After the Fall (Raud Grima Book 2)

by Sophia Martin

  After the Fall

  By Sophia Martin

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2015 Sophia Martin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  I am indebted to the good people at AbsoluteWrite for answering a ridiculous number of questions—without their expertise many details herein would have been erroneous or lacking. Any mistakes that remain are mine entirely.

  I would also like to thank my beta readers Mark and Rick, and my editor, Kathryn Beerbaum, for their invaluable feedback.

  Table of Contents

  Map of Helésey

  Part 1: Ginna’s Vow

  Part 2: Ginna’s Wrath

  Part 3: Ginna’s Survival

  Part 4: Ginna’s Enemy

  Part 5: Ginna’s Mask

  Part 6: Ginna’s Hope

  Map of Helésey

  Part 1: Ginna’s Vow

  I ain’t always been a sewer rat. That’s what the upper cityfolk call us, leastways most of them do, on account of we live in the Undergrunnsby, the city’s sewers. My mother and father, my Amma, and all us kids used to have a nice enough garret in Gronicks some ten years gone, ’fore my father decided he was called to the sea and he never come back after his first voyage, wouldn’t you know. Amma called it a piece of foolery and sure enough, his ship went down and my mum never really did climb out of the grief. I was the oldest but not much more’n ten myself, and no good for bringing home but the few pennies I could filch, and the rest of the kids were no use to her for money, ’specially since she never said yes to the knocks on the door from brokers and vigjadises of Freyja. Whenever I want to smack my mum for being useless I remind myself of that.

  But much as I favor her saying no to selling her children, I might like her more if she’d taken up a living, such as bringing in washing or the like. But Mum weren’t ever much of a breadwinner, more’s the pity. So soon enough the owner come and turned us out without a fare-thee-well. Which is why when Styrlakker gets on one of his rants, on and on about how the bosses and landowners are everything what’s wrong with the world, I always see our old landlord’s skinny old face with them staring blue eyes. Them blue eyes what stared at us as the old bugger put us out on our ears, and Rokja still in her nappies, she was that young.

  But I’m losing my point; my point was, I ain’t always been a sewer rat, that’s how come I learned to read. And I suppose just the learning ain’t enough. There’s them who know reading and avoid it like it gives them the itches. Dag was like that, but to watch Dag you’d have thought he was born in the forest, not some hovel in Sudbattir, the way he carried on over the trees in the city parks. More’n once since the city fell I seen Dag fighting off them what wanted to cut the trees down for wood. Dag never fancied reading because all Dag did fancy was wandering around parks every chance he got to moon over yews and ashes. And I suppose maybe he never liked the fact that books are made of paper, which is made of trees, come to think of it. Although could be I’d be giving old Dag more credit than he deserved.

  Me, I love reading. I love it the way Dag loved trees, sure enough. So when I seen, against the white-gray sky, the plume of blue smoke rising from somewhere in the eastern city, I about forgot everything else I was supposed to be doing that morning. Nearly changed direction right then and there and cut straight through to find the fire. Only I heard Amma’s voice in my head like she was standing at my own shoulder, grouching, Ginna-my-girl, you come home with empty hands and I’ll tender the skin of your back ’til it’s red as a rose. Amma’s not one to use the strap less she’s truly outta patience, and maybe you’d think at twenty I’m too old for it anyway. But that’d just show you never met my Amma. It’d been a fair week since we’d had meat in the pot, and Rokja was starting to look as bad as little Aron Gulf did when he nearly died hungry on Kevan Shald’s doorstep. So instead of hunting down that blue smoke, I just let myself stare at it like a stupid cow for a few minutes, and then I pretended it weren’t there no more and made my way to Gram Bani’s shop.

