12:29 PM
She returns! Half an hour with the queen, surely a record. I tip my hat to you.
Don’t mind Ibbi, he’s just here to help with the kegs. Care for a pull? Take a glass of grape at least, God King knows you deserve it. To face that old hag before she’s even had her first pipe . . .
Yes, we’re honored here at the cabaret to be in the presence of near-royalty. Near-divinity? What do they call it when you used to fuck God? No doubt there’s a word for it but alas, I lack proper education.
Who knows, it might be true. Someone must have sucked Kiri’s cock before the blessed Amata had the honor, why not Enheduana? And they say she was a great beauty back in her day, enough to drive a man mad. But then again, people say all sorts of things, don’t they? And who would be so fool as to believe all of them? It comes down to the things you have heard and the things that you know.
Take Ibbi, with those scars on his face, and his thick fists. I have heard stories about how he gained those scars, and what those fists can do. But are they true? How could I know, unless I’d seen it? Perhaps Ibbi feeds orphans and pets stray kittens in his off hours. Just because a beggar by the Seawall will tell you that Ibbi blinded him after a dice game, not with a knife, but with those sausage fingers of his—well, who would believe the word of some old vagrant? Probably a drunk; most of them are.
Though you can’t deny it has a certain appeal. A dark alley, a crowd of hard-looking men, the rattle of dice, a quick scuffle, Ibbi’s hands spreading wide. The screaming. It’s a good story. It meets our expectations, satisfies that morbid tickle. And he certainly looks the part, doesn’t he? Sorry, Ibbi. We need things to talk about, and we do not care if those things are true so long as they are entertaining.
Anyway, truth is overrated. What if she is lying, the queen upstairs? What if she never knew Kiri, or knew him only for a night, as she has known so many others? What good would it do to remind her? Knock the pipe out of her hand, tear away her last shred of illusion? We water our liquor down for a reason.
Still, you wouldn’t believe the rumors that fly about this city. Why, just today in the market there was the maddest story going around, about some Amanuensis who started a riot in the old city. First they said they killed her, a few shots from the harbor cannon—that much at least is not fiction; those blasts are loud enough to rattle the damn walls! But then this morning they said that they couldn’t find her body, that she might still be alive, and that there was a reward for anyone who helped capture her.
Yes, Ibbi, I heard the same thing. Manet was the name. Long hair, slender form, the small finger on her left hand missing. They say she went mad and killed a man with a ratchet—an old-fashioned model, like the one that you touch at your hip. But that cannot be you, can it? I can see in your eyes that you are no killer. That is not something that I have heard, that is something that I know, as certain as the wood beneath my feet, as certain as the sea salt in the air. Now, be a good little girl and not a foolish one, and do not—