Free Paragaea by Chris Roberson Page B

provided for her by the state orphanage, and they'd simply supplied whatever the markets had in approximately her size, usually shapeless dresses of browns and grays, and roughly made leather shoes that never quite seemed to fit. The dizzying array of styles and colors presented to her in the shops of Laxaria were almost more difficult to accept than the inhuman creatures walking the city's streets.
    In the end, they found a tailor who dealt in functional items with only minor concession to the fashions of the day, and Leena was loaded up with a few pairs of sturdy trousers, a few long-sleeved shirts, a sleeveless vest outfitted with pockets and hidden pouches, a waist-length jacket of some sort of softened animal hide, a heavier lined coat reaching to midcalf, sturdy walking boots, and a pack in which to carry it all. Into the pack Leena transferred what remained of her survival kit, the heavy boots she'd cut from her SK-1 pressure suit, and her extra ammunition for the Makarov. She discarded the orange nylon oversuit, the gray-checked pressure liner, and the helmet. Connecting the Makarov's nylon holster to her new leather belt, she hung the pistol at her waist, and was ready for anything that might come her way.
    Almost anything.
    Hieronymus demurred initially, but at Leena's insistence he also helped her locate an apothecary, where she was relieved to discover that Laxarian society had developed sufficiently to have the equivalent of tampons on the shelf, so that she wouldn't be forced to make do with jerry-rigged sanitary napkins when next she menstruated. She bought the apothec's entire stock, and that of several other vendors they found, and loaded them in her pack.
    Finally, grateful to have left matters feminine behind, Hieronymus took Leena to an armory, and with the help of the armorer selected a short sword the correct heft and length for her.
    â€œYou will wear this at all times,” Hieronymus said, sliding the blade into a sheath of leather and wood, and handing it to Leena. “And you will practice with it as often as circumstances allow.”
    Leena accepted the sword reluctantly, and drew it experimentally from its sheath.
    â€œI would sooner use Makarov,” she said distastefully, “if there is more trouble.”
    Hieronymus went to pay the armorer a few coins, and then crossed the floor to stand beside Leena. “I have explained about the scarcity of ammunition,” he began, his tone cross.
    â€œDa, da.” Leena cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Not to shoot the pistol unless in emergency.” She pointed with the tip of the short sword to a rack of long-barreled rifles hanging on the armory's wall, tagged with prices in Sakrian numerals. “But why not carry those, instead? They are rifles, net, erm, no?”
    â€œNo rifles,” Hieronymus answered, nodding. “Which is to say, yes, they are rifles, and no, we won't be carrying them. Sakrian pneumatic rifles, powered by canisters of compressed air, fire slugs of compressed carbon, which are effective at short range, but which tend to be overly burdensome to carry for long distances, and are expensive to recharge and maintain. Good for riot control, but not a campaigner's weapon.”
    Leena nodded. Sheathing the short sword again, she hooked it onto her belt, opposite her nylon holster.
    â€œUnderstood. But if again I face a six-meter, clawed monster, I reach for this”—she touched the holster—“and not this.” She touched the sheathed sword. “No question.”
    Hieronymus held up his hands in a sign of surrender.

    Balam had secured rooms for the three of them at a tavern in the shadow of the city's northern wall, and near the tavern there was a periodic street market, where Laxarians and outlanders of all shapes and sizes jostled around closely spaced market stalls. To one side, in a smallplaza, space had been set aside for street theater, and mummers and mimes plied their