  This is where I got to tell you, so’s you’ll not be surprised, that even though my mum turned the brokers away, I still wound up a whore. It’s nowt I’m ashamed of; there’s them that’s got it far worse’n me, and at least I don’t answer to a broker or the vigjadises. I may not be a ripping beauty, but I pick and choose my customers, thank you very much, and no one tells me different. There’s several kinds of whores in Helésey, you mind. The whores what work for brokers are called bed-wives and bed-men—collectively, “bed-folk.” Then the vigjadises of Freyja ain’t called bed-wives, of course, even ’fore they take their permanent vows. Those are just novices, and that’s all anyone calls them, but truly they’re whores still. Boys and girls, although you almost never see vigjas—male priests—of Freyja. Well, for a time you never seen either male or female, on account of Eiflar the Heretic. He wanted to be known as Eiflar the Holy, but who was he kidding? Locking away all the vigjas and vigjadises (except for Tyr’s) in Grumflein if they were lucky. He sent them out to work camps if they weren’t so fortunate, and I’ve heard even worse. But it’s been six months since the city fell, and there’s always a call for whores in a city, even when most of it’s still a smoldering ruin. So Freyja’s back in business, probably one of the first of the Gods to rebuild, at that. The vigjas and vigjadises took stone from the shells of buildings destroyed in the air raids, and made themselves a fine enough temple in the Vitraust district, up in the northeast corner.

  So of course then there’s the third kind of Heléseyan whore, that’s the kind I am, and there’s no word for it other’n whore. What makes it even harder to peg is that I almost never get paid in coin. It’s barter. I give them what they want, and I take my payment in trade. So I went to see Gram Bani on account of he used to be a grocer ’fore the city fell, and he still traded in dried meat and fish and whatever he could get. Once he had a barrel of pickled turnips, although why anyone would think to pickle a turnip is beyond my ken.

  Gram’s trouble was he was honest, which made me like him better’n most, but it meant he never raided nor snuck off with goods what he hadn’t paid for, and he never would get ahead. Which was probably just as well, ’cause with the slashers running round the city in them days, it weren’t safe to stick your neck out anyway. He still worked in Sudbattir, out of what was left of his shop. A bomb hit two buildings down, and the whole street was fractured and ruined, but you could get into the front door of his shop, just couldn’t see much into it ’til you had. I slipped in hoping he didn’t have any customers, and sure enough, he was alone, stacking and counting like every time I seen him without a customer.

  Gram was a big man, he was, broad shouldered and bearded with a long mess of light hair, like he belonged in a book from a hundred years ago. No tonic for him, no. No oiled mustache or shiny hair. He liked to say he was a dumb brute, but it weren’t even true—he was fair gentle and right sharp to boot, and I’d have rather gone to him for food than Áfast Duri, who might have fresh meat but liked leaving welts, or Kanper Sork, who had a deal with the fishermen, but only liked to do one thing and it’s the one thing I never wanted to do.

  So I come in and I put a hand on what passed for Gram’s counter—that is, a big slab of wood resting on two stones he hauled in from the street. I said, “Hullo?” unsure-like, as if I didn’t know Gram by name. I liked to see his face when he looked up and recognized me. First there was a flash when he thought it was a new customer, and then a bit of a squint
when he realized it weren’t, but then his whole face went soft when he seen it was me.

  “Ginna-girl,” he said, his voice like a piece of felted wool. The corners of his eyes went all creased but his mouth never really moved—not much for smiling, our Gram.

  I come round the counter and sidled on up to him, straightening his collar and smoothing the lapels of his coat, and he put his hands on my waist and one in my hair—he liked it on account of it’s brown, which ain’t usual—and made this little growl in the back of his throat like a great tom’s purr.

  “What yer got that’s nice these days, Gram?” I asked, and he brung his face near mine, not quite close enough to kiss. I didn’t always let them kiss me, mind, but the ones I really liked I did. One of the reasons I liked Gram was that he never presumed about the kissing.

  “I got some herring,” he said, low and gruff. “And some venison strips that come in not two days since.”

