“Two obulas,” said the porter, and as Lalette produced her purse, shot a swift, suspicious glance at the old woman. “No. Not in Dossolan money. Do you want me to be thrown into a dungeon?”
Lalette flushed. “It is all I have; I only arrived from there today. Can someone change it for me?” She appealed to the woman who had admitted her.
“Certainly not. It is contrary to the regulation.”
The porter rather surprisingly lost his temper. “Why, you cheap whore, you cheat, you pig-sucker!” he shouted. “I should have known better than to carry for one of you Myonessae.” He stamped his foot. “I’d take your dirty box and throw it in the street, if I didn’t know the smell would kill half the people in town when it burst open.”
A door opened on a sound of feminine background voices. There appeared a woman in black, with hair piled severely close to her head. “What is this, Mircella?” she asked.
“Demoiselle is new. She came without two obulas to pay her porter.”
The dark woman reached to the purse at her belt, drew forth coins and placed them in the porter’s hand. “Here. You are never to appear at this couvertine again.” She turned to Lalette. “You may come in and show me your paper. It is evident that you are in need of instruction.”
As they passed into the side room, light fell on the woman’s face, and Lalette saw that, although it was both strong and stern, it bore the same expression of distant peace she had seen in the widow Domijaiek.
16
THE EASTERN SEA: SYSTOLE
The queasiness had gone from Rodvard’s stomach and the illness from his head, but all his senses were more alive than jets of flame. Every rut gave him agony in the jolting mule-cart, he could not draw away from pain long enough for anger or fear. Yet shortly the very keenness of his hurt anaesthetized all down to no more than an aching tooth; and now the senses, oversharpened by witchery, began to report the world around him. They were passing two people afoot, then another cart, to none of which the driver made salutation.