Free The Hell of It by Peter Orullian Page B

waiting for his father to offer the prayer over the food. The sea trout that had been his final payment had cooked just fine. But the wheat was old. Much of it floated in the mealy stew, meaning it bore weevil larvae. They weren’t harmful to eat, but the thought of it soured his stomach. And it pained him to ask his son to eat them, too.
    After some time, Roth opened his eyes and looked up. “Will you pray tonight?”
    Malen regarded his boy for a long moment.. “I don’t think so, son. Not tonight.” He tipped his bowl slightly toward the boy. “Are you grateful for this?” He smiled tiredly.
    His son smiled back. “You could fry the other trout, instead.”
    Malen considered it briefly. “It’d be a waste. I’ll dry it and we’ll get a couple of meals out of it. Maybe tonight we’ll just pick the fish from the stew, how’s that?”
    Roth carefully spooned a bite of the trout from his bowl, taking care to avoid the floating wheat. Watching the skill with which his son performed the simple feat reminded Malen that it wasn’t the first time.
    He put down his own spoon. “We need to talk, Roth. I need to tell you some things.”
    His boy nodded and began working at a second bit of fish.
    â€œThe captain has no more work for me. I won’t be going back to the trawler.”
    Roth paused and looked up at him. His face held the kind of grave expression that a child so young shouldn’t know. The boy understood the realities of their situation, where they could wind up if his father couldn’t find work.
    Before Malen could say more, a knock came at the door. He started at the intrusion, but was grateful for an excuse to look away from the concern in his son’s face. He got up and went to the door.
    A very young girl stood there, her blouse pulled down off her shoulders far enough to expose the tops of her breasts. She’d painted her face more expertly than a girl her age should have had the skill to do. She would be a beautiful woman in ten years. Today, she was maybe thirteen. Still, she looked up at him with a wanton, seductive expression that Malen believed made her door-to-door trade a successful one.
    â€œA silver. Or four realm plugs if you let me stay the night.” She looked past him into the home. “I can sleep on the floor.”
    Several times a week the girls of the Wanship slums worked the doors, but Malen had never seen this particular young woman before. “I don’t have—”
    â€œI’ll give the boy his turn for free,” she added. “Make a man of him.”
    Desperation crept into her face. She needed a place to stay. And he wanted to help. But with wharf-drabs, if one let conscience get the better of caution, things of value had a way of disappearing in the night. And he had need of their last few valuables.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he began, “We can’t—”
    â€œFor food, then,” she broke in. “A bowl of whatever’s on your table. That’s a bargain you can’t deny.” She began pulling her blouse further down, to give him a look, as she eyed him provocatively.
    Malen caught her hand before she could expose herself. “There’s no need of that,” he said. “Wait here.”
    As he crossed to the table to pick up his bowl, he realized he hadn’t seen a brand on the girl’s breast near her nipple. She wasn’t yet working for a mack-man who whored her out. She was playing a dangerous game without such protection—both prostitutors and callers might beat her. Returning to the door, he handed her the food. “I need the bowl back. So I’ll wait while you eat.”
    Most of the people who lived nearby weren’t really neighbors. The houses were rented. People came and went. Often quickly. Often in the shadows of evening. And of those whose faces he might recognize, some few shared his bad fortune. But