  I smiled at him and brung my mouth to his, kissing deep. His fingers tightened on my waist and he pushed me against the counter. Gram was strong enough he could do it standing with nowt but his arms for support, but he liked something to rest me on so he’d not have to think about it, I reckon. He hitched me up so my arse sat on the counter edge, and let one hand go to unbuckle his trousers. I never wore knickers on the days I went whoring, because what’s the point? So he slid inside me easy as you please. After that first moment, when he stopped like he’d surprised himself, he got going again and I grabbed his shoulders to hold on while he done it. Gram was big all over, so I can tell you I liked it fine when he had his way. I got my kicks off just a minute or two before him, nice as apples.

  Gram always held on tight when he was done, and I let him. He stayed that way sometimes ten minutes at a stretch, but today he just did it maybe for three or four. Then he leaned back and looked at me from under his hair and the corner of his mouth pulled—closest thing to a smile he ever gave me. “It ain’t right,” he growled, despite it.

  “Ain’t right? I beg your pardon,” I said, like I was miffed, only course I weren’t on account of I know how this conversation always went.

  “You know what I mean, Ginna. I’m old enough to be your’n Da.”

  “And my Da’s at the bottom of the sea,” I said, like I never cared none, though course I did. I’d got good at it, talking like it never bothered me. It was better that way. People know you got a sore spot, they’re liable to use it one day. “Sides,” I said, hopping down from the counter and grabbing his cock, which was still mostly hard. “I don’t like you like a father, Gram. I like you a lot—in a different way.”

  A great shudder passed through him, and he leaned into my hand. “It still ain’t right,” he whispered, and I squeezed a bit. His hips bucked and he gasped.

  “I could give you a double, you know,” I murmured in his ear, and I felt his body shiver against me. “You say it ain’t right, but you want me to do it.”

  “You’ll be the death of me, Ginna.”

  I tugged on him a bit and licked his neck just under his ear.

  “Fucking Hel,” he groaned, and his cock was as hard as before. I raised a leg and he grabbed under the thigh, pushing in again, harder’n the first time. He banged me against the side of the counter, bending me back over it some. He was panting this time, too, like I’d got to him good. I don’t usually crack a second time in a row—I’m more buck than doe that way—but then he took my breast with one hand under my coat, and started grunting, and that just sent me on my way.

  It was over quick as that. He made a noise like a sob and buried his face in my neck. I wrapped my arms around him ’cause I knew he’d lost himself a bit that time, and Gram didn’t like to lose himself on account of he thought he’d hurt me.

  “That was ripping, luv,” I said, and I knew he’d believe it on account of I almost never call any john “luv.”

  “Ripping?” he echoed, moving back so’s I could see his face and then raising his eyebrows at me, shocked-like.

  “You know. Great. It was great,” I said. “Ripping-good.”

  The corner of his mouth went again, and I grinned back at him.

  “I’d say it was ripping, at that,” he agreed. “Worth a double order, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not one to turn away a generous offer.”

  He set about wrapping up some herring and venison. Soon’s he was done I gave him a peck on the cheek and bolted. It was back into the Undergrunnsby fast as you please, and I only let myself catch a sight of the blue smoke for one breath ’fore I went down.

  In the daytime the city’s not so bad, but in the Undergrunnsby you got to have a care no matter the time of day. You always did, but since the city fell it’s only got worse. Now there’s packs of slashers running round and no coppers to say boo to them, wouldn’t you know. So you can’t walk through the shafts like you’ve got all day. I stuck the fish and meat under my coat and run all the way to Mosstown, the name someone gave our shanty village. I don’t know who it was; guess the pipes what run along the ceiling is copper, but you’d never know ’cause no one ever cleans them, and they’re green as moss.

  Mosstown’s busy as a marketplace during the day. Folk’re always standing about outside their shanties, talking amongst themselves, or arguing, or maybe trading one thing for another. A few of the old konas—“kona” is the word for wife though you use it still with widows, and there’s plenty of widows in Mosstown on account of the way the Officers of Tyr used to treat the sewer rats they come across, and then the deaths in the Rising, don’t you know—anyway, the old konas never seem to go inside, for they never want to miss a thing. They must live on gossip alone, them konas. It’s a wonder I made it through without one of them caught hold of me. I’ve no wish to chat with anyone when I come home from whoring, so I went as a fast as you please, dodging any what made to catch my sleeve, just giving them a grin or a wave.

