelled and heard that she was being taken to the waterfront. No one answered the disjointed questions she managed to stammer out.
    Eventually, she was roughly tumbled into the bottom of a boat, judging from the feel of boards beneath her, their gentle, creaking motion. Quiet voices around her murmured words she could not make out, and then the boat was cast off.
    Was she alone in the vessel? Where were they sending her? Would she drift out to sea? Sian struggled to sit up, to open her eyes, but they would not budge. “Hello?” she whispered, but there was no answer. “Is anyone here?” She felt around the small boat for oars, or anything that she could use to take charge of her journey, but there was nothing. The searing pain in her arms and legs and belly and back and head and neck and everywhere was almost numbing, but never numbing enough.
    And what be-damned message was she meant to carry? The priest had merely beaten her bloody, then walked away.
    She tried again to pull herself up the short side of the boat, but succeeded only in making it rock dangerously. Sian rolled back to the center and began to cry once more. She could not see, she could do nothing to save herself. She was at the mercy of the elements, of the night.
    Handing her fate over to the long-vanished gods, she lay down again and sobbed herself to sleep.

    Captain Konstantin Reikos stood in front of the Monde & Kattë townhouse, wondering whether to knock gently once more. It seemed clear that no one was within, but he could not understand why Sian would miss their appointment. Her note had been quite specific. And, beneath the veil of the language of commerce, quite enthusiastic. Or so it had seemed.
    Where would she be, in the middle of the night? What business dinner could run this late — or preclude even the sending of another note? The townhouse certainly felt vacant, though the shutters were propped wide, letting in the cool (well, cooler) night air. Could she have returned earlier and thought to nap before their appointment, then overslept? He knocked again, slightly louder this time, though mindful not to advertise his presence to the close-knit neighborhood. Domina Kattë did entertain clients with some frequency and often at late hours, but she did so discreetly, as befitted a respectable businesswoman.
    Still no answer.
    He shifted the ditty bag to his other hand and sighed quietly. The satchel was filled with