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His wail was liable to wake the dead. His brother and two others held him back with a tender expectation that any moment he might test their grip. He did. It seemed he might even make it to her, but his brother caught a wrist and wrestled him back. The muddy thoroughfare was laden with people, silent but for an occasional sob rising into the cold morning air. All eyes were on the palanquin.
It was flat, open-topped, solidly built, unadorned. On it lay seven bodies, eight now as the Sonziz lifted her into the last of the open space. Fourteen, maybe fifteen years old. The cheeks gave it away, though they’d already started to wither despite the effort put on her by whichever amateur took the task. Skin brushed and clean, powder and pale cream, lips daubed bright. The other half of her face was sallow though, lips receding, skin starting to fall down into the canyons of her skull. There was a harsh line at the nose where the amateur had stopped, shaken no doubt by the sound of the bell. Nobody expected a second tithe.
The man wailed again. Higher pitched than one would think him capable considering his bulk. He spilled small, fragile pieces of her name into his hands as the fight left him, drop by drop.
“Mi-mir-m-e.”
His breath began to race, the fact that she was being taken becoming real. It did to everyone eventually. Some small, small spark of hope blossomed in him. It did for everyone, eventually. His eyes turned towards you. Everyone’s did, eventually.
“M-marcel! You can’t let them! She was free…they can’t take her, we already paid. P-please. GIVE HER BACK TO ME!”
He lunged for the palanquin with every mote of wrath left to him. He slipped his brother, the butcher, and the chandler, red-eyed with wet cheeks. He reached for her before you could speak…but it wasn’t fast enough, it never was. One of the Sonziz moved like a sunlit snake and the man’s arm was cracked in half at the elbow, flapping back toward his shoulder as the momentum spun him into the mud at your feet. The splatter sprayed out over your boots, his stoppered breaths made bubbles. He started crying again as you lowered yourself to sit on your heels.
“It’s over, <span class="mu-i">paire</span>. It’s over. There was nothing you could do. Remember that.”