  I pushed the tin door open and ducked under the wash Amma’d hung up across the whole place. Rokja near knocked me on my arse coming outta nowhere like a cannonball. I pried her arms from round my waist, ’cause I’d never say so but I’m scared she’ll smell the sex on me.

  “There now, ya silly fool,” I said, pushing her off. She’s strong for a tyke.

  “You been gone since last night,” Rokja said with a pout like she didn’t just near wrestle me to the ground she was so glad to see me.

  “Been busy,” I said, which was true.

  Amma come round then and I handed her the fish and the meat and she took it without a word. She’s getting on, Amma is, near seventy-five or six, I reckon. Her hair’s almost all white, and what’s not white is gray. She’s thin as a whip and just as sharp, and she knows what I’m up to even when I don’t.

  “You know Ótti can’t sleep less you’re here,” said Rokja, and I didn’t let her see she’d hit her target.

  Now you might think that Ótti’s another sister of mine like Rokja, and Gods know I’ve got enough of them that you’d likely be right, but in this case, no. Ótti’s my girl. She’s twice Rokja’s age but you’d think she was her junior the way she carries on if I’m not around for a while. I worry about her all the same, never mind she’s the same age as me. I thought about going to the bedroom to see her and let her know I was home, but I fancied a bath ’fore going after her, so I never said nothing to Rokja about it and went straight back past more hanging sheets—these permanent, unlike the washing on the way in. We’ve no interior walls, you see, so the sheets are the next best thing. In the back room they make, there’s a wash bin. The water’s cold as frozen iron but I don’t like seeing Ótti when I’ve been to a john. So I sucked on my cheeks and wiped myself down with the icy cloth I use, then toweled off as fast as I could with the square of felted wool Amma leaves out for me.

  I was about done when I heard the sheets rustle and I turned just as Ótti stepped through. She stood looking like a birch sapling, short but rail thin and white, with her hair like creamy silk, so f
ine I don’t dare touch it most of the time. Too fine for me, leastways. I almost covered myself up, but that’s just a stupid thing to do when Ótti’s seen me unclad hundreds of times.

  “You’ve been gone for hours,” she said with that moping tone she uses when she wants to get under my skin.

  If I could pretend she weren’t getting to me, she’d drop it faster. “They had a meeting. You know how Styrlakker gets, ranting on.”

  “For hours?”

  “Going on five hours, wouldn’t you know.”

  “Why does anyone listen that long?”

  “It weren’t just Styrlakker. They were all arguing about the boats again.”

  Joar Styrlakker’s one of several underlings—what we sewer rats prefer to call ourselves, you know—what got their pride up when Raud Gríma was stalking the streets and led the Great Rising, as it’s coming to be known. The rebellion what started with the Tyrablót and ended more or less a few weeks later after all the aeroplanes run outta fuel and bombs and the city was good and ruined. But six months gone they’re still talking about taking control somehow and “instituting a new rule.” Styrlakker’s better educated’n I am, and that’s saying something for an underling. He’s read a lot more books and he’s got all sorts of ideas from them. Most of the time I think he’s full of shit, but others listen to him and I’d like to see a new rule, myself. ’Tween the slashers and the factions Helésey’s become a dangerous place to be, sure enough. The trouble is, Styrlakker and his followers are just another faction when you come right down to it, and not one of the better equipped. His latest idea is to steal a fleet of boats from Ekkill’s faction what holds the lower half of Sudbattir and the docks in Sudhafsida, subsectors on the south coast of the city. Styrlakker thinks if he can get enough boats he can take control of the coastal districts all around the outside of Helésey. I don’t think he’s got enough followers who can act as captains and crews, but no one’s listening to what I have to say on the subject, and there’s plenty has said the same thing without I have to open my mouth about it.