Juran the Gigolo (R+18)
by Simon Turnbull on 05/07/10 at 3:23 pm
By Simon Turnbull,
7,900 words
Juran hurried down the gangplank of the river ship and stopped dead, shocked. The stench was incredible. It was like the stink of unwashed men and rotting food and fishing boats and sewers and gods knew what else all combined and magnified a hundredfold. He would have stood there gasping for breath if the river boat’s captain hadn’t been jostling him from behind.
“Fair takes the breath away don’ it?” The man spoke from under his bold mustachios. ” Get along now. Business to be a’doin.”
Juran plucked up his courage and with jacket cuff over his nose he shouldered his bag and stepped down onto the grimy stone dock. Stevedores and fishermen bustled past him. As he looked to left and right he could see lines of masted sailing vessels stretching as far as he could see.
Noctuidiae! The imperial city! He gaped about him avidly, expecting to see the glittering dark towers and the arches of victory. A passing sailor rolled his eyes at him and Juran quickly closed his mouth. A worldly man wouldn’t be excited by a simple dock, even if it was the largest in the world. No towers were visible from where he stood. In fact all he could see was a row of warehouses, their doors standing open like gaping fish mouths and dockworkers scurrying in and out. He watched as a large warhorse was lead out of one building and down the docks. That one was bound for the western borders most likely, and he imagined the army officer who would ride it. A commander of janissaries perhaps. Then he shook himself. He was in Noctuidiae! Capital of a rich and bustling empire. Where a man could sample any pleasure from a hundred nations. He could look at horses at home. It was time to find the drink and the women. .....
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